Tony makes a face. It's almost a pout, really, this scrunchy frown that's all pinched and uncomfortable, frustrated. Because that's-- like, c'mon, man! At least focusing on something closer to irritation is familiar, almost calming.
So, creating a safe and trusting environment that's probably vital to fixing Nazi brainwashing is off to a great start. So much for this being easy.
(Like it ever going to be easy. Pretending like he's not vividly imagining grabbing the helmet, putting it on, and repeatedly thunking it against the wall is a difficult task, but Tony manages. Probably.))
"I used to live with super-spies, I've been appropriately humbled from thinking my security can't be slipped," is what Tony eventually says. It's a careful non-answer, but it certainly does plenty of answering. He blows out an exasperated breath. "Can't? No. Shouldn't? Yeah. I'm not above dragging you back here by the scruff like a feral cat."
He isn't sure what to say for awhile. Tony watches the Soldier, arms crossed and with his petulant frown still in place.
Now, being observant is literally his job, both in the superhero and engineering and inventing sense, but it does almost slip his notice, what with Tony and The Solider having their weird stare down to suitably distract him. But The Solider can't hide the noise his arm makes, even with subtle movements-- shifting of plates, the familiar hum and whir of machinery that Tony knows down to his bones. In any other situation it would be funny: Tony impassively watching The Soldier test his bonds, the silent understanding that goes between them that he's been caught, yet The Solider then continuing to do it anyway. He almost does snort, actually, at The Solider's face: maybe Tony's projecting, but Barnes looks like he's trying really hard to project an air of innocence, like he hasn't just been caught with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. But then it just makes Tony mad, because he's pretty sure he's seen Steve do the exact same thing a million billion fucking times, and, oh, of course Steve probably got it from him! Or Barnes from Steve, whatever-- it still makes jealousy and envy and every nasty jilted emotion in Tony's body light on fire like they'd been doused in gasoline.
"No. Nuh-uh. Don't be cute with me. We're not doing this."
There's a chair in the corner, and Tony drags it over by hooking his ankle around the leg of it. He'd originally planned to sit here to wait for The Soldier to wake up, but FRIDAY had reminded him that it could be hours, it could be days-- not worth his time. Also, probably would've come off as pretty damn creepy.
Sitting backwards in the chair with his arms laying over the backrest feels ridiculous in the bulky suit, but Tony's too riled up to care. "FRIDAY, babygirl, where'd I put that stupid fucking book?"
"Compartment one, boss." Seeing Barnes' barely repressed shock at the sudden appearance of a disembodied voice from the ceiling is immensely satisfying on Tony's frayed nerves, as childish as that is.
He pops that part of the suit open (designing what was essentially pockets into this thing was a nightmare, and it made Tony feel for women and the state of women's fashion all the more), and pulls out that Stupid Fucking Book. Even livid as he is (this guy murdered my fucking mom, killed Howard before he could ever bother a proper I love you), he's still not going to resort to using it.
"I don't know how twisted up you still are in all of this--" he waves the Stupid Fucking Book (and yeah, the capitalization is a necessity. It's not just any stupid fucking book, and he's stuck with it; Every second Tony can't just burn it and be done with the horrific thing makes his skin crawl more and more) around for emphasis, "so I'll be blunt: your old handler is dead, your new one got busted when you did. There is no mission to report, no base to return to-- nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Trying to get out of here would just be wasting your time, and mine."
"If you don't want a truce, we can try a deal, or--or you can sit in the fucking corner pouting for the indefinite future for all I care. And, trust me, I would love to let you go, but I can't. We're stuck with each other, at least until Steve comes back and grovels or breaks you out and takes you off the grid, what-fucking-ever he's going to do--" to make my life harder almost slips out, but Tony clamps down on it at the last second. His sentence ends awkwardly, evident he was planning on saying more, but he didn't.
Steve. Oh. Tony probably should've brought that particular subject up with more tact. Uh, whoops. Well. Can't go back now. And, really, it's fine (surely). Barnes-- The Solider-- isn't made of glass.
"This is bigger than the both of us. You're dead center in the middle of a political shitstorm, Barnes. At best, I help you with the Hydra Mindfuck, and you get to decide where your little pawn goes on this ridiculous chess board. At worst, you're no better than a bargaining chip to these people."
"They want Steve to sign this thing called the Accords. He won't, and people in high places are desperate," He says, just in case The Solider isn't in the loop about any of this. "You're Steve's weakness," Tony adds, with no small amount of vitriol, "So, y'know. Put two and two together. Rescuing a renowned war hero that's been a POW to Nazis for the past 70 years doesn't exactly hurt, either."
