Characters Tony Stark and Bucky Barnes Fandoms: MCU Summary: AU of Civil War. Tony's tasked with fixing the Winter Soldier and keeping custody of him at the same time.
The longer time passes with nothing being said-- both literally and in the sense that Soldier doesn't say something like, "hey, bro, where's your dick?" (which, for the record, is absolutely not how he'd phrase it in any known universe, but it's a funny mental image nonetheless)-- Tony relaxes. Or, well, relaxes might be a stretch, but he definitely calms down.
For an assassin, Soldier is shockingly good at this. He's meticulous, precise, and efficient, for starters, but by no means rushed or harsh or anything like that. It's funny: in a way, Soldier's poor bedside manner works in his favor here. Tony's never liked hospitals or doctors, and he's never been comforted by idle chatter and small talk, or any of the other strategies doctors and nurses pull out. The cheer always felt too fake or too patronizing (or both), and he'd always get lectures. Being a genius aside, Tony lives in his own body. He's well aware of the consequences of his shitty self care habits, thank you very much.
What really gets Tony is that Soldier is being so gentle. That, in and of itself, is almost scarier than if Soldier had just been rough about it, or just tried to kill him again. Maybe more so, actually, because Tony's touch-starved skin blooming with happy and overwhelmed warmth, seeking out moremoremore like a sunflower tilting towards the sun is, uh, not ideal. To say the least.
(When was the last time Tony had been handled with care? Excluding Pepper and Rhodey, every moment of contact in recent memory has been of violence, and through a metal suit. And besides, it's not like he sees either of them as often as any of them would like.)
In an attempt to distract himself, Tony focuses in on the metal arm. It's surprisingly dexterous. Soldier uses it like he would a second flesh and blood one, an obvious familiarity with it, but also it really does seem that technologically impressive. The how of Hydra having tech this good, seventy odd years ago, will always bug Tony-- ever the curious, ever the engineer-- but even the best prosthesis is still that: a prosthesis. Does it cause him pain? Are there any problems, areas to improve? Does Soldier do his own upkeep? All that swirls around and around in Tony's overactive mind.
(How much pain would it have to cause Soldier before anyone knew? It's a nauseating thought.)
Just when Tony thinks he'll escape this situation unscathed or with his dignity even somewhat intact, Soldier-- he tucks a lock of his long hair behind his ear, unthinking, another gesture laced with so much familiarity he must do it countless upon countless times. It reminds Tony that he'd thought the guy was beautiful earlier, and that certainly hasn't changed. Even looking worse for the wear (but surely better than how Tony himself is fairing), his hair still tangled and hectic, wearing the same clothes he's been wearing for God knows how long, ragged and tired, Soldier continues to be so. He, by all accounts, shouldn't, and Tony shouldn't even be thinking it, but like the reactor keeping the shrapnel from his heart, Tony feels the pull like a magnet, dragging everything to the surface. He's just glad he has the self restraint to do something like, say, reaching out to touch, finger combing to try and work out the knots and tangles.
Swallowing thickly, like that'll shove everything down, Tony finally feels like he can take a breath when Soldier finishes, and moves away.
"No, it-- uh. It's better. Thanks." The jangling of his belt feels loud as he shimmies back into his jeans. Soldier watching makes Tony's cheeks flush. Maybe it's because they didn't actually do anything sexual at all that makes it more raw and vulnerable and thus, more embarrassing.
"I went ahead and ordered some food for us. Do you--" wait, actually, before that, Tony checks his watch-- and, yeah, FRIDAY's already running a timer for how long they have until it gets here. They'll be just fine. "Do you want me to take you to your floor? I don't know about you, but a shower always helps me feel better after a shitty day."
To anyone else, it would have sounded more like a tease or a jab, a subtle but entirely unstable you smell. But Tony's being entirely truthful, that really is what helps sometimes when nothing else does. Plus, Soldier just looks disheveled, it's not like he was wading through a dumpster or anything. Maybe Tony can introduce him to the wonders of conditioner.
"Figured you might want your own space where people won't bother you. But if it's too much-- we'll figure something out." (He knows he can go overboard with the gift giving. It's just what he does. A love language, even.)
The awkward my leg is injured waddle to the elevator that he does will definitely be funny in the future, but, unfortunately, it's not the future yet. At least it doesn't hurt anymore.
None of those words belong. Obviously he knows that assets can’t actually possess things, that the weapons and kit they’re given are just borrowed inventory. The facilities where he’s been kept, the food and water he’s been allowed, the maintenance on his prosthesis; HYDRA only temporarily gives all of those things in order to complete the mission. That’s all. So when Stark says he can have his own space, the Winter Soldier stares at him without comprehending and he has to remind himself that Stark doesn’t know better. It shouldn’t be a surprise, given he’d freed him earlier and got a scalpel to the leg as his reward.
“I’ll shower,” he grunts.
It feels out of place, the way that Stark not only keeps trying to insist he can own things, that he wants to give him these things. How he keeps asking for permission when he doesn’t need to. Things are requests and suggestions with the man, not orders. The Asset will wonder quietly about that as Stark leads him to the elevator and they step inside, the silence falling between them like a living, breathing thing. At least he can get himself cleaned up and reevaluate this floor he’s “given”, check out the accommodations, and it sounds like Stark actually intends to feed him after, even though it would’ve made more sense to start reduced rations as punishment for stabbing him.
Stark doesn’t make sense. He’d risked his life only a few hours ago just to drive in the lesson that there’s no escape, and yet he’d turned around to offer luxury after luxury. He’d tried to - poorly - bandage his own leg even though it would’ve made more sense to get outside help for it, almost like he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone even though he’s clearly rich enough to afford plenty of staff. Guilt ebbs off him in clouds. For some reason he keeps apologizing. On trying to personalize an asset by insisting on names, as if he can’t imagine someone without…even though he controls Friday and Friday controls the Winter Soldier.
He’s…unpredictable.
Maybe Tony Stark’s more of a threat to HYDRA than his parents had ever been.
The Soldier mulls that over by the time the elevator dings and they step out onto “his” floor, Stark limping a bit while he leads the way and favors his injured leg. Cardboard moving boxes still line the hall and past the door where, according to Stark, is the living room, there’s a bedroom and an office and a kitchen, this single floor larger than any of the HYDRA barracks he’s seen. No aging concrete stretching from floor to ceiling to radiate the cold so that it seems to seep everywhere.
The Asset’s silent, outwardly unimpressed even though his eyes are flicking everywhere (his version of rubbernecking), until Stark shows him the bathroom. It’s all modern angles. Stone tastefully arranged in places. Stainless steel without rust on the metal fixtures; no signs of mold or rot on the tile. The shower itself is an entire room in itself with glass partitions, looking so new that there’s no water stains or cracks or scum from years of soap. It’s fully tricked out with detachable shower heads, an overhead spray set into the ceiling, even a seat if you want to sit underneath a miniature waterfall and just relax under the warm cascade that can issue from a slit in the stone wall.
Something’s missing. Enough that the Soldier finally breaks the silence, speaking up as he stands there staring at the nicest shower most people will ever see in their lifetimes.
There were a few things Tony expected Soldier to say, and it wasn't that. It's so jarring that it throws him for a loop, brain buffering like it's on a shitty WiFi signal. An answer starts to come out of his mouth before he fully comprehends why Soldier would be asking that.
"Like a, a decontamination shower? Uh, There's one in any lab in the building? The usual Avengers entrances, too." It's saved them more times than any of them would probably like to admit-- weird alien substances or just the plain ol' mysterious deadly goop is incredibly common in the superhero business.
