Chapter Text
Tony's initial plan, if you could call it that—the one that involves a lot of glaring and an unspoken vow to keep Bucky Barnes at the business end of his repulsor beam—falls apart the second Bucky looks him in the eye, shrugs at the powers that be that are discussing his fate as if he isn't even in the room and then gestures at Tony with a definitive “Has to be him.”
So no, there is no lengthy obvious transition from "I hope you rust" to "Don't touch my stuff, but here's the Wi-Fi password" to this, after Bucky joins the team and moves into the compound. It just… happens. Quickly.
Don't get Tony wrong—it's not about Bucky being broken. They're all, every single one of them, a magnificent parade of fuck-ups. Tony, for one, is a poster child for how to be brilliantly damaged and still function. Bucky's not special in his brokenness; so what if his cracks are a little more visible, a little more historical, while Tony's fissures are a lot more self-inflicted, emotional shrapnel.
And Tony's not soft; he does have the capacity to hold grudges.
It's just—
It’s not pity either—Tony does not do pity.
Either way, no issue there, between them.
The only person who actually does piss off Tony these days is good old Cap. Steve Rogers, with his all-American charm, who is, incidentally, dripping pity all over Bucky like it's some kind of saintly anointing oil. It's this sanctimonious, holier-than-thou attitude that makes Tony want to invent a device specifically designed to slap some sense into Steve from a safe, socially distant range. Because if there's one thing Tony can't stand, it's unnecessary coddling. Bucky's a grown-ass man, not a porcelain doll.
And yeah, okay, it's not just the pity that's Tony’s problem with Steve (and, by god, Tony reserves the right to have a problem with Steve); it's the way it undermines Bucky's own struggle. When Tony notices him muttering to himself “Bucky Barnes. My name is Bucky Barnes,” he gets him a pair of dog tags. When Steve catches Bucky doing the same, the scene that follows is bullshit of the highest order.
It's not that Tony doesn't understand where Steve is coming from—hell, if their roles were reversed, Tony might have been tempted to wrap Bucky in bubble wrap and never let him out of sight. But there's a fine line between support and this, and Cap crosses it daily, his approach to handling damaged goods being smothering them until they're gasping for air.
So, really, in hindsight, all of this is actually on Steve.
And if it’s not fully on Steve, then he has to share at least part of the blame.
Tony has no clue how he lets it get this far, but it’s not just his own fault. Not. Alright? He's got plenty of shares in guilt when it comes to other shit that went sideways in his life and a controlling interest in self-doubt when it comes to absolutely everything else. With that—everything else—he’s admittedly, if not proudly, a CEO of a Fortune 500 company of fuck-ups, and business is booming. But this is not on him. Get it?
And he isn’t above admitting when it is his fault, yes. Because, in the not even so distant past, there were times when it absolutely was. Like when Pepper finally called it quits eight months ago (not just taking an umpteenth break but smashing the emergency glass and pulling the lever on their relationship). That was all Tony. Almost his go-to move—build something amazing, then watch it explode spectacularly.
But this? Not him. Nope.
And it properly kicks off the day the swarm of bugs attempts to eat through half the cattle in Missouri.
"He doesn't mean it," Steve interjects, gesturing towards Bucky, who's still clad in his tactical gear, fresh off the mission.
Well, technically, they are all fresh off the mission, although some of them are decidedly more fresh. Tony, for instance, is feeling rather breezy, having stepped out of his suit, leaving the slime on the armor. Both of the resident relics, however, are nearly drenched head to toe, dripping all over Tony’s workshop floor, and only one of those relics actually has a reason for being here right now.
And, newsflash, it is not fucking Steve, who, in addition to seemingly still expecting for Bucky to fall apart without a warning also has this compulsive need to throw himself in the middle of everything. Golden retriever, honestly, sticking his shield where it doesn’t belong.
"The hell he doesn't," Tony shoots back, not even looking at Steve, borderline annoyed. Not because Bucky's critique isn’t necessarily unwarranted—Tony's a big boy, he can handle feedback—but because here we go again with Steve, jumping in where he's not needed.
"Sure as shit do," Bucky seems to ignore Steve too, although with a lot less disdain. He plants the handgun Tony had custom-made for him on the workbench. "I told you the thing's off balance."
"I designed this to your specs, Sub-Zero," Tony frowns at Steve’s attempt to literally step between them. "If you've got a problem with it, maybe the issue's not the gun."
Steve tries to smooth things over, although there's nothing to smooth over, with a placating, "Guys, come on—"
"Save it, Spangles," Tony waves him off because Steve doesn’t get it, moving the gun to the scanner and pulling up schematics on his holographic display. "Fine," he concedes, immediately seeing the problem. "I'll take a look at the damn thing."
Bucky smirks that lopsided grin of his, nodding, and that nod is as close to a thank you as Tony’s likely to get. Because, unlike Steve, who now looks as if he's just successfully negotiated peace in the Middle East, Bucky does get it.
Tony drops off the offending weapon personally at Bucky’s room that same day, having “fixed” the problem within five seconds and after grabbing a shower and some chow.
The room's location is the architectural equivalent of 'fuck off and die,' and it was Tony's doing, and definitely wasn’t an accident. Initially, it was his not-so-subtle way of planning for as much space between himself and the Winter Soldier as possible. Not quite another planet, but Mars would've been a strong contender if it had AC. By the time Barnes had moved in and Tony was no longer on the warpath, it was a bit late to change things around. Bucky doesn't seem to mind though, and didn’t bring up moving a bit closer to the rest of them even once in over a year.
Bucky’s not alone. Steve's there, hovering like a patriotic poltergeist. Then again, just because Tony would rather chew glass than have a shadow following him around 24/7, doesn't mean Bucky feels the same. Although, Tony sort of assumes anyone with a functioning brain stem might find it at least a bit suffocating.
Mercifully, Tony doesn't crash another cringe-worthy attempt at a heart-to-heart. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt and burned it. The door’s already open, Steve’s on a chair by the window, Bucky’s on the floor by the bed, his back against it, and they're watching a movie—Starship Troopers, of all things. The movie isn't bad—actually, it's a classic in the "so bad it's good" category, filled with enough aliens and explosions to make even Tony's heart grow three sizes. Wouldn’t have been Tony’s choice for entertainment after the day they had—green oozing bugs and all—but he isn’t one to judge.
"Brought your toy," he announces, leaning against the doorway, "Adjusted the balance. You can stop whining now.”
Bucky strides over to Tony, grabs the gun, quickly checks it and drawls in that thick Brooklyn accent:
"Wasn't whinin’, and you didn't fix shit."
Tony can almost hear the gears turning in Steve's head, the imminent "he didn't mean it" gearing up to launch. The thing is, Bucky always means what he says, it’s refreshing, and it’s one of the reasons why he and Tony are the way they are. Regardless, Tony's not watching Steve, he's too busy peeling his logo sticker from the stock.
Bucky scoffs, eyeing the sticker now attached to Tony’s finger. He tests the handgun for balance again, and—what do you know—doesn’t grimace. Puts it down on the shelf by the door, dragging words, but all in good humor as far as Tony’s concerned:
"What, you runnin’ out of places to stick your brand? Gonna start taggin’ us next?"
Low blow, but fair, even though it’s part pettiness, part genius that prompts Tony to immediately slap the said sticker right on Bucky's metal arm, just under where the red star is.
"Yeah, because that sticker is so fucking heavy it tipped the scales," Tony says while Bucky quirks an eyebrow. "Watch out, Sergeant Snipe-a-lot, you might start leaning to the left."
Steve, ever the voice of reason in a room that doesn't want it, starts with, "Tony—", but Tony's already leaving.
The thing that Steve doesn't get, the thing that—to Tony’s delight—drives Steve arguably certifiable, is that they actually do get along, Bucky and Tony. They get along like a house on fire, which, to Steve, probably looks a lot like they're about to burn the place down. But Tony much prefers this, this snarky but not entirely unfriendly co-existence to the lukewarm purgatory Steve seems to have envisioned for them.
Tony's hiding skills might be top-notch—it's a necessary talent when you're trying to avoid Captain Earnest Concern—but Steve still intercepts him on the way to hit the hay a few hours later.
"Tony," Steve sighs, and Tony braces himself, preparing for the onslaught of righteousness. "I need to talk to you about Bucky."
