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"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."

"Yeah, I'll call you. Next time you see this guy, he'll be shaved, showered and completely sober."

Bucky doesn't get much of a chance for peace and quiet considering Sam chews him out from one end to the other while he's eating breakfast and he gets a two day break before he has a press conference scheduled at noon with some of the major networks. Sam thinks hitting them all at once with a scheduled statement is best and keeps the tabloids from getting anything piecemeal.

There's a meeting at Natasha's office Friday morning at nine and Bucky's dressed in a t-shirt that's clean and soft, slim jeans, motorcycle boots and a leather jacket. He'd driven the Corvette this morning instead of the bike so his hair's less messy than usual. He gets seen into her office and waits, sunglasses pushed up on his head.

"We meet again, Miss Romanoff."

Her secretary escorted both Barnes and Wilson into her office, Natasha looking up from her laptop with a polite smile. "Thank you, Alice." The girl bobbed, then discreetly withdrew. Rising from her desk, Natasha favored both men with that same cordial greeting, saying, "Good morning, gentlemen. Coffee, tea?" The sideboard held full carafes of both, with all the trimmings. Along with a small breakfast buffet containing bagels, fruit, and pastries.

"We do indeed, Mr. Barnes. I trust your headache has dissipated since our last conversation?" It wasn't really a censure, delivered with a small smile as she gestured both her guests to the comfortable chairs near the tall windows overlooking downtown. "Please, have a seat." She took her own, back to the glass, the morning sun gilding red tresses with gold. As usual, she was pristine in her sensible black and white, high heels giving her a few precious inches. But it was right to business; everyone had a big day today.

"Item the first; Michael Taylor has been released from the hospital with no lasting injuries and a very positive prognosis. He'll be nursing those broken ribs and the, ah, deeper bruises for a few weeks yet, but no internal damage or seriously broken bones were reported." She glanced up from the folder and quirked an eyebrow at her client. "Good of you to pick up his medical tab, Mr. Barnes."

"Well, what was I gonna do? I broke his fucking face, I had to buy it," Bucky says. He kind of wants a cigarette but he only really smokes when he drinks and he figures he should lay off that for the time being. Hence, no smoking, and therefore nothing to do with his hands but fidget. There's nothing in Natasha's office that gives anything away about her personal life. Figures.

"Paid for the place too," he points out. "I know the insurance will handle it and shit but I figured I'd just pay for it and sign the release and be done so that nobody can come back and say I didn't pay my part of it. I'm sure the lawyers can work it all out between them. Bar's probably gonna be too nice for me to go into when they rebuild it."

Bucky looks at Sam before looking back at Natasha. "So what do I gotta say in a minute? I figure you wrote it up for me and you weren't gonna let me just ad lib it all. I could, I'm pretty good at the public speaking thing, but I didn't think you'd want anything happening without a plan."

Promptly, Natasha pulled a second paper from her file folder and handed it over. It was neatly typed, double spaced, and carefully worded to instigate nothing but contriteness, humble apologies, and a promise to be better in the future, etc.

"Ad libbing would be disastrous, Mr. Barnes," she told him crisply. "The goal here is to repair your reputation, not shatter it completely." Although he'd done a helluva good job with that on his own. "Mr. Wilson has approved the speech, so you should have no difficulty to share it at the press conference."

It might have been a trick of the morning light, but a ray of sunshine chose that moment to caress the musician's face, and Natasha was, for a moment, taken somewhat aback at the brightness of those blue eyes, the blue eyes that had melted female hearts the world over, from agents twelve to ninety. Foolishness, she snorted at herself. He was nothing more than a self-entitled, overpaid grunge-mosher, who just happened to be photogenic enough to get on an album cover.

Nothing she hadn't seen before.

"Next week," she went on, firmly lowering her gaze back to the papers in her lap, "we have a few public appearances scheduled, a small concert at a teenage rehabilitation center, and...your volunteer hours at the local VA, since you have an affinity for helping soldiers with their PTSD."

"I don't need them coming in with cameras at the VA," Bucky says, protesting that part. "The kids at the rehab place, sure, let them bring cameras in and show me doing some good. I'll do a hospital run or something. But I don't want a bunch of cameras and press and shit bothering the guys down at the VA. It might upset them."

Bucky goes in discreetly in a private car whenever he goes down to sit with the guys and talk with them and he makes as little splash as possible in order to keep from upsetting anyone or triggering any flashbacks.

