Chapter Text
ACT ONE: THE RAIN
"Uh, JARVIS, remind me again why we're hosting a party when our magnum opus of artificial intelligence is currently sitting in the digital equivalent of a timeout corner?"
Tony swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the afternoon light. The city sprawled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, oblivious to his existential crisis.
"Because, sir," JARVIS replied smoothly, "You told Captain Rogers it would be 'good for morale' after the Maximoffs' probation was officially lifted. Also, because you enjoy 'dramatic juxtaposition'."
Tony snorted, "Keep psychoanalyzing me, and I'll reprogram you to say 'please' and 'thank you'." He knocked back the rest of the drink and set the glass down with a clink, "—Status check on the Ultron core?"
"It remains dormant. Neural matrix stabilized, but no emergent activity detected."
Tony grimaced. Three days of nonstop work, and all they had to show for it was a glorified screensaver. He'd envisioned a revolutionary AI — Something sleek, efficient, perfect. Instead, they'd gotten... Nothing. Just static and that eerie sense of being watched from inside the code.
Bruce had called it a mercy. Tony had called it a waste of good tech and good lab time. Now, Thor was going to pack it up and take it back to Asgard like it was carry-on luggage.
The elevator dinged.
"Tony." Steve's voice, all earnest disapproval and star-spangled concern, "You're not dressed yet."
Tony didn't turn around, "Observant as ever, Cap. What gave it away? The lack of a tux or the existential despair?"
"The twins just arrived. Thought you might appreciate getting a heads-up."
Ah. Right. The other mess in his life. Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, unleashed upon his tower, having to see them properly for the first time since their little stunt in Sokovia.
Tony forced a grin, spinning to face him, "Great. Can't wait to bond over canapés and repressed trauma."
Steve sighed, "Play nice, Tony."
"Always do, Rogers." Tony replied blithely, "But nobody else ever seems to play nice back."
The White Widow
"Chert voz'mi." (Goddamn it.)
Alia cursed, throwing her hands up in the air in despair. She'd been pacing around her side of the adjoining quarters she and Bucky had been assigned (to manage their codependency; though it typically just meant they alternated sides whenever they felt like it) like a madwoman for nearly thirty minutes. And she was just about feeling crazy, too.
Because Natasha was late.
With her dress.
Stark's party was apparently 'cocktail attire'. Well, that was all well and good, except Alia's style trended towards military chic. Tactical everything. A great affinity for cuffed cargo pants. Plenty of tank-tops (Which Bucky always appreciated, at least) but nothing that screamed cocktail attire.
Natasha had said to give her an hour. Well, it had been an hour and three minutes, and she—
—Oh, finally. Relief flooded Alia the moment she sensed Natasha in proximity. She didn't even waste time, sauntering over to the door and opening it, "You are late."
She could feel Bucky's amusement from his half of their quarters. He had no issues dressing up, so he was greatly enjoying Alia's dilemma. Which he would be paying for later.
Natasha arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by the outburst, as she stepped inside. The garment bag slung over her shoulder swayed with her movements. She tossed it onto the bed without ceremony.
"Traffic," The other Widow deadpanned. Then, with a pointed once-over at Alia's current ensemble— Ripped black jeans and a tank top that absolutely screamed 'I will stab you at a moment's notice' —She added, "You're welcome."
The zipper of the garment bag hissed open, revealing sleek black fabric. Natasha held up the dress with a wicked smile; it was tailored to hug every curve, the back dipping dangerously low, the sleeves long and fitted. Old-fashioned, but for modern times.
Natasha glanced at the adjoining door, where Bucky's amused presence was palpable even without telepathic abilities to sense it.
"You going to survive seeing her in this, Barnes?" She called out, teasingly, "Or should I be paging medical in advance to be prepared for a heart attack victim?"
From the other side of the door came Bucky's muffled, "Fuck off, Romanoff," followed by the distinct sound of a foot hitting the wall.
Natasha only grinned wider. Mission accomplished, apparently. She winked at Alia before sauntering out, no doubt to get ready herself. Alia already knew what Natasha would be wearing. White.