"Can it wait?" Tony throws a hopeful glance to where the door to his bedroom is looming only three steps away. "I am beat."
But no, here it comes, the "handle with care" speech. Not the first one, delivered with furrowed eyebrows, probably not the last one either. Tony crosses his arms over his chest.
"He’s still recovering," begins Steve, and Tony nods, doing an impression of a bobblehead on the dashboard. "He still has panic attacks, he still can’t sleep, not to mention the other guy, and you are not helping."
As Steve goes on, Tony’s mentally flipping him off in at least six languages. Jesus fucking Christ. Steve’s assessment is more off-target than a blind man at darts.
Panic attacks? Yeah, Tony knows all about those, Bucky isn’t the only one in the building who struggles with them. Tony knows about Bucky’s restless nocturnal wanderings too. He’s seen enough of those to map out Bucky's path in his sleep.
The other guy thing is… complicated.
But the not helping part? That's just crap. Tony might not be up for sainthood any time soon—the Pope isn't calling him for tips—but he's not the villain here, nowhere close to that.
In fact, Tony's often the first to notice when Bucky's about to spiral, catching those small, tell-tale signs of anxiety that others might miss because he knows exactly how it looks and feels. He spots that restlessness that seems to come out of the ether fast enough. Sees the way Bucky’s hand twitches, the way he starts fidgeting while simultaneously attempting to stay still, eyes panicked.
Hell, last time Bucky's fight-or-flight kicked in, Tony was the one to get him out of the lounge under the guise of gear maintenance, before Steve could swoop in and turn it into a Broadway production of "The Healing Power of Friendship." He walked with him to the range, deposited him there without making a big deal about it, checked for the desire for company (there wasn't any), and then left him to ride it out.
Because that's what you do with people, you read the room. You don't smother, you don't coddle, you treat them like the badass soldier they are, with respect and space. You give them what they fucking want, not what you think they need wrapped in a therapy bow. And if Steve can't see that, then maybe he's the one who needs his vision checked.
"—and you have to agree, Bucky’s doing his part. The least he deserves is for you to maybe try being nicer to him. Can you do that? For me?"
Tony's enthusiastic bobblehead routine grinds to an awkward halt at Steve's last statement.
God, Tony can't even begin to unpack that last part.
First of all, did Steve just quote the movie he was watching with Bucky? And for the love of all that is mechanical and not given to fits of emotional absurdity, please let Tony be the first person Steve's trotted that line out to. Although, as much as Tony wants to believe he's the exception, he can picture Steve, in all his glory, patting Bucky on the shoulder with some solemn comfort and saying "You're doing your part too," as the propaganda-esque scenes of "Starship Troopers" play in the background.
And "for Steve"? Please. That ship hasn't just sailed; it's crossed the International Date Line, hit an iceberg, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean. If Steve can't see that either, then Tony doesn't even know what to say. Where does he even start? Surely ‘Steve, buddy, pal, friend of friends—are you high or have you forgotten the past year?’ isn’t the way to go. Good talk, Rogers. Really, top-notch.
"You know what?” Tony rubs his eyes and stifles a yawn. “You are right, champ. Sure thing.”
So, yes, what happens is Steve’s fault.
It's not a plan exactly that forms as Tony burns a hole in Steve’s retreating back, because plans imply forethought and a certain level of commitment. No, it's more of a... notion. A vague idea that flutters into Tony's brain like a drunk butterfly and decides to make itself at home.
Because Tony might be a hero (sure, slap that label on him if it makes the masses sleep better at night), but let's not kid ourselves into thinking he's all about good behavior. It's not that he doesn't want to be good; it's just that his version of good doesn't always align with what the world expects. And really, Tony's okay with that. Plus, being too good is a suit that fits a bit too tight around the chest, a tad uncomfortable in the crotch.
So, when he considers laying down the charm on Bucky Barnes around Steve, it's not with some grand plan in mind to actually be nicer. If anything, it serves the sole purpose of pissing Steve off, but only because Tony thinks Bucky can take it.
The problem is that when Tony makes this decision, this half-cocked, spur-of-the-moment resolution to dial up the harmless flirt offensive, he doesn't pause to consider the potential fallout. Honestly, not for a second does he entertain the thought that this could backfire spectacularly.
It's all fun and games, right? Right?
And it goes something like this—
Tony’s ready by the time Bucky stumbles into the kitchen, eyes bleary, hair an ode to bedhead chic, and mutters "Mornin'" to the room at large. The queue at the coffee machine is still rivaling Starbucks during a pre-work panic, a clear sign that, yes, they need another machine. Nobody shifts or makes space to make a path for Bucky to get his caffeine fix—because before coffee, it’s not just Bucky who is about as approachable as a bear with a headache—and Tony seizes his moment.
He leans against the counter, gives him a quick once-over (and no, it's not mostly a large half-lidded mess at this hour) and says, "Morning to you too, handsome."
He follows it up by sliding a cup of coffee across to Bucky—strategically kept ready, and okay, fine, it's brewed to Tony's taste, because who has time to remember how everyone takes their coffee? Not Tony.
The reaction is instantaneous. Steve, mid-sip of his juice, chokes at “handsome”, the liquid going down the wrong pipe as he stares at Tony as if he's just declared his intention to run for president. On Jupiter. There's a cough, a flailing through some of that staring and a look of utter disbelief that Tony wishes he could frame. Nat merely throws a quick amused glance in Tony’s direction, while Clint outright snorts, nearly spilling his own coffee.
Tony, for his part, is the picture of innocence, if innocence were synonymous with smug satisfaction. Bucky doesn’t even bat an eye at Tony's greeting. He just grunts an acknowledgement, grabs the mug and smacks Steve on the back a few times as he passes, ensuring he doesn't actually die from juice inhalation over breakfast.
Overall, a perfect success from the get-go, and Tony could obviously build Rome in a day. He sips his smoothie, enjoying the shade of red that's not found in nature on Steve’s face and, when meeting his eyes, only shrugs.
“What?” He soundlessly mouths at him.
The next opportunity presents itself before lunch, during the post-mission briefing they've postponed until today due to the muscle-aching, clothes-sticking-in-places bug problem of it all. The team is huddled around, re-watching some of the action captured by Tony's drones—a technological marvel that, sadly, does not discriminate between heroic feats and the downright icky. The footage is, frankly, disgusting, and for a while, Tony's internal commentary on the matter is something along the lines of "ugh, bugs, ewww," because if there's another thing Tony does not do, it's creepy crawlies.
Maria talks, the footage rolls, but then a close up shot of Bucky wielding the recently ‘rebalanced’ gun zooms into focus. Tony leans back in his chair.
"It seems that you and my gun were getting along just fine, off balance my ass," Tony says it loud enough for everyone to hear. "Should I be jealous?" And then, for good measure, not instantly seeing the expected result, adds, lowering his voice just enough to make it drip with innuendo, “Looking good, Barnes.”
The room doesn’t fall into stunned silence or anything, because they’ve all heard worse. Bucky's reaction, however, is a reaction this time. He turns his head, eyes finding Tony's for a fleeting moment, his expression mildly bewildered. The eye contact doesn't last more than a second, and then Bucky turns back to the screen.
Tony's real entertainment, though, comes from monitoring Steve. Cap’s jaw is clenched so tight Tony's half expecting diamonds to pop out of his mouth. It's a sight to behold, really, and Tony has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
The briefing continues, with Tony throwing in his two cents here and there, mostly to break the monotony, planning to poke at Steve later in the gym.
Unfortunately, Tony's ploy to needle Steve in the gym gets sidelined by a more pressing engagement. Tony's in the ring with Nat—who's about as forgiving as a tax auditor and twice as diabolical, but that’s besides the point—when it happens.
So, here he is, getting his ass thoroughly handed to him, dodging and not dodging, taking more hits than he normally does because he is just a bit distracted with trying to come up with a not-so-subtle way to flirt with Bucky without actually outright hitting on him in front of Steve, assuming they bother to make an appearance.
He rolls his eyes at Nat’s last hit and all-too-smug smirk, gesturing for her to bring it on, his body language saying, "Is that all you got?" even as his thoughts are somewhat temporarily overtaken by "Please, let that be all she's got."
