Chapter Text
It starts the way these things usually do.
Bucky’s had way too much to drink.
It’s not exactly a rare occurrence. Far from one, really. He gets a bit too bold with his mixed drinks like he’s still in college and not halfway to thirty, and he gets a little loose-tongued. Or in this case, loose-fingered. He goes overboard, Bucky can admit that. But when you’re teetering precariously on the edge of “take off all your clothes” drunk and “I’m about to ruin everyone’s night” drunk, sometimes you make some bad decisions that you don’t exactly process as being bad in the moment. That’s what happens to Bucky. He fucks up.
So now here he is the morning after, not sure whether he’s still drunk or just violently hungover, about to face the wolves like a lamb to the slaughter with absolutely no memory of what went down last night. If you ask Bucky, between being bombarded with pap camera flashes at seven in the morning and being shot in the head forty-eight times, always go with being shot in the head forty-eight times. And if you’re hungover-slash-potentially-still-drunk, go with being shot in the head forty-eight times while being flayed alive because that’s still ten times less painful than the vultures and their goddamn lights.
The moment he’s out the door of his hotel, they’re on him, worse than he could have ever anticipated. They scream nonsense, begging for him to take off his glasses and pose for a picture like it’s not the literal ass crack of dawn and he wasn’t probably grinding on a stripper not but three hours prior. His security shoves through them, and Bucky has no intention of engaging whatsoever, but one question piques his interest— and his anxiety.
“Mr. Barnes! Mr. Barnes, would you care to comment on the tweet you sent out late last night?”
Bucky frowns, head pounding, “What tweet?”
“The one where you replied to a picture of Steve Rogers saying, quote, “He can top me,” followed by two Malaysian flag emojis.”
He doesn’t even bother hiding his guilty wince, awkwardly rubbing his neck.
Natasha’s gonna kill him.
Bucky has nothing to say, but his expression is statement enough. His head of security shuffles them into the waiting car, instructing the rest of the team to form a sort of protective barrier around him lest he embarrass himself further.
“Please tell me you didn’t actually tweet that,” his stylist, Wanda, questions lowly as they climb into the van.
Frantically, he opens his phone, fingers clumsily slipping on every button and bright screen pulling a pained hiss from his chapped lips. He’s got about fifteen texts and more incoming from Natasha, but he ignores them in favor of opening up his Twitter app. Unsurprisingly, there are thousands of notifications, his phone immediately starting to heat up from the influx of activity. With a silent prayer, he clicks on one of them and is taken to a tweet from a pop culture account.
Pop News @PopNews
Steve Rogers looks handsome for THR.
[Image]
The caption couldn’t be more true. Steve Rogers does look handsome for THR, with his tousled cornsilk hair and pink plush lips pulled in a lazy smile as he lounges in a cushy armchair. America’s Soft-Hearted Sweetheart, the headline reads. Steve Rogers is more than just a pretty face, but he’s much too modest to tell you so. That is, until you ask.
Even through his raging anxiety, Bucky’s heart stutters at the sight of him. He’s beautiful in his cozy cream colored sweater and loose jeans, and apparently the drunk version of Bucky from the wee hours of the morning thought so too. Although it pains him, he scrolls down further, where he is greeted with what is likely his worst drunken mistake yet.
There she is, the very top reply with a whopping 60k likes, in all her glory.
Bucky Barnes @BuckyBarnes
he can top me 🇲🇾🇲🇾
He lets his eyes fall shut behind his sunglasses, “I am so fucked.”
“I’m gonna kill you.”
“Listen—!”
“Don’t even “listen” me, you shit,” Natasha hisses, pinching the prematurely wrinkled skin between her brows. He’ll have to pay for her to get Botox or something— it’s the least he can do considering it’s his fault. “What the actual fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” he whines, hiding his face in his hands. “I was drunk.”
They’re in the studio, the two of them locked in the chilly control room while the rest of his team does damage control from the live room, occasionally eyeing them nervously through the glass. Bucky’s supposed to be in New York for album shoots, but his producer texted him a day ago saying they needed to do a couple of re-recordings. Never one to turn down a trip to LA, Bucky was on the plane three hours later and anticipating his night out with teen-like giddiness. Now, he just wishes he had done the recordings at home and spared himself the ensuing shitshow.
The tweet has long been deleted, the clock on the far wall reading 1:30 pm, but his phone is still blowing up. He considered just deactivating his account entirely, but Natasha insisted that would only make things worse. They’ve decided to take his most favorite course of action: ignore it and hope it all blows over. An Irish goodbye of sorts, but of the internet scandal variety.
From the amount of news app notifications he’s getting and Natasha’s anxious pacing ahead of him, he’s not sure it’s working very well.
Natasha groans, “Why the Malaysian flags!?”
Bucky peeks out from behind his fingers, “I think they were supposed to be American flags.”
“I’m gonna kill you,” she promises again.
“I was drunk!”
“That’s not an excuse anymore!” Nat snaps and, yeah, he thinks, that’s fair.
Here’s the main issue:
This isn’t his first offense.
It isn’t even his tenth, if he’s being honest with himself. Bucky’s never been known for his subtlety. It’s what drew people to him in the first place. He’s blunt and frequently forgets the scope of his reach, still thinking himself some keyboard warrior with way too much time on his hands and a platform that barely made it past the degenerates of a certain side of Maria Rambeau stan Twitter. His fans and the general public like that he’s down to Earth, but it’s always to an extent. Bucky can be human, but not too human— not enough to remind them that he actually is just some guy. Because once he does, they want nothing to do with him.
Apparently, camping out in the Pop News replies and asking to be topped hit a little too close to home for some of them.
But again, he’s done shit like this before. Maybe not on the same scale, and especially not at what might be the height of his career, but he’s done it. Just a couple of years ago, for reasons he still can’t fathom, he confessed to the biggest radio show in the country that he’d been completely doped out during the performance at his local talent show that led to him being discovered as a teenager.
“Fun fact, I was actually totally coked out that night,” he had admitted without preamble after the show played a clip of the performance.
Over the interviewer’s muffled laughter, he heard Natasha’s exasperated “Oh my god,” from somewhere ahead in the studio.
“Bucky,” the interviewer chuckled, shaking his head.