But that can't be where Soldier is going with this. Even though he hasn't figured it out yet, Tony has that sinking feeling in his gut again that is becoming rapidly familiar. Like his body just knows this is another thing that has to do with shitty Hydra captors and it's preparing for the onslaught of horror and disgust that usually follows in its wake.
"Not much of a use for that in a home bathroom," he says, lightly, and then that's when it hits him like a freight train. Hydra referred to the Winter Soldier as the Asset. Soldier was an assassin, but it was more like he was the gun, and Hydra was the one pulling the trigger. They shoved the guy in cryo whenever they weren't using him, like they were putting him in storage. Of course he probably didn't get to do anything like a person, let alone bathe like one.
(What'd Hydra even do, hose him down like a dog? Though, maybe that was even being too generous, since at least dogs these days went to groomers where there was shampoo and conditioner and haircuts and pampering.)
Tony remembers a time, back when it was just Iron Man, where he'd been hit with this corrosive fluid. The suit had taken the brunt of it, but SHIELD was paranoid, so they'd shoved him into a decontamination room at their facility. Tony had been stark (hah) naked as the day he was born, surrounded by a bunch of guys in hazmat suits. Transgender-ness aside (which SHIELD had known about anyway, the world knows about anyway, so whatever), it was a skin crawling experience, and he'd only done it the once before he installed his own so he'd never have to do that again. Tony can't imagine doing that for seventy fucking years!
Shoving down the horror and outage (and bile) was hard, but Tony managed. He definitely felt it bleed into the smile he flashed Soldier with, yet continued on anyway. "Here, c'mon, I'll show you how it works." While he was at it, he also pointed to the various bottles and things on the shower shelf so Soldier knew what he was working with.
"I don't know if you were thinking about a haircut," Tony starts, as he rifles through the different plastic bottles. He's putting all the ones applicable for Soldier on the top of the shelf, everything else going on the bottom-- mostly just different products meant for hair types the guy doesn't have. "But if not, there's some great stuff in here." Tony squints at the back of a bottle for something he's pretty sure he saw Natasha using once (and thus had JARVIS, at the time, order in bulk), shrugs, and puts it on the top.
"Long hair is the worst when it's all limp and oily," he mumbles. It's said like someone speaking from experience, and well... it is. It was a lifetime ago that his hair was that long, but Tony could never forget what it was like.
"I think we keep razors in the--" He turns around and goes over to the sinks, or, more specifically, the medicine cabinet next to the mirror on the wall over the sinks. "Yeah, here. Not that the scruffy look isn't working for ya', but not everyone enjoys having stubble." Tony shrugs. Calloused fingers smooth over his own meticulously kept goatee, another unconscious movement.
"'Kay, uh. I'll get out of your hair. Any questions? Oh, and towels are over here."
It’s sinking in that not only are the usual hoses missing, he doesn’t see signs of restraints. At all. No handcuffs? No collar to chain him to the floor so he can’t make a run at the guards? These are just basic security precautions and yet glancing around as Stark speaks and rambles on his tour of the unconventional shower, cold blue eyes roaming, the Asset feels something…off, tightening along his throat like the missing collar would under standard operating procedures. Is…is Stark saying he’s supposed to shower by himself? With his hands free?
He’s barely able to listen at that point, rushing blood rising to pulse in his skull like he’s been punched by another Winter Soldier.
The Asset’s teeth grit. “No questions.”
The idea of a free shower is already too much. The suggestion he could choose to shave, to chop off the curtain of tangled hair HYDRA didn’t consider worthwhile to address (and therefore he didn’t consider it either), is pushing it too far. The Soldier doesn’t wait for Tony to scuttle out of the oversized shower before he’s already shedding his clothes with zero self-consciousness. That’s the only thing that’s followed SOP so far, because after that’s when the restraints are supposed to click shut against his skin. The only sound he hears, though, is Stark beating a quick retreat with a curse under his breath, the man practically running out. The door slams shut behind him.
It’s his first shower alone like this and if it wasn’t for Stark giving him the rundown, he wouldn’t have known where to start. Usually the Soldier just stands there while they spray him with icy water laced with sanitizing compounds. If he’s exhausted or hurt, he’d get knocked to the floor and they’ll spray him down where he lies. But today there’s no cleaning crew, no guards to bark orders, and for a second the Asset stares at the daunting rows of bottles, unaware he’s feeling a rising sense of panic.
In the end he picks one and only one - the first bottle in the row that says “body wash”. Since there’s no hose, he has to work in the body wash with his own hands, rubbing the gel clumsily through his tangled hair and along his body; he can’t stop glancing over at the walls for the missing guards.
By the time the Soldier emerges from the shower, it’s been long enough that he’s either a) died in there or b) purposefully running up the water bill out of spite. While he’s at least dressed in a loose t-shirt and shorts instead of going commando, he’s currently dripping a trail along the tile as he pads out into the living room. Stark’s sitting on the sectional couch, head bent as he reads something on a semi-transparent tablet in his hands.
The Soldier drips to a stop in front of Stark’s legs. A puddle of soapy water forms, dangerously close to soaking the man’s designer shoes if he doesn't get them out of the way fast enough.
“I’m clean,” he says. “...You said there was food?”
Soldier dripping all over the place is... better than Tony had expected, actually. After dropping trou with him still in the fucking room, no shame whatsoever, Tony had been mentally preparing himself for the possibility that their new resident would walk out of the bathroom ass naked. Or in just a towel, which would at least be decent, but not by much. So a loose shirt and shorts combo (like Pepper used to wear to bed or after her showers, wait no, don't think about that--) is... yeah. Manageable. They can work up to the concept of drying off with a towel.
"Yup," Tony exaggeratedly pops the p sound. Soldier took long enough in the shower that it gave the delivery time to arrive. He'd arranged all of it out on the coffee table ahead of time. Tossing one of the couch's cushions on the floor in front of the table, Tony gets himself comfortable. "Open stuff and have at whatever looks good. I know you super soldiers need a lot of calories to keep up with your metabolisms, so, eat up! There's plenty."
He hadn't bothered with plates, Tony has always been a eat it straight from the carton guy, but he did grab Soldier a fork. Just in case, right? Who is he to assume that dexterous assassins know how to use chopsticks? Tony hands a pair of chopsticks and the fork over, then breaks open his own. Then, without further ado, he eats.
If there's one benefit to sharing a meal with Tony Stark-- a real, proper meal, not any of those stuffy charity or gala dinners-- it's that he doesn't give it any time to be awkward. There's no attempt at clumsy small talk, no prolonged eye contact-- none of that. He just turns back to his phone, resting screen up on the wood, and talks science and engineering jumbo with FRIDAY like he would in the workshop.
"Pull up a hologram for me, would you, babygirl? Thank you." Tony twirls it this way and that with the back of his chopsticks in between bites.
It's not a disrespect thing. Tony's brain is just constantly running at one hundred miles per hour, he needs to get it out, have something to do with his hands, all of that. Logically, he understands the point, socially, of things like small talk, but it doesn't appeal to him and why bother, when you can get straight to the point? The eye contact thing is similar-- it doesn't come naturally to him, and staring someone in the eye for too long makes him all squirrelly and uncomfortable. He's also, frankly, just bad at it. When do you look? When do you look away? Where is the balance of the two? There's no concrete formula to spell it all out. Taking stabs in the dark and always doing it wrong is beyond frustrating. So, whatever. Being branded as a flighty mess and shocking people when he's actually listening is better than a reputation for staring people down unwaveringly and creeping them out until they're the ones not listening. Okay, that approach still has its uses, but still.