His head spins just a tick to the left after one more punch, and, really, he should be paying more attention to the woman trying to rearrange his face. He wipes the blood off his bottom lip, frowning, and that’s when Barnes’ voice cuts through the sound of Nat's laughter.
"The fuck?" There's an edge to it, a sharpness that immediately sets Tony's nerves on high alert.
Well, shit.
Tony snaps up towards the voice, and then he sees him—Winter, the other guy, striding towards the ring with what can only be described as murder in his eyes, Steve just behind him, door to the gym swinging. Yeah, fuck.
"Activate Bad Day Protocol," Tony calls out to the AI, taking a step away from Nat, who is immediately raising her hands and creating as much distance from Tony as possible herself. "Stop."
The command is not meant for Nat, obviously, and is directed squarely at Winter, who halts, although his body remains tense, hands balled into fists, his gaze sharply oscillating between Nat and Tony. Winter's obedience (and, yes, they floated about a few other names for when he shifts, but nothing else stuck) does rival his overprotectiveness of Tony, but just about. Tony slightly relaxes only when he hears, not so much sees Nat using this pause to vault over the ring ropes behind him.
Tony bites at one of the boxing gloves, pulling it off with his teeth, maintaining eye contact with Winter the entire time. The glove hits the floor with a muffled thud, and Tony starts on the second one.
"She didn't mean it, tough guy," Tony says, squeezing between the ropes himself, tilting his head at an awkward angle to keep this stare-down going. "You good? No? Wanna hang out?"
Tony heads out of the gym after a quick nod from Winter, who follows.
"Don't worry, I've got it," Tony says to Steve on the way out, giving him an almost heartfelt pat on the back, not at all pleased at the pained expression on Steve's face. Tony might not consider himself a paragon of virtue by any standard measure, but he's not a total dick. Sure, having some fairly innocent fun at Steve's expense is fine, but not when it comes to this.
Not on days like this, when Winter doesn't just surface.
The hallways are completely abandoned on the way to the workshop, Bad Day Protocol in full effect. And hey, give the team and S.H.I.E.L.D agents some credit; they're pretty damn efficient when it comes to clearing out. You'd think they practiced evacuation drills with how quickly they can vanish out of the way (they did). At least it's not the Big Green Lockdown. Now, that's less of a protocol and more of a "pray you're wearing your brown pants" situation. Because when Hulk decides to remodel the compound's interior design, you don't just quietly get out of the way for a few minutes; you run for your life.
Even though it didn’t come as easy as not wishing to strangle Bucky to death with his bare hands, Tony doesn’t mind Winter that much either. He did go through some stages, but, ultimately, also more or less moved on. Moved from outright hate (that was a fun phase, full of self-righteous fury), then from begrudging dislike (a slightly less vein-popping experience), to treating him just like he would Bucky, but with slightly more brain-to-mouth filter process involved.
This whole arrangement with Winter wasn’t Tony’s doing either.
At the time, when Tony agreed to it, he was of the mind that he'd rather solder his fingers together. But when it came down to deciding who gets the joy of being the Winter Soldier's keeper, Bucky—fuck his tortured soul—pointed at Tony and said, "Has to be him," with enough conviction for even Tony not to question that it was either that or nothing.
Of course, prior to this, they did try to full-on remove the programming. Tweaked some things here, adjusted some settings there, but, in the long run, figured that there was almost no end to layers and layers of hidden triggers and command words in Bucky's head.
There was no getting rid of Winter Soldier one way or the other either. Think Russian nesting doll from hell. Which they may or may not have fucked up further by trying to fix it all. Eventually, after a lot of trial and error, they had to settle for the next best thing: making sure that when Winter does show up, his order is not to take any orders, unless they come exclusively from Tony. There is a not so small issue with Winter becoming increasingly more protective of Tony throughout the year, but they are dealing. Somewhat. Contingencies upon contingencies, protocols upon protocols, and, as of recently, therapy for Bucky. Unfortunately, only for Bucky, since suggestion that Winter should go to therapy too was met with such exquisite swearing delivered with a deadpan expression that it made Tony want to take notes.
Shifts happen randomly and are mostly unpredictable. One minute Bucky’s fine, the next, Winter’s clocked in, and it's anyone's guess what flips the switch.
The point is, when Winter shows up, Tony’s the designated handler if he is slightly more murdery than normal. And not because Tony’s got a magic touch or a way with words—unless you count “fuck” as a magical incantation. But because Bucky has chosen him for it. Tony supposes it was choosing the lesser of two evils, if the other evil was Steve himself, ready to hand-hold through every episode with a star-spangled banner in one hand and a box of tissues in the other. Supposes, but doesn’t know for sure. Never bothered asking.
The time passes by pretty fast in the fluorescent-lit cave that is Tony’s workshop, and Winter keeps Tony company through most of the afternoon and past dinner.
Winter doesn't talk much. Which is an understatement of the century (the man would make a mute look chatty, his argument towards why he isn't doing therapy still remaining the record amount of words he has spoken in one sitting). Tony doesn’t push, doesn’t prod, and absolutely does not ask any questions. Not unless he wants to get shit from Bucky later, because he and Winter seem to have no issues remembering what happened. Tony doesn’t give orders or issue commands either, unless absolutely necessary—like the one where he had to stop him from going Terminator on Nat. But that was an exception, and normally it doesn’t come to that. Hell, normally Winter just keeps to himself, period. On occasion he even surfaces during missions, and that, surprisingly, isn’t even that much of an issue.
It’s not a bad few hours. Tony works, and Winter... well, Winter tolerates it, his eyes focused on some spot behind Tony’s shoulder.
Tony works on the arm—Winter's arm—because there's always room for improvement. The thing's a masterpiece, sure, but it was built with tech that's now about as cutting-edge as a VHS tape. Tony's long since repaired the damage he himself inflicted on it, because nothing says 'I'm sorry for trying to kill you' like bespoke engineering. But improvement is where the real fun is.
By now, Tony's concocted a plan to fully upgrade the arm, integrating a new energy source that would make the original designers weep in their borscht. There's no real need to scrap the whole thing; that would be throwing out the Mona Lisa because you think it'd look better with a Snapchat filter. Lately, when he has the time and Bucky or Winter are in the mood, Tony’s been mostly trying to work out a way to replace most of the insides with his own tech without having to take the arm off.
Tony's knuckle-deep between two removed plates of metal, his fingers tracing the slightly worn connections, when Bucky comes back.
"There you are, shouldn't have rushed," Tony hums, not even glancing up from the mechanical innards sprawled before him.
Despite the uncanny resemblance, Tony's gotten pretty good at telling the difference between the two. While he wouldn't exactly call Bucky mellow at any point in time, Winter does carry himself with the unmistakable posture of a particularly menacing coat rack. It's all in the shoulders.
Bucky snarks out without any actual heat, "You done yet? My back's killin’ me," which Tony gets. Sitting for—he quickly glances at the clock—six hours is a one-way ticket to chiropractic hell, superpowers or not. Tony would never admit it out loud, but Winter is actually a lot more patient than Bucky. So, technically, makes for a much better toy to work on.
"Almost. Hold your horses, Summer Wonder. Hungry?" Tony starts to wrap up. "Better be fucking hungry too, I can feel my stomach eating itself," he adds and starts slotting plates back.
When the last plate clicks into place, Tony waves at Bucky to test the arm to make sure all is working (there have been precedents and, by god, the gall) while wiping his hands on the rag.
After Tony gives the go-ahead, Bucky starts to test the arm, and damn if the sight doesn't do things to Tony's sense of aesthetics—and other senses he pretends not to have towards inanimate objects. The arm's plates articulate with a fluidity that's borderline pornographic. They glide over each other, catching the light in a way that's—let's be honest—unnecessarily fucking sexy.
Tony's brain doesn’t even dive into 'what the hell' territory because "since when did engineering become a turn-on?" is not the question anyone should be asking him, unless they want to hear "since always" back.
"Everything feeling okay?" Tony checks, eyes still glued to the arm because, science be damned, this is his Mona Lisa armed for intergalactic warfare, the hottest thing since the invention of the soldering iron.
And, yes, if this is what gets his motor running these days, maybe Tony really does need to get out more. But, hey, the whole murder-bot vibe the arm has going on surely tickles the fancy of at least a niche market. And just because Tony happens to be a card-carrying member of that club... Well, Tony’s made a career out of being flawlessly flawed.
