Summary: Five years ago the heir to Barnes Genetics returned home from war after being tortured for several months. Among the citizens he was considered the 'Prince of New York' due to his wealth, charm, and adoration of the upper and lower class who lived there. Once a charming, reckless, musically gifted young man, the Prince had become a recluse at his large home in the Hamptons. Rumors spread that he had been disfigured and lost his mind. For five years the Prince had refused to speak to anyone other than his close staff. Until last week when freelancing journalist Steve was presented the opportunity by a cryptic guy with an eye patch write the Prince's story. What Steve initially saw as a chance to launch his career would become a search for redemption, love and hope.
OR: The Beauty and the Beast Inspired AU where Steve is a street punk turned struggling writer, Fury is the cryptic head of staff who keeps checking his watch, and Bucky is an angry PTSD ridden veteran with a missing arm and ruined dreams.
Rap. Rap. Steve knocked lightly on the glass door with the glossy writing that said Editor. Steve couldn't help the twitch in his hands as the adrenaline surged through him. Getting summoned like this was always nerve racking.
"Come in."
Steve walked in and hastily took a seat in one of the leather sling back chairs in front of the desk piled with various articles. There was a tall dark skinned man in the corner in a crisp black suit, black shirt and shiny black shoes. Even the eye-patch covering one eye was black.
"Ah Rogers! So good to see you." Steve highly doubted that. Richard Brooke was an imposing, balding man in his mid-fifties who had never been very happy to see anyone and whom no one was every very happy to see if Brooke's three divorces and lack of children were anything to go by. He looked less pleased to have the stranger hanging around his office.
"I have a very lucrative job offer for you. Or I should say this gentlemen here has a job offer for you." The man barely looked up at Steve, continuing to shuffle some papers around on his desk.
The man in the corner took his cue, walking over to Steve and giving him a firm handshake.
"It's a pleasure Mr. Rogers. My name is Nick Fury. Now, it's been a few years but I'm sure you remember hearing about all the commotion surrounding the return of James Barnes?"
"Of course, Sir." Who couldn't remember that? The return of the 'Prince of New York' from months of torture had been a major story for months after his return. Even five years later periodic stories were released speculating on what the reclusive heir to Barnes Genetics had been up too. Rumors had spread that he had lost his mind or was disfigured and couldn't be allowed into socialized public anymore. Nobody had gotten so much as a press release out of his estate only adding to the mystery and drama.
"Good. Now. I wish to extend the opportunity of employment to write a book about his time in Iraq. We are quite keen on providing you alone with this opportunity." Brooke shot him a glower, no doubt irritated that such an exclusive was being handed off to some freelance journalist with practically no experience.
"Sir?" Steve hazarded the question, "Why me specifically? The last article I wrote was about cop corruption in Odessa. It was hardly the big times. Wouldn't Rumlow be better suited for something like this?" As much as he hated to admit it, Brock Rumlow was a popular journalist who focused on high profile political and military issues. He had taken down senators with his work.
"Don't bother Rogers." Brooke interjected before Fury could respond. "Rumlow would've been the obvious candidate. He was here just a few minutes ago asking me to try to change Mr. Barnes' mind. Yet even my influence didn't seem to sway the vote." Brooke shot Fury a dark look expressing just how put out by that he was. His influence and connection had probably always gotten him exactly what he wanted.
Fury shot an annoyed look at Brooke over the interruption. Looking back at Steve he was all professionalism again. "So, are you in or out?"
Brooke probably hoped he would say 'out' but if Steve was honest this was just the sort of break he needed for his career. Such a high profile book would allow him the opportunity to work on whatever stories he wanted. He hardly hesitated when he gave his answer.
"I'm in."
Sure enough, Brooke's mouth tightened in displeasure.
"Wonderful." Fury handed Steve a sealed manila envelope stamped with an unfamiliar seal. "Everything you need to know about the job should be in that envelope. I should make you aware that this assignment starts a week from tomorrow, could last several months and that for the duration of the assignment you will be living on the premises of Barnes' estate in the Hamptons. Any questions?"
