Standing at your open closet, you eye the blue dress with a small smile. Fingering the delicate lace, tracing the soft ruffles of the skirt, loving the way the silky fabric slides through your fingers. Peeling it off the hanger, you step carefully into it, maneuvering your arms into the intricate lace sleeves, easily connecting the tiny hook and eye clasp at the waist, below the deep open back.
Adding a pair of pearl drop earrings, you stand in front of the full-length mirror attached to your closet door, examining the effect. The rhythmic beat of your heart skips a beat at the thought of the night to come, of lavish decorations and dancing, of champagne and caviar, of smoky laughter and bright blue eyes.
Padding barefoot into the kitchen, you drop your heels on the sofa, and pull a half-empty bottle of wine from the refrigerator, tipping a healthy pour into a crystal glass. Wandering to the window, you contemplate the fading light, waiting patiently for Bucky to arrive.
*****
Bucky stands in front of his bedroom mirror, normally deft fingers fumbling at his neck, before he rips apart the bowtie with a vicious swear. Clenching the slippery fabric in his fist, he closes his eyes and goes still, inhaling slow breaths through his nose, fighting for composure. When he looks again, the anxiety has bled away, leaving his features smooth and clear. With steady hands, he drapes the cloth around his neck, and whips through the motions one more time, a perfect bow appearing in a flash.
Moving into autopilot, he drops to the edge of his bed, picks up two skin-tight, neoprene knife sheaths and straps one to each ankle. Sliding a blade into each, he tugs to make sure they're secure, before standing to let the trousers fall. Buckling his black leather belt, he attaches two gun holsters to the side, positioning one on each hip. Picking up the Glock from his dresser, he checks the chamber, slides it into the holster, selects a second gun and does the same.
Lifting the tuxedo jacket from his bed, he shrugs into it, and stands in front of his mirror. His mind drifts, and Bucky focuses on wiping it clean, allowing only his one single task for the night - keeping you safe - to dominate his thoughts.
*****
The man stands at his window, watching the shadows lengthen, creeping and crawling into the city. Lifting a glass to his lips, he hears the gentle clink of ice and takes a savoring breath, appreciating the sharp, piney scent of vodka.
He's dressed formally, a crisp white button-up tucked into the silk band of perfectly tailored trousers. The black bow-tie hangs loose around his neck, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, while he gazes into the coming darkness. When the sun is finally gone, he notices his reflection staring back from the window, sees an unopened blue pill bottle sitting on the kitchen counter behind him.
He smiles and takes another sip.
*****
NEW YORK POST
Sightings | Page Six
"Accompanied by his date, New York's favorite broody brunette, Sergeant Bucky Barnes, attends Tony Stark's 'Stern verdict celebration party'
*****
"I genuinely, sincerely, with all my heart and soul hate paparazzi," Bucky mutters under his breath, as flashbulbs click and snap around you. He spares them one look of pure and total loathing, before facing forward and ignoring everything, his hand tight on your elbow as he steers you past the shouting voices.
There are certainly perks to attending this event on the arm of an Avenger, and walking straight through security and into their private elevator bank is one of them. Bucky seems unusually sombre tonight, his posture tense and his eyes locked on his shoes, as the elevator doors close and you begin to rise.
YOU ARE READING
Safe with me
Fanfiction"You call my name and I'll run to you. I'll always come for you. Do you understand? You're safe with me." When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. One catch. The man is infuriating. Finding a way to co-ex...
