CHAPTER FOUR —
( You don't think anyone would believe I'm 107? )

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        Angelina Wilson had become exceptionally gifted in tracking down individuals who hid in the shadows—murderers and assaulters were typically her prey. Yet, her heart raced with excitement and determination when her chief proposed a new bounty. This was far different from her usual work: the target was Brooklyn's most notorious arms dealer, a figure whose very name sent chills through the criminal underworld. She leapt to her feet, the thrill of the chase igniting a fierce sense of purpose within her. This mission could redefine her career—a chance to prove herself against a figure shrouded in danger and mystery.

Mick Hopps, the elusive arms dealer, had established himself in the criminal community for four years, a year after the devastating events that unfolded with Thanos's infamous snap, which erased half of Earth's population. In Brooklyn's shady alleys and smoke-filled rooms, he carved out a reputation that buzzed quietly among criminals and outlaws. His name was often whispered, accompanied by fear and respect. Few had ever laid eyes on him; he was a man who knew how to navigate the dark waters of trafficking weapons without ever getting his hands dirty. Those who did speak of him described him as a ghost that blended seamlessly into the shadows—a man whose true identity remained hidden behind layers of deception.

It had taken three gruelling years of undercover work for John Hopkins, operating under the alias Jeremy Grimms, to infiltrate Mick's inner circle. This was no small feat, and John's dedication was commendable. He had managed to convince Mick that Angelina was a savvy buyer willing to negotiate face-to-face—a risk that brought a heightened level of excitement to Angelina. It was a thrilling departure from her usual encounters, often filled with playful flirtations at the local bar, only to end with a satisfying thud of a head on the bar and a captured bounty. No, this time was different: it was about intelligence, timing, and skill—qualities that defined her profession and personality.

Angelina prepared meticulously for the encounter, her mind racing with possibilities and outcomes. She dressed impeccably, donning a sleek, form-fitting, two-piece black suit that exhibited her strong form while allowing for the agility she might need. The fabric clung to her curves while promoting freedom of movement—an ideal balance in case of any unexpected fights. She stood poised with a polished black briefcase, confidence radiating from her; despite the pressure, she felt ready to face whatever challenges awaited her.

As she approached the location, her heart raced with anticipation. The bodyguard at the entrance loomed over her, radiating authority and muscular intimidation. He began patting her down—a necessary routine that came with the territory. However, when his hands inched uncomfortably close to certain sensitive areas, she shot him a fierce glare, her eyes filled with an unspoken warning that made him hesitate.

"No phones allowed," he told her, his voice steady yet firm.

Angelina handed a phone over. Once satisfied, he led her into a spacious, dimly lit room in a warehouse. As they entered, five men loomed around a grand table, its surface cluttered with a chaotic display of weapons—a tangled assortment of shiny blades, intricately designed firearms, and assorted ammunition, each bearing an unsettling attraction. Angelina's gaze was immediately drawn to the man at the centre of the gathering, slightly advanced from the others—a powerful presence amidst the thrumming tension.

Mick Hopps was an impressive figure, his dark hair meticulously gelled back to emphasise the sharp angles of his face. Clad in a suit that signified sophistication and wealth far beyond her modest earnings, he exuded an air of palpable authority.

"Penelope, darling. It's a pleasure to finally meet you," he said, his voice rich and smooth, accompanied by a charming smile as he extended his hand for a handshake.

Angelina responded with an enticing smile, gracefully taking his hand. "The pleasure is all mine." As he brought her hand to his lips, kissing the delicate skin of her knuckles, she felt a spark of something—was it excitement or disgust? "Jeremy neglected to mention just how dashing you truly are."

He chuckled lightly, genuine warmth glimmering in his eyes. "Grimms doesn't typically recommend buyers for me, but he insisted I simply had to meet you—and now I see why." Their fingers lingered for an instant longer than necessary before Angelina gently withdrew her hand, diverting the conversation toward the table cluttered with menacing items. "So, how do you know my dear brother?"

"We go way back—old college friends," she replied smoothly, the words flowing effortlessly from her lips, crafted carefully to suit the cover story she had prepared. Studying every detail of John's profile had been essential; a single slip could be deadly, not just for herself but for John, whose life hung delicately in the balance.