"Jesus, Barnes, you trying to seduce me?" Tony loudly mutters under his breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, seeing Steve stride through the door.
Steve frowns, Bucky, in his infinite capacity for giving exactly zero fucks about what Tony says, merely smirks back with some amusement, while Tony, never one to miss an opportunity for some quality entertainment, leans into this.
"Is there something my second favorite soldier needs?" The line's so cheesy, it could have its own commercial, but the way Steve's face contorts at that makes it all worth it. Tony knows Steve’s here for Bucky—another glance at the clock—just two minutes after Friday’s memo that the neck snapping cyborg has left the premises (which Tony means almost fondly).
"I'm kidding, Cap. Mostly." Tony hurries, seeing Steve opening his mouth, the added 'mostly' is just for the extra bit of squirm.
He winks at Bucky then, gets back a skeptical kind of look, a choked grunt from Steve, and waves them both off out of the workshop, chased away by his own grumbling stomach a few minutes later.
In the weeks that follow, Tony's on a mission—unofficial, highly improvised, and utterly devoid of any moral high ground. He's flirting with Bucky like it’s going out of style. Not the half-hearted, corporate-event schmoozing, but full-on, grade-A, make-Steve's-head-explode flirting. And it's fucking glorious. So glorious, in fact, that Tony abandons any pretense of it just him being nice and goes out of his way to make it as obvious as possible.
Day one post-arm-tinkering he starts with "Good morning, sweetheart. Sleep well? Coffee?"
Bucky just makes an ambiguous sound that Tony interprets as 'carry on, you're mildly funny’. Tony can't blame him and almost adores Bucky for not telling him to cut it out. If he were on the outside looking in, he'd have popcorn too, and maybe even a betting pool going. Steve, meanwhile, mutters something Tony can’t hear into his no-fun bowl of oatmeal.
None of it subtle.
None of it has any game at all.
It’s the worst of what Tony could do, and, honestly, if he actually planned on flirting with Bucky for real, he’d do a lot better than “Are you a carbon sample? Because I want to date you—scientifically speaking.” But Steve's face goes through various shades of red and purple Tony didn't know existed outside of a Pantone color chart, and it inversely correlates with the fun being had.
Tony goes as far as to Google the worst pick-up lines known to man and starts actively looking for Bucky and—if found and with Steve in the general proximity—unleashes a small amount of flirty hell, not so secretly feeding off it, almost all of his jokes so bad, they circle back to being good.
He does throw one very inappropriate joke at Winter by accident once, but Winter doesn't even look up from something that seems to be a rather disturbing manual on Cyber Warfare.
By the end of the month, Steve might need a vacation, preferably on a deserted island where the name 'Tony Stark' is forbidden. Eyebrows knitted together, the man's a walking, talking PSA on the dangers of high blood pressure. Tony's flirting evolves from throwing out compliments to more, let's say, targeted approaches.
"You know, if you ever want to use that arm for something less lethal and more... recreational, I might know a guy." Bucky actually laughs at that, a sound so rare it might as well be on the endangered species list. Steve seems to be about ready to sign the Sokovia Accords 3.0, making it illegal for Tony to speak ever again.
"Hey, Barnes, want your eggs scrambled or fertilized?" Tony attempts to cook breakfast just so he can say it. After that gem, he is almost getting concerned he is going to end up dead by Steve's hand. Almost. But he’s loving it too much to stop.
Most importantly, he is also getting away with it.
Until on the way to another mission (after a comment so lewd it could give a nun a heart attack), Tony drops, without thinking, "Careful, Cap, your frown's gonna leave permanent lines."
Steve grimaces and Bucky… frowns too.
Tony, who is more used to Bucky’s amused smirks at his humorous passes, for the first time thinks that maybe he is pushing it too far. Sadly, the moment passes without making an impact —flirting with Bucky Barnes is the hill Tony's chosen to die on because it’s just that much fun—and just because Steve and Tony still have enough issues to keep a team of therapists in business for decades, he sort of conveniently forgets that, coddling or not, Steve’s Bucky’s guy.
And that, well, that's what bites him in the ass.
Tony and Bucky are free-falling from the jet just before it. That's nothing new; there is at least another idiot on the team who thinks parachutes are for the weak. The ground's approaching, Nat is confirming the target location through the comms, and everything is pretty standard. Almost peaceful, this high-velocity descent, with Tony hovering not too far from Bucky. Your regular day at the office, really. Nobody sees it coming.
"Boss, we have an incoming surface-to-air missile," well, Friday does.
Tony deploys his decoys, not worried. They pop in the air—eat this, you flying piece of junk—and then he's a little worried, feeling ashamed of the decoys' underperformance. The missile changes course.
"Bucky, bogey on your right," Nat comes through the comms just a fraction of a second later (calmly, she's not the one about to be blown to smithereens), and Tony changes his course too, guessing the missile has a thing for vintage; that metal arm does have that classic, been-through-several-wars aesthetic. Because why target the guy in the advanced suit with deflectors and countermeasures up the wazoo? No, this missile has a crush on Bucky Barnes. Go figure.
Tony pulls an almost heroic move out of his behind and grabs Bucky mid-air. After that, they are not so much free-falling, but plummeting down as a high-speed, human (well, human-ish) missile magnet, the ground rushing up to meet them, a welcoming committee of one. Then, fuck, boom, jerk, goddammit. The missile decides to confess its love in the only way it knows how, way too close to them for comfort.
The shockwave sends them scattering into concrete—Tony engaging the propulsors—but Bucky still hits a wall with a crunch that definitely doesn't belong in the human body's repertoire of sounds. There is no twisted homage to Wile E. Coyote afterward in the form of a Bucky-shaped dent, so it’s not that bad, and Tony, just a little relieved, chances another stupid comment.
“Need a kiss to make it better, or are you good?” He asks right into the comms, even though Bucky’s standing right next to him.
“Sure, doll,” he hears back, eyes snapping to Bucky’s serious expression. “Fuckin’ go for it.”
And that. Well. Tony has no comeback.
Back on the jet, Tony's mentally going over the list of ways to improve missile evasion (because "eat this, you flying piece of junk" isn't a universally effective defense strategy) when he spots the third red flag he might have taken things a bit too far.
Bucky doesn't march straight to his usual spot by the window, next to Steve. Instead, he plants his ass right next to Tony. And it's not exactly weird, with a capital 'WTF', since there's no seating chart—S.H.I.E.L.D hasn't gone full kindergarten on them yet—but it’s not not weird either.
Tony has half of a mind to ask him if he's lost and direct him to the cheap seats, but "You lose a bet or something?" comes out instead.
He also sort of expects Bucky to grunt something inaudible out, but Bucky just shrugs, smiles a very toothy, very wide smile, which looks to be directed at Tony, and says:
"Thought I'd try somethin' new."
So, naturally, Tony's first instinct is to check for head injuries.
Without beating around the bush, already in a very convenient proximity, Tony simply grabs Bucky's head. He tilts it forward with one of his hands, ignoring the slightly intrigued look in his eyes, while skating across the back of the scalp with the other, searching for blood, breaks, or brain leaks.
No blood. No gaping wounds. Just a dusting of concrete powder over surprisingly soft hair.
"Blink twice if you're being held hostage by an alien symbiote," he asks, half-serious, finally releasing Bucky's head from his grasp, his palms warm.
“What?” Bucky seems confused. He also produces another smile—grin almost, albeit tired, and Tony squints with some suspicion. Winter? No. Just Bucky being weird.
“You hit your head or something? Seeing any stars, Sergeant Sidekick? Or just the usual void?” Clearly, he has to spell it out, only slightly bewildered himself at the fact that he’s just after rifling through Bucky's hair.
“Just you,” Bucky replies, shrugging again, resting his head on the back of the chair, eyes on Tony, and Tony turns away.
"I'm fine," Bucky adds then, his voice so deep it’s normally a result of years of smoking, low and rumbling. "Just thought I'd switch things up. You want me to move, sugar?"
Tony snorts and waves his hand in a vague enough gesture to mean whatever Bucky wants it to mean. And when Bucky doesn’t change seats, staying put, his face still directed at Tony, Tony gets a slight inkling that, yeah, alright, two can play this game. Which makes the game a lot less fun as far as Cap’s concerned, since the whole purpose of it was—
You know.
