Chapter Text
The break room coffee machine is on its last legs, hissing like a dying cat and dripping espresso at a glacial pace. Mel stands over it with her arms crossed, foot tapping, trying not to scream. She needs caffeine. She needs quiet. She needs five minutes without the incessant ping of her tablet, without the lingering scent of stale pizza from yesterday's late-night strategy session, and most of all, without the constant, low-level hum of anxiety that is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
“Still trusting that thing not to poison you?” comes a low, rough voice from behind her.
Mel doesn’t have to turn. “Do you harass everyone at nine in the morning, or am I just lucky?”
Bucky Barnes leans against the counter beside her, one brow raised. His hair is tied back in a loose bun, a black hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms, the vibranium one gleaming faintly under the lights. The scent of burnt coffee grounds hangs heavy in the air, a familiar aroma of early mornings and impending chaos. Mel recalls a similar morning last month when Bucky had silently offered her a protein bar after she'd skipped breakfast for an early debrief. It’s these small, almost imperceptible gestures that form the quiet truce between them.
“You look tired.”
“Thanks,” she says flatly. “Just what every woman wants to hear before she’s had coffee.”
He smirks, barely. “You’re welcome.”
Mel finally gives up and yanks the half-filled cup out from under the machine, taking a careful sip. Burnt and bitter. She grimaces and sets it down with a sigh. Mel’s eye twitches as she stares at the slow drip. Another email from Val already? It's barely past nine, and her inbox is probably a war zone. She dreams of a world where 'efficient' isn't just a buzzword, where her skills are actually used for analysis, not for cleaning up the chaotic aftermath of Val's 'strategic' scheduling.
“You got stuck with Val’s schedule again?” Bucky asks.
“She double-booked three ops debriefs and scheduled a meeting for me in a room that doesn’t exist,” Mel mutters. “So yeah. Either she’s slipping or she’s trying to kill me.”
“Definitely the second one,” he says without hesitation.
Mel actually smiles at that. Just a flicker.
Apart from Yelena, Bucky is the only New Avenger she really talks to. Not often. Not deeply. But enough. Enough to trade the occasional dry comment, or warning glance across a meeting table. They share a mutual disdain for Valentina’s games—and for people who didn’t know when to shut up.
“You get assigned to that Tower repair press tour next week?” she asks, sipping again even though it tastes like regret.
“God, no,” Bucky mutters. “She knows better than to put me in front of reporters. I think they’re sending Alexei. He loves the cameras.”
Mel rolls her eyes. “That tracks.”
They stand in silence for a moment. Comfortable, if not exactly warm.
Then Bucky speaks again, quieter this time. “She called me in for some meeting later today. Said it was about optics.”
Mel snorts. “She loves that word.”
“Means she’s about to say something that’ll make me want to put my head through a wall.”
Mel gives him a sidelong glance. “Maybe it’s not about you for once.”
He huffs. “Doubt it.”
She tilts her head, voice casual. “What if she’s finally giving you that desk job you keep threatening to quit for?”
He makes a face. “She’d rather chain me to a missile.”
“Also tracks.”
Bucky turns to look at her, something unreadable in his eyes. “You in the meeting too?”
Mel nods. “She didn’t say why. Just told me to bring my tablet and ‘act normal.’ Which is always promising.”
“Huh.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, then says, “Guess we’re going in together.”
Mel glances at him. “You trying to make an entrance, Barnes?”
His lips twitch. “Just making sure you don’t get assassinated before I do.”
“Touching.”
The break room door opens behind them, and one of the ops techs pokes their head in. “Valentina wants you two in the main conference room. Five minutes ago.”
Mel groans. “Of course she does.”
She grabs her tablet, steeling herself. As she walks past Bucky, she pauses.
“You really think it’s about optics?” she asks, voice a little lower now. “Not another op?”
Bucky meets her eyes. “If it was an op, she wouldn’t be this subtle.”
That makes something cold curl in her stomach.
They walk out together, side by side. They both walk into the room at the same time, Bucky opening the door for her and Mel quietly mumbling a thank you as she walks swiftly to stand next to Valentina.
The main conference room, usually a sterile box of polished glass and muted tones, feels particularly oppressive today. The air conditioning hums a low, almost predatory whine, and the faint scent of ozone from the projector mixes with the expensive, sharp aroma of Val's perfume. The polished surface of the table reflects the harsh overhead lights, creating a glare that seems to amplify the tension.
