The Los Angeles police department's central booking office was never not busy. And, ironically, it was a place with which she was, sadly, more than a little familiar. Natasha Romanoff, one of the most exclusive and expensive PR Agents in the celebrity world, parked her new Mercedes sedan in one of the officer spaces; she didn't really intend to be here that long, and most of the duty officers knew her, anyway.
It wasn't the best way to meet a client, bailing him out of jail in the early hours of the morning, but it wasn't the first time she'd done so. And even at four-fifteen am, she was still all business; sleek black skirt with white silk blouse and smart black jacket, impeccable makeup, and deep red curls swept into a perfectly coiffured chignon behind her head.
Greeting the duty-sergeant with her customary cool, polite flair, Natasha tapped manicured nails against the leather strap of her satchel, then was led further into the station, back to Preliminary Holding. Where sat her client, in a cell by himself due to his "status". Apparently he was being held on a "drunk and disorderly", which had evolved into "second level assault, which might, God forbid, morph into manslaughter, if the poor sod who'd been send to the hospital ill-advisedly died from his thrashing.
"James Barnes," the officer called hollowly, unlocking the cell door and gesturing for the musician to get up and get moving. "Move your ass, boy. Your lawyer's sent someone to take ya home."
Not flicking so much as an eyelash at this less-than-flatting label, Natasha merely stood silent and still, not speaking until her new client shuffled from his holding cell, and then she held out a slim hand, stating in a calm, professional tone, "Good morning, Mr. Barnes. My name is Natasha Romanoff, and I've been sent by your office to escort you home. Shall we go?"
Bucky knows he probably shouldn't have busted up Angel's Share and he sure as shit shouldn't have pummeled the nobody at the end of the bar who had been talking shit about Steve but it was Steve and no one talks shit about Steve. No one.
He's still a little drunk and he's at least half concussed when the lawyer shows up and Jesus, she's hot. She's a curvy little thing that would tuck right under his chin and she's a redhead and exactly what he likes. He grins at her.
"You're better looking than my other lawyer," he slurs, taking her hand and just holding it for a second before letting it go. "You new or something?"
Men like this were, alas, part of her job. And she'd made a career out of being entirely professional, cool, aloof, and calm. It would take an earthquake off of the charts to ruffle the Ice Queen, after all. Hence her slight smile during the drunken handshake, and, because she was good at her job, she gently shuffled him down the hall towards the main door as she replied.
"I have been hired as your PR Representative, Mr. Barnes. Mr. Wilson felt a delicate touch might be required, hence Ms. Potts called me. My car is right outside. Come along, please."
She paused at the front desk to pay his bail, sign him into her custody, and have his personal belongings retrieved. "Mr. Wilson will have your motorcycle returned by this afternoon," she informed her staggering charge as they left the police station. "Do you require anything before we go?"
"Yeah, you put your number in my phone?" Bucky asks, grinning at her. "Cause I'm gonna need that later when I call you up to tell you I'm sorry."
He makes good on promises and he has the sense he's going to be making lots and lots of promises to this PR representative of his - both professional and personal.
"Other than that, we can get on the road as soon as you can get me in the car."
Her smile frosted just a touch. "Mr. Wilson knows how to reach me, Mr. Barnes. I'm sure he'll take care of that for you." But if he vomited in her Mercedes, she was going to castrate him, multi-millionaire celebrity or not.
Nevertheless, professional that she was, Natasha dutifully stayed at his side as Barnes navigated the steps leading down to the sidewalk, and unlocked the passenger door so he could, more or less, fall into her sedan. She did allow herself a mild roll of her eyes as she stepped over to the driver's side, but her impeccable mask was back in place by the time she slid easily behind the wheel.
"We'll be in Malibu in perhaps an hour," she informed her client, nose wrinkling slightly at the distinctive odor of alcohol that clung to her passenger. "Mr. Wilson will meet you there."
"Look, if you'd have been there, you'd have hit the guy too," Bucky says. His eyes are big and pleading and while this hadn't worked on the cops at all, it might work on this new lawyer of his. Maybe. Hopefully. He hadn't done a bad thing. He hadn't even started the fight - the guy talked shit and he got hit.