After they get back to the compound, Tony's got Friday circling the coop to ensure all his chicks are accounted for and not bleeding out, a post-mission ritual of sorts. It's not that Tony's got a bleeding heart himself or anything—it's just. His team, his responsibility. He listens to a status report while peeling the flight suit off himself.
Steve's already in the gym, doing his best impression of a man who believes punching bags are Hydra agents. Masochist. Clint is in the medical bay, insisting he only needs a Band-Aid. Clint would walk off a decapitation if you let him. Nat's giving Hill the SparkNotes version of how they fucked up, with a side of 'how we can unfuck it next time'. Bucky is currently arguing with himself in his bedroom. Wanda and Vision are tucked away on a very small single-seater in the lounge, and, god, Tony did not need to know that. Sam's—
What?
"Did you just say Barnes is having a chat with himself?" Tony pauses mid-wriggle.
"Sergeant Barnes is currently engaging in a dialogue with himself in his quarters," confirms Friday. The audio crackles to life, and there it is.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ, you're not serious. No, I wasn't, you psycho. Shit, no. No, I didn’t mean that. Can't you jus'... I dunno, take a fuckin' day? No, I ain't sayin' that. No, I ain't askin' you to disappear, I'm askin' you to shut the fuck up about this already—"
Yup, definitely him. What in the actual fuck? Tony frowns, the flight suit only down to his waist. He ties it at his hips, quickly pulling on a t-shirt, while requesting: "Check his vitals, will you?"
"Vitals are normal, Boss. No irregularities detected," Friday reports back, and Tony can't decide if that's reassuring, quickly settling on not at all.
Either way, since the evidence that something's off is compiling higher than a stack of pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, Tony makes the trek to Bucky's bedroom.
Barging in without knocking—not because manners are for people who haven't tried to kill you in the past, but because he is genuinely concerned—Tony expects a lot of things. What he doesn't expect is the unmistakable sound of a shower running that tells him Bucky is here, just not in the immediate line of sight, which is probably for the best considering Tony hadn't prepared for that kind of face-to-face.
Straining his ears for any sound that doesn't belong—for instance, the thud of a two-hundred-pound man losing consciousness—he hears nothing. Just that steady spray, hiss, and occasional splash of water that says, "I'm taking my sweet time."
Tony considers leaving, but then just begrudgingly leans on the first available piece of furniture.
Finally, the water shuts off, and Tony straightens up, preparing his best 'I'm-not-a-creeper-I-swear' face. This is fucking awkward. Especially when Bucky walks out of the shower, towel on his hips, his left arm up and slicking his wet hair back, not looking like he’s gone off his rocker.
Damn.
Tony's there on a mission, right? Supposed to be all about work, checking in on Bucky because of some not necessarily fucked-up but still rather new self-talk that screams "I now talk to my alter" louder than a banshee at a metal concert. But the moment Bucky emerges from the bathroom, water droplets tracing paths down his skin and a towel slung low—too damn low—Tony's just another guy seething with jealousy. Yeah, let's call it jealousy because "acute onset of inferiority complex" doesn't roll off the tongue quite as nicely.
Now, Tony’s looks are certainly not his least marketable feature—bolstered, of course, by a bank account so hefty it practically makes him taller. But, god, this is one of those occasions when he’s reminded of being a Maserati on a team full of Ferraris—still impressive, but not the fastest car on the track. Cap, with his serum-enhanced everything, is forgivable—because science. He gives Nat a pass too; the woman probably does more sit-ups before breakfast than Tony does in a year. Even Clint gets a respectful nod, though his affinity for anything sugary is a ticking time bomb to dad-bod central.
But Bucky Barnes? Fuck, where does one even start? That’s the kind of looks that make Tony contemplate if there's a refund policy on life. An absolute affront to every man's self-esteem. Tall, dark, and brooding with a side of tragic hero, a whole different level of 'fuck you' to natural law. Allegedly, even before Hydra decided to pump him full of their bargain bin serum.
Tony's not perfect. He knows it. Which is why he can admit, at least to himself, that he’s decidedly human in the worst way possible—petty and a tad insecure. Which is why it comes out the way it does:
"Not bad for a century-old Popsicle," with a scoff. "Very Soviet-era fitness propaganda poster. Get dressed, I'm hauling your ass to the med-bay."
The moment the words leave Tony's mouth, he tastes something sour. Off-handed insults, it seems, are still his default setting. Might as well be a reflex so ingrained he should consider patenting it. This one, however, was just on the side of an actual asshole.
Bucky's expression morphs from mild surprise to a twitch that suggests a nerve's been struck. Quickly followed by discomfort, and then that final destination: a chill so icy it could freeze vodka. He even repositions his body slightly, a definitely subconscious move to hide the red star on his shoulder, which he normally doesn’t bother doing. Tony grimaces, the apology stuck in his throat. He's not great at this, the whole 'saying sorry' thing.
"My ass is fine," Bucky drawls, the corners of his mouth moving further downwards. He then approaches Tony, who's making friends with, of all things, ugh, Bucky's dresser. "Move yours."
Tony does. Shuffling aside and then watching for a few seconds as Bucky rummages for clothes with his metal hand, the other clutching the towel around his waist with a death grip, the only thing standing between Tony and an eyeful he didn't sign up for. He lingers, then realizes he's lingering.
"I’ll wait outside."
"Don’t bother, I'm not goin’. Say what you gotta say."
Tony clears his throat.
"Friday mentioned you've been having some... pow-wows with yourself?"
Bucky doesn't answer as he begins to slip on his sweats. The towel drops, and damn, that ass is definitely fine. Tony's gaze snags a millisecond too long before he forcibly turns away, and by the time he dares to look back, Bucky's fully dressed, t-shirt clinging to him in all the right places. He's leaning against that same dresser, arms crossed, and, alright, those arms look fine too, both in their own way respectively.
"Should I be worried?" Tony gives it another shot, attempting casual concern. "Do we need to contact Dr—"
Bucky shakes his head, looks away for a second himself, a quick flick of his tongue wetting his lips, before he's back facing Tony.
"What, to tell her it's her fuckin' fault this motherfucker's getting chatty? Be my guest."
Tony pauses. Shit. Out of words, but unfortunately not out of fucks to give, he just sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. What the hell could he even say to that? "And how do you feel about that?" springs to mind, but even he has enough self-awareness to recognize it as a bad call.
"You want a new shrink? I can get you a new shrink." It's the best he can do, a half-assed offer, and most likely not even a solution.
"Nah," Bucky replies, his posture shifting from rigid 'ready to snap' to something more relaxed. "No point."
"So, you and Winter are... good?" Tony can't resist asking. Because he, obviously, has no boundaries. And, alright, yeah, because he has a right and need to know, he reminds himself.
Bucky gives him that look, the one that's as close to 'You fucking kidding me?' as you can get without actually saying it out loud.
"Peachy," Tony mutters, halfway through the mental motion of turning to leave when Bucky stops him dead.
"Tony."
Tony halts—instantly—because apparently, he's a well-trained dog too.
"Stop fuckin' with Steve."
And that's when it actually bites Tony in the ass.
That heavy accent of Bucky's is dripping off each word, and Bucky's sporting that smirk. That same amused smirk Tony's been on the receiving end of too many times during his overly enthusiastic flirt-fest, when he laid it on thicker than peanut butter. You know the one. 'I see what you're doing' kind.
Tony finds his own lips stretching into a slightly wicked smile, a mirror image of Bucky's expression, and it pisses him off how involuntary it is. Unexpected, and wholly unwelcome.
Because, shit, Tony has this moment—this quick moment—and it hits him. The smirk, the eyes, the sass that could give even Tony a run for his money.
Shit indeed, as Tony's suddenly smacked in the head with the fact that Bucky Barnes is, objectively speaking, hot enough to melt the polar ice caps, and it doesn’t make him—Tony—as much jealous, but—
And this criminally underappreciated package is leaning against the dresser, modeling for "Soldiers of Brooklyn: The Steamy Edition." Long wet hair, that physique that screams I-throw-motorcycles-for-fun, creating all sorts of inconvenient thoughts (even despite the rather recent revelation he's now officially a party of two) and it's somehow the first fucking time Tony's allowed himself to really think about it.