“It’s true, I’m sorry. I really wish it wasn’t, but. It is what it is.”
“I mean— hey! The vocals were eating.”
“The vocals were eating,” Bucky agreed easily. “I was not.”
And for some reason, he just kept running his mouth.
“Do you know how embarrassing it is to have to go to rehab for a coke addiction at seventeen? I had people twice my age calling me washed up and that’s when I knew I had to get a little serious.”
The interviewer guffawed, “Where on earth were you getting coke at seventeen!?”
“Can’t answer that. Safety matter.”
More so PR matter. He couldn’t tell that interviewer that he was sucking Wall Street dick for coke and connections before he even graduated high school, now could he? Behind the camera, Natasha buried her face in her hands. The rest of the interview went off without a hitch, but his team was absolutely furious with him once it was over. That very same night, Natasha hired his publicist, Layla.
“You’re never doing an interview without media training ever a-fucking-gain,” she had hissed in his ear on the way out. “You fucking nightmare.”
Thankfully, he wasn’t big enough yet by that point for the interview to be truly detrimental to his career. In fact, he was even praised for his “transparency regarding teen drug usage.” Multiple news outlets congratulated him for overcoming his addiction, most of which Bucky read whilst high out of his mind. It ended up giving him the boost he needed to finally make a breakthrough in the industry, though. Apparently, being his most authentic self was enough.
He doesn’t think that’ll be the case this time around.
Natasha takes a deep breath, visibly calming herself lest she gouge his eyes out.
“It doesn’t matter if you were drunk. You can’t say shit like that,” she explains like she’s talking to a small child. “It’s sexual harassment.”
“He wasn’t supposed to see it!” Bucky nearly whines.
“That doesn’t make any difference!” she snaps.
“It was a joke!”
“Not if you’ve actively been trying to get in his pants!”
He groans loudly, “He! Doesn’t! Know! That!”
“Bucky!”
“I’ve never even met the guy!” he shouts, laughing deliriously. “It was a fucking joke! There were twenty different replies saying the same exact fucking thing!”
“None of those replies are you!” Natasha screams back. “Nobody knows who they are behind their accounts, their jobs aren’t on the line! And it’s not just your job, it’s all of ours! If your career tanks, what the fuck do you think is gonna happen to the rest of us!? We aren’t professionals, Bucky, we’re just your fucking friends! This was just as much a toss-up for us, for me, as it was for you!”
“This isn’t gonna tank my career!”
She huffs angrily, slamming her iPad down in front of him, “Read this. And see what I’m fucking talking about.”
Glaring at her, he snatches the stupid thing, squinting down at the article she has pulled up.
WSJ Guest Column
The Jokes Are Far From Farcical: How LGBT Youth Culture Has Regularized Sexual Harassment in Hollywood.
by Alexander Pierce
Posted 23 hours ago.
“You cannot be fucking serious,” he deadpans.
Alexander fucking Pierce. A name Bucky hasn’t been able to escape since he finally made it mainstream. The guy seems to follow him wherever he goes despite the two of them being in entirely separate industries. A retired actor of the Golden Age, in his old age Pierce has since seemingly taken up Bucky’s old pastime of terrorizing folks over the internet, but in a manner that is generally described as being much classier than what Bucky used to do. “Classy” isn’t exactly the word Bucky himself would use, though. Big words don't change the fact that Pierce is essentially a one-hundred-year-old troll who apparently can’t keep Bucky’s name out of his mouth. Even if the article wasn’t necessarily written about him, Pierce must be feeling like a kid in a candy store right now seeing as Bucky Barnes just proved him right on his frankly homophobic assessment of young gays in the industry. God, he fucked up so bad.
Natasha points at the screen, “This is why the backlash is so bad. This is why your career could tank today. Pierce already tweeted about you and every remotely right-leaning outlet on planet Earth is turning it into a story. You do shit like this and wonder why brands and other artists are hesitant about working with you, Bucky! It doesn’t matter how big you are now, they don’t want the drama!”
“Then why do they fucking start it?” Wanda’s brother Pietro mutters as the rest of Bucky’s team wanders into the control room. “I thought Alexander Pierce was dead. He hasn’t even been in anything good since like, the 80s.”
Bucky ignores him, too focused on the tweet from Jasper Sitwell he’s just clicked on after searching his own name.
““Bucky Barnes is just yet another example of what Alexander Pierce bravely discussed in his Op-Ed for The Wall Street Journal. If Rogers were an older woman rather than an older man, Barnes’ career would be over today,”” he reads out loud, starting to finally panic a bit. He can’t even believe what he’s seeing, “I’m older than him!”
Wanda winces, “I don’t think that’s gonna help your case.”
“By a fucking year!”
“@Starklover9 on Instagram is in Variety’s comments calling you a cradle robber,” Pietro tells him. “Actually they called you something else, but I’m not saying that.”
“Not helping,” Wanda hisses.
“I need some air,” Bucky announces abruptly, getting up.
He storms out of the studio, his mood only worsened by the bright sun that greets him out back. It’s April, for fuck’s sake— it should be downpouring. With fumbling fingers, he pulls a cigarette from his back pocket, frowning at its smooshed appearance. When it takes him three whole tries without success to get a light, his hands shaking too badly, he throws both the cig and the lighter to the ground, muffling a scream into his hands.
This is bullshit. It’s objectively bullshit. He’s been turned into a scapegoat for some old fuck’s homophobic agenda in a record ten hours, just for doing the same thing everyone does. And the worst part of it all is that Bucky knows he shouldn’t have tweeted it, knows that maybe he should work on not voicing everything that comes to mind even on his private accounts, especially during an album rollout, but he can’t even make time for working on himself because this is all becoming some big thing that, at the end of the day, has nothing to do with what he said. Bucky’s dumb, drunken mistake just proved Alexander Pierce and his dickriders right, and it might cost him—not to mention any other young gay guys in his position—everything.
The thing is, he’s good at what he does. He’s worked hard to get where he is. Bucky didn’t have the same connections as the majority of his peers when trying to break into the industry. Every achievement, all his successes, are all the result of years and years of putting himself out there, doing whatever it took—whoever it took, he’s ashamed to admit—to make it big. That being said, popular as he is now, he still also doesn’t have the same protections as said peers. Natasha’s excellent at her job, so is Layla, but neither of them is a miracle worker. His connections go as deep as the friendships he’s made in the last few years or so, but they can’t get him out of a shitshow like this. Neither can Nat and Layla.