(God, Tony feels a migraine coming on.)
"So, yeah. Cooperate, or don't, your choice. I don't like this any better than you probably do; I'd gladly let you and Steve run off and get a newlywed cabin in the Poconos, make all this his problem, but it's--"
Clear as a photograph, Wanda's diverted explosion and the casualties as a result play in Tony's mind. Every causality since the Battle of New York and where Tony all started it all with Iron Man along with it. It's nauseating that there's so many that Tony couldn't begin to remember individual faces, even if he tried. It'll always be apart of the job, Accords or no, but... hopefully less. It's finally what makes him lose steam, his shoulders deflating.
"It's not that simple," is what he settles on, and it comes out world worn.
(It's strange to think that Barnes is technically as old as Tony's father, maybe even older, because he certainly doesn't look it. Technically hasn't lived it, because being in cryo for a majority of the past seven decades doesn't really count (and being brainwashed into an assassin certainly doesn't, either.))
Tony hasn't really been looking at The Solider, is honestly afraid to look to see how he's taking all this. He's interrupted from having to; Ever helpful in saving Tony from himself, FRIDAY makes her presence known again.
"Boss, if I may," FRIDAY starts, like she's not going to keep talking anyway, "it's unlikely Hydra gave Sergeant Barnes much time for the news or pop culture, and you've yet to introduce yourself."
"Ah. Good catch, babygirl."
He genuinely considers any of the usual smart ass or cheeky lines he gives, but Tony's not feeling it.
Oh.
Well, there's one thing that's yet to be addressed, and if they're going to be stuck together, it's pretty damn important, too. Maybe that's a good place to start.
"Can't give you the full effect without the helmet, but the suit's self explanatory-- I'm Iron Man. When I'm not fighting aliens or Nazis or babysitting for the government-- It's uh, Tony. Stark." The next words out of his mouth feel like lead, taste like it. Tony sounds small to his own ears, "only child of Howard and Maria Stark."
(There's the intrusive thought born from hysteria, unshakable in Tony's mind, that this is going to be incredibly awkward if Hydra wiped The Solider so thoroughly each time that he couldn't remember the names-- or faces-- of his targets. Somehow, though, he has a feeling that isn't the case.)
no subject
So, creating a safe and trusting environment that's probably vital to fixing Nazi brainwashing is off to a great start. So much for this being easy.
(Like it ever going to be easy. Pretending like he's not vividly imagining grabbing the helmet, putting it on, and repeatedly thunking it against the wall is a difficult task, but Tony manages. Probably.))
"I used to live with super-spies, I've been appropriately humbled from thinking my security can't be slipped," is what Tony eventually says. It's a careful non-answer, but it certainly does plenty of answering. He blows out an exasperated breath. "Can't? No. Shouldn't? Yeah. I'm not above dragging you back here by the scruff like a feral cat."
He isn't sure what to say for awhile. Tony watches the Soldier, arms crossed and with his petulant frown still in place.
Now, being observant is literally his job, both in the superhero and engineering and inventing sense, but it does almost slip his notice, what with Tony and The Solider having their weird stare down to suitably distract him. But The Solider can't hide the noise his arm makes, even with subtle movements-- shifting of plates, the familiar hum and whir of machinery that Tony knows down to his bones. In any other situation it would be funny: Tony impassively watching The Soldier test his bonds, the silent understanding that goes between them that he's been caught, yet The Solider then continuing to do it anyway. He almost does snort, actually, at The Solider's face: maybe Tony's projecting, but Barnes looks like he's trying really hard to project an air of innocence, like he hasn't just been caught with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. But then it just makes Tony mad, because he's pretty sure he's seen Steve do the exact same thing a million billion fucking times, and, oh, of course Steve probably got it from him! Or Barnes from Steve, whatever-- it still makes jealousy and envy and every nasty jilted emotion in Tony's body light on fire like they'd been doused in gasoline.
"No. Nuh-uh. Don't be cute with me. We're not doing this."
There's a chair in the corner, and Tony drags it over by hooking his ankle around the leg of it. He'd originally planned to sit here to wait for The Soldier to wake up, but FRIDAY had reminded him that it could be hours, it could be days-- not worth his time. Also, probably would've come off as pretty damn creepy.
Sitting backwards in the chair with his arms laying over the backrest feels ridiculous in the bulky suit, but Tony's too riled up to care. "FRIDAY, babygirl, where'd I put that stupid fucking book?"
