Work Text:
The safehouse conference room smells faintly of stale coffee and whatever cleaning solvent Maria insists is "eco-friendly" this week. A holographic projection hovers over the center of the table, casting a cool blue light across the room and turning everyone's faces slightly ghostlike.
Natasha stands at the head of the table with one hand braced against the edge, the projection rotation slowly beside her. "Anton Markov," she says, enlarging the image of a broad-shouldered man stepping out of a sleek black car, his smile smug enough to make your teeth itch. "Weapons broker, HYDRA sympathizer. He's currently masquerading as a legitimate international security consultant."
Sam, who's leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed across his chest, raises a brow. "So, a rich guy selling very illegal toys to very bad people."
"Basically," Natasha confirms. The projection shifts under her hand, replacing Markov's image with the satellite photos of a sprawling waterfront hotel, the glass façade glittering under city lights. "Tonight, he's hosting a private gala. Buyers, donors, intermediaries, the like. A lot of people we'd like to get a better look at."
You lean forward a little, scanning the hovering guest list that populates beside the building schematic. The names stretch down farther than you expected, most of them accompanied by corporations or shell companies that scream money.
"What's the objective?" you ask.
Natasha flicks two fingers through the projection until Markov's image reappears, this time captures mid-stride outside a different building. "Markov keeps his buyer list on an encrypted drive. He carries it with him—usually on his phone or a tablet, depending on the night."
Sam lets out a low whistle. "Guy really thinks he's untouchable."
"He's careful," Natasha warns, "but he also has a very predictable weakness."
With another small movement of her hand, the projection changes. A sequence of surveillance photos appears: Markov at different events, always surrounded by beautiful women who lean close enough to suggest familiarity... or the hopes of it.
Sam's gaze moves from the photos to you, his eyebrows rising slowly as realization sets in. "That's convenient."
You don't need him to finish the thought. You know exactly where this is going.
"He as a type," Natasha says simply.
Bucky, who had been taking in the mission details quietly beside you, goes still.
You wince, already knowing he'll be fighting everyone on this.
Natasha gestures toward the holographic of the hotel again as she continues outlining the plan. You'll approach Markov inside the gala, keep him occupied long enough to access whatever device he's carrying, and copy the buyer list onto the drive hidden in the small clutch sitting on the table in front of you. While you keep his attention, the rest of the team will sweep the building for additional intel.
You pick up the clutch, turning it over in your hands and testing the weight. "So, flirt and steal information." You close the clutch and shrug. "Simple enough. I think I can manage that."
The chair beside you creaks slightly. You glance sideways at Bucky, noticing that his elbows have settled on the table, his hands loosely clasped together in front of him. His expression hasn't changed much; if anything, he looks almost bored.
But you know him too well for that to fool you.
There are always small signs when something is working its way through his mind. The slightly tightening along his jaw, the fingers of his metal hand curling a little too tight around the fingers of his flesh hand, his brow twitching.
Natasha notices it, too, her eyes flicking toward him before asking, "Any concerns?"
Bucky lifts his eyes from the hologram. For a moment, he says nothing, his attention drifting from the image of Markov to the hotel layout and finally to you.
"How close does she have to get?"
Sam, who has clearly been waiting for that, leans back again and spreads his hands. "Close enough to make the guy forget his own name."
You sigh. "Sam."
Bucky doesn't even acknowledge the joke. His focus stays on Natasha's face as she answers him evenly, explaining that you only need to get close enough to access the device and keep Markov distracted for a few minutes.
Bucky sighs, finally showing the first hint of stress at the plan. You tilt your head in his direction, raising a brow. "Buck, I've handled worse assignments than chatting up an arms dealer."
His eyes move to you—sharp, blue, and already running through possibilities the rest of the room hasn't considered yet.
"I know."
There's no doubt in your ability. If anything, the certainty in his voice is the most solid thing in the room. But that belief in you doesn't make the tension in his body disappear.
Bucky finally leans back in his chair again, his metal hand sliding off the table to rest against his thigh. His expression smooths into something more neutral, but his eyes drift back toward the holographics.
