Prague Nights
The Prague safe house smells like dust and old cigarettes. Rain taps against the windows in an uneven rhythm, matching the restless beat of your heart. Through your scope, you watch Natasha laugh at something Steve says, her red hair bright against the grey evening as they play their roles at the café across the street.
"Target's approaching from the east," Bucky murmurs beside you, his shoulder pressed against yours in the cramped sniper's nest you've occupied for the past three hours.
You adjust your scope, tracking the HYDRA operative as he weaves through the crowded street. He's good – moves like a local, keeps his head down. But you're better. You were always better.
"He's made Nat and Steve," you report, watching the subtle shift in the target's gait. Your finger tightens instinctively on the trigger as he gets closer to their table.
Natasha laughs again, louder this time. It's her signal – she's spotted him too.
What happens next unfolds like a dance you know all the steps to:
The target reaches for something in his jacket. Steve moves to intercept, but he's not fast enough. A flash of metal in the dying light. Natasha's chair scrapes back.
Your bullet finds its mark before anyone else can move.
The target drops, red blooming across his chest. Civilians scream. Steve shields Natasha with his body – unnecessary, but sweet in a way that makes your chest ache. Through your scope, you see her roll her eyes at his protectiveness, and something like muscle memory makes you smile.
"Nice shot, doll," Bucky says, but there's a tension in his voice that wasn't there before.
You both know why. You took that shot without hesitation, not because the target was a threat to the mission, but because he was a threat to her.
The safe house has one bedroom and a lumpy couch. Steve, ever the gentleman, offers the bedroom to you and Bucky. Natasha says nothing, but her eyes follow you as you disappear into the room.
You can't sleep. The rain has gotten heavier, drumming against the roof like artillery fire. Bucky's breathing is steady beside you, his metal arm cool against your skin, but all you can think about is Natasha in the next room.
Is she sleeping? Is Steve holding her the way you used to – one arm under her head, the other draped across her waist? Does he know she likes to be touched gently after missions, when the adrenaline makes her skin too sensitive?
"Go," Bucky whispers, startling you. You thought he was asleep. "Get some water or something. Before you drive us both crazy with your thinking."
You press a grateful kiss to his shoulder and slip out of bed. The floorboards creak under your bare feet as you make your way to the kitchen, but you're not really there for water.
She's waiting for you, of course. Perched on the counter like a cat, wearing one of Steve's shirts and that knowing look that always made you feel exposed.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asks, taking a sip from a mug that smells like the chai tea she always drinks after missions.
"The rain," you lie, keeping your distance. Safe on the other side of the kitchen.
"Liar." But she says it fondly. "You never minded the rain. Used to drag me out dancing in it, remember?"
Paris. Two years ago. A midnight storm and your hands on her waist, spinning her through puddles while she called you an idiot in six different languages.
"Nat..." It comes out like a warning, or maybe a prayer.
"You didn't have to take that shot today." She sets down her mug, eyes never leaving yours. "Steve had him."
"Force of habit."
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
You clench your jaw, fighting the urge to cross the kitchen, to press her against the counter and remind her how well your bodies fit together. "We're not doing this."
"Doing what?" She slides off the counter, moving closer. "Talking about how you still protect me like I'm yours? About how I still watch your back even when Steve's right there beside me?"
"Stop."
"Make me."
She's too close now. Close enough that you can smell her shampoo, see the faint scar above her eyebrow from a mission in Manila. Close enough to kiss, if you were stupid enough to try.
You are that stupid.
She meets you halfway, like she always has. Her lips are soft, tasting of chai and memories and mistakes. Your hands find her waist automatically, muscle memory taking over as she presses closer, fingers tangling in your hair.
For three heartbeats, the world makes sense again.
Then a floorboard creaks behind you.
You break apart like shrapnel, but it's too late. Steve stands in the doorway, his face a study in controlled pain. Behind him, Bucky looks unsurprised but no less hurt.
"Steve—" Natasha starts, but he's already turning away, footsteps heavy on the stairs to the roof.
She follows him, leaving you alone with Bucky and the ghost of her kiss on your lips.
"This needs to stop," Bucky says quietly, and you hate how gentle he is about it. How understanding. You deserve anger, not this sad acceptance.
"I know." Your voice cracks. "I'm sorry."
He crosses the kitchen, metal hand cool against your cheek. "No, you're not. And that's okay, doll. We all love who we love."
"I do love you," you whisper, because it's true. You do love him – his quiet strength, his dark humor, the way he understands your broken pieces.
"I know." He presses his forehead to yours. "Just not like you love her."
Above you, raised voices filter through the ceiling. Steve and Natasha arguing in harsh whispers. You wonder if they're having the same conversation – about loving someone but not enough, about settling for second place.
"What do we do now?" you ask, though you already know the answer.
Bucky's laugh is soft and sad. "Now? Now we finish the mission. We go home. We stop pretending we're not all in love with the wrong people."
"And then?"
"Then we figure out how to live with it."
The rain keeps falling outside, washing away another secret that couldn't stay buried. In six hours, you'll all have to suit up and play professionals again. Track down more HYDRA operatives, protect more civilians, pretend your heart isn't splintering in your chest.
But for now, you let Bucky hold you in a dark kitchen in Prague, both of you listening to the people you really love fight on the roof above, and wonder if some battles are lost before they begin.