All this is to say, Tony thinks he and Soldier will get along well in this area. Maybe it would be better if Tony could shut up for more than two seconds at a time, but that's just an unfortunate given with him.
"I know the answer to this is probably a resounding no," he starts, suddenly, and this is actually aimed at Soldier, "but I'd be a jerk if I didn't at least offer: if there's anything about that arm that's bothering you, I can fix it up for you." It doesn't really need saying which arm he means, but he gestures at the metal one with his chopsticks anyway. "If you know anything about maintenance or upkeep, I can give you some tools for the smaller stuff."
After a moment to gauge where he’s supposed to sit (and maybe flicking a glance to cheat and see what Stark’s doing), the Soldier lowers - or, more accurately, he squelches - his dripping body down onto the floor so that he’s close to the coffee table straining underneath what seems like too much food for two men. Well, maybe it would be too much food for two average men. But there’s Stark, with too much intelligence and not enough common sense, and there’s a super soldier with the accelerated metabolism to match, and even from here he’s getting a little dizzy with the olfactory assault wafting up from the takeout containers spread between them.
His mouth’s feeling thick with saliva all of a sudden. HYDRA never gave him this much food and what was there, it definitely didn’t smell like this.
At least he vaguely remembers to cross his legs so he doesn’t risk kicking Stark underneath the coffee table. Friday’s last order had been to assist the man: kicking him in his crotch or his just-bandaged thigh seems counterproductive to those orders.
Stark tells him to dig in, like he knows what he’s looking at. The Asset can’t place the scents or the scrawl in black permanent marker on the containers, so he just does what he did in the shower: he picks the closest one. They eat in silence, which is surprising in that he would’ve expected Stark to run his mouth off like he usually does. But he doesn’t, splitting his attention between food and his phone, and the quiet is almost…the Winter Soldier wouldn’t say it’s a relief but he can focus on prodding the food with his chopsticks, on how it’s all kinds of different colors and textures and smells. He doesn’t speak until he’s spoken to. When he is, the Asset glances up, his mouth full of some kind of marinated meat and flat noodle slippery with grease and if he first finishes chewing and swallowing, it’s not out of politeness but because it’s just hard to speak clearly with his mouth occupied.
“There’s a limited amount of maintenance I can do on it,” the Soldier, which is true. He wasn’t supposed to fuss with it, was supposed to sit there and stare straight ahead or at the floor while techs handled all that busy work. “It’s not malfunctioning yet.”
The Winter Soldier lets slip that “yet” without thinking about it. The food’s a more pressing distraction than if the cybernetic prosthetic starts acting up again, which it will because it eventually always does, and by now he’s already demolished his way through several takeout containers. Pulling another toward him, he peeks inside, and he’ll dig in without thinking to offer Tony some before he polishes that off too.
It does seem like Soldier is more than a little out of his depth, but he's eating the food and doesn't seem too disgruntled or anything, so Tony will count it as a win. Hopefully they can work up to finding out what the guy likes eventually, but for now, this works.
As Soldier relays information about the arm like it's a mission report, Tony chews, considers, listens.
And, okay, look. He knows he should be more delicate about this, but he can't help himself, alright? Pushing buttons until someone breaks is what he's done his whole life, and all things engineering have been his special interest since he was, like, four. Combine the two? Yeah. Also, seriously, the Iron Man suit has how many Marks now? Tony couldn't stop improving things even if he had a gun to his head.
"But, okay, see-- it very might well be malfunctioning. Hydra's definition of malfunctioning could be a whole lot different than mine. I can see that it works, yeah, but is it optimal? Efficient? Is every intended function behaving as expected? Pretty important of a prosthesis: is it causing you pain? Because it shouldn't. Whether they wanted it to hurt, or it's a side effect of old tech and people less competent than I am, I don't know, but, still. If it's hurting or bothering you, it doesn't have to be.
"Things are different now. I want to give you an arm that's yours, not Hydra's."
To avoid eye contact, Tony looks down at his chopsticks and swirls them around in the almost empty container he's holding. If they're on the subject of things Tony could build for Soldier... It might as well be a good time to bring this up, no?
"And... I've been thinking. There's no way you can trust me or anyone until the trigger words are gone, yeah? But relying on what other people do and don't know is inefficient and cumbersome and it doesn't leave the power in your hands. If Hydra could build something over seventy years ago to program the words into you, I bet I could build something to take them out. If they don't work on you anymore, it doesn't matter who does and doesn't know them, right?" He shrugs one shoulder in a motion that could be described as bashful. "You should have the power to decide what you want to do with your life. I got my second chance, and you deserve one, too. What happened to you isn't even your fault, so it's a little bogus that it would be seen as a second chance, but... Can't be picky about public perception. I should know."
In truth, Tony probably won't ever forgive those responsible for what happened to his mom, and, hell, his dad, too, but it wasn't Soldier's fault. The very human part of him will probably always be bitter and hold Soldier with some blame and all those things, but as a whole, he's just another man out of time who had his autonomy taken from him. Maybe it's Steve that makes him want to do right by this man, maybe it's something else, but he does want to do right by Soldier. Fixing him up, right as rain, and giving him a place to stay, that's just what Tony does already. So what's one more person for his brood?
"But I understand that something like that requires a lot of trust-- no offense taken if you just want me to fuck off and leave you be. Just, ah, you know, something to think about."
It’s one thing to know about the triggers (some of them, at least, because there must be others he isn’t aware of). But to entertain the idea of removing them? It’s enough to freeze the Soldier in place, his spine locked vertebra by vertebra, his hand gripping the chopsticks tight enough that minute cracks begin to spiderweb across their surface, breath hitching as he stares down the partially-eaten container of takeout and remembers how to frown. For a second his vision tunnels with static. He won’t - can’t? - sabotage HYDRA like that, even if Stark’s almost like an indirect handler by proxy of Friday’s final order. No matter how convinced Stark sounds, the cold hard fact is assets don’t have that kind of power.
Assets don’t deserve anything.
The Winter Soldier sits there for a moment, unsure if it’s just his training kicking in or if it’s some safeguard implanted in his skull somewhere asserting itself. The next second those traitorous thoughts begin to slide away, fragmenting; the takeout box in front of him blurs until it snaps back into focus with a suddenness that throbs against his temples like the aftermath of a punch. Emptiness howls in his head to indicate something’s missing but when he pauses to dredge it back up, there’s just the void and then Stark talking about his prosthesis, Stark playing with his food, Stark talking too much but he always does that, that’s nothing out of the ordinary, so -
Blinking quickly, he gives himself a little shake and it’s like nothing happened; the Soldier goes back to eating and drinking with the same mechanical motions, and when he speaks up again, it’s like he didn’t hear half of what Tony said.
But apparently he’s allowed to think about the cybernetic arm.
“You can upgrade the arm,” he says. “But only if you focus on optimizing it, you work on top of the base frame and I can watch what you’re doing.”
As for whether the arm hurts, well, it is what it is. Maintenance usually has other things to worry about, plenty of other, more pressing repairs scheduled. Although…Stark’s made it clear that he runs things differently and from the glimpse he got down in the workshop, it almost seemed like he was tinkering for…fun? Just because he can? Could explain why he has all this free time to waste his energy thinking about the arm that had choked him just a few hours ago. The idea of not having that constant pulsing pain vibrating from where the prosthetic is socketed into his shoulder is a non-issue, though, and instead the Soldier focuses on something more important, his eyes slipping away from Tony’s face to fix on:
Tony almost doesn't catch it, but the sound of snapping wood and hitched breathing makes him look at Soldier again fully. For a second it's almost like how he was back out in the field that first time, eyes blank and devoid of anything human, and Tony has that fuckfuckfuckfuck is the Winter Soldier going to attack me moment, but then it clears.