You recognize that look. He's mapping the room already. He's studying the exits, the lines of siht, the places someone could stand without drawing attention. The quiet calculations running behind his eyes are as familiar to you as your own reflection.
You catch him for another second before turning back to Natasha. "So, what's the dress code for flirting with criminals?"
"Don't worry, I've already got your dress."
The car idles along the curb across the street from the hotel, its tinted windows reflecting the spill of gold light pouring out of the entrance. Guests move in steady streams toward the doors—sleek black cars pull up one after another, chauffeur stepping forward to open them while men in tailored suits and women in glittering gowns disappear into the lobby.
The gala is already in full swing.
Sam sits in the driver's seat of the car, one hand draped over the steering wheel as he watches the flow of arrivals through the windshield.
"Well," he mutters after a moment, "nothing suspicious about a ballroom full of arms dealers on a Saturday night."
From the passenger seat, Natasha checks something on the small tablet balance against her knee, the glow of the screen reflecting briefly across her face. "Everyone's in position. Security rotation hasn't changed."
You sit in the backseat beside Bucky.
The clutch from the briefing rests in your lap, the hidden drive tucked inside its lining. Your dress—dark, elegant, and deliberately eye catching—catches faint glints of streetlight every time a car passes. You've already run though the plan three times in your head: approach Markov, keep him talking, get the device.
Simple. Easy. Routine.
Bucky hasn't said much since the briefing ended.
He's angled slightly toward the window, one arm resting along the top of the seat while he watches the entrance across the street. From the outside, he probably looks relaxed, almost lazy, the way he's slouched back.
You know better.
The quiet means his brain is running at full speed, clocking every guard at the door, every camera mounted along the exterior walls, every person stepping out of every car.
"Planning to stare a hole through the building, or are we going in?" you ask him.
His eyes move to you, and his expression softens for a fraction of a seconf before the missions ettles back over him.
"We'll go in," he says. "Just making sure I know where everything is."
Natasha closes the tablet and turns slightly in her seat. "You'll approach Markov once you're inside. He's been circulating near the bar for the last twenty minutes. If he moves, we'll adjust."
Sam reaches forward and cuts the engine. The sudden quiet makes the music from inside the hotel faintly audible—something orchestral, elegant, and playing simply as background noise meant to make rich people feel important.
"Showtime," Sam chirps.
You reach for the door handle, and Bucky's hand catches your arm before you can push it open. He's already leaning closer, his other hand lifting toward your ear.
"Hold still."
His fingers brush lightly against your hair as he adjusts the tiny earpiece tucked just behind it, making sure it's hidden properly. The movement is careful, but you can feel the tension sitting under it.
"Stay in comms," he says quietly.
"I will."
"Don't let him take you anywhere private."
You sigh softly. "Buck."
"I mean it."
You meet his eyes. "I've done worse ops than this."
"I know," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "I just hate not being the one standing next to you."
Neither of you move, but upon Sam's impatient cleared throat, Bucky fixes your hair and leans back enough to give you an appropriate amount of space.
"Okay," Sam says, "before this turns into a whole ting, can we remember there's a billionaire criminal waiting to be charmed?"
You roll your eyes, pushing the door open and stepping out onto the sidewalk. The cool night air hits your skin immediately, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the low swell of music from inside the hotel.
Bucky steps out beside you a second later.
The two of you stand there, looking at the building.
"You trust me, right?" you ask him.
"With my life."
The immediate response settles in your chest, easing your own tension.
"Good," you say, slipping the clutch under you arm. "Then let's go steal a buyer list."
Bucky falls into step beside you as you cross the street, his attention already shifting back to the entrance, the guards, the cameras.
The moment the two of you pass under the glow of the hotel lights, the mission truly begins.
You shoot a subtle glance up at Bucky, watching his eyes sweep the entrance, no doubt cataloging the guards posted near the doors and the discreet security cameras mounted along the walls. There's a handful of men lingering near the bar who very clearly are not there for the wine. His posture barely changes, but you can feel the subtle adjustment beside you as he moves into that silent alertness that always becomes the forefront of him for missions.