“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, scrubbing his face.
“I thought we said no more cigarettes,” Natasha says from behind him, causing Bucky to jump a bit. He hadn’t even heard the door open. “We spend too much money on vocal health shit for you to just turn around and smoke.”
“Don’t you see it on the ground?” he tells her quietly.
“That means you thought about it, though.”
“Can you just—” Bucky closes his eyes, nails digging small crescent moons into his palm. “Can you just not right now? Please? It’s not like I’ll even need my voice after this nightmare. I’m done for and it’s all my fucking fault.”
Nat clucks her tongue, hand coming to rest on his shoulder, “Bun, it’s… it’s not your fault. If this had happened any other week—hell, any other day—things would’ve played out differently. We just have to wait this out and hope for the best.”
Her voice is uncharacteristically soft, and Bucky’s horrified to feel the sting of oncoming tears behind his eyes. He just can’t believe how quickly things went south for him. Less than 12 hours ago he was at a club having the time of his life and now here he is anticipating his downfall, all because he couldn’t keep his thoughts about Steve Rogers to himself. It is all his fault, and there’s nothing he can do about it but helplessly watch everything he’s worked for since he was a teenager go up in flames like a slow-motion car crash.
“Stop spiraling,” Natasha instructs firmly, turning him around to face her. “This is going to be fine.”
“Weren’t you just telling me how much it’s not fine like, ten minutes ago?” he says, voice hoarse.
“I was having my own spiral. I’m chill now. Can you chill?”
“I don’t know,” Bucky admits weakly.
She cups his cheek, “Try, because you have a whole day of re-records and like, six months of album promo ahead of you. I know you can do it because you love this. Not the fame or the money, but the music. The finally getting to bring the project you’ve always dreamed of to life. Don’t let them ruin this.”
“It’s our project,” he whispers, thinking of the endless nights he, Nat, and his sisters spent lying out on his and Bekka’s bed as kids, brainstorming what their futures would look like. They were dirt poor with a cacophony of issues that meant they’d likely never leave New York, but they fantasized regardless. His sisters had delusions of grandeur, dreams of leaving their slum behind for penthouses and pearl necklaces, but he and Nat only ever wanted to do one thing— make one thing.
Music.
“You’ll sing and I’ll tell you what to sing,” she’d say, scribbling in her journal. “Let me handle all the business. You just sing.”
She smiles at him, “Exactly. Just ours, and nobody else’s. Who gives a fuck about some geriatric actor who can’t cope with being past his prime? Who gives a fuck about everyone gagging on his dick? The only thing that matters is that you’re doing what you love. We’ll just send Steve Rogers a fucking fruit basket or something.”
Bucky cracks a smile of his own, “With a “Sorry for asking you to top me” card?”
“We’ll even throw in some batik cake for good measure,” she winks.
“I love you,” he tells her softly. “Thank you.”
“That’s fucking disgusting,” she says woodenly, moving toward the door. After a moment, she turns to face him again. “I love you too.”
Despite himself, Bucky beams as bright as the hot California sun beating down on him, earning himself an eye roll. Natasha beckons him inside, and as soon as they reach the control room, he gets a call from Layla.
“Fuck me,” he mutters before biting the bullet and answering, putting his phone on speaker. “Hello?”
“This is a shitshow,” she says in lieu of a greeting.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers miserably.
Layla sighs, “Don’t be, albi. That’s why you have me. Besides, I can’t ever be too terribly mad at you. You keep me employed.”
From beside him, Natasha snorts.
“How are things looking on your end?” he asks her, fearing the worst.
“So far it isn’t too awful. It helps that it’s only been less than twelve hours, though, to be fair. Papa John’s officially backed out on the Lollapalooza commercial, but we expected that, the conservative pricks. The label said to look out for communication later, but for now I think you’re in the clear. Janet Van Dyne’s team messaged to say they still want to go ahead with the campaign this fall and keep you on their roster for the Met next month, which was nice of them. They don’t usually reach out like that.”
Bucky lets out a relieved breath, “That’s good. That’s really nice. I’ll have to email her later to thank her.”
“Make sure to lay it on thick,” Layla instructs. “A lot of tabloids and some of the more desperate publications are really latching onto this, but thankfully all the ones of actual substance seem to know it’s just a horrible matter of timing. People are bored and you’re getting massive. This always happens. No word from Vivienne Westwood, so assume you’re still on for the event on Saturday. Do you have your plus one yet?”
“Uh, I was thinking of bringing Bekka. She wants to network with their designers.”
She hums, “That’s perfect. Lie low until then. MJ will still run your socials business as usual, but I told her to keep updates off of Twitter until we sort this out. Is that okay?”
“You’d know better than me,” he tells her honestly.
“Let’s keep it offline for the time being,” she suggests, the sound of her nails clacking on her phone as she presumably updates MJ bringing Bucky more comfort than it should. “The guest list for the VW event is quite stacked, but I saw a few familiar names. Ava Starr, Yelena Belova—”
Natasha rolls her eyes.
“—Monica Rambeau. Just stick with them and try to have a good night. Get some good pictures, too. Use that pretty face of yours to make people forget about how terrible of a mess you are. And I also saw the Starks on the list, so please, for the love of all that is holy in this miserable world, behave yourself? For my sake?”
“I’ll do my best,” Bucky mumbles petulantly, ignoring Natasha’s glare.
“Do better than your best. Tony Stark is not a bad person to have on your good side through all of this. Especially with someone as big as Pierce trying to bring you down.”
“Any idea why?” he asks. “I know I’ve pissed off a lot of people over the years, but this one feels pretty fucking random. I mean, the dude’s got one foot in the grave and this is how he’s choosing to spend his last days?”
Layla huffs a laugh, “Bucky.”
“I’m serious! This isn’t even the first thing he’s had to say about me! He was on my ass about the interview I did with PAPER too. What’s his issue?”
“If I had to guess? Brock Rumlow’s his protege and you really fucked with his career last year when you posted those DMs. Hard to separate the two.”