Not about Bucky being attractive—that's been a running commentary for anyone within earshot, as long as Steve's been around to scowl about it—but in a way that reminds Tony of his own glaringly single-as-fuck status. Yup, single since Pepper dumped his ass, and now Tony's aware of how long it's been since he's had someone in his bed who's made him feel anything other than a pressing need to check his email as soon as they are done.
"Yeah, fair enough," Tony concedes, voice lighter than he feels, turns to leave, for real this time, and actually does. Leaves, muttering curses under his breath as soon as he's outside, sinking in the deep end of a pool he's not sure how to swim out of.
And, just to make it clear, it's not the most sexually confusing revelation of Tony's life (please). It's just… it's not just that Bucky's hot—that's a given. No, it's the unexpected, visceral understanding that Tony, in all his infinite wisdom and talent to fuck shit up, now finds Barnes attractive in a way that's going to make being around him difficult as hell.
Almost predictably, if you are into that kind of thing (and Tony's not, already running on emotional fumes), he ends up cornered by Steve on his way to the sweet, sweet solace of his bedroom. It gives Tony this eerie sense of déjà vu, because, of course, it has to be now—when he's exhausted, just a touch confused, and only yearning to faceplant into his pillow. And it’s all Steve’s fault.
Steve’s, who is looking as fresh as a daisy after his ridiculous post-mission workout, not a bead of sweat sullying his Captain America perfection. And instead of any greeting that makes a lick of sense, Steve hits him with:
"Okay, I get it, me and you... are me and you. Don't take it out on Bucky."
The fuck does that even mean? Last time Tony checked, Barnes needed protection about as much as a nuclear submarine might—Hydra's very own case of home-grown DID notwithstanding.
Tony can't muster a single word initially, even sarcasm dead on his lips. He just stands there, waiting for Steve to expand on that bombshell of a non-statement. But no, nothing comes, and Steve's expression is as stern as he's ever seen it. Now, finally, running out of fucks to give at an alarming rate, Tony goes with a tired:
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"So you're going to stop leading him on, yes?"
Tony is quiet. For unbearably long. If he was a giggling type of man, he would probably hysterically giggle at this exact moment, because the timing of this is—
Just. Fucking. Perfect.
The idea of sinking into oblivion becomes more appealing with each excruciating second. He squints at Steve, wondering if now's the time to reveal his new plan of drinking himself into a stupor to avoid dealing with this, while Steve stares back at him, with his earnest-to-a-fault gaze that could probably guilt-trip a saint into confession.
Yeah, Barnes is as hot as the devil's sauna, sure, and Tony might be a bit compromised, sure. But let's not sugarcoat it. The whole "he killed my parents" thing, coupled with "his evil twin who I don't even hate has me on speed dial" thing, adds layers to this shitcake that Tony just can't stomach. Or, more specifically, his desire to digest said shitcake falls nicely between a root canal and being stranded in the desert with a hangover, regardless of whether or not he even stands a chance with Barnes. Tony might have considered testing the waters there—he is who he is—but toss Steve and his well-meaning, ‘Save Bucky Barnes’ complex into the mix, and Tony just fucking CAN'T.
Not in this universe or any of the other realms Thor keeps yammering about.
"Steve—" he starts.
Tony gets a bump on the shoulder and a nod from Bucky over breakfast.
"Thanks," Bucky says, yawning into his coffee cup.
Tony replies with "Don't mention it," and assumes it probably has something to do with him proposing a truce of sorts with Steve the night before and even engaging in a hug (about as genuine as consoling a vending machine that just ate his dollar).
So, not today, Satan. Tony's out, having stitched together enough wisdom to know when to say "fuck it" and bow out.
There is only one problem. Well, two, if you're going to be technical about it.
Tony's initial mission, to royally piss off Steve by harmlessly—that was the intention—flirting with his best guy, was all about ‘flirt, annoy, repeat’. Now, with the mission aborted, Tony is in the ninth circle of personal hell: withdrawal. And also, paradoxically, no withdrawal at all.
It's a bit of a clusterfuck.
For months.
And fucking futile too.
Trying to maintain a safe distance is about as easy as herding cats. Drunk cats. In a yarn factory. Because Tony didn’t realize. Barnes. Everywhere. Like glitter after a strip club, he's impossible to get rid of.
When Tony drops the whole thing (and he does, he swears, drops the whole thing), it becomes very clear just how much of Tony’s air Barnes already takes up. While Tony was out there, trying to turn Steve's smile upside down—in the most aggravating way possible—he simply failed to notice the teeny, tiny detail of spending every goddamn free minute with either Bucky or Winter. Somehow.
And now, as Tony's trying to shove the genie back in the bottle, he can’t find the fucking bottle. No bottle for him. Too late for the bottle. He completely missed the slow but steady infiltration of Bucky and Winter into his personal bubble. A bubble that's supposed to be impenetrable, reinforced with the latest in Stark snark and general misanthropy. Even his fucking workshop is occupied.
There's Bucky with his laundry list of demands slash ideas for new gear, dragging Tony into brainstorming sessions that last longer than most of Tony's relationships. It’s a never-ending wishlist of upgrades and new tech—because apparently, being a reluctant Avenger still means you've got a fucking entitlement to the catalog.
They even brainstorm the sniper rifle to end all sniper rifles. It's a thing of beauty, a weapon so perfect it could make any military man cry, so they build what is undeniably the best sniper rifle in the world and then—because it makes Fury almost cry out of his one eye—they sell it to S.H.I.E.L.D for an obscene amount of money. They follow it up by donating the profits to an organization lobbying for gun safety, minus Winter's cut, because he couldn't give a flying fuck about gun safety. Not allegedly.
It's driving Tony up a fucking wall. A wall he built, painted, and now can't seem to find the door in.
Because it’s not just Bucky. Bucky, at least, spends some time with Steve.
Winter though, seems to have developed a hobby of lurking ominously while Tony wasn’t looking. And while maybe in the past it would have been as welcome as a sandpaper dildo and twice as worrying, post Tony's revelation it carries a certain gravitas.
Fucking shoot Tony now.
There are days when Winter just shows up, ignores Tony, but sticks around and busies himself by sorting what Tony thinks is a never-ending supply of screws and parts. Without asking. He sits there, for hours, not saying a word, moving only to deposit a box on the shelf or to get a new one, his expression mostly bored. When he runs out of shit to sort—and Tony's workshop has never been this organized—Winter starts playing catch with Tony's robots. Also, for hours, to their delighted beeps. And that's just…
But at least any kind of flirting has officially left the building.
Bucky is just Bucky—snarky, opinionated to a fault, armed with a smirk that could slice through bullshit at twenty paces, not once flashing another one of those smiles that could light up the dark side of the moon. No innuendos either, not in your life. And Tony can’t decide if it’s a good thing, or just fucking tragic.
Tony doesn’t even try to decipher what's going on in Winter's head, because good fucking luck with that, since trying to get a read on him is essentially playing Battleship in the dark. With no ships. Bucky's about as forthcoming with details about Winter as a clam with lockjaw too, and Tony, true to his form, never bothers to ask—because who really wants to open that can of worms?
Every time Tony thinks he's out, Bucky pulls him back in and Winter just… well, shows up and hovers. Another project, another "Hey, got a minute?" that turns into a five-hour argument on how to reinvent the wheel. Luckily, no repeat of the Bad Day Protocol, not a single reference to what Steve and his big mouth decided to blab at Tony.
Everything's the same, yet nothing is.
Then, the pièce de résistance: the insides for the arm are ready. One of the most frustrating days in Tony’s life, measured in painfully short distances and way too much shared breathing space.
When finally done, Tony, with some flourish (all in good humor), slaps a sticker of Stark Industries logo over where the now silvered-over red star used to be, both proud and horny.
Winter gets to be the one to do the final test, flexing, adjusting. The arm moves like liquid sex, all smooth lines and perfect function, and Tony's standing there, trying not to get a hard-on over a piece of machinery. Well, machinery attached to a very fit assassin.
The inconvenient truth is, Tony's got himself a case of Stockholm Syndrome, but with more engineering and less actual kidnapping. The sheer number of hours daily he spends with Bucky, with Winter, with whatever the hell Barnes decides to be at any given moment even after the work on the arm is done, is inversely proportional to Tony's sanity.
