The bass hit like a heartbeat as soon as they stepped into the club—low, pulsing, steady. Colored lights slid across the floor and walls like waves, and the scent of perfume, sweat, and sweet liquor filled the air. The energy was thick and charged, and the place was already packed.
Charlie stepped in just ahead of Bucky, her black dress catching the strobe of violet and blue lights. It clung to her like a secret—simple, elegant, but devastating. The neckline was subtle, but the fit left nothing to the imagination. The hem brushed her mid-thigh, revealing legs that seemed to go on forever, accented by the strappy heels she wore like she was born in them.
Bucky froze behind her. He hadn't seen the full effect of the dress until now. Back at the house, she'd been wrapped in a coat, her hair tucked up, laughing at how ridiculous she felt dressing up for a club. But here, under the lights, with her hair down and her eyes catching the flash of neon, she looked unreal.
He felt his pulse in his throat.
"Damn," Joaquin muttered beside him, nudging his shoulder. "That yours?"
Bucky's jaw twitched. "She's not a thing."
Joaquin held up his hands. "Didn't mean it like that."
But it didn't matter. Bucky's eyes were already locked on her again. She was walking toward Sarah and Sam, who were already halfway through their drinks at a corner booth. Charlie smiled at something Sarah said, tossed her head back in a laugh that cut through the noise like music, and Bucky's chest tightened. Everyone was watching her. Every man in the room with eyes to spare had turned to look at her as she passed, some subtle, some not.
She didn't even notice. Or maybe she did and just didn't care.
He followed slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets, keeping his eyes trained on her while they made their way through the crowd.
"You look like you're ready to murder someone," Sam said under his breath once Bucky reached the booth.
"Depends," Bucky muttered. "How many people looked at her on the way in?"
Sam smirked, sipping his beer. "You got it bad."
Bucky didn't answer. Charlie turned toward him, smiling as she handed him a drink someone had passed her. Her fingertips brushed his. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said gruffly. "You look…"
She raised an eyebrow. "I look…?"
He cleared his throat. "Nice."
Charlie laughed and sipped her drink. "That's the best you've got?"
Bucky looked down into his glass. "Trying not to say something I'll regret."
Her smile faltered for a second, but she didn't push it. She turned back to Sarah, and just like that, Bucky was on the outside of the circle again, watching the way the crowd moved around her, how she fit into it like a puzzle piece snapping into place.
The club was alive—heat, lights, and bass thudding through the floor like a heartbeat. Neon hues washed over the packed crowd, flickering pink and blue across the dance floor as bodies swayed in sync to the music.
Bucky leaned against the edge of their booth, drink in hand, but his eyes hadn't left her once.
Charlie.
She was out there in the middle of it all—laughing, spinning, hair wild from the movement, her black dress hugging her in all the wrong ways for his sanity. She moved like she wasn't thinking about it, like she'd forgotten everything heavy, everything dark. She looked free.
And he couldn't stop watching her.
Sarah was dancing beside her, a little more reserved but clearly enjoying herself. Joaquin had joined them too, not quite brave enough to get close to Charlie, but hovering near enough to keep pace. Bucky's jaw tensed as Joaquin said something in her ear and Charlie laughed, tilting her head back.
Sam nudged him from the booth. "You look like you're trying to burn a hole through the kid."
"He's just talking," Bucky muttered, not taking his eyes off them.
"You know she's not with him, right?"
"I didn't say anything."
Sam gave him a knowing look. "You didn't have to."
Joaquin offered Charlie his hand for the next song—something slower, a beat that pulsed like tension stretched thin. She hesitated for a second, then accepted, smiling politely as she let him lead her deeper into the crowd.
Bucky sat forward in his seat, forearms resting on his thighs, gripping his glass tighter than necessary.
She was beautiful. Mesmerizing. She moved with this easy confidence, like she didn't know what she did to people—what she did to him. And maybe that's what drove him a little crazy. She didn't even know.
Sam glanced out at the floor again. "You planning to sit here all night watching her?"