“What the fuck was I supposed to do!? The guy goes on Joe Rogan talking about “Oh, the fucking gays, they’re such pervs” blah blah blah and expects me not to expose his ass for trying to get in mine? Please. Not to mention I was still seventeen when he sent them. Like, who the fuck is he to talk about pervs?”
“I’m not saying you were wrong,” Layla says, sounding charmed. “I’m just saying that’s probably why he has it out for you. That and he just hates gay people. A Reagan archetype certainly.”
“I wish he’d just croak already,” Bucky mutters.
Natasha bursts into laughter, and Layla just sighs, “Please don’t say that to anyone else.”
“Oh I won’t. I learned my fucking lesson today. I’m officially on a social media sabbatical.”
“How many times have I heard that one?” she questions rhetorically.
“I’m serious this time!”
“Yeah alright. Just keep it lowkey the next few days and have fun this weekend. And remember, play nice with Stark. He’s good friends with Steve Rogers, and you don’t wanna press any harder on that bruise. I’m sure his agent will get in contact with me soon, but until then, we can assume he’s pretty ticked off about all this. He’s got a lot going on this year, too. Just… behave.”
“Understood,” Bucky tells her sheepishly, heart sinking. “Thank you, Louli.”
“Anytime, habibi. Focus on the album for the rest of the day and we’ll talk more later. I’ll see you tomorrow for the shoot.”
With that, she hangs up, his phone speaker emitting a soft click.
“Fuck,” he hisses for what has to be the twentieth time this morning.
Bucky’s been so absorbed with himself that he hadn’t even thought about how Steve Rogers might be feeling about all of this. The guy’s got three movies coming out this year and has been doing promo for his big Oscar bait film all week— Bucky would know, considering he’s been keeping up with all of it like the morning news. Now the poor dude’s just been dragged into the stupidest scandal known to mankind, and even if the media has mostly been protecting him, this is not the kind of thing anyone would want tainting one of their best projects to date. God, he must despise Bucky.
Natasha must see something in his expression because she rests her hand on his shoulder, “Stop panicking.”
“How can I not?” he snaps at her before guilt immediately consumes him. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I’m sorry,” he says again.
She sighs, “I said it’s fine, Bunny. Listen. We’re gonna figure this out. That’s our job. Yours is just to worry about the music and the album rollout. Don’t work yourself up enough that you ruin all the progress you’ve made these last few years.”
Bucky knows she isn’t just talking about his career progress, and something about that almost makes him feel worse. Especially knowing that familiar itch that terrorized him for the majority of his teenage years has been gnawing at him all morning, the stress almost too much to handle. All he wants right now is something to take his mind off the dumpster fire that is his life, but he can’t. He can’t because he has a job to do and he can’t because as far as everyone in his life is aware, he’s five years clean.
“I’m fine,” he grits out, standing abruptly. “Is Rick here yet?”
Natasha purses her lips, clearly wanting to say more but deciding it isn’t worth it right now, “He’s in the lounge waiting for you.”
“Let’s go then. Sooner we get this shit done the sooner we can go home.”
The re-records end up taking the rest of the day, and a lot of it has to do with Bucky being off his game. Rick thankfully has the patience of a saint, but that doesn’t make him feel any better about all the changes they end up having to make. Once he’s finished, they head straight to the airport. He doesn’t talk the entire flight back to New York, hyper aware of the eyes on him even in first class. Halfway through, he gets an email from his label that is surprisingly supportive, but they end it by saying they won’t be showing said support publicly and imply that if things get worse, he’s getting the boot. As if that isn’t bad enough, the second he opens another app in an attempt to distract himself, an advertisement for Steve Rogers’ latest film pops up. After that, he just decides to raw dog the rest of the flight.
It’s nearly 6 am by the time they land, and Bucky’s beyond beat, especially knowing he has a busy day ahead of him that’s supposed to start in just six hours.
“Here,” Natasha says once they’re in the car, handing him his vocal steamer. “You need to eat before you go to bed.”
“I ate on the plane,” he mumbles before bringing the steamer up to his mouth.
It gives him a good excuse not to talk the rest of the way there. Bucky no longer has the energy to make justifications for his actions. He’s angry and embarrassed, not only because of what he did but also because he proved so many people right by doing it. This is exactly what his critics said would happen to him: his big mouth—his slippery fingers—brought upon the most ridiculous downfall in the history of music. Not to mention he proved Pierce right. Being openly gay in the industry is bad enough, but now Bucky just made things worse for every single queer kid out there hoping to make a breakthrough in music. Labels already consider them liabilities, even in the modern age, and he ensured that. When he voices this to Natasha, though, she doesn’t seem to agree.
“I think you think about yourself too much.”
He blinks at her, “Thanks.”
The remainder of the week is a blur of meetings and shoots and a million different fittings. Bucky almost doesn’t have the time to panic about his ongoing fall from grace, except when a press event for the Steve Rogers movie encroaches on his shoot space his first night back in New York. The posters they put up of the man are distracting in more ways than one, and Bucky’s left both anxious and a little horny at the sight of him. Layla shuffles him out of there pretty quickly before the cast can show up, smiling apologetically at a stone-faced woman that Bucky soon learns is Steve’s agent, which is great.
She didn’t seem very excited to see him.
On Tuesday, Bucky calls his producer and asks, “Did the Daft Punk sample clear?”
Rick sighs, “By some miracle, dude. Some fucking miracle.”
Some fucking miracle indeed. He and his team’s hope that things would just blow over turns out to be wishful thinking, as things instead steadily get worse instead of better. Pierce has really latched onto Bucky now, making an example out of him. It seems everyone has something to say, and very few are in Bucky’s favor. The only of his so-called “friends” in the industry to publicly defend him from the onslaught has been Ava, but her words didn’t seem to mean much to anyone. He understands why the rest of them don’t want to say anything— this is uncharted territory. How the hell do you offer support to your peer who has turned into washed-up Hollywood enemy number one overnight for asking America’s newest sweetheart to top him over Twitter? It’s absurd, and yet for what might be the first time in his life, Bucky can’t seem to find the humor in it.
“Am I a predator?” he asks Natasha nervously that night.