It was ironic. The Black Widow dressed in white, and the White Widow dressed in black. A little inside joke, between the two of them, for tonight.
Alia let out a breath and got to work getting into the dress — Which was basically a trial in and of itself. She'd never worn something so... Formal, before. It felt strange. A bit like she was exposed, which, in a way, she was.
But she could make this work. She always did.
"...James. I think that I need your help with the zipper," She finally muttered like a petulant child, knowing Bucky would hear her. She'd been trying herself for the last three minutes.
The door opened with deliberate slowness, Bucky stepping through with that familiar half-smirk already playing at his mouth, until he saw her. His breath caught audibly, his boots freezing mid-step as his gaze raked over the way the dress clung to her curves, the plunge of the back barely restrained by that stubborn, half-done zipper.
"Jesus Christ," He muttered, voice gone hoarse at the sight. His metal hand flexed at his side like he was resisting the urge to touch. And Alia didn't need telepathy to feel the heat in his stare, or sense the way his pulse had kicked up the second he'd laid eyes on her.
He moved behind her in two long strides, his fingers, calloused and warm, brushing the nape of her neck as he dragged the zipper up with painstaking slowness. His breath tickled her ear, uneven.
"Natasha's trying to kill me," He grumbled.
The zipper hit the top with a soft click, but Bucky didn't step back. His hands lingered at her waist, his nose skimming the sensitive spot below her ear.
"Party's in twenty minutes," He murmured, lips grazing her skin, "You know, we could be late."
Alia only rolled her eyes, tipping her head back so she could look back at him, "No, James, we cannot be late. It would be very rude." She punctuated the point by reaching up to plant a kiss on his jaw.
Yeah. She knew what she was doing.
"And, besides," Alia added, dryly, "I have not done my makeup yet. And you would ruin it."
Bucky groaned, pressing his forehead against her shoulder, "You're mean," He grumbled, but there was no real heat in it. His fingers tightened briefly at her hips before he forced himself to step back, running a hand through his hair.
He leaned against the dresser, watching as she moved to the vanity—deliberate, predatory.
"You thinking of wearing your hair up?"
The question was innocent, but his tone wasn't. Alia didn't need telepathy to know exactly where his thoughts had gone.
"Mm. I had not decided yet." Her hair had grown out enough that she could, if she wanted to; just skimming her collarbone and only just starting to fall down her shoulders. She'd need to get it cut again, soon...
She busied herself instead with applying lipstick (clothes were one thing, but Alia did enjoy makeup), a deep red the colour of blood, "Did you have a suggestion?" She asked, thoroughly amused by his suffering now.
Bucky's gaze, though, had locked onto the way the lipstick stained her mouth, his own parting slightly. He swallowed hard before managing, "Up." The word came out strangled. He cleared his throat, dragging his eyes away. Only to get caught on the elegant line of her bare back again.
He shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his jacket in a way that was not subtle, "You're doing this on purpose," He finally accused, his voice low.
Outside, the muffled sounds of the party starting up filtered through the walls; music, laughter, quiet conversation. Bucky didn't move. His metal hand gripped the dresser hard enough to dent the wood.
Alia grinned, those dark lips curling, "Only because you make it so easy for me to," She assured him, sweeping up her shortened hair into a quick, effortless updo — The sort of style she was used to throwing together, be it when sparring with Natasha or Wanda, or relaxing at home in their quarters. A few stray pieces tickled her face as she stepped back.
Bucky made a sound in the back of his throat that was almost a growl, pushing off the dresser in one smooth motion. In two strides he was crowding her against the vanity, his hands braced on either side of the mirror as he leaned down to murmur directly into her ear:
"Tease me like this at the party, and I will drag you into the nearest closet, Avengers be damned."
"You would not." She scowled, but that waver in her voice gave her away. That, and the way her head tilted on instinct to give him better access to her neck.