Until—
Tony is sleepwalking past the lounge. He's utterly fried from too much Barnes-time, and now he's just aiming to pass through this communal hall of problems without any engagement. Really, he's had his quota for the week, the month, possibly the year. He's basically autopiloting past Bucky, Steve, and Sam, nose deep in his tablet, picking up on the strong smell of takeout, course plotted from point A to point B with minimal human interaction.
He chances just one quick glance, a sort of a nod to “I am here, you see me, but don’t talk to me,” and then… skids to a halt, slamming into an invisible wall.
"Jesus, Cap," he blurts before he can stop himself, "who used your face as a punching bag?"
Because Steve looks like he’s just after losing a fight with a vengeful door frame. At least twice. See, there's a world of difference between messing with Steve for shits and giggles, watching his face turn fifty shades of irritated because Tony's flirting with Bucky just to wind him up, and seeing actual harm come to the guy. The former? A sport. The latter? Not so much. Give it ten or twenty years, and Tony is sure he will come around to forgiving him. He has forgiven worse and much quicker.
Steve's accessorized with not one, but two bruises. His left eye is a homage to the color of a sunset, predominantly purples and deep reds. Seriously, if Tony's objective was to change Steve's complexion during his psychological warfare, he'd consider this an overachievement. This, however, isn’t amusing. Concerning. The bruise on the right looks even darker.
Tony's seen Steve in various states of disrepair and knows it will not last long, but there are only a few people at the compound who can cause this kind of damage. Vision wouldn’t, Wanda would probably not stop at that, there have been no Big Green Lockdowns in months, which leaves either Tony or Barnes. And Tony didn’t do it.
"I thought we had agreed—no sparring between—" Tony adds, gesturing at Bucky and Steve with his tablet. "Didn’t we agree?"
Tony knows they did. They had a meeting about it after the first incident of Winter surfacing during the spar. Was a logical decision to cut this shit out, since Winter fights dirty and doesn’t hold his punches. The one and only time it happened, everyone had a bad day, protocol or not.
Three things happen almost at the same time as Tony waits for an answer.
"Don't worry about it," dismissively comes from Steve, jaw tight, stubbornly opaque, giving Tony absolutely nothing.
Meanwhile, Sam fucking loses it, a cackle erupting from him, noodle unattractively hanging from his mouth before he slurps it back in. Tony could swear his eyes are watering.
Bucky, though, is the picture of nonchalance, chomping down on a spring roll. He barely acknowledges the comment, eyes on the TV, the crunch of his snack loud before he grumbles, "Weren't sparrin'. You need somethin'?''
Tony? No, Tony doesn’t need anything. Tony’s fucking lost. Tony, for a fleeting second, just stares. It's one of those moments where time dilates, and he's got a brain that won't quit, and an ability to not give a shit that's currently being sorely tested. Tony leaves.
Leaves, escapes, runs, beelines—whatever the appropriate word is for his dash the fuck away—to his office. The one he never uses because, let's face it, it's more a glorified museum of his achievements than a workspace. Still, with the workshop turned into the revolving door of Grand Central Station for the superheroically inclined, it's as good a hideout as any.
The office is large, slick and modern, should be dusty with disuse but isn’t, with chairs so ergonomically perfect they could probably cure scoliosis. Tony plops down, kicking his feet up on the desk, and can’t think of anything better to do except attempt some paperwork. Five minutes later, after confirming he’s still filthy rich, he opens a new project on his tablet and starts doodling on a new design for a Spider-Man suit. The kid better graduate soon, because God forbid Tony has one person around who isn't driving him insane.
He sketches, scraps a few things only to start them anew, all the while his mind is inevitably wandering off the reservation. Every line he draws, every calculation he makes, somehow loops back to Steve's beat-up face and the why of it all. Because really, what gives? Beat your bestie into a pulp and then break out the chopsticks for some Kung Pao Chicken?
Tony would pay good money to be a fly on the wall next to whatever went down. He thinks about that, adding a missile decoy into Peter’s suit, until, of course, the genius in him kicks in, slapping him upside the head with a reminder. Oh. He doesn't need to be a fly. Flies are for peasants. Tony has something much, much better—a security system so advanced it makes Big Brother look like a peeping Tom with a pair of binoculars.
He gets Friday on the job and—
Nothing. Not a fucking thing.
The digital scavenger hunt is a complete bust. Tony sifts through security footage of the compound, timestamps, logs, but every breadcrumb trail leads to a dead end. He’s about to give up, when, as if the day hasn't already been a masterclass in cosmic trolling, Winter materializes out of thin air.
No sound, no warning, just there, popping out of nowhere, looming over Tony's desk, for a quick second scaring the daylights out of him.
"Fuck," Tony nearly gasps, hand momentarily over his heart, eyes flicking from Winter to the door. The door remains firmly shut, and Tony fluctuates between impressed and just a little flustered.
"Looking for something?" Winter's voice is the auditory equivalent of a blade sliding against whetstone—sharp, cold. There's always an almost violent undertone to it, even though he doesn't even speak that loud. Not that he can do jack shit to Tony—first thing they've taken care of—but it's three words more than Tony's heard in weeks coming from him, the last time being "Fuck off," when Tony had politely asked him to vacate the workshop.
"Just the usual. World peace, the meaning of life, why Cap's face looks like it's been used for batting practice," Tony rattles off, pushing himself off the desk, his chair rolling on the floor, legs dropping down.
Winter leans closer (Tony shimmies further away, the chair now hitting the shelf behind him), his gaze fixed on Tony's monitors.
"You won't find it here," he states matter-of-factly.
Tony frowns, disappointed, and Winter, without so much as a by-your-leave, snatches Tony's ergonomic keyboard—yeah, the one designed to reduce wrist strain, because Tony is all about occupational health—dragging it across the desk with disregard for personal space or property.
And then, holy motherboard of god, the man starts typing.
Tony watches, utterly transfixed, as Winter's fingers—half shiny metal, half flesh and blood—move over the keyboard. The metal fingers make this sound, a series of crisp, mechanical clicks that resonate in a strangely rhythmic cadence over the plastic keys. Techno track overlaid with the sound of gunfire. It's absurdly mesmerizing, and Tony realizes, with a jolt that derails his entire train of thought, that he's been paying zero attention to what Winter is actually doing.
Tony flies off his chair, mouth possibly gaping.
Because the fucker isn't just hacking city's traffic and street cameras in the traditional, cinematic sense of slamming the keyboard and fumbling about it. Oh, no. He's simply waltzing through a backdoor that's already there. And it's so, so, so… Disturbing? Nope, not that. Hot as fuck? Bingo. Jackpot. We have a winner, and Tony's not sure what's more alarming—the fact that Winter is blatantly committing what amounts to several felonies on his watch, or the undeniable fact that Tony finds the whole thing outrageously sexy.
Oh, shit, shit, fuck, it's probably going to end in disaster, but Tony still can't look away because part of him wants to see if he'll pull it off. And pull it off, Winter does. The screen flickers with the feed from a dozen different cameras.
Tony's inner voice is screaming that he should be concerned, scandalized, maybe even a little offended. Instead, he's leaning closer himself, shoulder brushing against Winter’s left arm, eyes glued to the screen, and fuck, Tony’s so fucked, because there’s something undeniably cool about a person who knows their way around a keyboard like it's an extension of their own body—especially when part of that body is a high-tech piece of—
Shit. Congratulations, Tony. You've officially got a thing for cyber-crime-committing semi-legal assassins. Howard would be so proud.
Tony doesn’t quite have the time to spiral, since Winter is already queuing up the video, stitching what happened from clips that vary in their blurriness and grain, making Tony ponder the quality of the surveillance in New York. But, yes, Winter’s right, Tony, for the life of him, couldn't have found the video because whatever went down didn't happen in the compound.
On the screen are Bucky and Steve, with Sam bringing up the rear, trying to be as inconspicuous as three Avengers can be—which is to say, not at all. Their hoods are up, a pitiful attempt at incognito mode in the open street, running.