She ruffles his hair, “No. You’re just a fucking moron.”
His friends and family try to keep his mind off of everything, but it’s hard. And in between all he has to get done before the single drop later this month, he barely even has time to spend with them. It’s been a few days though, and now he’s just downright defensive.
“This is fucking stupid,” he grumbles as they wait to do another fitting.
This one is for The Met, so Bucky really should be on his very best behavior, but on his way in he stupidly opened Twitter and found a tweet with nearly two hundred thousand likes telling him he should’ve enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame while they lasted and to have fun playing dive bars for the rest of his life. It took every ounce of his meager self-control not to tell the jobless cunt and every other person in the replies to throw themselves off a cliff and film it for Bucky’s viewing pleasure. He’s only human, after all.
Wanda pinches his cheek as she passes by him, “I guess we should be grateful this happened now and not a couple years ago.”
From across the room, Layla snorts, not even looking up from her phone, “God, I think I would’ve had to quit.”
“I wasn’t that bad,” Bucky maintains, a bit petulant. “Tell me one time I actually took it too far.”
“When you called in to tell Dan Crenshaw to go fuck himself on his own podcast,” Pietro laughs.
“You wouldn’t?”
“The time you called the US military the world’s largest terrorist organization,” Wanda says dryly.
Layla snaps her fingers with a supportive hum, eyes still on her phone.
“That’s objectively correct!” Bucky insists, crossing his arms.
“You said it on Veterans Day!”
“I didn’t know it was Veterans Day. They should advertise that better!”
Wanda continues, “You tweeted at Jerry Seinfeld to 'kick the chair and swing' on his birthday.”
Bucky shrugs, “That was my act of public service for the week.”
“Okay,” Natasha interrupts them, eye twitching. “I think that’s enough. What have we learned from this?”
“That I’m the only one who speaks real anymore,” Bucky tells her confidently.
She stares at him for a moment, “I quit.”
They all make noises of protest in between laughter, none louder than Bucky’s. Pietro grabs Nat by her shoulders and leads her back into the room, the two of them playfully bickering back and forth the whole time. Bucky couldn’t be more grateful for them all. The twins and Nat have been in his life for as long as he can remember, and Layla—even MJ, the terror—has quickly found her place amongst their little group as if she’s been around since the beginning. A team made up of all your friends is a nightmare in this industry, but Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way. He sees the way his peers are surrounded by people who constantly tell them how perfect they are, ignoring their flaws and inflating their egos, and he couldn’t imagine living on a day-to-day basis only around people who never keep things real. They’ve seen him at his very worst and at his best, and never once have they changed the way they interact with him. No matter how famous Bucky gets, he always has his people by his side.
“God, look at this!” Wanda gasps, holding up the lace blouse she’s just been handed by one of Janet Van Dyne’s designers.
“Miss Van Dyne will be in with you in just a moment,” the designer informs them with a smile before heading back out of the room.
Bucky takes that as his cue to take his place on the riser in the center of the room. Layla and Natasha theatrically ooh and ahh over the blouse while he strips down to his undergarments, telling them off the whole time.
“You told me that was my favorite tweet of yours,” Bucky pouts in Wanda’s direction once she’s back in his vicinity.
“It was,” she laughs, setting his clothes down in front of him. “I just think you were fucking insane for tweeting it on Veterans Day.”
“How bad is it if I say I don’t give a fuck?”
“I mean, I’m not American. I don’t give a fuck either. Better not say that if you’re trying to get in Steve Rogers’ pants though.”
“He’s a socialist,” Bucky says dismissively. “I’ll be fine. Might even work in my favor.”
“He’s a socialist? How do you know?” she asks, helping him into the shirt.
“Better I don’t tell you. I don’t wanna implicate you.”
She stares at him for a moment, “You really scare me sometimes.”
“Don’t worry about it, rýpka.”
The fitting goes as best as it can considering his career is still on a dramatic decline, but thankfully the ever-refined Janet Van Dyne doesn’t seem to care much about the goings-ons of the internet. They’re in and out after a few hours and then Bucky and Pietro are off to one of the former’s meetings, the latter insisting on tagging along out of sheer boredom.
“What’s this for?” Bucky asks on their way in.
Pietro flips through his planner, “Uh… Ben & Jerry’s advertisement.”
Bucky blinks, “Right.”
“Mr. Barnes, it’s so great to meet with you again!” a kind woman who Bucky is certain he’s never seen before in his entire life greets, shaking his and Pietro’s hands. “Is this your assistant?”
He and Pietro exchange a look, “Uh, yeah. Sure I guess.”
“Great! If the two of you will just follow me back,” she says, leading the way. “You know, it’s so funny to see you in this week. We just had Steve Rogers here the other day!”
“Great,” he mutters as Pietro muffles his laughter beside him.
His last shoot of the week is for the album cover. It takes the entire day, and Bucky is in his worst mood yet after another article about him dropped this morning. Most of the criticisms have been levelled at him as a person so far, which Bucky can tolerate, but this one was targeted at his music. Many people in this industry would describe their music as extensions of themselves, but for Bucky, his music is something else entirely. It’s more important than who he is as a person, because really, he doesn’t exactly value himself too highly. Anything they’ve said about him, he’s said worse. He can take it. But his music, his projects— they’re everything. Bucky knows he’s made a lot of mistakes in his life and he’s well aware of his predisposition to fucking up, but the music he makes is the one thing he’s done right in his life.
Maybe he’s been spoiled. Critics exist in every avenue of life, but thus far the reviews of his music have generally been good. He’s been sung his praises by even the most scathing of commentators, and this is the first time someone has written so harshly about his art. And the worst part is, they didn’t even call it bad. Bucky can take bad.
They called it boring.
Bucky Barnes is many things—so is his music—but boring is not, should not ever be, one of them.
“Dress is a bold choice,” Pietro says when he steps outside the studio at the end of the shoot, eyes wide.
“I make bold music,” is all Bucky responds, slipping out of the garment and padding into the bathroom without another word.
On Saturday, the day of the Vivienne Westwood event is finally upon them, and Bucky’s just ready to get it over with.