"Don't you know anything about PTSD? They could think a camera flash was an IED or something. No. You're not going to bother them. Send me somewhere else but that's time I spend with them just for them. Not for press."

"The VA visits will be volunteers only," Natasha soothed, briefly holding up one hand. "Of course it would do more harm than good to take an entire contingent of press into their session. And I'm definitely not suggesting any sessions are filmed, good God, no." She sat back, comfortably crossing her legs.

"What I'm suggesting is something along the lines of taking your guitar and sitting out on the lawn with a few willing participants, singing songs and chatting, sharing happy little stories, that sort of thing. The press will of course be kept at a reasonable distance, and photos only allowed before and after the visit." She acquiesced his points with a slight, single nod. "If it truly disturbs you, then we'll do something else."

A glance at Wilson, then she added, "I simply believe because of your relationship with Mr. Rogers, and, presumably, that his service was ultimately what began this unfortunate altercation, your seriousness about our veterans be touched upon, to show just how sympathetic you are to our soldiers, Mr. Barnes."

"Well, as long as the press can't get pictures while I'm with them, that's fine. I don't want anyone having to share that. That's private."

That isn't something he does just because he's trying to make good with the press so he can keep selling records. He's always visited the guys down at the VA and played music for them, played cards, listened to stories about kids and grandkids and nieces and nephews. It's as good for him as it is for them, he thinks, and Bucky thinks he'd be volunteering there even if he worked a regular 9-5. He doesn't so he doesn't always get to go to the clinic here but he tries to stop by one wherever he's touring to see if anyone needs someone to talk to.

"You know what that guy said? Said Steve was a killer because he went into the Army. Said we were both just part of the system keeping the US at war with everyone else. So I laid him out and I'm not sorry about that. It's not like me and Steve made decisions about where we deployed. We were broke kids who wanted to go to college. That's it."

And now he's a millionaire a dozen times over and Steve's an art teacher. Bucky's offered to buy him a house, a car, anything he could want but Steve's content to just do what he does. It's what he'd wanted all along.

"If you want me to tell you I'm genuinely sorry I hit the guy, I can't do that. I can clean up my image, that's not a problem, and I'll do whatever the judge makes me do but I'm not going to lie to you Miss Romanoff. And I'm not letting anyone make a show out of something I do because I want to, not because anyone says it looks good. No pictures. They can get pictures of me pulling up there and me leaving and that's it. Nothing else."

Natasha listened without comment, only occasionally glancing over at Wilson as Barnes went on. When he'd finally run down, flopped back, and crossed his arms, she nodded, agreeing without saying so.

"I understand," she told them both. "And your vehemence just now is exactly why I put the VA on the list." She eyed the musician a little firmly, a perfect eyebrow going up over shrewd green eyes. "Willingly sharing something that is so important to you bespeaks of your sincerity. Which, might I remind you, is extremely important that we repair."

Wilson spoke up then, scooting forward in his chair and eyeing his savant a little wryly. "Don't worry, Miss Romanoff," he assured her. "We'll take care of it. Won't we, Bucky?"

"Yeah, yeah. We'll take care of it. I've got a condition, though," Bucky says. He looks at Natasha and the way the light highlights the lines of her body and wishes, for a moment, he had Steve's hand at art instead of his own at music. It'd be hard to capture the exact perfection of this moment in anything other than a visual medium. Still, that's a distraction, and he has other things to say and do today.

"You have got to stop calling me Mr. Barnes. It makes me think I'm in front of the judge or something. If you don't want to use Bucky because you think it's too familiar or something you can use James. It's my first name, nobody really uses it."

His family does but that's not relevant at the moment. What is relevant is getting Natasha to get on board with calling him something that doesn't remind him of being in trouble at school.

"I'd be more comfortable if you called me James. It looks like you're going to be stuck with me for a while and if you're going on the Christmas card list and everything, we've got to at least be on a first name basis. Or you be on one with me. I figure I'm not allowed to call you Natasha. Haven't tried it yet, anyway, because I like my head on my shoulders."

She'd intended to listen carefully when he mentioned a condition, already marshalling a few arguments to offer in turn, but the request actually brought her up short. Natasha had to stifle a small chuckle, not missing Wilson's exasperated roll of eyes and theatrical, silent sigh. Her lips twitched, that was the only expression she allowed.

"...that's...certainly not what I was expecting," she had to admit, because it was, really, true. Then, surprising even herself, she added, "...but I believe I can accommodate you, at least halfway. I prefer to keep my relationships with my clients strictly professional," as anyone with a business brain in their heads would, "but I suppose I could call you 'James' when we are out of the public eye, at least."

