Paper Dolls

| chapter nine |

a/n: smut, descriptions of blood

Walking back through the restaurant after James fucked her should have filled Bridget with a little bit of shame, but she couldn't keep the beaming smile off her face as he paid for their dinner. She made eye contact with the lady at the table behind them, who stared the redhead down with disdain. Bridget curled into James and sent her a champagne-fueled wink, earning a scowl in return. She feels like she's walking on air.

James talks animatedly with the owner of the restaurant, a Frenchman named Jacques that he served with during the war. She stares up at his gorgeous smile as he gestures and laughs, looking lighter than she's seen him in a while. When his arm comes around her waist, pulling her closer, her heart nearly bursts. He looks down at Bridget with a soft, concerned expression as she sighs, laying her head on his shoulder. She just wants to appreciate the moment as he talks business, content for this one moment to hang off his arm like any of the other girls who fall into bed with men like James Barnes.

There was hesitation at first, the fear that Bridget wasn't tough or pretty enough, but he quickly succeeded in pushing all those insecurities to the wayside. The desire to make this a permanent thing trickles into Bridget's mind more and more each day. With James she feels strong, safe, but most importantly, she feels loved. The way his fingers trace her side as he talks, the subtle glances down in Bridget's direction, they all cement the strong affection that has bloomed inside of her.

After James finishes up with his old friend, they take the short car ride back to James' townhouse. The spacious home is dark for once, no Natasha or Steve present. He unlocks the door and as they step in, Bridget can't get over how normal it all feels. She kicks off her heels in the hallway as James removes her coat, pressing a small kiss to the side of her neck that nearly makes her purr. As she follows him to the living area, she realizes this is a part of the house that she hasn't seen before.

It's similar to the other rooms, dark wallpaper and paint accented with thick wooden paneling and molding. The ceilings are high, almost twice as high as her family's apartment and Bridget has to practically break her neck just to look at the light fixtures. Paintings of landscapes and well dressed men and women hang from the walls and a large fireplace stands dark on the far wall. Her entire apartment could fit in this room alone.

"Have you always lived like...this?" Bridget asks, trying to hide the awe in her voice as James pours her a drink at the small bar nestled in the corner.

James chuckles softly as he passes her a rocks glass, filled just barely with whiskey. The burnt peat and smoky scent fills Bridget's nose and she instantly feels at home. She snuggles into the plush couch that sits in the center of the room and James sits down beside her, pulling her ankles into his lap.

"No, doll, I haven't," he replies, taking a long sip from his glass and Bridget finds herself doing the same. "My parents left their country when she was pregnant with me and my father got a job down by the river that didn't pay well. We lived on practically nothing until I was about ten, when all of a sudden my dad got a new job and a few weeks later, we got this place."

This is her favorite side of him, the one that few others get to see. The usually tough exterior starts to peel away and she gets to see the softness that grows underneath. His fingers start to trace circles on her bare ankles as he talks, warming her body up more than any alcohol ever could.

"I didn't know how my father made so much money so fast, but I had a bed of my own and shoes that actually fit for once, so I didn't ask," James says, swallowing the last of his whiskey before placing the glass on an end table. "Turned out that he did a favor for the head of one of the gangs out here and the rest is history."