He hasn’t talked to his friends or family about the article on his music, but they all have seen it. Bucky knows it because they’re being unusually nice to him, and it’s taking everything in him not to snap at them to knock it the fuck off. The only person treating him business as usual is Wanda, so he’s taken to spending most of his time with her, avoiding Natasha especially at all costs.
“He speaks French, Wanda,” he nearly whines, rolling onto his back on the couch so that he can look up at her and carefully avoiding the tour concept boards surrounding them.
“I thought you hated the French,” she points out, amused.
“Doesn’t make their language any less hot,” he huffs. “Especially coming out of his mouth. Fuck, he’s so fine.”
“Please. Steve Rogers is average at best. You're dickmatized.”
“Dickmatized implies he’s fucked me, which he hasn’t, which is also why I’m in this mess in the first place. So not quite.”
“You’re in this mess because you don’t know how to shut the fuck up and keep your inappropriate thoughts to yourself, actually,” she hums.
He waves his hand dismissively, “Arguable.”
“Objectively factual. Get up and let’s go, it’s already two.”
They make their way into the sitting room of the suite they’ve been set up in for the event, greeted by the rest of his team and Bekka. His sister receives him with a familiar finger and a shit eating grin, head resting on Natasha’s lap. He rolls his eyes and responds in kind, collapsing into a chair beside them. The Vivienne Westwood team already dropped off their outfits, which are waiting in the bedroom along with accessories and makeup. Bucky told Nat not to let Bekka in the room until he was there.
“You wanna see what I’m wearing?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
He’d already seen it months ago, but Bekka still doesn’t know that she has an outfit from the brand as well. As far as she’s aware, she will be wearing her own clothes. Bucky can see what she brought hanging up in the closet across from them, and although her style is excellent, it pales in comparison to what he and Wanda somehow managed to snag for her tonight.
“Duh,” she responds, hopping off of Nat. “If you weren’t currently caught up in the dumbest scandal of all time, I’d tell you to beg them to keep it.”
“Not how it works.”
“And since when do you follow the rules?”
“Since Monday,” Layla says pointedly.
Bucky waves her off, leading Bekka to the bedroom by her arm. There, on the bed, is her holy grail. The dress is one of their classics, from the Spring ‘94 collection. That entire season has always been Bekka’s favorite, so Bucky’s pretty familiar with it. The silver knit reaches just over the mid-thighs, with a wide, off-the-shoulder neckline and above elbow sleeves. Matching gloves are folded just next to it, along with a handwritten note and opaque undergarments. Hilariously, Bekka seems to think it’s for him.
She gasps, “Oh, this is vintage! God, it’s so well-preserved. A bold choice for sure, but I know you’ve been trying to put yourself out there this era. It definitely looks like it’s gonna be small on you though… fuck, did they get the wrong measurements?”
Bucky can barely contain his grin, “That’s not mine, dumbass.”
Bekka turns to him, slack-jawed, “You’re joking.”
“Why would I be?”
“Shut up,” she breathes.
Wanda’s grinning too now, “Surprise!”
“Shut UP!” she screams again, excitement reaching fever pitch. “Oh my god! How did you know it would fit?”
Wanda levels her with a look, “You’re tall and skinny. Answer that question yourself.”
“Oh my god. Can I wear the hat too?”
“It’s in the bathroom.”
“Oh my god!” Bekka then turns to Bucky, throwing her arms around him. “Oh, you absolute nightmare, you complete terror, you are the best brother in the entire fucking world!”
He laughs, stumbling back a bit, “Yeah fuck you too. Put the dress on so we can hurry and go.”
After that, it’s a blur of clothes and makeup and disgusting amounts of hairspray that lingers in the sunlit air. They’ve got Bucky in some knit of his own, layered with a yellow and black gingham suit to make for what is truly a stunning ensemble. It’s definitely a trust the process type of look, but once Wanda’s had her way with him, it pulls itself together. His curls are wild and his face is powdered ridiculously to match Bekka’s, eyes ringed with maroon shadow, but he looks great. Great enough that MJ insists he and Bekka pose for a picture to post, breaking his social media silence once and for all.
“You’re gonna end up breaking it in a few hours anyway,” she tells him monotonously, handing him his phone. “Try to look hot enough that people forget why they’re mad.”
“Pout instead of smolder, please!” Layla instructs from the next room over. “Mirror instead of selfie too. Looks a little more professional.”
“A mirror picture looks more professional than a selfie?” he questions, disbelieving.
“You’ve set the bar for professionalism exceptionally low, so in your case, yes.”
“Yeah whatever,” he huffs, snatching his phone from MJ. “Fuck all of you.”
Nat snorts, “You wish, Twinkerbell.”
Schooling his features into something less miserable, Bucky poses in front of the full-length mirror on the bedroom wall, making sure to get the artfully disastrous mess they’ve left behind in the frame. Bekka comes to stand beside him, matching his expression exactly— sometimes it even strikes him how similar they look. Once they’ve taken a few, he passes his phone around the room, having his team choose which picture to share instead of taking up the task himself.
“I really fuck with this one,” MJ says, pointing at the last photo they took.
Bucky can’t help but think he and Bekka look a bit too much like The Shining twins in it, with their heads just slightly tilted towards the other and stances mirroring the other exactly, but the hums of agreement that ring out in the space tell him that the decision has been made whether he likes it or not. Biting the bullet, he hits post to his story and shuts his phone off for what is hopefully the rest of the night. Not once does he go check Steve Rogers’ socials even though the urge is excruciating.
Natasha claps her hands, “Alright. Let’s go?”
Following numerous goodbyes and good lucks, he, Bekka, Nat, and Layla pile into the car sent to their hotel courtesy of the event, careful not to wrinkle the clothes in any way. Bucky does a good job of not checking his phone too thoroughly, but there’s one notification that captures his attention.
Sam Wilson liked your story.
He lifts his brows in surprise, “Huh. That’s… interesting.”
“Sam Wilson? The actor?” Bekka asks, shoving her face in front of his phone screen. “Isn’t he friends with Steve Rogers?”
“Good friends,” Layla replies, a note of relief in her voice. “That’s a good sign.”
Bekka smirks a bit, “He’s so hot.”
“Sam or Steve?” Nat prods.
“Sam, duh. You know I never go for blonds.”
