Return of the (Ex) Boytoy
The moment the door opens, Bucky feels like someone just curb-stomped him but got the angle all wrong and instead of killing him, just left him paralyzed from the neck down. Cause for fuck’s sake, he can do nothing but watch in horror and a smug smile appears on the face of the man in front of him.
“Darling,” the man calls out in his beguiling British accent, not looking away from Bucky. “This one might be for you.”
Bucky’s fucking frozen, and he can feel Steve’s very obviously concerned gaze fixed on him, from his right.
But sorry Steve. Bucky’s a little preoccupied.
His mind is racing at the speed of light and he can’t fucking bring himself to look away. He feels like he’s watching a car crash unfold in front of him, too entranced in the gore of it all to tear his eyes away.
“Of course it’s for me, Mal. It’s my fucking house,” Y/n comes up from behind him, chiding. She pulls Malcolm Brekker aside. She stands in front of him, looking from Steve to Bucky. “Hey—”
And now look, this is all very reminiscent of that time when they went to go recruit Y/n for the Flag Smashers mission. And back then she was sleeping with Brekker. They weren’t a couple but they were buddies who fucked (fuck buddies, as Bucky would later come to learn). And the flashback isn’t very pleasant for him considering he’s been fucking dreading losing this woman since the moment he got her. But it’s fucking blood-curdling now—now that Steve is back and he’s already fucked up by saying they weren’t a thing and now this…
Anyway, all that is to say, Bucky can’t be blamed for not noticing that, unlike last time, both parties are very dressed. Brekker is in a three-piece navy suit while Y/n is wearing an all-black ensemble of trousers, a semi-transparent turtleneck shirt with a blazer on top. But he can’t think about that. He can barely think at all. So honestly, come on he really can’t be blamed for losing his shit and saying what he does next.
“Really?” He cuts her off. “I say one thing that you don’t like, and you decide to run into your boytoy’s arms?” He scoffs, “Thought you were better than that.”
WAIT, WHAT?
What the fuck did he just say?
James Bucky Barnes, DID YOU JUST INSINUATE THAT THE WOMAN YOU’VE BEEN HEAD OVER HEELS FOR IS A SLU—
That wasn’t what he was going for. He really wasn’t. He didn’t mean that. What he meant was—
But it’s too late.
Cause Brekker winces from behind her, looking actually sympathetic. While Y/n’s stance shifts. She doesn’t get angry or shout or rage out. Because Bucky knows her enough to know, when she’s pissed; well and truly pissed, she doesn’t lash out at all.
She pulls her hand away from where it was resting on the doorframe, and shoves it in her pocket, straightening her back.
And then she smiles.
And it’s so fucking hollow, Bucky’s sure he would be trembling, if he hadn’t been curb-stomped and paralyzed beforehand.
“Why does it matter, Buck?” Oh, Bucky’s fucked up, so so bad. “It’s not like we’re a thing,” she recites his words back to them with every damn syllable quoted in nothing but unadulterated venom.
And with that she turns around, Brekker instantly gets out of her way, and she walks into the living room.
Steve follows them inside, and Bucky has to take a moment to get his body to start up after that mortal assault. When he does go in, Sam’s standing there looking painfully disappointed at him.
Join the club, Sam.
Y/n begins making her way to the bedroom. “I’ve still got some stuff to pack. So Boytoy’s gonna fill you in on the basics of the plan.” She closes the steel sliding door to her bedroom, locking herself in.
Wait, Brekker’s gonna tell them about the plan that means—
“I’m your contact on the inside,” Brekker explains when Bucky keeps staring at him with his mouth agape.
“You’re an idiot,” Sam admonishes.
Maybe Sam can be the Vice President of the ‘Bucky Barnes is Sergeant Asshole’ club.
He wasn’t sure where he and Y/n stood before. But now—now he’s sure he’s in the fucking doghouse… probably worse. Probably off her damn radar.