“Oh great, you two came in together!” Valentina says as she turns in her chair to see Mel and Bucky. Valentina's smile, perfectly symmetrical and just a touch too wide, doesn't quite reach her eyes. She exudes an aura of calculated charm, like a predator carefully circling its prey. The very air seems to thin in her presence, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Mel clears her throat as she opens her tablet, stylus in hand, ready to take notes.
Bucky moves to sit beside her, arms folded over his broad chest, vibranium glinting faintly under the harsh lights. His expression is blank, a carefully constructed mask, but Mel, who has seen him in enough high-stakes debriefs, can read the subtle tells. The way the fingers of his vibranium arm, usually at rest, twitch almost imperceptibly, hinting at a suppressed desire to clench a fist. A faint tremor in the line of his jaw. He looks like a statue carved from granite, but the subtle vibrations beneath the surface suggest an imminent earthquake.
Val’s smile widens, a fraction, as she surveys them both, though her gaze lingers on Bucky. “Let’s talk about image,” she says, her voice smooth as polished stone.
Bucky doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the table. “This again.” His voice is flat, devoid of inflection, a dangerous sign.
“Yes, this again,” Val says, flipping open a sleek, black leather folder with a soft thwip of paper. “The New Avengers are polling badly in coastal cities and abysmally in rural ones. Your favorability rating, James, is hovering somewhere between ‘public menace’ and ‘shitty former congressman.’” She arches a perfectly sculpted brow, a hint of disdain in her eyes. “Which, unfortunately for our PR team, you are.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumping beneath his ear. “I told you I don’t care about ratings.” The words are clipped, forced through gritted teeth.
“And I told you that I do.” Her tone sharpens, losing its veneer of pleasantry. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, her hands steepled. “We don’t get funding if the people don’t trust you. We don’t get missions. We don’t get a damn thing but questions from the Pentagon and redacted headlines splashed across every digital screen.” Her eyes, dark and knowing, hold his.
Mel stays quiet, a silent observer. Her job description doesn’t include intervening in clashes between Barnes and de Fontaine, especially not when the storm is gathering behind Bucky’s eyes, a tempest waiting to unleash. Mel keeps her face impassive, her stylus poised, but inside, a knot tightens in her stomach. The words 'public menace' and 'shitty former congressman' echo in her mind. It’s a ruthless assessment, but also disturbingly accurate from Val’s perspective. Still, she feels a strange prickle of indignation on Bucky’s behalf. He’s not a number on a graph; he’s… Bucky. Complex, damaged, and fiercely loyal, despite himself. This isn't fair, not really.
Val flips the folder toward them, revealing a spread of graphs and unflattering news clippings. “So. We fix the story.”
He finally looks up, his brow raised, unimpressed. “By doing what? A Vogue spread? Because I’m pretty sure the only thing that’s gonna do is give the internet more fodder for memes.”
“No,” she says smoothly, ignoring his sarcasm. “By making you less… you.”
Mel blinks. The word hangs in the air, heavy and insulting.
Bucky’s voice turns to gravel, dangerously low. “You wanna run that by me again?” His hands, previously folded, now rest on the table, fingers twitching, a silent warning.
Valentina’s eyes glitter with satisfaction, an almost predatory gleam. “You’re a lone wolf with a thousand-yard stare and a body count that rivals a small army. It’s not charming, James—it’s terrifying. The public wants heroes they can relate to, someone they can feel safe around. We need a softer angle. Someone to hold your hand. Someone the public can root for, someone who humanizes you.” Val’s gaze, which had been fixed on Bucky with surgical precision, softens ever so slightly, morphing into something resembling… consideration. It’s a dangerous shift. Mel feels a prickle of unease at the back of her neck. Val’s 'solutions' are rarely simple, and never without a hidden cost. When she finally says, “Someone to hold your hand,” the words hang in the air like a poisoned dart, and Mel knows, with sickening certainty, exactly where that dart is aimed.
Mel feels the shift before she sees it. The silence stretches, elongating into something suffocating. The precise, quiet click of Valentina’s pen as she caps it punctuated the room like a countdown, each second ticking away toward an unknown detonation.
Then Val turns her head—slow, deliberate, a predator making its choice—and looks directly at her.
Mel’s heart skips a beat, then hammers against her ribs. No. This isn't happening. This couldn't be happening. She knows that look, that calculating gaze. Mel’s world narrows to the dull roar in her ears. The word “No” rips from her throat, raw and desperate. Her chair shrieks, a protest louder than her own voice. This is beyond absurd. She's an analyst, a quiet operator, someone who thrives in the shadows of data and intelligence. She pictures the tabloids, the sneering headlines, the endless scrutiny. Her meticulously built life, her carefully guarded privacy, is about to be shredded for a PR stunt. The anger, hot and visceral, surges through her veins, swiftly followed by a chilling wave of fear. She is utterly, completely trapped. “No.” The word is out before she can process it, a desperate, automatic defense.