“Don’t I,” Natasha murmurs, gaze heated.
She and Bekka stare at each other for a long moment before Bucky breaks it with a disgusted scoff, pushing his sister off of him, “Can you guys not do that shit in front of me? We get it, you hooked up in college. Fucking ew.”
“And after college,” Nat says with a lecherous grin that has Bekka smothering a blush into her own shoulder.
“Stop flirting with my sister or you’re fired.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, Bunny,” she coos, reaching over to pinch his cheek.
Bucky bats her hand away, “Fired.”
Shrugging, she pulls her arm back, “Fine. Just remember I helped produce half your beats. I’ll sue you for everything you own.”
He gapes, “You wouldn’t.”
“Your lawyers like me better than you. Try me.”
Bucky makes a face. She’s got him there.
It’s a couple of short minutes before they arrive at the venue, the traffic much better than he was expecting. They pull up behind a long line of other black vans and wait for their turn to get out onto the carpet, anticipation almost palpable in the air. When they get to the front, security is remarkably a breeze, but the real challenge is what lies ahead.
Bucky’s never had too many issues with carpets in the past, but the thought of coming face to face with thousands of cameras and nosy reporters after the week he’s just had is enough to have his heart plummeting to his stomach, anxiety unravelling him from the inside out. He was an insecure kid growing up, but never an anxious one. Instead, he preferred to funnel all his nervous energy into picking fights online. For Bucky, a scathing insult disguised as humor was always easier than actually talking about how he was feeling. It gave him something to hide behind.
“It’s going to be fine,” Bekka murmurs reassuringly in his ear.
He swallows, “Shouldn’t you be the nervous one?”
“Yeah. But you being the self-conscious one for once is giving me a shitload of confidence. I feel like I could walk on water right now.”
“Thanks.”
She roughly claps him on the shoulder, “Anytime.”
Bucky fidgets with his outfit, taking in the scene ahead of him. No matter how many deep breaths he takes, he just can’t settle his nerves. He hasn’t felt this way in years and it’s triggering something deep inside of him. That need, that itch, to just take something and forget who he is until all of this is done and over with. He can’t, though. Apparently, he’s better than that.
Natasha bids them goodbye, but not before making Bucky swear on his mother’s life that he’ll be on his best behavior tonight.
“You know I can’t do that,” he pouts. “I don’t find the bad behavior, the bad behavior finds me!”
“You’re gonna send me to an early grave.”
He tries to smile, “But what a way to go out, huh?”
“All I ever wanted,” she deadpans. “If you pull anything tonight, I’m quitting. I swear on your mother.”
“Think she’s serious?” Bucky asks, eyeing her retreating figure.
“Dead serious,” Bekka and Layla say together.
After that, it’s their turn to be thrown to the wolves. The second Bucky’s foot crosses the threshold of the carpet, the space erupts in flashing lights, hundreds of paps calling for him to look their way. With a steeling breath, he forces his features to relax into a casual smile. Bekka tucks herself into his side and poses alongside him while Layla waits at the foot of the carpet, waiting for the pictures to be done before taking the lead on interviews.
“This is torture,” Bekka manages through a smile of her own.
Bucky laughs lightly, entirely fake, “It gets worse.”
By the time they’re done, Layla is already right behind them and guiding Bucky to different interviewers. She skips most of the gossip rags despite their insistence that he come their way, not even bothering with a polite declination and instead electing to ignore them entirely. That’s what Bucky loves about her most— she genuinely does not give a fuck about playing nice anymore. Eventually, she sends him in the direction of a reporter for E! News, which she deems the lesser evil of all the outlets nearby.
Bucky greets the woman with a smile that she completely disregards, which doesn’t bode well for him at all. Regardless, he keeps that smile on his face almost in spite of her impertinence, tugging Bekka by his side so that they can’t possibly ignore her.
“We’re joined now by Bucky Barnes,” she says to the camera, her beam as fake as her filler. She then turns to him, “We’re so excited to have you here with us on the carpet tonight.”
“I’m so excited to be here,” he responds smoothly, just like he’s been instructed.
“And who is this with you?”
“My twin sister,” he introduces Bekka, who waves awkwardly with a nervous grin.
“Twin?” the reporter gasps, the sound so inauthentic that Bucky can’t even believe she gets away with this shit. “Are we sure the world can handle two of you, Bucky?”
Beside him, Bekka tenses. If Bucky knows what’s best for him, he’ll leave it alone. He can feel Layla’s gaze boring into him from behind, and it’s only her presence and her presence alone that keeps him from causing the scene he wishes.
“I think the world needs two of me,” he jokes, willing his grin to reach his eyes. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t be more different. Right Beks?”
Bekka moves to respond, but the reporter quickly interrupts her with another question directed towards him. It is entirely mask-off disrespectful, so much so that Bucky actually can’t believe she got away with it. Usually these interviewers have some modicum of class, at least for the sake of the reputations of their outlets. He’s so shocked by her bad manners that he doesn’t even hear her query the first time she says it.
“Say that again, hun,” he requests with barely contained irritation.
She grins, almost like she knows exactly how he’s feeling. Almost like it’s purposeful.
“Talk to us about what this past week has looked like for you. Were you nervous for tonight?”
Bucky raises a brow, perfectly composed, “Nervous? Whatever for, honey?”
No matter what, he won’t give in to whatever game she’s playing. He understands now that she’s trying to get a rise out of him, no matter how poorly it may reflect on her, because any slip-up of his after the week he’s just had will be a story to keep the outlet afloat for days. Bucky won’t let them make a fool out of him, though. He already does that enough on his own.
Naturally, the reporter doesn’t back down, “Your tweet made quite the spectacle. With Steve Rogers here tonight, many are saying it’s rather… brave of you to show up after what you’ve said.”
Layla rests her hand on his lower back— a warning.
He sucks his teeth, “I’m brave for a lot of things, but being here tonight definitely isn’t one of them.”
When the reporter opens her mouth to respond, she takes a split second too long to get her question out and Layla jumps on the opportunity to usher Bucky along to the next reporter on the carpet, claiming time sensitivity.
“Vultures,” Bekka mutters, and Bucky only shakes his head before plastering on another million-dollar smile for the next reporter, a significantly more timid young woman with Teen Vogue.