If that didn't give away that something was wrong, completely avoiding the topic of removing the trigger words would've.
Kidnapping a guy and turning him into an assassinating object is bad enough, but putting in a failsafe to prevent the triggers from being removed in the event of his rescue? God. It makes logical sense, and that's what's so sickening about it. How anyone can see a person as no more than an object-- an Asset, well, no, Tony can't fathom that.
This certainly complicates things. He'll figure something out, though. He always does.
"Aye, aye, Soldier. I can do that. We'll get you right as rain in no time."
Tony expects the conversation to end there, but then Soldier asks him if he's going to finish what he's eating, presumably with the intent to finish it instead. Sure, the guy is probably just hungry, crazy metabolism and what not, but just the fact that he's asking, and that it's something Tony can provide, it sends butterflies kicking up a storm in his stomach. He doesn't eat much anyway, so Tony easily acquiesces. "Sure, buddy. Knock yourself out."
Soldier digging into the food (his food) makes the butterflies get worse.
Christ, Tony. Get a grip.
He sits around for some minutes longer, but without the excuse of food or showing Soldier around, Tony has no reason to stay. With a sigh, he stands, stretches and pops. "Back to the workshop with me." (He can already sense Friday's disapproval, but readily ignores it.) "Invitation's always open to you, but I can also just let you know when I finish the first blueprint if you don't want to wait around."
Tony doesn't expect an answer, so he doesn't wait around for one. "'Kay, nighty-night. Give me a holler if you need something."
Stark sweeps out - well, more like limps out - and the Soldier's once again left to his own devices, though he'll watch the door until Stark's vanished into the elevator. It's a weird, unsettling feeling, being left to figure out what to do with his time without someone ordering him around. No maintenance. No guards. Obviously there's no need for guards with Friday watching any CCTV feeds but...
Without Stark rambling on and filling the silence with every and any thought running through his head, exhaustion finally hits the Soldier in this heavy weight draping across his shoulders and seeping through bone and muscles. For awhile he still paces a bit more throughout "his" floor as if he wants to keep moving, as if that'll make a difference - but eventually he's already established that it's too much space for one person, he's located all the glints of the CCTV cameras recessed into the ceilings and corners.
He runs out of things to do.
The Soldier wanders back into the bedroom to stare at the king-size bed with its silk sheets, a muscle in his jaw faintly ticking as he grits his teeth: he knows without even lying down to test it out that it's too soft, that he shouldn't fool himself into thinking it's okay to use the bed. After a second he opts for the floor, positioning himself in a corner where he has a good line of sight just in case, and curls on his side in a fetal position with his head pillowed by the unforgiving metal of his left arm. Exhaustion closes in, pressing down like a weight tolerance stress test on his body...
He jolts awake with a grunt, eyes flaring open to dawn's dim light filtering in through the windows. The sky outside swells with the gray underbellies of a storm rolling in from the river; he sees more than hears the lightning skittering across the clouds as he sits up, his neck and body sore, his head feeling a little better now that he's finally snatched a few hours of sleep -
Something beeps from the doorway.
It's one of Stark's drones, the crude looking ones that wheel around with a single manipulator arm and basic prongs. Not sure which one. Stark's named the things but they look the same to the Soldier. The robot spins in a little circle and then waggles its prongs at him, almost like it's beckoning him over. It does it a second and then a third time before he gets up, takes a step toward it and that earns him what sounds an awful lot like a pleased trill as it backs up a few more feet and then waves again.
He's been herded before, but having a robot coming to fetch him is new. As they get into the elevator, the robot tapping the button to Stark's workshop with its prong, he gets the inexplicable feeling it's...happy? A sidelong glance and he can see the arm bobbing up and down slightly, as if moving to some invisible song.
Stark doesn't seem to have left the workshop since last night. He has, however, made it to a couch shoved up against the wall, almost nestled between half-finished projects, one leg sprawling over the edge, the blanket he'd been using half kicked off. Without thinking about it, the Winter Soldier reaches down, picks up the blanket, and then drapes it back over Stark, telling himself he just doesn't want him to trip on it if he suddenly wakes up.
Maybe not so much for any other project on his plate, but for the new arm, it's a very successful night in the Tony Stark workshop. FRIDAY was able to pull together a hologram from various scans she'd done, giving Tony a base to work off of. And from there, well... He just did what he does best.
Regardless of the condition, he knew immediately that whatever internal wiring was in there, had to go. Who knew what Hydra had going on (which, unfortunately, he wouldn't know for sure until he could get a scan in the workshop itself plus take a look inside), and it was seventy years old, to boot! Yeah, no. Tony absolutely could do better. He planned out roughly what he wanted, but it would get refined and adjusted based on the actual state of Soldier's arm.
Design wise, Tony didn't have much to say. Other than the star (which he was hoping he could talk Soldier into removing, but they'd just have to see), the aesthetics were actually quite nice. He'd see what he could do about what was likely annoying gaps in the finger joints and plates, but everything else seemed fine to stay. That seemed to be what Soldier wanted, also-- Tony was given permission to work off of the old one, not make one from scratch (yet?). No, what would probably be the biggest undergoing was the shoulder joint.
He'd read the files, he saw it on scans-- the thing was drilled into Soldier. Without undergoing major surgery, there was nothing Tony could do to remove it, if Soldier would even let him (and that would definitely be a no). Now, one thing Tony could do was dull or completely block any nerves that might be causing chronic pain. The rest of Soldier's pain, Tony assumes, is from shoddy craftsmanship and repair work. Maybe Tony couldn't remove the arm from being drilled into Soldier, but he could definitely build a better connection point. Hell, maybe he could build some kind of shoulder joint housing, so Soldier could remove the rest of the arm for some relief. And, definitely on the list: hopefully he can do something about the skin to metal attachment site, but that was another thing Tony would have to confirm in person.
After finishing everything in one sitting, he'd been bullied onto the couch to finally rest. (As per usual, Tony insisted he wasn't tired, and then promptly fell asleep within seconds.)
Tony could only get a few hours at a time before the nightmares hit, so, even to FRIDAY's displeasure, she always woke him before that point. This time it seemed to be by sending DUM-E to retrieve Soldier.
And, look. He had been a light sleeper before Afghanistan, okay? So of course as soon as Soldier is in his space, fixing his blanket, Tony wakes.
His fear prepares him for violence. Instead, he gets warmth.
There are barely there memories of his mother tucking him into bed when he was really, really young. So young, and so worn by time, that they're more of a whispy, foggy recollection than a clear image. It's painful, that he stopped getting that treatment so long ago, that he can't remember.
(The pain of not being able to clearly remember his mother's face, unless he's reminded by a picture, is a whole different beast.)
But it's not really about the act of being tucked in, it's about the care and consideration of it all. It stirs the same warmth in him as when Pepper would leave him coffee and a kiss on the forehead, back when he was still CEO of SI. It stirs the same warmth in him as when he and Rhodey were at MTI, and Rhodey would carry him to bed after he passed out-- be it at a movie or homework or whatever they were doing. Maybe even more so, because it's the fucking Winter Soldier. In the sleep haze, Tony doesn't even consider that it might all just be some mandatory obligation to him. It's just plain nice.