"Anyone jumping out at you?" you murmur under your breath.
"Two guards by the service hall," he replies. "Another near the west wall. Cameras covering most of the floor."
"Comforting."
The ballroom is enormous, the ceiling rising high above glittering chandeliers that throw warm light over the crowd below. Round tables fill one side of the room while the other has been left open for mingling. A quartet plays near the far wall, the music smooth and unobtrusive.
And the people.
Men in their tailored suits, women in gowns that look like they cost more than some cars. Conversations glow easily, punctuated by laughter and the coassional toast raised in crystal.
At first glance, it looks like any high-end charity gala.
At second glance, you start noticing the details.
The men whose eyes move too much. The clusters of conversation that go silent when someone new approaches. The security staff positioned just a little too deliberately around the edges of the room.
"Bar," Bucky mutters suddenly.
Your eyes find the bar, and you see what he's talking about.
Anton Markov stands exactly where Natasha said he would, one elbow resting casually against the polished counter while he talks to two other men. Even from across the room, you can see it's him—down to the slicked-back hair, the self-satisfied smile from the briefing photos, the scar along his jaw.
One of the men beside him gestures animatedly while Markov listens, nodding as though the entire room exists purely for his amusement.
"Well," you say under your breath, "there's our guy."
Bucky doesn't answer. His attention is fixed on Markov, the faint narrowing of his eyes telling you he's already working distances, angles, the fastest path between here and there if something goes wrong. The bar sits almost in the center of the room, which means once you wallk over there, you'll be exposed from nearly every angle.
And you know Bucky sees it, too.
"You remember the plan," he says, turning toward you, his eyes roaming your face.
You smile. "Flirt. Copy the data. Try not to start an international incident."
"Preferably in that order," he agrees.
You take a step backward, already preparing to turn toward the bar. Bucky's hand catches your wrist again. The movement is quick enough that no one nearby notices, just a brief pause between two people who appear to be sharing a quiet conversation near the entrance.
"If anything feels wrong—"
"I know."
You slide your hand into his, your pulse slowing at the contact. Your thumb brushes briefly across the back of his hand soothingly.
He takes a small breath and then nods once. You let go of his hand, square your shoulders, and turn toward the bar.
The change happens almost immediately.
Your posture loosens, your expression shifts into something lighter—a kind of relaxed confidence that belongs perfectly in a room like this. Anyone watching would assume you were just another guest heading for a drink.
Behind you, Bucky remains near the edge of the room. To anyone else, he looks like a man casually surveying the party.
But you feel his eyes following you the entire way across the floor.
Markov is still where he was a moment ago. He notices you before you even reach the counter. His eyes lift from his drink, lingering for a beat too long as he takes in the dress, the confidence in your stride, the way you stop just close enough to the bar that your arm brushes the polished wood beside him.
You give him a polite, almost curious smile as you order a drink from the bartender, and by the time the bartender places the glass in front of you, Markov has already turned slightly in your direction.
"You're new," he says, his accent thick and smooth.
You glance at him as if just now noticing he's there, letting a small flicker of surprise cross your fave before it melts into something warmer.
"Am I that obvious?"
"Only to someone who notices beautiful things," he replies easily.
You let out a quiet laugh, lifting the glass to your lips.
"Pretty forward," you muse. "How many times have you used that one?"
Markov seems pleased with himself. "Oh, plenty. But never on someone worth remembering. Not until now, that is."
"Easy, tiger," Sam's voice crackles in the comms.
You almost smile. You know he isn't talking about Markov.
The conversation moves easily. Men like him like to talk, especially when they think they've found someone willing to listen.
And as he speaks, his phone appears on the bar beside his drink.
You shift a little closer to the bar, angling your body toward Markov while setting the clutch down beside his phone as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
Inside the clutch, the tiny data spike activates.
You need to keep it there for thirty seconds.