“You haven’t even heard the proposal,” Val said lightly, her smile unchanging, infuriatingly serene.
“I don’t need to. I’m not—” Mel stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the concrete floor with a harsh shriek. Her stylus slips from her suddenly clammy fingers and clatters to the glass table, the sound echoing loudly in the tense room. “This isn’t what I do. I’m not… public. I’m not even part of the team in that capacity. I’m an analyst. A consultant.”
“But you are,” Val says, her voice gaining a sharp edge, her eyes narrowing. “You’re in the rooms. On the flight decks. In the debriefs. You’re already part of the machine, Mel. This is just a… formal expansion of your role.”
“To fake date Bucky?” she snaps, heat rising in her cheeks, a flush of anger and humiliation. “That’s not a role, that’s—propaganda. A publicity stunt. I’m not a prop.”
“And I’m not playing along,” Bucky says, standing too, his chair pushed back with a violent screech. His voice is low and dangerous, a raw rumble in his chest. Bucky’s chair scrapes back with a force that vibrates through the floor, his frustration a palpable heat in the room. “Freedom!” he snarls, the word a bitter curse. “You chained me to a desk, stuck me with a handler, and called it freedom! Just like you called that last botched mission 'optimizing assets' when you were really just trying to get rid of a loose end!” His metal hand slams onto the table, a stark punctuation mark to his fury. “Find someone else. I’m not faking shit. Not for you, not for anyone.”
Val’s tone doesn’t change, remaining perfectly modulated, infuriatingly calm. “You’re not being asked, James. You’re being informed.”
Bucky steps closer to the table, his shoulders tense, every line of his body screaming defiance. “No. You’re telling me. Again. Just like when you stuck me on this team and told me it was ‘freedom.’ You put a leash on me and called it a new beginning.”
Valentina stands, too, finally facing him fully, her calm facade cracking just slightly. “Don’t act like you don’t benefit from this. You crave this. A purpose. A place. You don’t want to go back to being hunted, do you? Because if the public decides you’re a threat again, if those headlines start screaming for your containment, I won’t be able to protect you. Not even I can fight public opinion and political pressure indefinitely.”
“Maybe I don’t want your protection,” Bucky bites out, his voice laced with venom. He takes another step, putting himself between Val and Mel, a silent, protective barrier.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have signed a contract with my name on the bottom, James,” Val snaps, her voice cold and final, cutting through the air like a blade. “A contract, I might add, that contains several clauses regarding conduct, image, and cooperation. Your past choices dictate your present obligations.”
Mel stares between them, her pulse hammering in her ears, a frantic drumbeat against her eardrums. The absurdity of it all is overwhelming. “This is insane. You can’t just… assign people relationships.”
Val turns her icy gaze back to her, dismissing Bucky with a flick of her eyes. “I trust you to be professional, Mel. Your file indicates a high level of discretion and adaptability.”
“That’s not what this is,” Mel says, stunned, her voice barely a whisper. “You ambushed me. You brought me in here under false pretenses.”
Val doesn’t flinch, her expression utterly devoid of remorse. “I gave you an opportunity. An opportunity to further your career, to gain unprecedented access, and to contribute to a crucial public image campaign for a valuable asset.”
Bucky laughs bitterly, a harsh, humorless sound. “She gave you a leash. Just like me.”
Valentina steps past them both, already done, already moving on to the next item on her agenda. Her dismissal is absolute. “You’ll be seen leaving together tomorrow night. Start with something simple. Dinner. Let the rumors bloom on their own. The gala is in six days—we’ll make it official then. The press will be notified to expect a ‘developing romance.’”
Neither Mel nor Bucky says anything. What is there to say? The decision is made. The trap is sprung.
At the door, Val pauses, her hand on the cold steel. For the first time, her voice softens. “You both want the world to stop seeing you as weapons. This is how you do it. Smile. Hold hands. Make them believe.”
And then she is gone. The door clicks shut with a soft, definitive sound, and the silence collapses in on them like a vacuum, sucking all the air from the room.
Mel stands frozen for a moment, then sits down hard, the glass table rattling faintly under her weight. She buries her face in her hands, elbows on the cool surface, breath shaky and shallow. Her tablet lies abandoned beside her, stylus on the floor where it had fallen. She doesn’t move to pick it up.