This will be mortifying later, but Tony's sleep deprived and just waking up, so instead of doing anything sensible, he's entirely too vulnerable for his liking. Which is to say: Tony gives the man a sleepily smile, and then grabs the nearest hand (the metal one, it so happens) that's adjusting the blanket, plonking his face into it.
"Good, you're still here," he mumbles. It says a lot about him that the uncomfortable, unwavering give of the metal is immensely comforting. "W's afraid you left again. Tower's been so quiet lately. Hate it."
(Yeah. Definitely mortifying. This is why he needs caffeine first thing in the morning.)
Tony stays there until Dum-E wheels his way over, a mug gripped in his claw. The little guy is finally getting the hang of the coffee machine-- FRIDAY only warns Tony of motor oil in the coffee once a week now! And since there's no such warning, Tony sits up and emerges from his blanket cocoon enough to start drinking from the mug.
The Winter Soldier doesn’t smile back or flinch when his hand gets suddenly grabbed. To his credit, he also doesn’t retaliate by breaking every major and minor bone in Stark’s hand, although he can’t say for sure if it’s because of Friday’s order or a failing in his reaction time or some other unidentified malfunction cropping up. Instead he’ll freeze in place, shoulders squared in a tense line, the metal plates of his palm cool against Stark’s cheek flushed pink from where it’d been pressed against the pillow wedged along the couch’s armrest. With the exception of last night's bandage redressing, he can’t remember the last time he touched someone, anyone, and it wasn’t for interrogation purposes or the disposal of a target.
He starts to pull free. Stark squeezes - not hard, just a little - and he immediately stops trying to extricate his hand.
…Now what?
Unsure what he should do next with his hand trapped against Stark’s cheek, the Soldier glances around and then finally settles slowly into a crouch, his right hand resting loosely on his thigh. He doesn’t say anything and Stark doesn’t either, the other man’s eyelashes fluttering like he’s tempted to go back to sleep with a titanium hand as a pillow instead of the perfectly good one less than a foot away. Huffing a faint sound under his breath, the Winter Soldier’s about to prepare for the very real possibility that he’ll be stuck here when that robot from before rolls up wafting the scent of freshly brewed coffee from the mug in its manipulator.
He’ll remain crouched even when Stark finally frees his hand to reach for the coffee. The robot warbles, pivots, wheels off…and comes back with a second cup, filled almost to the brim. This time the machine comes to a stop in front of the Soldier. When he doesn’t reach for the mug, the robot beeps, insistently jolts forward, and almost slops hot coffee all over him.
The Winter Soldier’s forced to intercept it before the thing comes at him for a third try. He grips the handle in his right hand, cupping the mug’s bottom with his left. Ignoring the robot's triumphant trill, he turns toward Stark with that flat-eyed blue stare of his, his mouth pressed into that line.
“Why aren’t you sleeping in your bed?” he asks, because it doesn’t occur at all to start with even a polite good morning or how’d you sleep? “It’d be better for your leg.”
Insomnia? Or did the medicated gel wear off and it was too painful for Stark to make it to the elevator? The Soldier continues to stare at Stark, unblinking, searching for signs of pain in the skin around his eyes or if he’s gritting his jaw or maybe he’s holding his himself gingerly, favoring the stab wound in his thigh.
Do all snipers crouch like they're birds perching on a branch? Tony errantly thinks, before his brain snaps back to the present, and Soldier's question. The caffeine also helps to keep him from being (as) scattered, as it slowly absorbs into his system.
(Dawning awareness of what he just did also horrifies Tony, but Soldier isn't talking about it, so he can just pretend it never happened. Yep. Yes.)
With a snort, Tony replies, "dust probably sleeps in my bed more than I do," into his mug. It's not really an answer, though, so Soldier keeps staring at him. The feeling of eyes on him makes Tony squirm, (well, no, not exactly. Tony is good at ignoring people staring at him, it's just that he knows Soldier won't eventually give up that unnerves him), and he cracks pretty quickly. "This time? I worked until I couldn't anymore and it's the nearest soft surface. FRIDAY gets grouchy when I pass out at my workbench."
A shrug, another sip of coffee, then turning the mug around and around in his palms so Tony has something to do with his hands. He speaks about it all so flippantly, like it's no big deal. "Insomnia. Fun perks of C-PTSD: nightmares. I dunno; I spent three months captive in a cave in Afghanistan-- beds haven't really felt the same, since."
Unfortunately, Soldier does have a point: a bed would definitely have been better for the leg. The more awake Tony is, the more he feels it. Plus, every other pain and ache, be it chronic or 'I sleep on a couch, and I'm not as young as I used to be' related. Some neck and shoulder and everywhere rolling results in some pretty sickening cracks, but it's the thigh that Tony ultimately rubs at with a slight grimace.
"I'm gonna need to call my physical therapist, aren't I?" The pinched 'I just swallowed a lemon' face says all it needs to about how he feels about that. "Whatevs. Fri, put it on my to-do for later."
Tony stands (on wobbly legs). "Okie-dokie. That's enough vulnerability for a lifetime, I think. C'mon, hot stuff, lemme show you what I cooked up for that arm of yours. I've got some questions for you."
The workshop has much more expansive hologram technology, so the interactive blueprint Tony pulls up is huge. More than life sized. He pulls it apart into multiple components, so Soldier can see more clearly what Tony plans to do externally and internally.
"It's your arm, so you can veto whatever you'd like. Would you be cool for some more in depth scans? I did the best I could with what I have, but I'd do better if I knew exactly what I was working with. Oh, and how do you feel about the star? Can we buff it out? Leave it blank, put something different there...? It, and the whole," vague hand gestures to the arm's whole shiny chrome, "make this thing kind of... anti inconspicuous. I get the whole point used to be that it wasn't, but I figured you might want differently. You're a pretty lowkey guy, and all."
Stark tells him a little bit more about himself and now the insomnia makes sense. It explains the dark bruises around his eyes, the exhaustion that seeps into the man’s body language even as he chatters away about anything. And just like he suspected, his leg is giving him trouble, confirming what the Winter Soldier’s already guessed: no enhanced healing.
If it wasn’t for the Iron Man suit, he’d be almost painfully easy to kill as soon as he took it off.
…so why does he continue to put it on? It must make him a target and yet…
The Soldier quietly turns that over in his head as he obeys, following Tony’s limping figure deeper into the workshop as they wind their way around half-finished projects, slabs of metal and seemingly endless coils of wire in various sizes that Tony steps over without having to look down. He comes to a stop when Tony does; flick of his hand, an easy twist of his wrist and suddenly the air fills with ghostly images of holo schematics slowly turning in space.
Gazing up at it, his face awash with blue light that seems to erase the exhaustion lines etched in it, the Soldier supposes that looks…surprisingly accurate. He thinks. He knows basic repairs on the arm if it needs to be dealt with in the field, but anything more in-depth has always been left to the mechanics. For awhile he doesn’t say anything, just looks at the image of the cybernetic arm pulled apart while distantly aware that it’s still hanging at his side at the same time, heavy, humming quietly into the socket where it meets his shoulder.
Tony’s questions drag him back. His head tilts down, eyes searching out the other man as he levels a cool, flinty stare at him.
“Scans are fine,” the Asset says after thinking about it. “Make it lighter. All that matters is you increase its efficiency and remove any obsolete tech that could be slowing me down. Leave the star.”