You pick up your drink, keeping your expression relaxed while Markov continues talking about some security contract he clearly expects you to be impressed by.
Ten seconds.
Eleven.
Your eyes flick toward Bucky as Markov turns to order another drink. You don't look directly at him, but you see him anyway, standing near the wall with a glass in his hand. Even from here you can tell his entire being is fixed on the bar.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Markov glances down at his phone, and your stomach tightens as his hand moves toward the phone. In your peripheral, you see Bucky moving. He's straightening, his glass lowering slighrly as he takes a step away from the wall.
Sam's voice cuts into your ear. "Barnes."
"I see it," Bucky mutters quietly in your ear.
You keep smiling at Markov, but you flick your eyes across the room just long enough to catch Bucky's gaze, giving the smallest shake of your head. He stops, but you know you have a very limited amount of time to salvage this before Bucky comes in guns blazing.
"So, what exactly do you do that requires a party like this?" you ask lightly. Markov's attention returns to you, his hand shifting away from the phone as he gestures instead, clearly eager to keep explaining himself.
"Okay," Sam says in your ear. "That was close."
"Fifteen more seconds," Natasha informs.
Markov leans slightly closer to you, pulling your attention back to him.
"I don't believe I caught your name."
You tilt your head, pretending to consider his words.
"Maybe I'm not sure you've earned it."
He laughs, but something about it unsettles you.
"Done," Natasha says. "Disenage."
You lift the clutch casually from the bar, slipping it under your arm again. You take a slow sip of your drink, and smile at Markov like the last five minutes never happened. Across the ballroom, you see Bucky shift back toward the wall out of the corner of your eye.
"Disengage," Bucky presses, his voice on edge. "Now."
"Relax, man," Sam huffs. "She's good."
Markov studies you over the rim of his glass, the earlier amusement still lingering in his expression. "Perhaps somewhere quieter? It's difficult to have an interesting conversation in a room like this."
"No," Bucky says immediately.
"Don't do it," Sam adds, sounding more serious than he has all night.
You keep smiling at Markov. "I'm enjoying the room just fine. In fact, I'm feeling the need to explore some more of it. Maybe I'll swing back around later, if you keep my interest."
Markov's smile widens, but it's no longer pleasant.
"You think I don't know why you're here?"
The words are quiet enough that no one else at the bar hears them, but they land like he shouted them.
Markov watches your face carefully, clearly looking for the smallest crack in your composure.
You don't react.
You can't.
"You walk in alone," he continues mildly. "You start acting questions. You stand exactly close enough to my phone to try and slip it into your bag." His head tilts slightly. "You're very good. But not that good."
In the comm, Bucky's voice cuts through low and barely controlled.
"Say the word."
You know exactly what he wants. He wants you to say the extraction word—the word that will allow him, mission or not, to get you out.
You keep smiling.
"Then why invite me somewhere quieter?" you ask Markov.
"Because I am curious who you work for."
"Do not even think about it," Bucky growls, cutting over the protests of Sam and Natasha.
"Well," you say, finishing the rest of your drink, "it would be rude to leave a man curious."
Markov's smile returns, slow and satisfied, and he gestures toward a hallway branching away from the ballroom. The music fades slightly in that direction, replaced by softer conversation and the quiet movement of stadd passing through the corridor. You set your empty glass back on the bar and fall into step beside him as he starts toward it.
Across the room, Bucky's moving.
You only see it for a second as you turn from the bar, but you see how he's cutting through the crowd, seemingly unhurried, slipping between guests and waiters carrying trays as if the space opens for him automatically. But you know better. He's one second away from mowing over anyone who steps into his path, purposefully or not.
"Barnes," Natasha warns.
"I'm not letting her walk out of here alone."
Natasha sighs in your ear. "Keep your distance. If you blow the cover, this entire room turns into a firefight."
You don't look back again as Markov leads you away from the bar, but you don't have to. Even as the ballroom noise shifts behind you and the corridor ahead grows quieter, you can track Bucky's position through the comms and the faint flicker of movement in your peripheral vision as he adjusts his path along the edge of the room, keeping pace without drawing attention.
