a/n: So my new love for Sebastian Stan cannot be fully expressed through words. I imagine I'm not the only one out there ^_^. Anyway, the inspiration of this possible one-shot, came from browsing the Sebastian Stan tag on tumblr and a picture of him and Natalie Portman appearing labeled with something like 'Jane Foster meets Bucky Barnes'.
So the two of them meeting really sparked my creativity and this is the result of that fire. I'm fairly pleased with the final product.
Without further ado, please enjoy…
Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own Marvel or the lovely characters of Marvel.
[Science and The Solider]
Five months. It had been five months since S.H.I.E.L.D. had disassembled, or rather, was completely destroyed by the infiltration of the once-assumed-gone, Hydra. However, they weren't gone, and they were, yet again, the lead story of the 11 o'clock, Albuquerque, New Mexico news team. Jane Foster rolled her eyes in exasperation as she turned away from the television screen and redirected her attention toward the dingy, sandy-haired man, who sat on bar stool next to hers, drawling on about the amateur research he was currently in the process of collecting. She had a creeping suspicion his intentions for this meeting bordered more along the lines of a prospective date, rather than an actual scientific exchange, but Darcy had insisted this would be a good step in the right direction of distracting her from the 'oh-so-dreamy, god of thunder,' whom she had not heard from in months.
He would contact her at some point though. She knew he would. He had promised and Thor never failed to keep his word.
At that exact moment, Mr. Ramble tipped out of his seat, taking his third drink with him, and landed clumsily on the dark, solid ground. Jane hopped off her own stool and rolled him over, the tight material of her little black dress—another brilliant idea of Darcy's—riding dangerously high on her thighs.
"Damnit, Darcy," she muttered to herself, tugging the sparkling fabric back down to her knees.
Mr. Ramble was out cold. No one else in the night club seemed to be paying much mind to the scenario, which both irritated Jane and gave her a sense of relief. She was not in the mood to answer questions related to a man whose name she couldn't even remember.
After quickly weighing her options, she settled for dragging her 'date' to the nearby sitting area. He, fortunately, was not heavy compared to most men, but the five inch stilettos became an obvious setback as she began her mission. Not to mention the groups of people moving to a fro within the club.
What a time to pass out man, she thought inwardly, desperately attempting to avoid the impending wipe out the heels were threatening to cause. The wasted man mumbled incoherent nonsense , issuing an, "Oh shut up," from the astrophysicist.
Then she was being nudged out of the way and a man dressed head to toe in black literally picked her load up off of the ground, carried him the remaining distance, and lowered him onto an empty couch. The stranger walked back toward where she was now standing and she gave him a look full of distaste.
The nerve of some people.
"I could have easily gotten him over there by myself," she bit, raising her voice so that he could hear over the loud bass of the speakers.
The stranger merely shrugged. A long, lengthy pause followed between the two of them before Jane's conscience finally got the better of her and she added, "Thanks though." She had had enough of this evening and was ready to get home to her oversized t-shirts, stacks of recent data, and hot chocolate. Night clubs were not, nor would ever be, her scene.
She slowly turned and started to a shuffle to—what she thought was —the direction of the doorway, when the mysterious figure hastily cut in front of her.
"Would you…care to dance?" he asked a bit hesitantly.
"Um…" She wholeheartedly did not. In fact, she should have given him a straight 'no' and fled as rapidly as she was capable of running in her heels. Instead, an, "Okay…sure," spilled from her mouth.
She was still unable to clearly distinguish his facial features, creating a minor feeling of unease to arise in the bottom of her stomach. So much for being rational this evening.
His hand found hers and he gently led her through the tight crowd of sweaty, barely clothed people, dancing in a manner that frightened her, and to no surprise, made her feel extremely uncomfortable and out of place.
Jane felt the pressure from the man's hands on her waist, and after observing the surrounding couples, she meticulously placed her own on his shoulders, one, she noted, far less fleshy than the other. She attempted to maintain her current expression to keep from revealing her pressing curiosity of the stranger. This was not a walk in the park for the woman since her emotions were generally an open book.
The already formed knot grew inside of her as the man sidled her closer until she was pressed flat against his chest. If it weren't for the darkness, her burning cheeks would have been revealed as embarrassingly pink. His grip was too strong to break free from so Jane did the only logical thing that made sense in the predicament that had been formed.