He says it as if it’s his idea and maybe he even believes it because he’s been made to believe it. But that star marks the arm - and by extension, him - as HYDRA’s property and he instinctively balks at the idea of changing it when it’s always been there and always will. Suddenly aware he’s still cupping the coffee, the Winter Soldier lifts it as he gazes at Tony. For a second surprise - maybe even pleasure - flits across his face as he inhales the scent of roasted coffee beans. It smells…fresh. Not the stale stuff they used to have when he was quivering in the chair and there was something wrong with the halo and they were arguing about it over his head, pissed they had to work late into the night.
It’s his first cup of coffee since…he doesn’t know. But the Soldier sips it, pauses, and now he’s staring at the mug with a frown, his eyes glistening almost as if there’s the start of involuntary tears brimming.
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For an assassin, Soldier is shockingly good at this. He's meticulous, precise, and efficient, for starters, but by no means rushed or harsh or anything like that. It's funny: in a way, Soldier's poor bedside manner works in his favor here. Tony's never liked hospitals or doctors, and he's never been comforted by idle chatter and small talk, or any of the other strategies doctors and nurses pull out. The cheer always felt too fake or too patronizing (or both), and he'd always get lectures. Being a genius aside, Tony lives in his own body. He's well aware of the consequences of his shitty self care habits, thank you very much.
What really gets Tony is that Soldier is being so gentle. That, in and of itself, is almost scarier than if Soldier had just been rough about it, or just tried to kill him again. Maybe more so, actually, because Tony's touch-starved skin blooming with happy and overwhelmed warmth, seeking out moremoremore like a sunflower tilting towards the sun is, uh, not ideal. To say the least.
(When was the last time Tony had been handled with care? Excluding Pepper and Rhodey, every moment of contact in recent memory has been of violence, and through a metal suit. And besides, it's not like he sees either of them as often as any of them would like.)
In an attempt to distract himself, Tony focuses in on the metal arm. It's surprisingly dexterous. Soldier uses it like he would a second flesh and blood one, an obvious familiarity with it, but also it really does seem that technologically impressive. The how of Hydra having tech this good, seventy odd years ago, will always bug Tony-- ever the curious, ever the engineer-- but even the best prosthesis is still that: a prosthesis. Does it cause him pain? Are there any problems, areas to improve? Does Soldier do his own upkeep? All that swirls around and around in Tony's overactive mind.
(How much pain would it have to cause Soldier before anyone knew? It's a nauseating thought.)
Just when Tony thinks he'll escape this situation unscathed or with his dignity even somewhat intact, Soldier-- he tucks a lock of his long hair behind his ear, unthinking, another gesture laced with so much familiarity he must do it countless upon countless times. It reminds Tony that he'd thought the guy was beautiful earlier, and that certainly hasn't changed. Even looking worse for the wear (but surely better than how Tony himself is fairing), his hair still tangled and hectic, wearing the same clothes he's been wearing for God knows how long, ragged and tired, Soldier continues to be so. He, by all accounts, shouldn't, and Tony shouldn't even be thinking it, but like the reactor keeping the shrapnel from his heart, Tony feels the pull like a magnet, dragging everything to the surface. He's just glad he has the self restraint to do something like, say, reaching out to touch, finger combing to try and work out the knots and tangles.
Swallowing thickly, like that'll shove everything down, Tony finally feels like he can take a breath when Soldier finishes, and moves away.
"No, it-- uh. It's better. Thanks." The jangling of his belt feels loud as he shimmies back into his jeans. Soldier watching makes Tony's cheeks flush. Maybe it's because they didn't actually do anything sexual at all that makes it more raw and vulnerable and thus, more embarrassing.
"I went ahead and ordered some food for us. Do you--" wait, actually, before that, Tony checks his watch-- and, yeah, FRIDAY's already running a timer for how long they have until it gets here. They'll be just fine. "Do you want me to take you to your floor? I don't know about you, but a shower always helps me feel better after a shitty day."
To anyone else, it would have sounded more like a tease or a jab, a subtle but entirely unstable you smell. But Tony's being entirely truthful, that really is what helps sometimes when nothing else does. Plus, Soldier just looks disheveled, it's not like he was wading through a dumpster or anything. Maybe Tony can introduce him to the wonders of conditioner.
"Figured you might want your own space where people won't bother you. But if it's too much-- we'll figure something out." (He knows he can go overboard with the gift giving. It's just what he does. A love language, even.)
The awkward my leg is injured waddle to the elevator that he does will definitely be funny in the future, but, unfortunately, it's not the future yet. At least it doesn't hurt anymore.
no subject
None of those words belong. Obviously he knows that assets can’t actually possess things, that the weapons and kit they’re given are just borrowed inventory. The facilities where he’s been kept, the food and water he’s been allowed, the maintenance on his prosthesis; HYDRA only temporarily gives all of those things in order to complete the mission. That’s all. So when Stark says he can have his own space, the Winter Soldier stares at him without comprehending and he has to remind himself that Stark doesn’t know better. It shouldn’t be a surprise, given he’d freed him earlier and got a scalpel to the leg as his reward.
“I’ll shower,” he grunts.
It feels out of place, the way that Stark not only keeps trying to insist he can own things, that he wants to give him these things. How he keeps asking for permission when he doesn’t need to. Things are requests and suggestions with the man, not orders. The Asset will wonder quietly about that as Stark leads him to the elevator and they step inside, the silence falling between them like a living, breathing thing. At least he can get himself cleaned up and reevaluate this floor he’s “given”, check out the accommodations, and it sounds like Stark actually intends to feed him after, even though it would’ve made more sense to start reduced rations as punishment for stabbing him.
Stark doesn’t make sense. He’d risked his life only a few hours ago just to drive in the lesson that there’s no escape, and yet he’d turned around to offer luxury after luxury. He’d tried to - poorly - bandage his own leg even though it would’ve made more sense to get outside help for it, almost like he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone even though he’s clearly rich enough to afford plenty of staff. Guilt ebbs off him in clouds. For some reason he keeps apologizing. On trying to personalize an asset by insisting on names, as if he can’t imagine someone without…even though he controls Friday and Friday controls the Winter Soldier.
He’s…unpredictable.
Maybe Tony Stark’s more of a threat to HYDRA than his parents had ever been.
The Soldier mulls that over by the time the elevator dings and they step out onto “his” floor, Stark limping a bit while he leads the way and favors his injured leg. Cardboard moving boxes still line the hall and past the door where, according to Stark, is the living room, there’s a bedroom and an office and a kitchen, this single floor larger than any of the HYDRA barracks he’s seen. No aging concrete stretching from floor to ceiling to radiate the cold so that it seems to seep everywhere.
The Asset’s silent, outwardly unimpressed even though his eyes are flicking everywhere (his version of rubbernecking), until Stark shows him the bathroom. It’s all modern angles. Stone tastefully arranged in places. Stainless steel without rust on the metal fixtures; no signs of mold or rot on the tile. The shower itself is an entire room in itself with glass partitions, looking so new that there’s no water stains or cracks or scum from years of soap. It’s fully tricked out with detachable shower heads, an overhead spray set into the ceiling, even a seat if you want to sit underneath a miniature waterfall and just relax under the warm cascade that can issue from a slit in the stone wall.
Something’s missing. Enough that the Soldier finally breaks the silence, speaking up as he stands there staring at the nicest shower most people will ever see in their lifetimes.
“Where’s the sanitation hoses?”
no subject
There were a few things Tony expected Soldier to say, and it wasn't that. It's so jarring that it throws him for a loop, brain buffering like it's on a shitty WiFi signal. An answer starts to come out of his mouth before he fully comprehends why Soldier would be asking that.
