Winter Widow One Shots

Leave Them On

He looked good. Ridiculously good.

Natasha watched him move around the room, every step measured, unhurried, confident. The dim light from the chandeliers caught the angles of his face, the unruly sweep of dark hair that refused to obey any kind of order. His button-up shirt fit perfectly—of course it did. Tailored within an inch of its life, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins at his wrist. The illusion SHIELD had created for his metal arm looked natural.

Of course none of this was new. Bucky Barnes always looked good.

But those glasses.

It wasn't fair.

She'd have to thank whoever at SHIELD's wardrobe department had decided to give him those glasses this go around, and then likely steal them before the night was over.

They shouldn't have made a difference. She knew that. But yet they did. Some how managing to make him look infuriatingly human. The kind of man who spent lazy Sundays reading newspapers and drinking coffee. Not the kind who could disarm a bomb with one hand and break a neck with the other.

Natasha adjusted her earring, trying to distract herself from him. She needed to focus. She was supposed to be undercover as his wife. And thank goodness for that cover story, any other role wouldn't have given her an excuse to stay this close, or to keep looking at him.

They were only halfway through the evening. Deep cover. Art investors from Chicago—Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew. The kind of couple everyone found fascinating, but no one dared to question. He played his part with maddening ease: charming, disarming, the perfect mix of confidence and restraint.

And the glasses, those freaking glasses, turned the sharp lines of his face into something gentle, approachable. The dangerous man she so often fought beside looked like he might quote literature between shootouts.

She caught herself staring. Again. And so did he.

"What?" His voice was low, threaded with amusement, barely audible over the clinking of crystal and low chatter.

"Nothing." She lifted her champagne flute to her lips, masking her expression behind a sip she didn't really take.

"Nothing?"

"Yes Mr. Bartholomew. Nothing."

He adjusted the glasses with two fingers, the corner of his mouth curling.  "Is that why you keep staring at me?"

She rolled her eyes, placing her champagne glass on a nearby waiters tray, as he continued speaking.

"You keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think that you like me."

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. "You keep talking like that and I might change my mind."

He placed a finger under her chin, lifting it just so, forcing her to meet his gaze. "We both know that's not true."

He winked. And she just about melted.

She was going to have to rip those glasses off his face if she wanted to think straight again.

He moved away then, all calm efficiency and composed charm, greeting one of the curators as if nothing had passed between them. His hand found her waist—steady, possessive, infuriatingly natural—as he guided her toward their seats for the auction. His touch lingered just long enough for her to feel the heat of it through the thin silk of her dress. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles above her hip, and her heart gave a traitorous flutter.