Bucky didn't answer.
"'Cause if you don't go out there, someone else will."
And he was right. Someone else had.
Bucky downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, stood, and slid through the crowd like it wasn't even there. Every step was deliberate, and his pulse pounded with something he didn't want to name.
He didn't want to be possessive. But she was his. He just wouldn't tell her yet.
But watching someone else touch her, even just lightly—watching her laugh like that for someone who wasn't him—it lit something up in his chest that burned too hot to ignore.
He found her near the edge of the floor, still moving to the music with Joaquin close behind her. Bucky didn't stop to think.
He just reached out and touched her waist.
Charlie turned, surprised, and her face softened when she saw him.
"Hey," she said, breathless, her skin warm from dancing.
"Can I steal you?"
Joaquin took the hint instantly, stepping back with a half-grin. "All yours, man."
Charlie raised a brow. "Jealous, Barnes?"
She didn't pull him in close—at first.
She danced around him, fluid and teasing, letting her hands skim through her hair, her dress catching the lights like ink and oil. Bucky moved with her easily, letting his own body fall into rhythm, never one to draw attention—but for her, he let himself be seen.
"You're too good at this," she called over the music.
"I had a lot of time to learn," he said with a smirk. "Even when I didn't want to."
She laughed and spun into him, pressing close, her hands on his chest. "You want to now?"
His fingers found her waist, steady. "Only with you."
Her smile deepened. "Then watch me."
And then she really started dancing.
She turned again, back to his chest, rolling her hips against him with slow precision, matching every beat with practiced seduction. Her hands lifted into her hair, exposing the long line of her neck, then trailed down her body like a slow caress.
Bucky's breath caught. His hands tightened slightly at her waist, not pulling her in—but anchoring her. His eyes never left her, not even for a second.
Every move was for him. And she knew it.
She leaned her head back against his shoulder and moved her body like she knew the effect it had—like she could feel every inch of tension winding through him. And she was right.
"Charlie," he murmured into her ear, rough with restraint.
She smiled, still swaying. "What?"
"You're killing me sweetheart."
She twisted to face him again, wrapping her arms around his neck, and said sweetly, "Good."
He kissed her temple—just once—but it lingered. His lips brushed skin, his breath warm against her cheek. It wasn't enough. Not nearly.
The music shifted again—darker now, more primal. The kind of rhythm that made the whole floor feel like it was moving together.
She danced even closer, her thigh brushing between his legs as she moved. One hand slid along the back of his neck, curling into the short hair there. He bent slightly to keep her near, his fingers now splayed across the small of her back.
From across the club, Sarah caught Joaquin's arm and whispered something, smirking in their direction.
Sam looked over and shook his head. "Barnes is down bad."
Joaquin chuckled. "About time."
Back in the center of the floor, Bucky didn't notice anyone else.
Charlie's lips were inches from his. Her chest rose and fell faster now—not from exertion, but anticipation. Her eyes held his like she could see every thought in his head.
And right then, Bucky wanted nothing more than to kiss her.
To drag her off this floor and take her back to the dark sanctuary of the bayou mansion. To finish what her dancing had started.
But she turned again, coy, playful, teasing.
He let her go—for now—but kept his hand in hers as she spun away.
They danced through two more songs. Heat soaked through every movement. Their laughter grew easier, their touches more constant. At some point, Charlie's fingers slipped through his belt loop, and she tugged him back into her orbit when the crowd tried to shift them apart.
"Water," she said finally, flushed and breathless. "Be right back."
Bucky nodded, still watching her as she moved toward the bar.
She moved like she knew his eyes were on her the whole way.
And he was smiling—until he saw him.
A man had approached her at the bar. Not touching her. Yet. But something in his posture set Bucky off immediately. Too close. Too casual. Too deliberate.
Bucky moved fast.
But not fast enough.
He watched the man say something to Charlie, and her face flickered—just for a second. Her hand went to her temple like she was dizzy, and she blinked hard. Confused. Distant.
And then he was close enough to hear the word.
"Zerkalo."