"No sir."
Fury nodded, pleased. "Good. I'll see myself out. We are huge fans of your work." He stalked out of the room, not sparing Brooke another look. Steve was a bit thrown by the abrupt exit, staring after the man. His work? Steve was proud of his work but it had hardly made large headlines.
"Rogers." Steve jumped at the noise and turned back to look at Brooke, who looked as though he had just swallowed a lemon. "I suppose congratulations are in order. Enjoy the vacation and don't fuck this up. Now get out, and shut the door behind you on the way out." Brooke waved him off with a hand, returning to the towering pile of work in front of him.
Steve nodded jerkily and made a quick exit, shutting the door behind him. Steve had almost made it to the elevator without incident when he spotted Rumlow in his crisp navy suit leaning against the hall, a slight furrow in his brow the only sign he wasn't as relaxed as he tried to come off.
"Rogers. How goes it?"
"Rumlow." Steve stalked past the man, trying to avoid a confrontation with the pompous man.
"Oh don't be like that Rogers! You're not still bitter over that article nonsense are you princess?" Steve froze, teeth clenching at the comment. He hadn't even had ten seconds to really process his new assignment and he had old sores thrown in his face.
Steve glared sharply over his shoulder at the smirking, dark-haired man.
"It's a bit hard to get over someone who was supposed to be a friend completely stabbing you in the back." It had been two years and Steve wasn't proud of how the memory still stung and incited him to want to commit violence. He pushed at the buttons on the elevator willing it to open.
"Come now Stevie. It was my chance for a big break. You can't fault me for that. Besides. It's all worked out from what I understand. Got the keys to the biggest story of the decade in that little envelope." Rumlow was definitely bitter about being passed up for Steve. Steve couldn't help but feel a bit of satisfaction at the thought. He couldn't believe he had ever considered this man a close friend. Ding Finally. Steve stepped into the crowded elevator but couldn't help shooting a last minute jibe at Rumlow.
"I do, don't I. It sucks doesn't it? The job of a lifetime that you've worked tirelessly for being handed over to someone else. I just can't imagine what that must feel like. See you around Rumlow." The door closed on an agitated Rumlow just before he could make a retort.
He tried to catch his breath and control the bubbling anger the whole way down, ignoring the glances of the others in the elevator. He had more important things to worry about. Like what the hell he was supposed to do about his apartment for the next several weeks?
"Honey! I'm home." It was an old joke between Steve and his roommate Sam Wilson who had initially bonded over I Love Lucy of all things. It was something they each hid adamantly from their other friends, not needing the onslaught of jokes he was sure they would be due for.
"In the living room!" Came the reply. Steve dropped his keys into the bowl on the table by the entryway of his tiny apartment and shed his jacket on a coat hook as he made his way to the cramp living area where Sam was having a Call of Duty marathon, chip bags strewn everywhere.
"Rough day?" Steve queried softly. Sam tended to only play war games when his group had a particularly bad session at the VA hospital where he worked. Steve had always thought it seemed counter productive for Sam to engulf himself in war games when he'd been reminded of something particularly awful but Sam had claimed that it helped him gain some control over the memories. Steve still wasn't sure how but Sam had always been calmer after several hours of hardcore playing. Steve couldn't begrudge him his methods of coping. Goodness knows his own probably weren't that healthy.
Sam paused the game, eyes unfocused. "Someone brought up the day they lost one of their friends and it just…"
"Riley." Steve surmised.
Sam nodded stiffly, "Yea. Riley." Sam had been back from the war for three years but still got choked up every time Riley was mentioned.
There was silence for a moment before Sam shut off the T.V. and cleaned up a space on the couch next to him. "If you keep standing like that Steve I'm gonna loose it. I'm fine. Really, pal. Now, how'd that interview go?" Sam was itching for a diversion and Steve was happy to give it to him.
"I saw Rumlow."
"Oh. Damn. Sorry, man. How'd that go?" Sam was only of the only people who knew the extent of the drama surrounding him and Rumlow.