“I thought—” Bucky tries.
“Oh, you made it very clear what you thought,” Sam cuts him off, rebuking. “I’d keep my mouth shut from here on out if I were you.”
Sam really does seem like the kinda guy who’d be eager for the role of kicking Bucky’s ass—which would be the primary goal of the aforementioned club. The president would be Bucky obviously.
“I agree with the Captain,” Brekker chimes in. Maybe he can be their first member. “We should just focus on the task at hand, which by the way seems simple enough,” he remarks sarcastically.
“What’s the plan?” Steve asks, hands on his belt, his signature Captain America stance.
“We’ll talk specifics on the plane, once we meet up with Torres,” Sam replies, in his own signature Captain America tone, which… yeah okay. Bucky’d have more thoughts about the whole situation if he hadn’t just hurt the only woman he’s ever— “But there’s an organization,” Sam says, interrupting his train of thought, “they’re smuggling illegal weapons that resemble alien technology from the Chitauri invasion and the Battle with Thanos.”
“And I shall be your guide into the world of crime and mayhem,” Brekker states.
“Care to be a bit more specific?” Steve asks.
Brekker smiles, “There’s a gala. A weapons convention of sorts. Everyone comes out to show their new toys. And, all the who’s who of the arms trade attend, especially the criminal ones… which are all of them.”
“And let me guess, you have an invite?” Steve retorts, eyebrow cocked.
Brekker just shrugs, with a falsely humble smile.
“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Y/n walks back out, backpack on her shoulder, “I haven’t got all day.”
They all pile into Brekker’s jeep and make their way to the airstrip where they meet Torres. They prep the relatively small plane that Y/n had rolled out from Tony’s arsenal for them to use for the mission. It looks like the quinjet, Steve states, just before they take off.
“Nobody told me the pilot was absolutely delectable,” Brekker comments, staring at the back of Torres’ head, who is currently flying the damn plane.
Sam chuckles, “You’re barking up the wrong tree there, Brekker.”
Sam is met with a funny look from Y/n and Brekker who are sitting opposite him, Bucky and Steve.
While Bucky stands in one corner, wearing a grey t-shirt, some jeans, and a black jacket, playing with his knife, Steve and Sam are sitting next to the table, packing their gear. Sam’s in a green bomber jacket, with a navy t-shirt and blue jeans. Steve’s sporting his own brown leather jacket with jeans and a white t-shirt he borrowed off of Bucky this morning.
Y/n and Brekker are sitting side by side, continuing to stare at Sam like he grew two heads.
“What?” Sam asks, frowning.
“Sam,” Y/n begins, her tone cautious, “please tell me you have noticed him flirting with you.”
“He isn’t—He—What?” Sam balks, “I thought he was into you” He points at Y/n, who just laughs.
“He’s a fan of the great Static, of course. Who isn’t?” Brekker smiles, “But he’s flirting with you, Cap.”
There is a solid 10 seconds of silence and then—
“Well shit,” Sam exclaims in realization. “I feel like shit for not seeing it before.”
“If you’re not interested,” Brekker ventures, “do you mind if I charm my way into his pants?”
Sam just snorts, “I mean you could try. But you’ve got your work cut out for you. I’m damn irreplaceable, boytoy.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Brekker fucking winks at Sam with a sly smile. “But I do have quite the track record for replacing Captain America’s in bed,” he adds while looking over at Steve.
Bucky would love to jump off this damn plane, right the fuck now.
“And here I thought you were interested in keeping your balls safe and sound, Mal,” Y/n threatens with her eyebrow cocked.
Brekker throws up his hands in mock defense just as Torres walks over.
“What are you guys talking about?” He asks, innocently enough.
“My balls, apparently,” Brekker smiles at Torres with so much charm, it even makes Bucky consider swooning.