Mirror.
Bucky's stomach dropped.
He'd heard that word before. In Hydra files. In activation protocols.
The man said it again.
Bucky didn't wait.
He grabbed the guy by the front of the shirt and shoved him back from Charlie. "What the hell did you just say to her?"
Charlie blinked again, swaying slightly. "Bucky?"
The man smiled, like he'd already won. "Didn't think you'd come yourself, Soldier."
That was all it took.
Bucky slammed him into the edge of the bar, metal hand across his throat, pressing hard. The man didn't struggle. He just stared, calm.
Charlie touched Bucky's arm, eyes wide. "Bucky—stop."
Bucky's jaw was clenched tight enough to crack. "Who are you?"
The man just smiled wider. "She doesn't remember yet. But she will. And when she does, it won't be you she's looking for."
"Wrong answer," Bucky growled.
The man struck suddenly—headbutting Bucky, hard enough to throw him off balance. He twisted free and disappeared into the crowd as fast as he'd come, gone before Bucky could follow.
He turned to Charlie—who was now leaning against the bar, pale and shaking.
"What did he say to you?" Bucky asked.
"I… I don't know." Her voice was quiet. "It was Russian. I think. But I don't know why it felt like I knew it."
Bucky swallowed hard, running his hands down her arms. "You okay?"
"I have a headache. It's like—like a pulse in my head. He said 'mirror'? That's what it means. It's coming to me now"
"Yeah," Bucky said slowly. "Zerkalo."
Charlie looked up at him. "Why would that mean anything to me?"
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
Sam and Joaquin appeared beside them, eyes scanning the room.
"You alright?" Sam asked.
Bucky nodded. "We're leaving."
No one argued.
But even as he guided Charlie through the crowd, his hand at her back, Bucky couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched.
And that this was just the beginning.
The club still pulsed behind them, lights and music bleeding into the night like a fever dream. But the second the car doors closed, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Bucky gripped the steering wheel tight as they pulled away from the curb, knuckles white against the leather. Charlie sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed, fingers nervously playing with the hem of her dress. The tension in the car was thick enough to choke on.
She glanced at him. "Are you going to tell me what that was about?"
He didn't answer right away. His jaw flexed, eyes fixed on the road ahead like it might offer answers.
"Bucky?"
He exhaled, slow. "I don't know."
Charlie turned toward him. "You knew that guy."
"No," he said too quickly. Then, quieter, "I've seen his type before."
"Type?"
"He knew your name," she said, searching his face. "He said something to me. He knew I spoke Russian. And you—God, I've never seen you like that."
He tightened his grip. "He touched you."
"No, he didn't—"
"He got too close," Bucky snapped.
Silence fell again, sharp and sudden. Regret crept across his face a second later.
Charlie's voice softened. "You scared me."
He flinched. "That's not what I wanted."
"I know," she whispered, fingers brushing the back of his hand where it rested between them. "But something about him… something felt wrong. I just—Bucky, I keep having these… flashes. And I don't know if they're memories or dreams. But they're getting worse."
His throat worked, but he stayed quiet.
Charlie looked out the window. The cypress trees blurred past in the dark, their limbs like crooked fingers reaching down into the bayou water. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned into the door.
"I knew that word," she said finally. "Zerkalo."
Bucky's fingers drummed once against the wheel, like he was fighting with himself.
"I'm probably just imagining things," she added, but her voice faltered.
"No," he said. "You're not."
She blinked. "What?"
He finally looked at her. Really looked. "You're not imagining anything, Charlie. I just don't think it's safe to jump to conclusions yet."
"Then tell me what you think it is."
He hesitated. For once, Bucky Barnes—the man who always had a retort, a distraction, a way out—looked lost.
"I think… someone's messing with your head," he said carefully. "And I think that guy was part of it."
She stared at him. "Why me?"
Bucky didn't have an answer. Not one he could give her without tearing the truth wide open.
Instead, he reached across the console, took her hand gently, and held it. Her skin was warm, soft. Still trembling slightly.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he said quietly.