"Ah, college. A time filled with life and adventure," Mick mused, nodding thoughtfully. "He mentioned you've brought quite a sum. How does someone like yourself accumulate such wealth?"

Angelina felt an involuntary surge of anger course through her veins. If Jeremy's safety weren't hanging in the balance, she might have lunged across the table and struck Mick hard across the face. Instead, she maintained her composure, reminding herself of the stakes at play. "I conduct some business in Madripoor. I believe you're familiar with the place?"

A slow grin crept across Mick's face, his interest piqued. "Ah, indeed. Madripoor is among my favourite haunts. Have you ever visited the Demon's Lounge?"

It was an unspoken test that could reveal her knowledge and street cred. Only the most ruthless criminals dared to venture into the underbelly of the Demon's Lounge. "Are you referring to the establishment run by Judie Parrish?"

"Exactly. That's the one." He relaxed, gesturing to the array of weapons displayed before them. "Enough of the pleasantries. I believe you're here to make a purchase."

"If you're inclined to sell, then yes, I am."

With that, Mick launched into an animated discussion, showcasing each weapon passionately as one of his henchmen stepped forward to give Angelina a closer look. Time ticked by slowly, and Angelina felt her impatience simmer with each passing moment. The restless energy inside her surged as her fingers twitched slightly—she was eager to cut through the formalities and dive into the real purpose of her visit.

Just as Mick prepared to delve into another lengthy monologue, he caught sight of her tense expression. "Have you come to a decision already?" he inquired, his tone shifting slightly, curiosity flickering behind his smile.

Angelina focused on him, a small, inviting smile playing at the corners of her lips. "I have. I wish to buy your Marine SP, AEK-973, and your .22 semi-auto pistol."

He raised an eyebrow, surprise flickering across his face. "And that's all?"

With an audible sigh, she replied, "I'll need to consult with my partners regarding any additional purchases. But for now, yes, I believe—"

Suddenly, a loud ringing shattered the tense atmosphere of the room.

The men exchanged glances, their eyes darting between one another and landing on Angelina, who stood with a tense expression. She pursed her lips, then decisively reached into her bra and retrieved her phone. The screen glowed: B. Barnes.

With a weary sigh, she glanced at the men. "Y'all mind if I take this?"

"On speaker," Mick barked, his voice sharp and husky, tinged with menace.

"It's personal," she replied, her tone firm.

Mick's demeanour shifted; a dark intensity washed over him, the atmosphere thickening. "Answer it, or I swear I'll blow your fucking brains out," he growled, his threat hanging heavy in the air.

Angelina arched an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback by how quickly Mick's temper flared. The silence became palpably charged; she could feel the eyes of the men boring into her. Yet, with a deep breath, she pressed the green button and switched the call to speaker. "Hello?" she greeted, her voice steady.

"Ahh, hi."

"Hi?"

"What are you doing?"

Angelina glanced at the men before her. "Nothing at the moment. You?"

There was a brief pause. "Ah, I'm with my shrink. Trying to prove to her that you're a real person," he confessed, vulnerability underlying his words.

"Am I on speaker?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Hi, James' therapist. I am a real human being, and he's not making me up," Angelina said, playful.

"Hello, Angelina. It's a pleasure to talk to you, and thank you for your confirmation," came the therapist's warm voice, stark against the tension in the warehouse.

Mick's eyes widened. "Angelina?" he spat.

She met his gaze, a playful shrug rolling off her shoulders. "I prefer to be called Angelina?"

Mick's frustration boiled over. "Are you a fucking spy?" he accused.

"Angel, is everything alright?" Bucky asked, concern evident.

Angelina sighed. "Give me a minute, Barnes," she said, muting the call.

Appearing almost from nowhere, Angelina pulled a knife from the sheath at her belt. In a flash, she hurled it, the blade finding its mark in one henchman's throat. Panic erupted.

John, quick on his feet, threw himself in front of Mick to uphold the illusion of his loyalty. Meanwhile, Angelina seized a pistol from the table, clicked in a magazine, and fired at a guard behind her without hesitation. Thunderous cracks echoed as he crumpled.