"Compartment one, boss." Seeing Barnes' barely repressed shock at the sudden appearance of a disembodied voice from the ceiling is immensely satisfying on Tony's frayed nerves, as childish as that is.
He pops that part of the suit open (designing what was essentially pockets into this thing was a nightmare, and it made Tony feel for women and the state of women's fashion all the more), and pulls out that Stupid Fucking Book. Even livid as he is (this guy murdered my fucking mom, killed Howard before he could ever bother a proper I love you), he's still not going to resort to using it.
"I don't know how twisted up you still are in all of this--" he waves the Stupid Fucking Book (and yeah, the capitalization is a necessity. It's not just any stupid fucking book, and he's stuck with it; Every second Tony can't just burn it and be done with the horrific thing makes his skin crawl more and more) around for emphasis, "so I'll be blunt: your old handler is dead, your new one got busted when you did. There is no mission to report, no base to return to-- nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Trying to get out of here would just be wasting your time, and mine."
"If you don't want a truce, we can try a deal, or--or you can sit in the fucking corner pouting for the indefinite future for all I care. And, trust me, I would love to let you go, but I can't. We're stuck with each other, at least until Steve comes back and grovels or breaks you out and takes you off the grid, what-fucking-ever he's going to do--" to make my life harder almost slips out, but Tony clamps down on it at the last second. His sentence ends awkwardly, evident he was planning on saying more, but he didn't.
Steve. Oh. Tony probably should've brought that particular subject up with more tact. Uh, whoops. Well. Can't go back now. And, really, it's fine (surely). Barnes-- The Solider-- isn't made of glass.
"This is bigger than the both of us. You're dead center in the middle of a political shitstorm, Barnes. At best, I help you with the Hydra Mindfuck, and you get to decide where your little pawn goes on this ridiculous chess board. At worst, you're no better than a bargaining chip to these people."
"They want Steve to sign this thing called the Accords. He won't, and people in high places are desperate," He says, just in case The Solider isn't in the loop about any of this. "You're Steve's weakness," Tony adds, with no small amount of vitriol, "So, y'know. Put two and two together. Rescuing a renowned war hero that's been a POW to Nazis for the past 70 years doesn't exactly hurt, either."
(God, Tony feels a migraine coming on.)
"So, yeah. Cooperate, or don't, your choice. I don't like this any better than you probably do; I'd gladly let you and Steve run off and get a newlywed cabin in the Poconos, make all this his problem, but it's--"
Clear as a photograph, Wanda's diverted explosion and the casualties as a result play in Tony's mind. Every causality since the Battle of New York and where Tony all started it all with Iron Man along with it. It's nauseating that there's so many that Tony couldn't begin to remember individual faces, even if he tried. It'll always be apart of the job, Accords or no, but... hopefully less. It's finally what makes him lose steam, his shoulders deflating.
"It's not that simple," is what he settles on, and it comes out world worn.
(It's strange to think that Barnes is technically as old as Tony's father, maybe even older, because he certainly doesn't look it. Technically hasn't lived it, because being in cryo for a majority of the past seven decades doesn't really count (and being brainwashed into an assassin certainly doesn't, either.))
Tony hasn't really been looking at The Solider, is honestly afraid to look to see how he's taking all this. He's interrupted from having to; Ever helpful in saving Tony from himself, FRIDAY makes her presence known again.
"Boss, if I may," FRIDAY starts, like she's not going to keep talking anyway, "it's unlikely Hydra gave Sergeant Barnes much time for the news or pop culture, and you've yet to introduce yourself."
"Ah. Good catch, babygirl."
He genuinely considers any of the usual smart ass or cheeky lines he gives, but Tony's not feeling it.
Oh.
Well, there's one thing that's yet to be addressed, and if they're going to be stuck together, it's pretty damn important, too. Maybe that's a good place to start.
"Can't give you the full effect without the helmet, but the suit's self explanatory-- I'm Iron Man. When I'm not fighting aliens or Nazis or babysitting for the government-- It's uh, Tony. Stark." The next words out of his mouth feel like lead, taste like it. Tony sounds small to his own ears, "only child of Howard and Maria Stark."
(There's the intrusive thought born from hysteria, unshakable in Tony's mind, that this is going to be incredibly awkward if Hydra wiped The Solider so thoroughly each time that he couldn't remember the names-- or faces-- of his targets. Somehow, though, he has a feeling that isn't the case.)