Charlie watched him, something shifting behind her eyes. "You think I'm in danger."
"I know you are."
They drove the rest of the way in silence, her fingers still locked with his.
But even as the familiar trees of the bayou began to rise around them again, the houses tucked deep into the mist and moss, Bucky knew nothing was going to feel familiar after this.
Not with someone watching them.
And not with the word Zerkalo still echoing between them like a trigger waiting to be pulled.
The gravel crunched beneath the tires as Bucky turned into the long, winding drive that led to the mansion. The headlights swept across the overgrown hedges and the peeling wrought-iron gate before disappearing into shadow. Spanish moss hung low like veils, swaying with the weight of the bayou's breath.
As soon as the car rolled to a stop near the front steps, Charlie reached for the door.
Bucky touched her arm. "Go inside."
She looked at him, searching his expression. "And you?"
He glanced around the treeline. "I'm gonna sweep the perimeter. Just to be sure."
Charlie hesitated. "Bucky, do you really think—"
"I don't know what I think right now," he said gently, "but I'd feel better knowing you're inside with the door locked."
She stared at him, then nodded. "Alright."
He waited until she disappeared behind the front door, the heavy thing shutting with a click that echoed in the stillness. Only then did he move to the back of the car where he had hidden the weapon without her seeing. He had blades stashed all over.
Bucky stepped off the gravel and into the dark.
The air was thick, humid. Frogs called in the distance, and something rustled near the pond out back. A whippoorwill cried once, then fell silent. The moon hung low and full, painting the woods in ghost-light.
He moved quietly—soft footfalls through damp grass, along the back edge of the property where the trees crept too close for comfort. He knew how to listen. How to feel when someone was near. His time as the Winter Soldier had sharpened that sixth sense into a blade.
Tonight, it was humming.
He checked the garden first. The little wrought-iron bench near the hydrangeas, the overgrown trellis where the roses clung like old secrets. Nothing.
Then the side yard. Past the stable. A horse snorted from within but didn't seem spooked.
The woods, though…
He moved slower as he reached the tree line.
Paused.
Listened.
Crack.
Bucky froze.
That wasn't an animal.
He ducked behind the old oak nearest the house and scanned the darkness. Eyes narrowed. Muscles coiled. A flick of his wrist and a small blade slid into his hand from the holster at his thigh—an old habit he couldn't break, and didn't want to.
Another sound—this one softer. A footstep? A shift?
But nothing emerged.
He waited. Five full minutes.
Still nothing.
Eventually, he straightened. Replaced the blade. Stepped back onto the grass, scanning the edges once more before heading up the stairs to the front porch.
His fingers brushed over the handle, and he paused.
Then he turned and looked back one more time—toward the trees.
He didn't like what he felt.
The door opened quietly when he pushed inside. The warmth of the house met him instantly, along with the soft scent of lavender and wood polish. Somewhere deeper inside, a record was playing faintly—one of the old jazz albums Charlie liked to listen to in the evenings. Something smooth. Bittersweet.
She was waiting at the foot of the stairs, her shoes off now, barefoot in that damn black dress, arms wrapped around herself.
Her eyes met his.
"Well?"
Bucky nodded, brushing the last of the night air from his jacket. "Nothing obvious."
"That's not the same as nothing," she said softly.
"No," he admitted. "It's not."
She tilted her head slightly. "You're still armed."
He glanced down at the knife hilt now visible on his thigh. "Old habits."
"I'm not complaining." She smiled—faint, tired. "You feel better now?"
"No," he said honestly. "But I feel… prepared."
Charlie stepped closer. "You're really worried, aren't you?"
He didn't speak. Didn't have to.
She reached for his hand again, like she had in the car, and laced their fingers together. Her touch was grounding. Warm. Real.
"I locked the doors," she said quietly.
"Good," Bucky replied, drawing her gently into his arms.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Outside, the wind stirred the moss in the trees.
Inside, Bucky kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes, already knowing sleep wouldn't come easy tonight.