She danced.
And not in the fashion a taken woman should have danced. It was the kind of dancing Darcy would have given her a standing ovation for and paid money to witness. Perhaps it was the alcohol beginning to get to her head—she would blame it on that later—or the flashing lights, pounding music, and heat of the bodies around them, but Jane ground her body against his, roughly and purposefully, her surroundings turning into a blur.
The man responded somewhat uncertainly, which she found peculiar considering the fact he was the one who had pulled her out onto the dance floor. His initial reaction was brief, and he was soon steadily sync with her movements. The brunette closed her eyes as the man moved his head, the sides of their faces touching, his ticklish from the meager scruff running the length of his cheek. She shivered as his lips met the edge of her jawline, her head spinning deeper in pure euphoria.
Was it possible for Darcy be right about something for once?
As he pulled away, Jane eased her eyes open and every part of her froze, bliss disintegrating into terror, the blood in her veins turning cold. The light from one of the strobes had illuminated his face, exposing the stranger's icy, steel blue gaze.
His eyes belonged to the insane, ravaged killer whose countenance had plagued every news station in the country. The maniac who had not only demolished a majority of Washington D.C., and put the fate of the world in jeopardy, yet also nearly murdered Captain America.
"The Winter Solider," Jane whispered in disbelief; however, it was too late. The Winter Solider had already commenced dragging her from the dance floor and into, what appeared to be, a cramped storage closest.
From everything she had heard and read about him, he was dangerous and unpredictable, expected to cause havoc wherever he trotted.
Nothing could have prepared her for the sight before her when he flipped on the light switch, bathing his entire person in a cheap, fluorescent glow.
The psychotic machine America had developed an inexplicable fear of these past five months was not the man who was slumped against a tall stack of cardboard boxes—a man wearing a broken, confused expression.
This was not the Winter Solider. It was not plausible.
"J—James. My name is James," he spoke, his voice cracking. He ran a slightly shaking hand through his short brown hair. Jane thought it suit him better than the notable, long, scraggly-do. "I was born in 1925. I fought in World War II, alongside Steve Rogers, otherwise known as Captain America. I was taken by the Soviets working for Hydra, brainwashed, and used as a weapon. I escaped the explosion in Washington D.C. and I've been on the run ever since," James rattled off automatically, as if to remind himself he was human—not a robot.
"I'm Jane Fost—" she began, but he interjected with, "I know who you are."
"How the hell—"
He interrupted her again. "I've been trying to track you for weeks, Jane Foster. I—I apologize if I've—frightened you," he stumbled, avoiding her troubled—and shocked—gaze. "I've been working on piecing together my memory image by image, and there's something I've recalled that may be of use to you," he continued, glancing in her direction, finally.
While he talked, Jane's mind was reeling. There were at least a million questions she wished to ask him. How had he found her? Where had he been staying and with what had he been living on? Did he realize the entire country was on a man hunt for him? She almost missed his last comment.
"Go on," she prompted, motioning with one hand and pressing the other to her forehead.
"Well, as you may know, I worked in Russia for a large majority of my time as a spy. There's an underground base, Hydra operated, and before I left for the mission here in America, I saw an object in one of the secure laboratories. It almost resembled a scepter of some kind—but—stranger. It glowed blue," he paused, rubbing his hands together. "As if there was magic controlling it," he added, dazed.
Jane felt the blood leave her face for the second time this evening, goosebumps crawling up her arms. She knew exactly what he was talking about. Oh goodness, did she know.
"James," she whispered, "was the end of the…scepter, rounded near the top with a point at the tip of it?"
His eyes closed, a deep look of strain passing over his profile as he wrought to locate the image. Jane wondered if she should check to see if he was alright when his expression turned painful.
"Yes," he breathed, relief replacing the struggle, the tension in his shoulders dissipating.
Loki's staff.
"James," Jane said as calmly as she was capable to managing which, to say the least, was close to impossible, physically and mentally. Once S.H.I.E.L.D.—whatever remained of it—found out she had knowledge of the staff, they were bound to have her throat. "We need to talk. And you're going to tell me the entire story."