"M'gonna pay for all the damages and shit. You just can't be talking about Steve like that. That's bullshit. I'm not gonna sit there and listen to that without doing anything."
The guy had been saying Steve was a pussy for not drinking and tapping out early when Steve's a fucking veteran and a good guy and maybe it's stupid in hind sight but in the haze of alcohol, it was unacceptable. Bucky couldn't let it happen.
"I understand, Mr. Barnes," she soothed, pulling out of the station's parking lot and onto the main thoroughfare, heading for the freeway. The puppy eyes and pouting lips hadn't ever had much of an effect on her, but Natasha did have to give him credit for trying, at least. It wasn't her job to get personally involved with her clients, only to make sure that their public reputations were quickly and seamlessly repaired to the satisfaction of their sponsors and fans.
Regardless of her private opinions.
Out on the freeway, at cruising speed, she did unbend enough to give him a slight glance. "Everything will be fine, Mr. Barnes," she told him, small hands light on the sedan's steering wheel. "Mr. Wilson and I will take care of everything, so don't worry about a thing." Please, let him go to sleep, was her silent, private prayer. Just let the lout keel over and let me drive in peace.
Bucky slides down in the seat a little and the sedan is roomy but not quite enough for the particularly wide-legged sprawl he's settled himself in and his knee bumps against the gearshift. It's not a manual so it's not a huge deal but he still murmurs "sorry," and pulls his legs in a bit to keep from having them everywhere.
"It'd be like if he was talkin' shit about you, you know? I would definitely never let anyone talk shit about you," Bucky says, words slurring off his drunken tongue.
Bucky is pretty sure if he had a girl as gorgeous as the lawyer driving him home, he'd destroy more than one bar for her reputation. He grins at her and fumbles around the car for his sunglasses before putting them on. Is it still dark? Sure. Do his eyes hurt from headlights? Yes.
This time, her glance was more than a bit irked, given that he'd very nearly knocked the car out of gear with his fidgeting. But thankfully the shift didn't move, even though the musician continued his drunken diatribe, earning one of Natasha's very silent, very subtle, sighs.
Rather than respond yea or nay, the redhead simply let him run down on his own, not commenting at all about the glasses. It wasn't her job, she didn't care, she was completely impartial. To everything.
Thankfully, the drive was short given the early hour, though traffic was beginning to thicken by the time the Mercedes glided off of the freeway, heading for the more upscale district of Malibu, California. She'd already mapped her client's physical address, and arrived at the gated entrance without a hitch. A certain code entered into the keypad pulled back the gates, and up the elegantly curved driveway they went.
Sam Wilson was waiting at the front door, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a stern line. As soon as the car rolled to a stop, he was opening the passenger door and Natasha was sure it was only her presence that saved her passenger from a sound tongue-lashing.
"Thank you, Miss Romanoff," was all Wilson said, clipped and edgy. "I'll take over from here."
"Miss Romanoff? Does that mean there's not a Mr. Romanoff I gotta worry about?"
Bucky grins at her from behind the glasses and he wonders if he can get this lawyer to at least stay for breakfast. His housekeeper makes a great breakfast, actually, and he'll pay her extra if it means it comes with a Bloody Mary and some aspirin.
"Cause if there's not, I'll get Anita to make you breakfast. I need something to soak up the rest of this alcohol and you probably need something to take the edge of what's got to be a hell of a night, right? C'mon. My treat. Please? I'll let you and Sam lecture me?"
Natasha saw Wilson grimace, although the man was probably too polite to scrub his hand down over his face in exasperation. He did, however, look over the roof of the car at her and grate out, "Forgive him, Miss Romanoff. Bucky's clearly still...inebriated, and doesn't mean anything by it." She had the thought that he'd edited out stone-fucking-drunk mid-sentence.
It was enough to quirk her lips in a bit of mild humor, and she graciously shrugged it off. "Not to worry, Mr. Wilson. Mr. Barnes has been the soul of gentility since we met." To her crookedly grinning client, she said, "Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Barnes, but I'm afraid I'm due in at the office rather early this morning. Perhaps another time?"