Across from her, Bucky starts pacing—tight, restless steps across the stark floor, his boots a quiet but relentless drumbeat. He moves like a caged animal, sharp and twitchy, like the walls are pressing in on him with every second. His hands flex at his sides, the vibranium one gleaming cold and unforgiving in the harsh light. He doesn’t look at her. Just moves.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible. “Fucking unbelievable.”
Mel doesn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her hands press against her eyes, trying to block everything out—the fluorescent lights, the folder still splayed open on the table, the hum of blood rushing in her ears. Her pulse hasn’t slowed. Her heart is still doing laps in her chest like it’s trying to break free.
“She knew we’d say no,” Bucky says, louder now, his voice rough with disbelief and fury. “She counted on it. Made the decision anyway. It’s already in motion.”
Mel drops her hands to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed with frustration and fear. “You think I don’t know that?”
Bucky stops pacing, turning to face her fully. “Then why the hell are you already giving in?”
Her spine straightens. “Because I don’t have the luxury of burning this all down, Barnes! I don’t have an out,” her voice cracks, betraying the tremor that has started in her hands. “She owns my job, my apartment, my clearance. My entire life here. And now, apparently, my face. She can dismantle everything. I don’t have a pension or a safe house or enhanced strength or whatever the hell keeps you from caring—”
“I care,” he snaps, stepping forward. “Don’t you dare think I don’t care.”
“You have options!” she shouts, rising to her feet again, hands clenched. “You can walk away. I can’t. You saw the look in her eyes—she’ll gut my whole life if I don’t play nice.”
“Then let her try,” Bucky growls. “We fight back. We don’t just roll over.”
“And then what?” she demands, stepping into his space now, her voice sharp with panic. “You disappear into the wind and I’m left blacklisted and homeless? God, you’re so used to surviving that you don’t even care who gets caught in the blast radius!”
That lands like a slap. The words hang in the air, sharp and accusatory, and Bucky recoils as if struck. The anger, the defiance, drains from his face, replaced by a raw, naked hurt. He blinks, a flicker of something haunted in his eyes. Her words cut through the practiced shield he always wears, striking a nerve he thought long dead. Caught in the blast radius . How many times had that happened? How many times had his own chaotic life, his own desperate need for survival, inadvertently ruined others? The silence that follows is heavy, not with tension, but with the sudden, crushing weight of shared vulnerability.
Then, suddenly, he moves again—toward the table this time, reaching for the black folder Valentina had left behind.
Mel reacts before she even thought.
“No,” she snaps, slapping his hand away with a sharp smack. The sound echoed.
Bucky freezes, his hand still suspended in the air. He turns to look at her slowly, something unreadable in his eyes.
“I don’t want to see it,” she says, breath catching. “I don’t want to know how much they hate you. Or how many articles she’s tagged me in like I’m some kind of… of accessory. I don’t want to look at the numbers and know exactly what we’re being turned into.”
His expression shifted—less anger, more… hurt. Or maybe just weariness. He dropped his hand, letting it fall to his side.
Mel exhales shakily and drops back into her chair again, all the fight drained from her body in an instant. She looks up at the ceiling, like if she didn’t she might unravel completely.
“I’m sorry.” Bucky sighs. Mel blinks.
“No, I’m sorry. For snapping at you. I’m just…overwhelmed.” Mel admits.
Bucky shakes his head, then he sighs, a sound of weary resignation, and leans against the glass table, rubbing at the tension in his jaw with his flesh hand. His posture is still rigid, but some of the frantic energy had bled out of him. “If we’re gonna do this,” he says quietly, his gaze meeting hers, “we do it our way. Not hers.”
Mel swallows, a dry, painful lump in her throat. Her eyes search his, looking for a way out, a loophole, anything. All she finds is a shared resolve, a defiant spark. “What does that mean?”
“It means we set the rules. We decide what’s real. And what’s not. She wants a show, we’ll give her a show. But it’ll be our show.”
Mel tries to process the implication, the sheer audacity of it. The idea of taking control, even a sliver, feels like a lifeline. “Can we also decide how many times a day we have to hold hands?” she asks, an ounce of humor, however strained, creeping into her voice.
He gives a dry huff of a laugh, a ghost of his usual teasing smirk. “Yeah. That too. And no forced smiles. And absolutely no public declarations of undying love.”
She tries to smile back, but it falters, the weight of the situation still heavy. This is happening. An involuntary partnership, thrust upon them by a ruthless puppet master.
God help them both.