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Someone I Don't Know

750 | Phil Coulson/James "Bucky" Barnes | PG (KB: Gender Play

Notes: James is portrayed as a genderqueer character.

Is this for me?" Coulson says, and his hand is tight around James' jaw. He has to remember that this man is James, not Yakov. This isn't the Russian spy he met while playing inactive, who happened to look a lot like one of the Howling Commandos. This is an American hero.

"It was for a job," James says, and the lipstick smears where Coulson's thumb is pressing against his mouth. James' voice is softer, higher, with just a hint of a Russian accent there. He's learning to drop it, to go back to his American voice, but it comes out when he's nervous. "I had a target. He likes..." James frowns. "He wants his men to be women."

Coulson nods, and he smears the lipstick just a touch more. He can feel the stubble under James' makeup; he's just a bit too hairy for the illusion. His chest is shaved, though, under the filmy silver top, and there is a difference to how he holds himself. "But you didn't go home and change."

"I wanted to make sure the disguise was perfect, before you messed up my makeup," and there is the hint of vulnerability that James is just beginning to relearn. Cap would probably cry to see it, but James is here in Coulson's apartment with painted nails. There was a wig, but he's pulled it off already, carefully laid it on the table when he came in.

"Walk for me?" Coulson says, and he steps back.

James laughs, and it's not his laugh, something softer and more feminine, and Coulson thinks he's getting something, seeing something, that he can't believe survived seventy years of torture and brainwashing. The walk is good, convincing enough that if Coulson just watched the sway of hips, the swish of the skirt, he would only see a woman. The shoulders and back give it away, but there's practice there.

"It's a good disguise," Coulson says, clipped. He knows what agents want to hear.

He reaches out to take the metal hand. It's SHIELD issue Stark-Tech now, so it's supposed to look and feel like human skin, but it doesn't to him. It's just a little too stiff, a little too plastic. James usually wears a glove over the hand.

He isn't tonight, nails pressed onto the ends of the fingers. "No paint?"

"It does something to the synthetic skin," James says. He's holding himself still, as if expecting to be struck. "When I put nail polish remover on the nails, the material weakens. So stick ons." He won't look at Coulson when he says it.

Coulson nods, and he kisses James, soft and careful. "Do you want to go to bed?"

James pulls back and he looks down at his clothes. He opens his mouth and closes it, and then he nods, like he can't trust that soft voice to stay.

They walk together to Coulson's bedroom, and Coulson helps James onto the bed, mindful of the heels. James curls onto one side, and Coulson touches his jaw again, smoothing out just a little more of the lipstick. "You are so beautiful," he whispers.

He pulls James close then, kisses the spot behind his ear. He smoothes one hand along the side of James' body, over his chest and then his hip. James stiffens when Coulson's hand is almost to his cock, but he stays away from it.

"What do you want me to call you?" he whispers against James' ear, into his hair.

"I used to have a name, before, but I can't--I didn't tell Steve," James' voice is high, almost scared. "And there was a Russian name, but I'm not supposed to--"

"It's just us. You're not supposed to do anything for me." Coulson's hand slides under the skirt, over the swell of James' ass.

"Irena. When I went undercover like this, I would call myself Irena." James' voice is so high that it sounds broken.

"Irena," Coulson says, and he slides that into place. "Are you a girl as Irena, or are you still James?"

"No, she was never the Winter Soldier." James' Russian accent slides back in, just a harshening of the words. James' entire body goes tight, like it's close to shattering.

Coulson nods and moves so he is straddling Irena, his hands moving up to pin her wrists to the bed. "Tell me what she likes."

“What I like.” There’s just a hint of James in the voice, in the way she goes still.

“Sorry,” Coulson says. He kisses her again. “What you like.”

"I like being held, but I don't mind being fucked like a whore. It's how I know it."

"We'll work on teaching you a different way then," Coulson murmurs, and he kisses Irena, barely hard enough to smear her pretty lipstick.
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