"Saturday? You don't gotta work on Saturdays, I bet," Bucky says, giving her another toothy grin. "We barbecue out in the yard, invite all the neighbors. It'll be good, you can come by and have a beer and meet me sober."
Sam shakes his head and pulls Bucky out of the car, letting the taller man lean heavily on him. Sam sighs a little and nods his head at Natasha.
"Thanks for getting him. He means it about Saturday, we do that shit every week. You should come by. It's not anything too personal or anything, I promise. Band'll be there, housekeeper, lawn guys, Buck's family - it's on the up and up."
"I'll...check my calendar," she promised, a bit nonplussed by the surreal turn of events. It wasn't unusual to garner more male attention than she liked, but it apparently went with the territory. She knew she was attractive, though she didn't go out of her way to flaunt it, and her current "boyfriend" had a tendency to be the possessive sort.
"You're quite welcome, Mr. Wilson." Natasha paused while Wilson levered their charge out of her sedan and up on his still-wobbly legs, then added, "You'll call me later today? I'll have reparation suggestions for you then, and we can get to work on our PR campaign without delay. Today's Wednesday, so we'll need to have at least one public appearance scheduled for this Friday, at the very latest."
Before being swept into Bucky Barnes' orbit, Natasha had never given much thought to how much work went into organizing a concert performance. But the last month had been an absolute blur, ever since Steve Rogers had casually mentioned that the high school at which he taught was having a fund raiser to boost their building fund. The school had been in operation for several decades, and many of the buildings on campus were falling into disrepair, and some were even dangerous for the students to use.
Nevertheless, the Winter Soldier's team brought everything into place with beautiful precision; they were no strangers to this sort of thing, after all. Everything from title order to costumes, lighting to security, pyrotechnics to communications; nothing was overlooked or ignored. It was almost breathtaking, how smoothly it all came together.
Now, an hour before showtime, Natasha found herself sitting quietly in James' dressing room, watching curiously as the makeup team did their work. Black nail polish, hair dressing, touch-up ink, and a few minions parading clothing choices in and out for his approval. "Surreal", she decided, didn't really cover it. But it was fascinating, regardless.
Sam Wilson ducked in, saying with a broad grin, "Place is packed. Security's having a ball keeping the stage clear, Buck. Gonna be a wild night, my man."
"As long as no one jumps me on the stage, we'll be fine. Last time that happened, they nearly wrecked Carol's bass and she almost whacked them with that mic stand of hers." Bucky prefers a lavalier unless he's doing it for show but Carol says it doesn't "feel right" without the stand.
Natasha has been sitting there the whole time while he's been getting ready and while he always has costume changes, the basics are always done before the show so they don't have to be touched up halfway through. He probably looks ridiculous and he makes a face at her.
Perched on a stool in an out-of-the-way corner, watching the professionals go about their work, Natasha was abruptly jolted out of bystandership when Bucky looked her way and posed a question. She blinked, sitting up straighter, hand that her chin had been propped on now folding with the other, and then she tilted her head, gazing at him speculatively.
"Mmmm, not really. Is...that the idea?" She'd seen videos of his live performances before, of course, but none of the cameras had really had a decent enough angle to convey all of the detail. Nevertheless, she knew that stage makeup and regular makeup were different, so perhaps final say was best left to the artists.
Then her eyebrows went up. "Is...that what you're wearing out on stage?" That was basically an intricate shoulder holster, complete with bright beading, feather, and fringe here and there. No doubt it would look fantastic on her fiance's thick torso, but...with no shirt beneath it? God.
"If you can call it wearing, sure. Hey, believe it or not, I'm cleaning it up for the kids here. It would be a lot worse if it was a regular show," Bucky says, laughing a little. He likes poking at Natasha if it's all in good fun and he follows it up with - "What, you don't want your man out there half dressed? A lot of disappointed fans."
The makeup artist tilts his chin up to put some more eyeliner on so Bucky doesn't get to look at her to see her visual response but he hopes he gets one hell of a tongue lashing out of it.
Her gaze went flat and her lips thinned to his sass, but Natasha just snorted a small huff and rolled her eyes. But she had to get some sort of a jibe, thus she heard herself say, "I think you're just afraid they wouldn't like your songs if you had all your clothes on." Which was hardly true; Natasha knew those screaming fans would listen to Winter Soldier's music even if it was sung in Gregorian Chant.