She dove under the table, flipping it to create a barricade. Rolling to the side, she squeezed the trigger again—two more downed guards. Exhilaration pulsed through her veins.

To protect John's cover, she rolled toward him, yanked the knife from a fallen guard's neck, and stabbed John in the thigh in one swift motion. He grunted, and she pushed him face-first to the ground, knocking him out cold.

Straightening herself, she turned to confront Mick, who had grasped a gun. A smirk curled his lips. "Stalemate," he said.

Angelina didn't hesitate. A crack of gunfire—she shot his hand, forcing him to drop the weapon, then shot his shoulder. He staggered and fell.

She approached with deliberate strides, zip ties ready. "You need to humble yourself, Mick," she said coolly. "And I think prison is the perfect place for that."

Kneeling him, she zip-tied his wrists and hoisted him up.

With a firm grip, she picked up her phone and pushed Mick toward her car. "Sorry about that. Just needed to take care of something," she said, unmuting the call.

"Are you alright?" Bucky's voice crackled.

"Fuck you, you bitch!" Mick shouted—only to be smacked with the back of her phone.

"Yeah, I'm good, Barnes," she replied lightly.

Despite the chaos, triumph swelled within Angelina. She had navigated the danger, and now the elusive arms dealer was hers. Yet, the victory was bittersweet—John's safety, the lives lost, and the looming consequences pressed at her mind.

For now, though, she savoured the sweet thrill of success. Another bit of red was wiped from her ledger.

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        Angelina dragged Mick into the precinct, cuffed and muttering under his breath. Her hands were steady, her posture professional, but inside, she was spiralling. The blood from that morning still felt fresh in her mind. More lives were taken. More names added to the invisible list she kept locked inside herself.

It hadn't been the first time she had killed someone for the sake of a mission — either to protect herself or others — but it never got easier. It never felt clean. It never stopped making her stomach twist with a dark, gnawing guilt that no amount of justification could fully erase. She wore a mask of control so well that sometimes she even convinced herself she was fine.

She knew it would take hours for the paperwork, processing, and interviews to be handled — she'd been through it enough times to predict it to the minute. She left the man in capable hands and slipped away, needing a distraction, and knowing exactly where to find one.

Meeting up with Bucky hadn't been part of her original plan — truthfully, she hadn't planned to let anyone in. Not when she'd spent years carefully walling herself off from people, from connections. Friends got you hurt. Friends made you vulnerable. And Angelina didn't do vulnerable.

But maybe today, she could make an exception. Maybe today, she didn't want to be alone with her thoughts.

She met up with Bucky Barnes at a small café tucked into a quiet Brooklyn side street, just a few blocks from his apartment. It was cozy, dimly lit with warm lights, and smelled like fresh bread and roasted coffee beans — not a place most people would find unless they knew it was there. Exactly how Bucky liked it.

It turned out Bucky's therapist had given him two assignments: one, bring proof that Angelina existed, and two, go somewhere that wasn't the dingy bar two doors down from his apartment. Angelina hadn't questioned it; she needed the break, too. The morning's events still weighed heavily on her. Taking a life never got easier, no matter how justified it was. She might have worn a mask of composure for her colleagues and the outside world, but deep down, she wanted to curl up on her couch with her cat and lose herself in mindless TV.

Bucky was already sitting when she arrived, a half-finished coffee steaming in front of him and another waiting across from him. He rose slightly from his chair when he saw her, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"I ordered you coffee. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, that's okay. Thank you, Barnes." She slid into the booth across from him, her movements casual, but Bucky's sharp eyes caught the telltale signs — the tightness in her jaw, the slight tension in her shoulders.

She didn't look sad or broken. It was subtler than that — a haunted look buried deep in her eyes that Bucky knew too well. He'd seen it in the mirror a thousand times: that heavy, lingering guilt that never truly left.

"Is everything alright?" Bucky asked carefully, his voice low and earnest.

Angelina tilted her head slightly, giving a small scoff meant to sound lighthearted, but it didn't quite mask her fatigue. "Everything's great, Barnes. Nothing new to report."

The lie hung heavy between them, but Bucky didn't push. He understood too well that sometimes silence was a mercy.