"Alright, I guess? I got offered a job he really wanted so I can't help feeling a bit vindicated, even if I did almost sock him in the middle of a hallway outside the editor of the New York Times' office."
"He'd have deserved it." Sam's expression was dark. If they ran into Rumlow in a back alley Steve wasn't sure which of them would start swinging at him first.
"Whats this about a job though? Finally gonna have some extra cash to do that boy's weekend in Vegas?" Sam perked up at the prospect, eyebrows waggling. He had been bugging Steve to let loose and let Sam take him to Vegas for a weekend of debauchery. Apparently, Steve was too tightly wound to know what fun was if it bit him on the nose.
"Sorry pal. According to the information they gave me," Steve gestured to the open envelope he'd finally had a chance to look through, "A week from tomorrow, I'm going to be staying on location at the Hamptons for the foreseeable future to write a tell all about a high profile client. Not sure ill be able to help out much with rent in the meantime."
"Don't worry about it. We've got enough rent savings to hold us afloat for a bit. Hamptons huh? Swanky. This sounds like a breaking story. Who is the client?"
"James Barnes." Steve was a bit sheepish. It was still surreal that he of all people was getting the chance to enter an estate no outsider had been allowed into for five years for a career-making interview.
Sam let out a low whistle. "The Prince of New York? Way to bury the lead man! This deserves a drink." He jumped over the back of the couch to grab a couple of beers from the fridge. Steve shook his head, laughing slightly at the exuberant display. He pulled the documents and a small plastic case out of the envelope to look over while he waited for Sam to wander back in with a six-pack and, was that… yep. A large bottle of vodka Steve had thought he'd hidden away was dangling loosely in Sam's grip.
"Oh come on Sam!"
"I don't want to hear it Stevie. This is one of those times you're supposed to get stupidly drunk and wake up with strange boys or girls in your bed. If I didn't know you better I'd already be dragging your ass to a club, but I know I need to get you a bit drunker before I can swing that. It's called celebrating an insane job opportunity." Sam stressed the word celebrating like it was a term Steve had never heard before as he held out the vodka.
Steve considered refusing but eventually accepted the open bottle of vodka and took a swig. Sam had a point. This was a moment to celebrate. He'd go, write the article, come back, and finally have the job of his dreams. It didn't hurt that he'd also have one over on Rumlow.
Over several drinks, Steve filled Sam in on what little he had been able to glean about the job from the folder. A car would be arriving a week from tomorrow to take him to the estate, leaving him little time to pack and get his things in order. He also wouldn't be allowed to bring in any of his own devices and would be provided with encrypted devices when he arrived with which to do his job. The estate, which was right on the waterfront, was surrounded by a surprising amount of land and he wouldn't be able to leave the premises until the job was done. "Paranoid bastard ain't he?" Sam had commented. Steve couldn't help but agree. It was a bit much for a recluse war veteran even one was wealthy as James Barnes. The plastic black box had contained a pass that would let him onto the grounds and access certain rooms.
"Dude. What kind of gig IS this? Sure it's safe? I mean I've heard rumors about the guy Stevie. Things that make lesser men cry. I thought it was all crap but now I'm starting to reconsider my earlier assessment. You sure you want to do this?" Sam was starting to look concerned.
Steve was starting to share similar reservations, glancing over all the disclaimer forms he would need to sign and the tech. This was the chance of a lifetime though. Crazy or not, getting a headline article about the recluse 'Prince' was a major story. Probably even more so if the guy really was crazy.
"Yea… Yes. I'm sure. I can take care of my self Sam." Sam still didn't look sure and just took another swig of beer.
A few hours of drinking later, Sam managed to drag Steve out to a club arguing that it was his last chance to let loose and get laid before months of isolation. Sam had always said it was entirely unfair that Steve was attracted to both sexes and as such drew in so many people when they went out because of his strong, broad shoulders and innocent face leaving Sam the unpleasant ordeal of trying to get a girl to dance with him when Mr. Tall, Hot, and Sweet was standing next to him. Tonight though, Sam was going to get Steve to take advantage of it.