Sam snorted a small laugh, shaking his head and checking his watch. "Fifteen minutes," he said, and the others echoed it. "Band's already warming up. I'll meet you at Security." He ducked out, and the makeup artist pursed her lips, gave a nod, and released Bucky's chin, then added a final fluff to his shaggy hair.
"Magnifique," she caroled, kissing her fingertips with a cheeky grin. "Break a leg, Bucky, eh?"
"Hope I break two," Bucky says, grinning. "Stay with Sam," he says to Natasha. "It gets wild out there and I know this is a charity concert and we're in a stadium but who knows what could happen. Things can always mess up, even in a big venue like this one."
Much safer than where security would be more lax and much safer than a smaller venue where it's easy to crowd the stage but even still, he doesn't want her to get hurt.
"I'll throw in a couple surprises for you, though. Wouldn't want to spoil your first concert."
The entire effect was startling, now that he was out of the chair and outfitted completely. Natasha could only stare, until the security warning jolted her back to reality. "I'll be careful," she promised; Wilson had assigned her two beefy bodyguards all her own - Stan and Rolf. Norwegian beet farmers, the both of them; they topped even Steve by a good three inches. And were waiting for her and Bucky right outside.
The procession began to head for the door, but Natasha abruptly took her intended's hand, "--wait...please?" Flushing lightly, a bit abashed for being so forward - especially with him looking like that, and her in just a simple but fashionable calf-length skirt, long-sleeved sweater and sensibly-heeled boots - but she paused until the entire entourage was out of the dressing room before placing both of her hands against her musician's jaw and rising on her toes to kiss him quite soundly.
When she released his mouth, Natasha rested her forehead against his, sighing softly. "...knock 'em dead," was all she said before letting go.
Bucky is surprised to get the kiss with all the people around (even if they've left the room and they're not exactly looking at them) because Natasha is reserved but he sure as hell isn't upset about it. He's sad it can't go on any longer but he has a show to do.
"Only a little dead," Bucky says, winking at her. "The dead-dead is just for you. This is just the show, you know? They don't get the whole package."
"I know," she smiled at him. "Now, let's go, before Sam has a fit." The dressing room doors opened, and suddenly the entire hallway was awash with flash bulbs, yammering people, and the clicks and whistles of radios. Natasha ducked her head, kept a death grip on Bucky's hand, and followed along, flanked by her protective outriders.
Large men in front, large men behind, it wasn't very long until the group reached Sam Wilson, and Natasha was handed over - along with her bodyguards - and ushered to a private VIP section right in the front of the stage. She gulped, but obediently followed along. Thankfully, the velvet rope and the hulking men to her left and right provided enough space to breathe, though the roar became deafening as the exterior lights suddenly dimmed, and the stage lights began to flash.
The set is stacked heavily with favorites and the crowd roars for them, especially when he hits his knees for one song and slides across half the stage. It's murder to do that in leather pants and motorcycle boots but the visual is fantastic; Bucky makes sure to do it in the direction that Natasha's in so she gets the full visual.
They take a short break to costume change and touch up and then security backs everyone up from the edge of the stage and keeps them there for a moment while Bucky has his acoustic guitar out. It's a fucking expensive instrument and he doesn't want it wrecked.
"So all of you are special tonight," he says, looking out over the crowd. "This is for a good cause and since I'm all about good causes, I'm gonna reward you with a new song that no one's heard before. Album's not even released yet. Y'all wanna hear it?"
Obviously, the crowd says yes so the lights dim and Bucky plays Ivy all by himself, no accompaniment but his own playing and while he can't see Natasha through all the bodyguards he knows she's there.
Her heart was racing. The lights, the music, the adrenaline, the sheer energy palpable all around her had Natasha nearly panting, avid gaze riveted to the figure that strutted up and down the stage, belting out lyrics into the microphone and putting on a show unlike anything she'd ever even imagined.