Markov slows near a small alcove overlooking the city through tall windows and turns to face you again. Up close, the pleasant amusement he wore at the bar has sharpened into something dangerous.
"You handle yourself well," he says. "Most people would have panicked by now."
You lean lightly against the railing, folding your arms loosely as if the conversation bores you.
"Well, when you've got nothing to hide, you tend not to panic."
He laughs softly at that and steps closer.
Too close.
In your ear, Bucky's breathing changes.
Markov reaches out, fingers closing lightly around your wrist, testing whether you'll pull away.
"You're very confident," he says. "That usually means someone powerful is standing behind you."
"Or you."
Markov jerks, turning toward the voice, his hand still wrapped around your wrist.
Bucky stands a few steps behind him, broad shoulders filling the space between the tall windows the hall back to the bedroom. Up close like this, there is nothing casual about him anymore. The relaxed posture he wore out on the floor is gone, replaced by a chilling lethalness that would have any man with half a brain reconsidering their next move.
"Let her go."
Markov doesn't immediately comply. His grip loosens just enough to show he heard his command, his eyes flicking between the two of you with open curiosity now. In your ear, Sam mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "shit."
This is exactly what you were hoping to avoid.
You feel the shift in Bucky before he even moves, the subtle tightening in his shoulders than means he's about half a second away from ending the conversation his way. If that happens, the gala turns into a scene, Markov's guards swarm the hallway, and the entire operation collapses faster than it escalated.
You let out a small sigh and reach over, lightly touching Bucky's arm, as if calming an overprotective spouse rather than intercepting a super soldier who's about to put someone through a wall.
"Honey," you say, your tone gentle but mildly exasperated, "you promised you wouldn't intervene until I was finished."
Bucky looks down at you. If you didn't know him as well as you do, you might have missed the fraction of a hesitation in his expression while his brain rapidly recalculates what game you've just started.
"My husband," you say, turning back to Markov with an apologetic smile, "has a very hard time keeping his promises. Tends to get impatient."
"Your husband," Markov repeats slowly, his grip finally falling away from your wrist.
"He likes to watch," you say lightly, as if discussing something only mildly embarrassing. "Flirting, I mean. It makes things more interesting for us later."
For the first time since stepping into the hallway, Bucky speaks again, his voice still low but far less confrontational.
"You were taking too long," he says. "And we agreed no going where I can't see."
You glance up at him, your heart fumbling slightly, then turn back to Markov. "I told you he was impatient."
The man studies both of you for another long moment, the suspicion still there but now tangled with his earlier amusement. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs.
"Well," he says, stepping back and gesturing loosely toward the ballroom, "in that case, I apologize for interrupting your... evening entertainment."
"Oh, no harm done," you say with a small shrug.
Bucky's hand settles at the small of your back as the two of you turn toward the ballroom again, the contact firm and possessive enough to sell the story to anyone watching. The warmth of the crowded room closes in again—music, laughter, the clink of glasses—like nothing dangerous has happened just thirty feet away in the hallway. His hand doesn't leave the small of your back. If anything, the pressure increases slightly as the two of you blend back into the crowd, the gesture still perfectly convincing for anyone watching.
"Did she just tell an international weapons broker that you get off watching her flirt with other men?" Sam asks.
"Wilson."
"What?" Sam continues, clearly enjoying himself. "I'm just trying to make sure I heard it right. Because that sounded way too rehearsed to be a lie—"
"It worked," you cut in under your breath, reaching for a passing waiter's tray and plucking another drink from it without breaking stride.
"Try not to invent a kink next time you're undercover," Natasha says, her voice too amused.
"It wasn't invented," you protest.
"What?" Sam chokes.
Beside you, Bucky mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a threat, but his hand is still warm at your back, steady now instead of tense. When you glance up at him, you catch the faintest hint of reluctant amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You and I are going to talk about this later."
You lift the glass to your lips to hide your smile.
"Counting on it."