"Like a, a decontamination shower? Uh, There's one in any lab in the building? The usual Avengers entrances, too." It's saved them more times than any of them would probably like to admit-- weird alien substances or just the plain ol' mysterious deadly goop is incredibly common in the superhero business.
But that can't be where Soldier is going with this. Even though he hasn't figured it out yet, Tony has that sinking feeling in his gut again that is becoming rapidly familiar. Like his body just knows this is another thing that has to do with shitty Hydra captors and it's preparing for the onslaught of horror and disgust that usually follows in its wake.
"Not much of a use for that in a home bathroom," he says, lightly, and then that's when it hits him like a freight train. Hydra referred to the Winter Soldier as the Asset. Soldier was an assassin, but it was more like he was the gun, and Hydra was the one pulling the trigger. They shoved the guy in cryo whenever they weren't using him, like they were putting him in storage. Of course he probably didn't get to do anything like a person, let alone bathe like one.
(What'd Hydra even do, hose him down like a dog? Though, maybe that was even being too generous, since at least dogs these days went to groomers where there was shampoo and conditioner and haircuts and pampering.)
Tony remembers a time, back when it was just Iron Man, where he'd been hit with this corrosive fluid. The suit had taken the brunt of it, but SHIELD was paranoid, so they'd shoved him into a decontamination room at their facility. Tony had been stark (hah) naked as the day he was born, surrounded by a bunch of guys in hazmat suits. Transgender-ness aside (which SHIELD had known about anyway, the world knows about anyway, so whatever), it was a skin crawling experience, and he'd only done it the once before he installed his own so he'd never have to do that again. Tony can't imagine doing that for seventy fucking years!
Shoving down the horror and outage (and bile) was hard, but Tony managed. He definitely felt it bleed into the smile he flashed Soldier with, yet continued on anyway. "Here, c'mon, I'll show you how it works." While he was at it, he also pointed to the various bottles and things on the shower shelf so Soldier knew what he was working with.
"I don't know if you were thinking about a haircut," Tony starts, as he rifles through the different plastic bottles. He's putting all the ones applicable for Soldier on the top of the shelf, everything else going on the bottom-- mostly just different products meant for hair types the guy doesn't have. "But if not, there's some great stuff in here." Tony squints at the back of a bottle for something he's pretty sure he saw Natasha using once (and thus had JARVIS, at the time, order in bulk), shrugs, and puts it on the top.
"Long hair is the worst when it's all limp and oily," he mumbles. It's said like someone speaking from experience, and well... it is. It was a lifetime ago that his hair was that long, but Tony could never forget what it was like.
"I think we keep razors in the--" He turns around and goes over to the sinks, or, more specifically, the medicine cabinet next to the mirror on the wall over the sinks. "Yeah, here. Not that the scruffy look isn't working for ya', but not everyone enjoys having stubble." Tony shrugs. Calloused fingers smooth over his own meticulously kept goatee, another unconscious movement.
"'Kay, uh. I'll get out of your hair. Any questions? Oh, and towels are over here."
no subject
He’s barely able to listen at that point, rushing blood rising to pulse in his skull like he’s been punched by another Winter Soldier.
The Asset’s teeth grit. “No questions.”
The idea of a free shower is already too much. The suggestion he could choose to shave, to chop off the curtain of tangled hair HYDRA didn’t consider worthwhile to address (and therefore he didn’t consider it either), is pushing it too far. The Soldier doesn’t wait for Tony to scuttle out of the oversized shower before he’s already shedding his clothes with zero self-consciousness. That’s the only thing that’s followed SOP so far, because after that’s when the restraints are supposed to click shut against his skin. The only sound he hears, though, is Stark beating a quick retreat with a curse under his breath, the man practically running out. The door slams shut behind him.
It’s his first shower alone like this and if it wasn’t for Stark giving him the rundown, he wouldn’t have known where to start. Usually the Soldier just stands there while they spray him with icy water laced with sanitizing compounds. If he’s exhausted or hurt, he’d get knocked to the floor and they’ll spray him down where he lies. But today there’s no cleaning crew, no guards to bark orders, and for a second the Asset stares at the daunting rows of bottles, unaware he’s feeling a rising sense of panic.
In the end he picks one and only one - the first bottle in the row that says “body wash”. Since there’s no hose, he has to work in the body wash with his own hands, rubbing the gel clumsily through his tangled hair and along his body; he can’t stop glancing over at the walls for the missing guards.
By the time the Soldier emerges from the shower, it’s been long enough that he’s either a) died in there or b) purposefully running up the water bill out of spite. While he’s at least dressed in a loose t-shirt and shorts instead of going commando, he’s currently dripping a trail along the tile as he pads out into the living room. Stark’s sitting on the sectional couch, head bent as he reads something on a semi-transparent tablet in his hands.
The Soldier drips to a stop in front of Stark’s legs. A puddle of soapy water forms, dangerously close to soaking the man’s designer shoes if he doesn't get them out of the way fast enough.
“I’m clean,” he says. “...You said there was food?”
no subject
"Yup," Tony exaggeratedly pops the p sound. Soldier took long enough in the shower that it gave the delivery time to arrive. He'd arranged all of it out on the coffee table ahead of time. Tossing one of the couch's cushions on the floor in front of the table, Tony gets himself comfortable. "Open stuff and have at whatever looks good. I know you super soldiers need a lot of calories to keep up with your metabolisms, so, eat up! There's plenty."
He hadn't bothered with plates, Tony has always been a eat it straight from the carton guy, but he did grab Soldier a fork. Just in case, right? Who is he to assume that dexterous assassins know how to use chopsticks? Tony hands a pair of chopsticks and the fork over, then breaks open his own. Then, without further ado, he eats.
If there's one benefit to sharing a meal with Tony Stark-- a real, proper meal, not any of those stuffy charity or gala dinners-- it's that he doesn't give it any time to be awkward. There's no attempt at clumsy small talk, no prolonged eye contact-- none of that. He just turns back to his phone, resting screen up on the wood, and talks science and engineering jumbo with FRIDAY like he would in the workshop.
"Pull up a hologram for me, would you, babygirl? Thank you." Tony twirls it this way and that with the back of his chopsticks in between bites.
It's not a disrespect thing. Tony's brain is just constantly running at one hundred miles per hour, he needs to get it out, have something to do with his hands, all of that. Logically, he understands the point, socially, of things like small talk, but it doesn't appeal to him and why bother, when you can get straight to the point? The eye contact thing is similar-- it doesn't come naturally to him, and staring someone in the eye for too long makes him all squirrelly and uncomfortable. He's also, frankly, just bad at it. When do you look? When do you look away? Where is the balance of the two? There's no concrete formula to spell it all out. Taking stabs in the dark and always doing it wrong is beyond frustrating. So, whatever. Being branded as a flighty mess and shocking people when he's actually listening is better than a reputation for staring people down unwaveringly and creeping them out until they're the ones not listening. Okay, that approach still has its uses, but still.
All this is to say, Tony thinks he and Soldier will get along well in this area. Maybe it would be better if Tony could shut up for more than two seconds at a time, but that's just an unfortunate given with him.
"I know the answer to this is probably a resounding no," he starts, suddenly, and this is actually aimed at Soldier, "but I'd be a jerk if I didn't at least offer: if there's anything about that arm that's bothering you, I can fix it up for you." It doesn't really need saying which arm he means, but he gestures at the metal one with his chopsticks anyway. "If you know anything about maintenance or upkeep, I can give you some tools for the smaller stuff."
no subject
His mouth’s feeling thick with saliva all of a sudden. HYDRA never gave him this much food and what was there, it definitely didn’t smell like this.