By the time the first intermission rolled around, Natasha felt as if she'd run a thousand miles, and she suddenly understood why this was so addictive. Sex and Rock 'n Roll went hand in hand, oh, yes. If she'd been able, she'd have marched up to those stairs and dragged her fiance back to his dressing room, to fuck him senseless in the makeup chair, if that happened to be where they landed.
But she was able to get hold of herself, thank God, before anyone nearby noticed, and she took a few deep breaths to make sure she didn't act on any of those incredulous impulses. By then, the white noise had noticeably quieted, and she realized that Bucky was on stage alone, with his guitar in the spotlight, and Natasha felt a waterfall of chills pour over her as he began to sing.
The rest of the show flies by after that, another round of fast songs and some of Carol's solo songs that send the crowd as wild as his songs do, and they play not one but three encores because how are you not gonna give a charity concert an encore? Still, it's over eventually because it has to be and by the time Bucky gets back to his dressing room, he's covered in sweat and glitter and he has no idea where the latter came from.
It's gonna be on him for weeks.
He's currently wiping himself dry with a towel. He'd normally go straight in a shower but this is a local concert so he has the luxury of showering when he gets home and not at the venue where he might get caught.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Rock Star Bucky
It wasn't the best way to meet a client, bailing him out of jail in the early hours of the morning, but it wasn't the first time she'd done so. And even at four-fifteen am, she was still all business; sleek black skirt with white silk blouse and smart black jacket, impeccable makeup, and deep red curls swept into a perfectly coiffured chignon behind her head.
Greeting the duty-sergeant with her customary cool, polite flair, Natasha tapped manicured nails against the leather strap of her satchel, then was led further into the station, back to Preliminary Holding. Where sat her client, in a cell by himself due to his "status". Apparently he was being held on a "drunk and disorderly", which had evolved into "second level assault, which might, God forbid, morph into manslaughter, if the poor sod who'd been send to the hospital ill-advisedly died from his thrashing.
"James Barnes," the officer called hollowly, unlocking the cell door and gesturing for the musician to get up and get moving. "Move your ass, boy. Your lawyer's sent someone to take ya home."
Not flicking so much as an eyelash at this less-than-flatting label, Natasha merely stood silent and still, not speaking until her new client shuffled from his holding cell, and then she held out a slim hand, stating in a calm, professional tone, "Good morning, Mr. Barnes. My name is Natasha Romanoff, and I've been sent by your office to escort you home. Shall we go?"
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He's still a little drunk and he's at least half concussed when the lawyer shows up and Jesus, she's hot. She's a curvy little thing that would tuck right under his chin and she's a redhead and exactly what he likes. He grins at her.
"You're better looking than my other lawyer," he slurs, taking her hand and just holding it for a second before letting it go. "You new or something?"
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"I have been hired as your PR Representative, Mr. Barnes. Mr. Wilson felt a delicate touch might be required, hence Ms. Potts called me. My car is right outside. Come along, please."
She paused at the front desk to pay his bail, sign him into her custody, and have his personal belongings retrieved. "Mr. Wilson will have your motorcycle returned by this afternoon," she informed her staggering charge as they left the police station. "Do you require anything before we go?"
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He makes good on promises and he has the sense he's going to be making lots and lots of promises to this PR representative of his - both professional and personal.
"Other than that, we can get on the road as soon as you can get me in the car."
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Nevertheless, professional that she was, Natasha dutifully stayed at his side as Barnes navigated the steps leading down to the sidewalk, and unlocked the passenger door so he could, more or less, fall into her sedan. She did allow herself a mild roll of her eyes as she stepped over to the driver's side, but her impeccable mask was back in place by the time she slid easily behind the wheel.
"We'll be in Malibu in perhaps an hour," she informed her client, nose wrinkling slightly at the distinctive odor of alcohol that clung to her passenger. "Mr. Wilson will meet you there."
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"M'gonna pay for all the damages and shit. You just can't be talking about Steve like that. That's bullshit. I'm not gonna sit there and listen to that without doing anything."
The guy had been saying Steve was a pussy for not drinking and tapping out early when Steve's a fucking veteran and a good guy and maybe it's stupid in hind sight but in the haze of alcohol, it was unacceptable. Bucky couldn't let it happen.
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Regardless of her private opinions.