His teeth grazed the exposed column of her throat, just shy of leaving a mark, "Try me," He murmured against her skin, the vibration of his voice making her shiver.
The doorbell chimed, then. JARVIS' polite voice filled the shared suite, "Ten minutes until scheduled event commencement, Sergeant Barnes, Ms. Volkova," And Bucky pulled back with a groan.
He straightened his collar with one hand, the other sliding down to intertwine with hers.
"Alright. Later," He promised darkly.
Alia only smiled again, this time a bit less sultry, a little lighter, as she interlaced her fingers with his.
It was just one short elevator ride to the common area. One where Alia made it a point to not look at Bucky because she was sure if she did, he'd have her up against the wall of it in no time. She almost exhaled in relief when they finally arrived, both miraculously intact.
The common area was already abuzz with guests, even though the party didn't start for another ten minutes. Everyone was scattered; Natasha, in her white dress, was manning the bar; Tony and Bruce were speaking in low tones to one-another; Thor was regaling what looked to be a group of veterans with fantastical stories.
And then, of course, there were the Maximoffs. Steve was already with them.
"I am serious, James. No closets. This is a big night for Wanda and Pietro." She finally muttered to Bucky, slipping her hand from his so she could walk over to Steve and the twins.
'A big night' was an understatement. It had taken months of work but Secretary Ross had finally approved the lifting of the twins' probation. It didn't mean that neither she nor Steve were off the hook concerning them, but it meant they could leave the upstate compound. It meant they weren't at risk of being thrown back in the Raft if they stepped a toe out of line.
It was a victory, even if it was a small one, and one worth celebrating. Not that Tony Stark needed an excuse to throw a party, though...
Wanda spotted her first. The girl's eyes, still sharp with skepticism despite weeks of tentative trust, flickered over Alia's dress, then Bucky, who lingered a few paces behind her, before her gaze settled back with a soft little smirk. Pietro, leaning against the bar next to Natasha, opted to just wolf-whistle at her. Alia rolled her eyes.
Steve, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat, "You clean up nice," He offered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Alia ignored the heat creeping up her neck, "Oh, do not start, either, Rogers."
Wanda tilted her head, fingers toying with the rim of her wineglass, "You look... Different," She said, more observation than compliment.
"Different bad?" Alia raised an eyebrow.
"Different interesting."
Alia laughed at that, shrugging, "Interesting, that is good." Before she added, "Then, you two look very interesting as well. I am happy you could come." She meant it, too.
Steve and her, they'd worked damn hard over the last month to help these two thrive. They'd fought even longer before that to have them released from the Raft. Now, they had a real chance to reclaim their lives. That wasn't something Alia took lightly. Now Wanda and Pietro were here, her in a dress and shawl, him in a polo shirt and jeans, almost looking like they belonged.
"Do not worry. Once everyone has had a few drinks, there will not be so much tension," Alia added, grinning, "Just do not drink what Thor offers you. Steve, Bucky, and I, it is good for us. It is not good for humans with normal livers."
Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, "That's putting it lightly. Last time Tony tried Asgardian mead, I don't think I saw him for an entire weekend..."
Wanda's lips twitched into almost a smile. Pietro snorted into his drink.
Across the room, Tony clinked a fork against his glass, exclaiming, "Alright, folks! Since we're all here—" His eyes flicked briefly to Wanda and Pietro before he continued, "—Let's raise a toast. To new beginnings, questionable life choices, Thor's upcoming sabbatical, and to not destroying my tower this time."
Glasses lifted. Bucky appeared at Alia's side again, pressing a vodka martini into her hand, her usual, the golden glimmer suggesting he'd already been by Thor to have it spiked. His fingers brushed hers deliberately as she took it.
No closets, his smirk said, but I'm keeping track. She mentally flicked his brain and he scowled at her in return. Alia grinned smugly back at him, then glowered when he stole a kiss from her that had Pietro gagging into his beer bottle.
The party hummed around them, laughter and music weaving together.
And, somewhere in the tower, deep in the lab servers, dormant code stirred; a danger that none of them foresaw coming.