Trying to change the subject — for both their sakes — he cleared his throat and said, "The other day, you mentioned you could help me with dating?"

It wasn't that Bucky had a burning desire to dive headfirst into romance; more that his therapist insisted he find ways to connect with people, to build a life beyond his small, isolated bubble. And if Angelina's now slightly relaxed demeanour was anything to go by, he'd made the right call.

Angelina's guarded face softened just a tad, and a small smile appeared. "I can help you with that," she said, pulling out her phone and quickly logging out of her Tinder profile. "I know you're kind of old school, Barnes, but it'll get you started faster than hoping to bump into someone at the grocery store."

Bucky leaned back in his chair, sceptical. "In my day, you asked a girl if she wanted to dance." He sighed, almost wistfully. "Now it's all smartphones and internet. Too many steps just to talk to someone."

"You can still ask someone out in person," Angelina told him. "But think of Tinder as... training wheels for the twenty-first century. It gets you to the good part faster." She paused, tilting her head curiously. "You went on loads of dates before the war, right?"

He chuckled a little bashfully. "Yeah. I mean, I loved dancing. There was always a girl willing to join me on the dance floor."

Angelina leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "That was before the war. Before Hydra and everything else," she said softly. "Back then, you were probably this outgoing, charming, cocky, ridiculously attractive guy."

Bucky's ears tinged pink as he shrugged modestly. "Maybe."

"And now?" she said gently. "Now you're quieter. Guarded. Always half-hidden under that hoodie and those gloves. Not because you're any less attractive — but because you're scared. Closed off."

The words stung, but only because they were true. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away for a moment.

"Did you just say I was ridiculously attractive?" he teased lightly, hoping to break the tension.

Angelina blinked, caught off guard, and then laughed. "Don't let it go to your head, Barnes. It was just an observation." She smirked. "Although, if you want some advice, the longer hair? Way better look."

Bucky chuckled, feeling a warmth in his chest he hadn't felt in a long time. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Alright, let's set up your profile," she said, holding up her phone to frame him in the camera. "Smile!"

Instead, Bucky scowled, and she snapped the photo anyway, laughing.

"Nice. Now, a real one!" she encouraged. He gave her a tight-lipped smile, and she snapped another.

"Perfect. Now — bio. Short, sweet, leave some mystery. Gotta have conversation starters for the date."

"What do we put down?" he asked.

"Well, not your real age, obviously," she said. "Let's say you're 35."

"You don't think anyone would believe I'm 107?"

Angelina smiled. "Definitely not," she said. "Now, your job?"

"I don't really... do anything. Unless seeing my therapist counts."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "We'll say you work with at-risk youth. It's believable, and girls like guys who are good with kids."

Bucky smiled dryly. "Manipulative."

"Strategic," she corrected with a wink.

"Now we need a hook — something romantic but not cheesy."

Without missing a beat, Bucky leaned in and murmured, "I can't wait to slow dance with you under the moonlight and dip you down so I can kiss your beautiful lips."

Angelina froze, caught off guard by his words and how he looked at her — intense, steady, and almost vulnerable. Her cheeks flushed with heat.

"That's... perfect," she stammered, quickly typing it in, trying not to meet his gaze.

She breezed through the rest of the setup, choosing "female" for preference, but Bucky hesitated.

"I don't mind if it's both," he said casually.

Angelina's brows lifted in surprise. "So Bucky Barnes is bisexual. Something you definitely couldn't admit back in the forties."

He smiled a little sadly. "Steve knew. He... found ways to help. There were places, clubs, you know, hidden. He always looked out for me."

"Steve sounds like the best kind of friend," she said softly.

"He is," Bucky agreed, warmth in his voice.

With a few more taps, she submitted the profile.

"Alright," she said, handing the phone over. "Take a look."

Bucky scrolled through it, his brows lifting higher with each swipe. "The only real thing here is that I live in Brooklyn."

"That's all anyone needs to know for now," Angelina said. "Besides, if you start oversharing on Tinder, you'll have the authorities kicking down your door."

Bucky laughed. He handed the phone back to her, his voice light but curious. "Would you swipe right on me?"

Angelina scoffed, playing it off. "No way. I'd think you were catfishing. Too good to be true."