Natasha tilted her head, for once actually curious. "Would that suffice?"

"That's fine," Bucky says, willing to take that. It's probably better for her to be formal in public anyway considering the reason they're doing business but he hates being formal in private. He hates being formal anyway but sometimes you gotta do things you don't want to do.

"You want me to call you Miss Romanoff still or is it a mutual first name basis?"

Sam starts sputtering in protest but Bucky doesn't care. He just wants to know how this professional relationship is gonna be.

She hesitated only a moment before responding, arranging the files into their former neat order and closing the folder.

"I suppose it wouldn't do any harm if I returned the favor. James." It was the least she could do, she supposed. The man did seem to be trying to repair his reputation; perhaps he was sincere about this.

"However, I suggest we wrap things up and get moving. The press conference is scheduled for eleven, and it'll take at least an hour to get across town. Shall I meet you gentlemen there?"

Bucky nods. "All right then, Natasha it is. And yeah, we'd better get going. I'll try to make it seem like I'm not reading it but obviously I'm not gonna go off script. It's not something I want to make a habit of, doing shit like this."

Sam claps Bucky on the shoulder. "Look, we know. You've just got to keep that temper to yourself and you'll be fine. Miss Romanoff is the best in the business. If she can't clean you up, no one can."

The press conference goes off pretty well and Bucky takes a few questions that seem benign before breaking away. He doesn't actually see Natasha again until Friday morning when he's due to go to the VA and he wants to make his boundaries clear.

"All right, you're gonna keep the press out of the building like you promised? Please?"

"Of course." Natasha gently took Barnes by the arm, steering him towards the front lawn and a small group of press. "Step this way, first, and answer a few questions before going inside, please."

She'd vetted the current gathering, making sure and making it clear that the only questions to be asked were legitimately about volunteering for veterans, and some personal thoughts on the military in general. The press conference had been a success, a pleasant surprise, which had done much to smooth her own opinions about the musician.

"Three or four, then they'll decamp and you'll be able to make your visit, Mr. Barnes. Simple and easy."

"This stuff just means a lot to me. I know it might not mean so much to anyone else," Bucky says. Still, he knows he has to do the song and dance for the press and he does it as best he can without answering anything too personal.

Once that's done, he gets to do what he wants to do and sits down with his guitar and plays a few songs before just talking. It feels good to talk, to share stories with these guys about being over there and listening to what they went through and how it affects them. He's a regular here so there's no pretension, no thoughts about him being famous, nothing but him just being a veteran talking to veterans.

The press pull him out early and it's all he can do to keep from lashing out but he needs to be a good boy right now. He poses for the requisite pictures and then he finds Natasha and touches her arm.

"They came in early," he says, gritting his teeth a little. "I don't like that."

Natasha had promised Wilson to keep an eye on their charge, so she discreetly followed along during Bucky's visit, taking a seat well behind the regulars and listened quietly. Observing. It was a little surprising that the man could actually play and sing, without electronic amplification, and she found herself enjoying the sound of his voice, another private surprise.

But then a few reporters stepped over their boundaries, shattering the good-natured spell, and the publicist wasn't too surprised by Barnes' reaction. After she'd sternly shoved the press out, she returned to her client and took the temper as was her due.

"I apologize, Mr. Barnes. They were explicitly told not to interfere, and I'll be speaking to their superiors immediately. I'll take care of it, don't worry."

"Please do," Bucky says, jaw tight. "I know it's...I know it's not your fault and I'm trying not to get angry and make a scene but it's really hard right now. This is my time with them. They trust me because I don't bring a bunch of attention in here and I don't want them to stop trusting me."

Trust had taken a long time to build, considering that he seems like a pampered celebrity and not one of them, and he doesn't want it ruined by a few paparazzi being assholes.

"I figure if anyone can handle them, it's you."

"Why don't we call it a day, and you head on home while I make some phone calls?" And she had several to make, up to and including having a few journalists terminated from their commissions. Violations of privacy weren't anything to take lightly.

"Mr. Wilson asked if you'd meet him and Mr. Rogers for lunch at the Galleria, also. I think it might be a good idea." Then Natasha stepped away to speak with the hospital director for a moment or so, giving Bucky time enough to wrap up his visit. After that, she pulled out her cell phone and began dialing numbers, countenance stony, resolute.

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