It’s not a lot of footage, but it’s pretty telling, and Tony notes the moment Bucky changes into Winter. There's no dramatic transformation, no ominous music—just a subtle shift. The speed's the same, but the way he runs and moves is just a bit different, more efficient, more precise. Steve's animated, waving his hands around, slowing down, saying something. He turns to Winter, probably not even realizing it is him, and… here it comes. It's a right hook, catching Steve off-guard and sending him staggering back, with Winter immediately turning away and starting to walk in the opposite direction. Sam’s gawking at the two, but not engaging. Smart.
Tony is still processing ‘What the actual fuck’ of it all, less about the punch and more about Winter's restraint to stop at one. And then—
"Well, shit," he mutters, scratching at his goatee, as Winter halts, turns back, his shoulders slacking slightly. Bucky’s home. Just like that. No more Winter. A few purposeful steps from the guy behind the wheel, and then Bucky decks Steve with his metal arm. For the second time.
Tony's left blinking at the screen even after Winter hits a few buttons and it changes back to Tony’s wallpaper.
What?
“What?” He says out loud, “The fuck was that?”
He spins around, and holy proximity, Batman, Winter is close, giving Tony this look of very unnerving curiosity. And Tony, because his mouth has no chill and runs faster than Usain Bolt on a caffeine high, blurts out the first thing that comes to mind—a joke. A… flirty joke.
“Gee, darlin, laying out Steve just to get my attention?”
Ah, shit. Tony takes a hot second to backtrack through his mental maze. Why the hell did he say that? It's not that he actually believes this fiasco unfolded over a little old him. Please. The ego's big, but he's not delusional. Only, well, what in the world could Steve possibly have said to tick off both Winter and Bucky simultaneously? Propose a ban on all leather jackets?
Winter just stares, but then, something miraculous happens: the corner of his mouth… twitches. He smirks. And this smirk doesn't just grow; it evolves, a wicked curve stretching across that admittedly handsome-as-sin face. Bucky, the one who usually peddles in smirks, has nothing on this. This smirk, this particular curve on Winter's lips is a "gotcha" in slow motion. Honestly, it’s fucking terrifying how everything about Barnes, regardless of who is currently in control, seems to be custom-tailored just to fuck with Tony's sense of equilibrium.
"You going to put your money where your mouth is, Stark?" Winter asks in a low, dangerous tease of a voice, and that voice alone should come with its own warning label and a pair of hazard lights. He sounds a bit smug too, which until this very moment Tony didn’t think was even possible. As if he was waiting for Tony to screw up.
Backing away seems to be the only logical response. Yup, Tony's definitely all about strategic retreats now, except his escape plan involves a chair that he clumsily kicks aside. It rolls away, and Tony, rather than following its escape trajectory, ends up against the shelf. Winter gets even closer, his eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly to the shoulder.
"Ugh," Tony eloquently articulates, the hard wood pressing into his back, and it would be great if the shelf could swallow him whole and spare him. "This is— You're—"
Tony can count the individual lashes framing those intense eyes. The room shrinks, air thickens, and Tony does the only thing he can—he leans into his discomfort, because if you're going to crash and burn, might as well do it with style.
“Whatcha thinking, hot stuff?” He asks, a little breathless. And when Winter doesn’t say anything, the smirk getting just a touch more smug, he adds, muttering: "Well, fuck me."
And no, he didn’t mean it that way. Or maybe he did.
“Alright,” Winter nods, somehow managing to close the distance between them without seeming to move at all, and, fuck no, that was not an invitation. Only—words? What are those? Can you eat them? Because Tony doesn’t hate this proximity. Not at all.
Tony's anticipation skyrockets, aimed straight for a collision with every single inappropriate thought he's ever had about Barnes. Winter's hands hover by his hips, his face so close to Tony he can feel the heat of his skin.
But then... Winter frowns. The infinitesimal space between them, already charged with a thousand watts, doesn't diminish further.
"Can't touch you," Winter murmurs, and Jesus H. Christ, if Tony didn't know any better, he'd swear Winter sounds frustrated. Which is ludicrous because if frustration had a face right now, it'd be wearing Tony's patented 'I'm fine, but actually, I'm dying inside' expression.
Tony licks his lips, not missing a quiet rumble of a sound coming from Winter at that and the way his eyes follow Tony's tongue. But now? Really? Since when did Winter subscribe to the 'do no harm' bullshit, and why does it have to kick in at the most inopportune moment? Oh.
Fuck.
“Can’t hurt me,” it dawns on Tony. “Do you… want to hurt me?”
Winter's frown deepens, as if he's wrestling with something inside his head. And fuck, if that doesn't make Tony want to grab him by the collar and just end this ridiculous standoff. Because if there's one thing Tony Stark excels at, it's wanting things he definitely shouldn't.
Instead of following through though, Tony sighs and leans back against the shelf that's been digging into his back this whole time, self-preservation and all.
"Well, this has been... enlightening," he shrugs. "So, what now? Just going to stand here and stare at each other dramatically?"
Winter’s eyes narrow further, a thunderstorm rolling in, dark and foreboding. He looks fucking torn.
Tony is so turned on he’s mad with it.
And it’s just… great. Yeah. He’s finally met his match—a man who physically can't take advantage of Tony’s terrible life choices. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, so he settles for a dry chuckle.
Tony's still chuckling when Barnes—Winter, Bucky, whatever—changes his stance. It's subtle, the kind of thing you'd miss if you were blinking. But Tony misses absolutely nothing, even if one moment he's mentally preparing his next snarky comment, and the next, he's just gone, done for, because Bucky decides that now—right fucking now—is the perfect time to kiss the ever-loving shit out of him.
It's not just a kiss.
It obliterates Tony's capacity for rational thought; Bucky’s hands on Tony's hips, his body pressing Tony into the shelf. The chuckle dies on Tony's lips, strangled by the deliriously hot presence of Bucky's mouth.
The way Bucky kisses isn't just good. Oh, god. It steals Tony's breath, his snark, and about ten years off his life from sheer shock. He notes, with a detached sense of wonder, that he feels almost humbled, and it's such a weird realization, one that would have Tony laughing if he wasn't so damn busy kissing—or being kissed by—what is arguably one of the most complex individuals he's ever met.
Then Bucky murmurs right into Tony's mouth, "Shit, Tony, you are drivin’ us both crazy," and Tony's questioning the foundations of his reality, because it has no business being this hot, this idea that both Bucky and Winter—
Fuck. Tony makes a weak sound, digging his fingers into Bucky's long hair, a singular thought piercing the fog of his mind with the clarity of a bell: holy shit, he can't get enough. It's a fucking religious experience, and Tony's an atheist. In a span of a heartbeat, he's all in. All in. All he wants, all he needs is Barnes—demanding, insistent. Just Barnes. All of him. All the shit that comes with him. And fuck, if that doesn't scare Tony more than any looming existential threat.
Still, he moans, heart trying to beat out of his chest, wanting to rub up against Bucky like a fucking animal, all the while just pulling him closer. Just closer, by the hair, by his black t-shirt, Bucky's stubble scratching his skin when he moves on to Tony's neck, metal hand grabbing his ass—fuck, yes—
Something falls on the floor when Tony moves his elbow into the shelf, accompanied by the unmistakable tinkle of glass breaking. It's fine, it's nothing, but Bucky pulls back, the spell momentarily broken, and bends to pick up the object.
"Sorry—" he says automatically, and something inside Tony hits the panic button. Shit. No.
"Don't stop, come on, not—" Tony rushes out, but the damage is done.
Of course, it had to be now.
It also had to be this photo.
Tony lets out a nervous laugh, eyes on Bucky's face, lips red and wet, hair a mess from the number Tony has done on it in less than a minute. And there, in Bucky's hand, is a photo of Tony at graduation, Howard beside him, both of them sporting expressions that could easily be mistaken for happiness if one didn't know any better.
The timing is catastrophic.
Tony might be fucked, but his chance of actually getting fucked plummets faster than his approval ratings during a particularly scandalous news cycle. He watches, gutted, as Bucky's expression drops when he looks at the photo.
Without a word, Bucky places it on Tony's desk, and Tony doesn't have anything to say, really. Doesn’t stop him when Bucky walks out of the office without even a glance at him.
Tony glares at the photo, glass cracked all over, at his father, the man immortalized in a frame, still controlling Tony even from beyond the grave.
"The fuck are you looking at?" He scowls at Howard and rubs his palm against his lips.