November, 2014.

Copenhagen, Denmark.

I was already glaring out the front window of the bakery by the time my boss decided I could leave. She shoved about fifty Euro, my day's wages, in my hand before I hung up my apron in the kitchen. It had someone else's name on it, a leftover from some moved-on employee.

Bucky was waiting for me outside, and he was the reason I glared. I shoved through the front door of the bakery and started walking down the sidewalk, simultaneously pulling on my coat and not waiting for him.

"I've said it seventeen times now, so I guess I should say it at least one more time," I began as he caught up to me. "I don't need an escort to walk me home every day."

"I'm being a gentleman," he said. I didn't need to look at him to know he was grinning.

"I thought we agreed that you would stop walking me to and from work when my black eye healed," I reminded him. That had been our deal. It had taken three hours of hushed English, Romanian, and Russian to hash it out, but finally Bucky had agreed to it.

"I can still see a little yellow," he told me. I knew he was lying and told him so, but he ignored me. I had a feeling he wouldn't stop walking me home from work until he was sure I wouldn't go off and do my best pre-serum Steve Rogers impression.

"You're imagining it," I retorted while I took off my gloves. I took my usual bag of leftover bread and pastries out of my coat pocket and found something covered in cinnamon and honey. They were still warm from being under a lamp in the display case. "Want one?"

"No thanks," he answered quietly. He never went for dessert first, even though I regularly did. I ate the pastry conspicuously, side-eyeing Bucky every chance I got while we walked. "How are the other bruises?"

"My arm and my thigh are fine. Ribs are still a little sore," I admitted. Bucky had given me more privacy since I came home with his passport. It made him harder to read. Spooning me in Oslo has opened up a little dam of physicality. He was more okay with casual touches now, the pats on the shoulder or accidental bumping of hips or elbows in the tight spaces of our apartment. I had even woken up, more than once, to his back pressed against my own. He slept facing the windows, and I slept facing the door. He trusted me to watch his back.

But then it slowed down, significantly. It was as if seeing me bruised had reminded him that I could get hurt. I had never claimed to be as sturdy as my cocky manner made me seem, but I was willing to admit that I hadn't given Bucky any warning about my mortality and possible risks to it. So now he kept his distance. I disliked it far more than I had anticipated I would.

"So, I've been cyberstalking your colleagues," I blurted out. I wanted to shift his attention, desperately, from my entirely healed black eye. "Well, sort of. I've had to rely on Facebook and social media in general, which sucks. But I'm trying not to call in any favors because I know how you feel about that."

He tensed his jaw, but he didn't comment.

"Basically, they're all decent people getting paid under the table like you are. I mean, they had social media accounts I could look at," I explained. "In a vast majority of cases, people with really bad things to hide don't have social media."

God knows I had deleted my social media accounts and replaced them with carefully curated facsimiles. And Bucky, bless him, had only a rudimentary understanding of Facebook.

"Was there anything useful?" he asked after a few moments of silence.

"Couple guys having affairs," I summed up. "One of whom is pregnant and about to pop."

We stopped at the edge of a moderately busy intersection just long enough to check each oncoming lane. We kept walking and talking on the far side.

"I mean, there was plenty they wouldn't want people to know, but nothing highly illegal," I rephrased. "Using this sort of information as leverage takes a certain touch."

"Your touch, I assume."

"A woman's touch in general," I corrected. "Introduce a pretty woman, possibly one with ties to you, and draw him in. And threaten him, of course. Mention my knowledge of his previous affairs. Mention that I care about your well-being, and that your well-being is tied to his silence about any illegal suspicions."

"So, you're calling yourself pretty now?" Bucky laughed. I had finally chipped through his recently erected barriers.

"Buck, I am drop dead gorgeous," I clarified, beginning to put a little more strut in my stride.

"You won't find any arguments here, doll," he said with a smirk. I came to a dead stop, but he kept walking for another three steps. "What are you doing back there?"

I had finished my honey-cinnamon pastry, but I could still feel it stuck in the back of my throat. It was cold out, but my cheeks were hot.

"Did you just flirt with me, James Barnes?" I asked. He crossed the gap between us and took the bag out of my hand. He pulled a pastry out, a duplicate of mine, and took a bite.

"That wasn't flirting," he said around the bite.

"You said that I wouldn't find any arguments here about being gorgeous," I reminded him.

"Yes."

He didn't see my point. Or he did and was egging me on. Both were confusing possibilities. But instead of clarifying for me, he took another bite from the pastry and continued walking. I stood in place for a split second before following him. I caught up in a few strides and matched his pace.

"You never said anything about the actual concept of seduction and blackmail," I began again.

"You're not seducing my coworkers," he announced. We didn't have to worry about linguistically blending into the crowds around us, as we had left the crowds behind. He was talking slightly above his normal volume, but he compensated by walking with the carefully drawn-in stride of a military man hoping to avoid drawing attention to himself.

"Now, Buck, you're a good-looking man, but I don't think you can seduce any of them. In all my cyber-stalking and in person stalking, nothing indicated any of them would enjoy that kind of attention from you," I pointed out, arching one eyebrow as I looked at him. He tore off another piece of the pastry and matched my expression.

"Talk about flirting," he mumbled. "And what do you mean 'in person stalking'? I thought you were doing stuff on your computer."

"I was, but not everyone puts everything on the internet. I had to do a little old-fashioned surveillance," I said casually. "The guys you work with don't all work the same schedule as you. When you were at work, I'd follow them. That's how I found out about that illegitimate child. I ended up an obstetrician's office."

"Jesus Christ," Bucky muttered. The words were muffled by the mouthful of pastry.

"Am I still worse than Steve?" I teased, bumping my shoulder into his.

"You've got a ways to go before you're as bad as Steve ever was. But stalking people does give him a run for his money."

*

Author's Note:

Well, it's been quite some time since I've posted under any of my works, but here I am. I've got plenty more to write about Bucky and Gail, and I'm steadily working on all of those ideas. I hope to have another chapter or two posted before my summer university classes reach full speed. 

As always, I owe a monumental thank you to everyone who's been reading this or my other works while I've been absent. I might not have been posting, but I loved seeing all the votes and comments I was receiving!