Thankfully, the next few interviews go about as well as they can. Bucky huffs and puffs when Layla insists they skip over actual Vogue since they already spoke with Teen Vogue, but Bekka’s excitement after getting to talk about her designs on live television makes it all worth it. Soon enough, they’re being guided inside the venue, Layla wishing them luck before heading off with the rest of the publicists. It isn’t until the large doors of the building finally shut behind them—taking with them the sound of shouting paps and cameras flashing—that Bucky can finally breathe. He exhales in relief, snatching two complimentary flutes of champagne off of a waiter’s tray for him and Bekka with a murmured thanks.
When Bekka sees him move to down it in one go, though, she grabs his wrist with a disapproving glare.
“No.”
“Bekka—” he complains, but she shakes her head sharply.
“Don’t even. Has the last week not taught you that you still can’t handle your shit?’’
Bucky scoffs, “It’s champagne.”
She laughs, the sound entirely devoid of humor, “I don’t care. Take sips. I’m watching you.”
He pouts like a child—and it’s only the glass in his hand that keeps him from crossing his arms—but relents. Alcohol has never been his preferred pick of poison, but clearly he has trouble with it regardless. He’s always been a lightweight. It’s his father’s greatest woe. Gay is perfectly okay, hell, even encouraged, but getting drunk off of two shots of vodka last New Years? Shameful.
Bucky guides Bekka further into the building, greeting people as they go. There is no shortage of familiar faces, but he keeps introductions brief unless he truly knows them. The problem with the industry is that everyone is fake as actual all fuck. It comes with the job description for most of them. Authenticity is discouraged fairly early on, and it’s hard to give yourself over to a world full of strangers that often includes your peers. Bucky never got that memo, and it carried him pretty far until now.
The problem is, very few people in his realm of work liked him very much until he started getting popular. If this event had been held last year, he doubts so many people would be coming up to him to say hello. Hell, if this event had been held last year, he wouldn’t even be here to begin with. And it’s telling that many people he had just spoken to before this past week and believed himself to be on good terms with are choosing to ignore him. Scandal has pushed him back to the fringes of their social circles. There’s no advantage to being seen with him right now for many of them, so they don’t need to bother with the niceties.
“What the fuck is wrong with these people?” Bekka questions lowly after a few minutes, looking baffled.
Shaking his head, Bucky only mutters a quiet, “Everything.”
Immediately after that, they’re caught in the snare of some producer whom Bucky is certain he’s never met before, and his poor wife who already looks at her wits' end despite the evening just getting started. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Tony Stark chatting animatedly with one of his fellow nepo babies, and for a split second they lock gazes. It really does take everything in him not to sneer at the man when he sends Bucky what appears to be a prayer, gesturing at the producer and theatrically snoring. Ten minutes go by and it’s seeming as though there will be no end in sight. Thankfully, their savior comes seconds later in the form of one of Bucky’s dearest friends.
“I’m so sorry Mr. Burch, but may I steal these two from you?”
The producer blinks, “Well, I—”
“Thank you so much. You have a good evening.”
This is not the first time Ava Starr has come to Bucky’s rescue, and he’s certain it won’t be the last. From playing underground clubs in the city when they were teenagers to now some of the biggest stages in the world, their friendship is the only relationship he has in the industry that he believes to be truly genuine. She looks ravishing in her black gown that Bucky knows is from the same collection as Bekka’s dress. After she’s guided them a bit away from Mr. Burch, she finally turns to Bucky with a wicked grin.
“Took you long enough to show up.”
He smirks in kind, “Aren’t you aware, darling? I’ve been caught up in scandal. A timely arrival is far from my concern.”
She hums, “You? Caught up in scandal? I can hardly believe it.”
“You cunt,” he grins, accepting her hug easily and looking her up and down once they pull back. “Don’t you look gorgeous.”
“Don’t act so surprised,” she rolls her eyes. “You look decent enough.”
“Decent?” he squawks, offended. She ignores him in favor of his sister.
“Who’s this angel?” Ava asks, squeezing Bekka’s hand. “A sister?”
Bekka blushes a bit, “Bekka. The twin.”
Ava lifts her brows, lips quirking, “The twin. The most famous sister of them all. I hear you’re a designer.”
“In the process,” Bekka tells her sheepishly.
“Bucky’s shown me a few of your pieces. The festival collection you did was sick.”
Bekka perks up, “You think? I’d love to lend you a few for the summer. I know you’re playing a ton of the same festivals as Bucky.”
“A girl after my heart!” Ava laughs. “Let’s talk business, angel.”
The two of them wander off, too deep in conversation to realize they’ve left Bucky behind. He chuckles, shaking his head. With Bekka gone, he wastes no time in swallowing down the rest of his champagne, immediately reaching for another glass and disregarding the waiter’s knowing smirk. It doesn’t do much for him though, so once he’s finished with the second flute, he makes his way towards the far wall in search of something stronger. He’s the only one alone at the bar, a fact which Bucky is having a hard time trying to ignore.
Maybe he should go find Bekka and Ava again. Or at least anyone he actually knows that doesn’t just want something from him. As he sips at his fourth drink of the night, he tries not to fall into a spiral of paranoia. Did Ava not want to be with him? Is that why she took Bekka and bolted the second she got the chance? No, he tells himself firmly. You’re being crazy. Story of his fucking life.
He takes his glass and leaves the bar and all the couples and packs of friends behind, instead making for one of the tables lining the dance floor. More people come up to him, though now that Bucky’s a bit drunk, it’s easier to keep up the conversation. He’s always maintained that he’s much more enjoyable to be around when he’s inebriated, but those who actually know him are adamant otherwise. Probably because of the whole coke addict by fifteen thing, but that’s water under the bridge now. He’s totally fine.
As the night finally kicks off for real, fewer people seek Bucky out. He knows that the speaking portion of the evening will be starting soon, which means he should probably find Bekka before they have to take their seats. Instead, he resolves to get a little more drunk before beginning his hunt. It’s what he deserves after the week that he’s had.
“I was hoping I’d see you here,” comes a toe-curling familiar voice from behind him.
Bucky freezes, glass halfway to his lips.
Speaking of the fucking week he’s had.