Out on the freeway, at cruising speed, she did unbend enough to give him a slight glance. "Everything will be fine, Mr. Barnes," she told him, small hands light on the sedan's steering wheel. "Mr. Wilson and I will take care of everything, so don't worry about a thing." Please, let him go to sleep, was her silent, private prayer. Just let the lout keel over and let me drive in peace.
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"It'd be like if he was talkin' shit about you, you know? I would definitely never let anyone talk shit about you," Bucky says, words slurring off his drunken tongue.
Bucky is pretty sure if he had a girl as gorgeous as the lawyer driving him home, he'd destroy more than one bar for her reputation. He grins at her and fumbles around the car for his sunglasses before putting them on. Is it still dark? Sure. Do his eyes hurt from headlights? Yes.
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Rather than respond yea or nay, the redhead simply let him run down on his own, not commenting at all about the glasses. It wasn't her job, she didn't care, she was completely impartial. To everything.
Thankfully, the drive was short given the early hour, though traffic was beginning to thicken by the time the Mercedes glided off of the freeway, heading for the more upscale district of Malibu, California. She'd already mapped her client's physical address, and arrived at the gated entrance without a hitch. A certain code entered into the keypad pulled back the gates, and up the elegantly curved driveway they went.
Sam Wilson was waiting at the front door, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a stern line. As soon as the car rolled to a stop, he was opening the passenger door and Natasha was sure it was only her presence that saved her passenger from a sound tongue-lashing.
"Thank you, Miss Romanoff," was all Wilson said, clipped and edgy. "I'll take over from here."
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Bucky grins at her from behind the glasses and he wonders if he can get this lawyer to at least stay for breakfast. His housekeeper makes a great breakfast, actually, and he'll pay her extra if it means it comes with a Bloody Mary and some aspirin.
"Cause if there's not, I'll get Anita to make you breakfast. I need something to soak up the rest of this alcohol and you probably need something to take the edge of what's got to be a hell of a night, right? C'mon. My treat. Please? I'll let you and Sam lecture me?"
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It was enough to quirk her lips in a bit of mild humor, and she graciously shrugged it off. "Not to worry, Mr. Wilson. Mr. Barnes has been the soul of gentility since we met." To her crookedly grinning client, she said, "Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Barnes, but I'm afraid I'm due in at the office rather early this morning. Perhaps another time?"
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Sam shakes his head and pulls Bucky out of the car, letting the taller man lean heavily on him. Sam sighs a little and nods his head at Natasha.
"Thanks for getting him. He means it about Saturday, we do that shit every week. You should come by. It's not anything too personal or anything, I promise. Band'll be there, housekeeper, lawn guys, Buck's family - it's on the up and up."
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"You're quite welcome, Mr. Wilson." Natasha paused while Wilson levered their charge out of her sedan and up on his still-wobbly legs, then added, "You'll call me later today? I'll have reparation suggestions for you then, and we can get to work on our PR campaign without delay. Today's Wednesday, so we'll need to have at least one public appearance scheduled for this Friday, at the very latest."
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no subject
Hearing that, it had surprised Natasha just how quickly her fiancé had leapt into action, but then, it was Steve, after all. A single performance, all proceeds given to the school, and all students admitted free. Which, she realized about an hour after ticket sales opened, wasn't going to be a detriment, since everything but the high-rise stadium seats were immediately sold out.
Nevertheless, the Winter Soldier's team brought everything into place with beautiful precision; they were no strangers to this sort of thing, after all. Everything from title order to costumes, lighting to security, pyrotechnics to communications; nothing was overlooked or ignored. It was almost breathtaking, how smoothly it all came together.
Now, an hour before showtime, Natasha found herself sitting quietly in James' dressing room, watching curiously as the makeup team did their work. Black nail polish, hair dressing, touch-up ink, and a few minions parading clothing choices in and out for his approval. "Surreal", she decided, didn't really cover it. But it was fascinating, regardless.
Sam Wilson ducked in, saying with a broad grin, "Place is packed. Security's having a ball keeping the stage clear, Buck. Gonna be a wild night, my man."
no subject
Natasha has been sitting there the whole time while he's been getting ready and while he always has costume changes, the basics are always done before the show so they don't have to be touched up halfway through. He probably looks ridiculous and he makes a face at her.