There was a beat of silence between them — not awkward, but charged, filled with unspoken things. Angelina dropped her gaze, biting back a smile, while Bucky just smiled quietly to himself.

"Then what will everyone else think when they come across it?" he asked, teasing.

Angelina shrugged. "Why don't we find out."

It didn't take long. Within minutes, Bucky matched with a woman named Cecelia — and somehow, with a bit of encouragement from Angelina, he even set a time and place for a date: a downtown bar, cozy but lively enough to ease him into the whole process.

Bucky realised, thanks to Angelina, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

They sat there, sipping coffee and making jokes, until night fell. They were surprised when they stepped outside, and the cool air hit their skin, a soft breeze ruffling Angelina's hair and carrying away the last bit of late evening warmth. The sidewalks were quiet, the world slowing down around them, and Angelina was surprised when Bucky fell into an easy step beside her.

"I'll walk you home," he said, casual but firm, like there was no question about it.

Angelina opened her mouth to argue — old instincts kicking in — but found she didn't have the energy. More importantly, she didn't want to say no.

They moved through the sleepy Brooklyn streets, silence settling between them. It wasn't heavy, though. It was comfortable and easy. Every so often, Angelina caught Bucky scanning the shadows, his senses sharp out of habit, but he didn't seem tense. If anything, he seemed relaxed.

A small, stooped figure stepped outside as they rounded a corner, passing an old bar with a flickering neon sign.

"James!" the old Asian man called, smiling.

Bucky stiffened slightly at the sudden attention but walked over anyway, offering a small, almost shy smile.

"Hey, Yori," Bucky said quietly, clasping the man's hand in a brief shake.

Angelina hung back a step, watching the exchange. Something about how Bucky held himself — guarded, almost hesitant — told her he wasn't used to casual familiarity.

"Are you good?" Bucky asked, voice low, polite.

Yori chuckled, waving a hand. "Always here. Always good." Then his gaze slid over to Angelina, and his smile widened even more. "You should ask her out," he said, pointing a crooked finger at Angelina with a raspy laugh.

Bucky released a soft, almost embarrassed chuckle, dropping his gaze to the ground. He rubbed the back of his neck, mumbling, "We're friends."

Yori only laughed harder. "Friends today. Tomorrow? Who knows?"

Angelina offered a small, polite smile, feeling her cheeks heat despite herself. She didn't look at Bucky. She couldn't. They waved a quick goodbye and moved on, the sounds of the street swallowing them back up.

They both remained silent for a few moments. "I didn't know we were friends," Angelina joked, making Bucky's face heat up.

"I-I didn't really know what to say. What to call us..."

"Relax, Barnes," Angelina laughed lightly, giving him a sidelong glance. "We're friends."

That finally earned a genuine smile from Bucky — a quiet, grateful one.

When they reached her apartment building, the streetlights buzzed overhead, and the city felt like it was tucking itself into bed. They stopped in front of the door, and Angelina turned to face him, a little reluctant to say goodnight — and found Bucky already watching her.

Bucky met her gaze, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket. "This afternoon was good," he said, something softer in his voice. Something unguarded.

Angelina smiled — a real one this time, not the kind she forced just to keep people at a distance. "Yeah. It was."

For a second, she thought he might say something else — maybe do something else — but then Bucky gave a slight, almost self-conscious nod and stepped back.

"Have a good night, Angel," he said.

"You too, Barnes," she replied, softer than she meant to.

He hesitated a moment longer — like he didn't quite want to leave — then gave her one last, small smile and turned away, walking off into the night with his head low against the breeze.

Angelina stood there until he was out of sight.

When she finally turned and climbed the stairs to her apartment, she realised something: for the first time all day, she hadn't thought once about Mick, or the blood on her hands, or the ache of guilt that had nearly consumed her that morning.

For a few precious hours, Bucky had made her forget. And that terrified her more than anything else.

AUTHORS NOTE
I absolutely LOVE this chapter and I don't even know why. To my readers, your support means the world to me and I'd love to know what you guys think of this chapter!!!
So please don't forget to comment your thoughts and leave a like ❤️
Love Pheebs/-rosepetal