A week later, Steve found himself standing on the curb with his bags waiting for the town car that was being sent to pick him up and nursing a truly spectacular hangover. On the way out the door this morning, Sam made sure to remind Steve not to be a 'snippy bitch' if the guy was confrontational cause he really wasn't interested in attending his funeral. As if Steve was the kind of person to tell off a POW for being a little moody. Steve had just flipped him off in response with the hand that wasn't clutching a hot cup of coffee like a lifeline. He couldn't believe he'd let Sam talk him into going out last night. Ever since he'd gotten the job Sam had felt it was best to celebrate with going out and drinking. Part of Steve thought it had something to do with Sam trying to get in as much time going out with Steve as he possibly could before he went away for an unknown amount of time.
Regardless, this was so not the first impression he wanted to make with his new employer. He couldn't even remember much about the night before but Sam had told him he'd gotten verylucky with twins from Eastern Europe. Judging by how uncomfortable it was to sit at the moment – this car drive was going to suck – and how he could vaguely remember a dark hallway, feminine curves, a strong chest pressed against his back and sense memories that made his toes curl, Sam wasn't exaggerating. Steve wanted to curl in on himself in embarrassment. It was so unlike him. He really wasn't fond of one-night stands or hook ups and believed in going out a few times before 'sliding into home' so to speak. Sam was thrilled that he finally managed to get Steve to loosen up a bit and had mentioned they'd be having that boy's weekend the second Steve got home.
The approach of a sleek black car broke into his reverie. It looked as though it cost more than three years worth of paychecks. The car stopped in front of him and a man emerged from the driver's side. Everything about him screamed average, even down to the off the rack suit. He was of average height with a receding dark brown hairline and a kind face. Steve wasn't sure what he was expecting from someone who worked for the Barnes estate but it wasn't this.
"Hello Mr. Rogers. My name is Phillip Coulson. I'm a fan of your work."
It was the same thing that Mr. Fury had said to him. The odd thing was they had both seemed so sincere when they said it but it completely threw Steve who had only had a handful of articles published in mostly obscure newspapers.
"Um. Thank you, Mr. Coulson." Steve wasn't sure what else to say.
"Please. Call me Phil. May I grab your bags?" The man was already moving before Steve could answer. The man was stronger than he looked, tossing Steve's heavy bags in the trunk with barely any effort.
Refusing to let Phil open the back door for him, that would be too surreal, Steve opened the passenger door and slid in to the cool leather seat before Phil could voice any complaint.
"Mr. Rogers, it is custom for our guests to ride in the backseat." Phil shot him an amused look as he slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. Soft piano music came through the speakers. Steve couldn't place it, but it was beautiful.
"Please Phil, call me Steve. I'm not used to all this fancy stuff. Sitting in the front is fine."
"As long as your comfortable, sir." Steve doubted he was ever going to get the other man to call him by his first name anytime soon.
Comfortable. Not likely.
The drive was two and half hours total under normal circumstances, but the way Coulson was driving Steve hazarded a guess that they would be there in just under two. Steve tried not to squirm too much at the pressure on his backside that was being exacerbated by the quick turns. A half an hour into the drive though, Coulson was obviously aware of the discomfort and seemed to have a fair guess as to what caused it.
"Having trouble sitting, sir? Should I slow down or would you prefer it if we went faster?" Coulson said it with such a straight face that Steve wasn't sure if he was just imagining the double entendre.
"Um.." Steve's face flushed red and he wasn't sure how to reply. There didn't seem to be a right answer to that question. Coulson let out a low chuckle, sparing him from having to respond.
"Don't worry about it, sir. We're all entitled to our private lives. It seemed like you made the most of your last few days of freedom at least."
Steve wanted to crawl under a rock he was so embarrassed. Coulson just kept smirking at him like he could see into the past and knew every detail about what had transpired.
Steve sunk in his seat and threw a hand over face.
This was definitely going to be a long car ride.