"I look like a raccoon, don't I?"
no subject
"Mmmm, not really. Is...that the idea?" She'd seen videos of his live performances before, of course, but none of the cameras had really had a decent enough angle to convey all of the detail. Nevertheless, she knew that stage makeup and regular makeup were different, so perhaps final say was best left to the artists.
Then her eyebrows went up. "Is...that what you're wearing out on stage?" That was basically an intricate shoulder holster, complete with bright beading, feather, and fringe here and there. No doubt it would look fantastic on her fiance's thick torso, but...with no shirt beneath it? God.
no subject
The makeup artist tilts his chin up to put some more eyeliner on so Bucky doesn't get to look at her to see her visual response but he hopes he gets one hell of a tongue lashing out of it.
"They pay to see the show and I'm the show."
no subject
Sam snorted a small laugh, shaking his head and checking his watch. "Fifteen minutes," he said, and the others echoed it. "Band's already warming up. I'll meet you at Security." He ducked out, and the makeup artist pursed her lips, gave a nod, and released Bucky's chin, then added a final fluff to his shaggy hair.
"Magnifique," she caroled, kissing her fingertips with a cheeky grin. "Break a leg, Bucky, eh?"
no subject
Much safer than where security would be more lax and much safer than a smaller venue where it's easy to crowd the stage but even still, he doesn't want her to get hurt.
"I'll throw in a couple surprises for you, though. Wouldn't want to spoil your first concert."
no subject
The procession began to head for the door, but Natasha abruptly took her intended's hand, "--wait...please?" Flushing lightly, a bit abashed for being so forward - especially with him looking like that, and her in just a simple but fashionable calf-length skirt, long-sleeved sweater and sensibly-heeled boots - but she paused until the entire entourage was out of the dressing room before placing both of her hands against her musician's jaw and rising on her toes to kiss him quite soundly.
When she released his mouth, Natasha rested her forehead against his, sighing softly. "...knock 'em dead," was all she said before letting go.
no subject
"Only a little dead," Bucky says, winking at her. "The dead-dead is just for you. This is just the show, you know? They don't get the whole package."
But she will, later.
no subject
Large men in front, large men behind, it wasn't very long until the group reached Sam Wilson, and Natasha was handed over - along with her bodyguards - and ushered to a private VIP section right in the front of the stage. She gulped, but obediently followed along. Thankfully, the velvet rope and the hulking men to her left and right provided enough space to breathe, though the roar became deafening as the exterior lights suddenly dimmed, and the stage lights began to flash.
The show had begun, and she had center stage.
no subject
They take a short break to costume change and touch up and then security backs everyone up from the edge of the stage and keeps them there for a moment while Bucky has his acoustic guitar out. It's a fucking expensive instrument and he doesn't want it wrecked.
"So all of you are special tonight," he says, looking out over the crowd. "This is for a good cause and since I'm all about good causes, I'm gonna reward you with a new song that no one's heard before. Album's not even released yet. Y'all wanna hear it?"
Obviously, the crowd says yes so the lights dim and Bucky plays Ivy all by himself, no accompaniment but his own playing and while he can't see Natasha through all the bodyguards he knows she's there.
no subject
By the time the first intermission rolled around, Natasha felt as if she'd run a thousand miles, and she suddenly understood why this was so addictive. Sex and Rock 'n Roll went hand in hand, oh, yes. If she'd been able, she'd have marched up to those stairs and dragged her fiance back to his dressing room, to fuck him senseless in the makeup chair, if that happened to be where they landed.
But she was able to get hold of herself, thank God, before anyone nearby noticed, and she took a few deep breaths to make sure she didn't act on any of those incredulous impulses. By then, the white noise had noticeably quieted, and she realized that Bucky was on stage alone, with his guitar in the spotlight, and Natasha felt a waterfall of chills pour over her as he began to sing.
no subject
It's gonna be on him for weeks.
He's currently wiping himself dry with a towel. He'd normally go straight in a shower but this is a local concert so he has the luxury of showering when he gets home and not at the venue where he might get caught.
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