And honestly, how did the man just make that stupid fucking line charming? He was talking about his balls for Christ’s sake! Bucky would presume he’s just gotten too old to understand what passes for flirting in this day and age except, Sam’s wearing the same look of utter confusion with a hint of respect, just like him. So clearly, Brekker is a fucking panty—no wait, that’s not inclusive enough—underwear charmer.
And Torres, as helpless as he is, smiles back. “We’re on autopilot,” he says, pointing back at the console while his eyes are fixed on Brekker. “We should be landing in Iceland in about an hour.”
“You’re quite the pilot aren’t you?” Brekker remarks.
Torres shrugs, sitting down on a crate of weapons, diagonally to Brekker on one side and Sam on the other.
“Sorry to interrupt the…” Y/n looks between the two men with a coy smile, “conversation, but we’ve got a mission to plan.”
“Brekker,” Sam urges, getting off his seat.
“Alright lads, here’s what we know.” Brekker walks over to the table between them, pulling up the hologram. “The event takes place in Reykjavik Art Museum on a lower level which,” he pulls up the floor plans, “doesn’t show up in any of the blueprints.”
“So we’re going in blind?” Steve asks.
“Not entirely. Both Y/n and I have been there before so we can guide you as best as possible.” He turns to look back at them, “The event is meant to showcase whatever new inventions the sellers have come up with and wish to sell on the market. It’s also an auction in a way, for the interested parties to buy whatever peaks their fancy.” He sighs. “But obviously seeing as this is the criminal underground all the displays are anonymous, and the only way to buy them is to place a bid with the hosts.”
“How do we know what to bid on?” Bucky asks. “The weapons are only charged by alien tech. They fire the same as regular guns, so even if there’s a demo which I’m presuming there will be,” he looks to Brekker for confirmation of his hypothesis, receiving a nod in assent, he adds “we still don’t know who to bid on.”
“That’s where you come in,” Brekker comments. Bucky just furrows his brows in confusion.
“You and I will have to infiltrate the upper level,” Sam explains to Bucky. “Break into the office and access the list of sellers so we can relay the info back to him,” he adds, pointing back at Brekker.
“And as a generous gift to my dearest friend, Y/n, I’ll place a considerably large bid on whoever it is you wish to… subjugate,” Brekker adds.
“Large enough for us to get a meeting with the higher-ups of the organization,” Y/n explains.
“Where will you be?” Bucky asks, looking at Y/n, who just refuses to look even in his general vicinity.
Sam shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another, “Brekker bagged us an extra invite. So while he’s mingling, she and Steve will have to cause a distraction. To help us get in,” he explains and then he sighs almost expecting the outburst he’s about to face.
“Why does it have to be Steve?” Bucky shouts out at the same time as Steve says, “I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”
Y/n though remains silent.
“Look, it can’t be you,” Sam points at him, “with that arm, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. And the security is too tight for you to just wear a glove and call it a day.” Sam’s got a point but it doesn’t soothe him even a bit. “Torres is our way out, and I’m far better at hacking than Steve.”
“Y/n is better at that than all of us,” Steve ventures.
“Yea, but having a pretty girl on your arm works in your favor in more ways than one,” Y/n argues. “I can do both; cause the distraction—by what I’m guessing is tripping the alarm system for you guys to get in,” Sam nods, “—and at the same time, I can be the flirty eye candy.” She looks at Bucky then. For the first time since the bullshit he spat out, she looks at him dead in the eyes and says, “I’ve been told I’m good at that.”
Well fuck.
He thinks he preferred being ignored. Cause this just plain hurts, like being stabbed. Actually, scratch that, he’s been stabbed. He’d take that over this any fucking day.
“But he’s still pretty damn recognizable,” Torres cuts in, sensing the tension in the room, pointing at Steve.
“Well, that’s the fun part, lady and gentlemen. We get to dress up,” Malcolm wiggles his eyebrows. “It’s a masquerade.”
“Poetic,” Torres remarks.