At least he vaguely remembers to cross his legs so he doesn’t risk kicking Stark underneath the coffee table. Friday’s last order had been to assist the man: kicking him in his crotch or his just-bandaged thigh seems counterproductive to those orders.
Stark tells him to dig in, like he knows what he’s looking at. The Asset can’t place the scents or the scrawl in black permanent marker on the containers, so he just does what he did in the shower: he picks the closest one. They eat in silence, which is surprising in that he would’ve expected Stark to run his mouth off like he usually does. But he doesn’t, splitting his attention between food and his phone, and the quiet is almost…the Winter Soldier wouldn’t say it’s a relief but he can focus on prodding the food with his chopsticks, on how it’s all kinds of different colors and textures and smells.
He doesn’t speak until he’s spoken to. When he is, the Asset glances up, his mouth full of some kind of marinated meat and flat noodle slippery with grease and if he first finishes chewing and swallowing, it’s not out of politeness but because it’s just hard to speak clearly with his mouth occupied.
“There’s a limited amount of maintenance I can do on it,” the Soldier, which is true. He wasn’t supposed to fuss with it, was supposed to sit there and stare straight ahead or at the floor while techs handled all that busy work. “It’s not malfunctioning yet.”
The Winter Soldier lets slip that “yet” without thinking about it. The food’s a more pressing distraction than if the cybernetic prosthetic starts acting up again, which it will because it eventually always does, and by now he’s already demolished his way through several takeout containers. Pulling another toward him, he peeks inside, and he’ll dig in without thinking to offer Tony some before he polishes that off too.
no subject
As Soldier relays information about the arm like it's a mission report, Tony chews, considers, listens.
And, okay, look. He knows he should be more delicate about this, but he can't help himself, alright? Pushing buttons until someone breaks is what he's done his whole life, and all things engineering have been his special interest since he was, like, four. Combine the two? Yeah. Also, seriously, the Iron Man suit has how many Marks now? Tony couldn't stop improving things even if he had a gun to his head.
"But, okay, see-- it very might well be malfunctioning. Hydra's definition of malfunctioning could be a whole lot different than mine. I can see that it works, yeah, but is it optimal? Efficient? Is every intended function behaving as expected? Pretty important of a prosthesis: is it causing you pain? Because it shouldn't. Whether they wanted it to hurt, or it's a side effect of old tech and people less competent than I am, I don't know, but, still. If it's hurting or bothering you, it doesn't have to be.
"Things are different now. I want to give you an arm that's yours, not Hydra's."
To avoid eye contact, Tony looks down at his chopsticks and swirls them around in the almost empty container he's holding. If they're on the subject of things Tony could build for Soldier... It might as well be a good time to bring this up, no?
"And... I've been thinking. There's no way you can trust me or anyone until the trigger words are gone, yeah? But relying on what other people do and don't know is inefficient and cumbersome and it doesn't leave the power in your hands. If Hydra could build something over seventy years ago to program the words into you, I bet I could build something to take them out. If they don't work on you anymore, it doesn't matter who does and doesn't know them, right?" He shrugs one shoulder in a motion that could be described as bashful. "You should have the power to decide what you want to do with your life. I got my second chance, and you deserve one, too. What happened to you isn't even your fault, so it's a little bogus that it would be seen as a second chance, but... Can't be picky about public perception. I should know."
In truth, Tony probably won't ever forgive those responsible for what happened to his mom, and, hell, his dad, too, but it wasn't Soldier's fault. The very human part of him will probably always be bitter and hold Soldier with some blame and all those things, but as a whole, he's just another man out of time who had his autonomy taken from him. Maybe it's Steve that makes him want to do right by this man, maybe it's something else, but he does want to do right by Soldier. Fixing him up, right as rain, and giving him a place to stay, that's just what Tony does already. So what's one more person for his brood?
"But I understand that something like that requires a lot of trust-- no offense taken if you just want me to fuck off and leave you be. Just, ah, you know, something to think about."
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Assets don’t deserve anything.
The Winter Soldier sits there for a moment, unsure if it’s just his training kicking in or if it’s some safeguard implanted in his skull somewhere asserting itself. The next second those traitorous thoughts begin to slide away, fragmenting; the takeout box in front of him blurs until it snaps back into focus with a suddenness that throbs against his temples like the aftermath of a punch. Emptiness howls in his head to indicate something’s missing but when he pauses to dredge it back up, there’s just the void and then Stark talking about his prosthesis, Stark playing with his food, Stark talking too much but he always does that, that’s nothing out of the ordinary, so -
Blinking quickly, he gives himself a little shake and it’s like nothing happened; the Soldier goes back to eating and drinking with the same mechanical motions, and when he speaks up again, it’s like he didn’t hear half of what Tony said.
But apparently he’s allowed to think about the cybernetic arm.
“You can upgrade the arm,” he says. “But only if you focus on optimizing it, you work on top of the base frame and I can watch what you’re doing.”
As for whether the arm hurts, well, it is what it is. Maintenance usually has other things to worry about, plenty of other, more pressing repairs scheduled. Although…Stark’s made it clear that he runs things differently and from the glimpse he got down in the workshop, it almost seemed like he was tinkering for…fun? Just because he can? Could explain why he has all this free time to waste his energy thinking about the arm that had choked him just a few hours ago. The idea of not having that constant pulsing pain vibrating from where the prosthetic is socketed into his shoulder is a non-issue, though, and instead the Soldier focuses on something more important, his eyes slipping away from Tony’s face to fix on:
“Are you going to finish that?”
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If that didn't give away that something was wrong, completely avoiding the topic of removing the trigger words would've.
Kidnapping a guy and turning him into an assassinating object is bad enough, but putting in a failsafe to prevent the triggers from being removed in the event of his rescue? God. It makes logical sense, and that's what's so sickening about it. How anyone can see a person as no more than an object-- an Asset, well, no, Tony can't fathom that.
This certainly complicates things. He'll figure something out, though. He always does.
"Aye, aye, Soldier. I can do that. We'll get you right as rain in no time."
Tony expects the conversation to end there, but then Soldier asks him if he's going to finish what he's eating, presumably with the intent to finish it instead. Sure, the guy is probably just hungry, crazy metabolism and what not, but just the fact that he's asking, and that it's something Tony can provide, it sends butterflies kicking up a storm in his stomach. He doesn't eat much anyway, so Tony easily acquiesces. "Sure, buddy. Knock yourself out."
Soldier digging into the food (his food) makes the butterflies get worse.
Christ, Tony. Get a grip.
He sits around for some minutes longer, but without the excuse of food or showing Soldier around, Tony has no reason to stay. With a sigh, he stands, stretches and pops. "Back to the workshop with me." (He can already sense Friday's disapproval, but readily ignores it.) "Invitation's always open to you, but I can also just let you know when I finish the first blueprint if you don't want to wait around."
Tony doesn't expect an answer, so he doesn't wait around for one. "'Kay, nighty-night. Give me a holler if you need something."
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Without Stark rambling on and filling the silence with every and any thought running through his head, exhaustion finally hits the Soldier in this heavy weight draping across his shoulders and seeping through bone and muscles. For awhile he still paces a bit more throughout "his" floor as if he wants to keep moving, as if that'll make a difference - but eventually he's already established that it's too much space for one person, he's located all the glints of the CCTV cameras recessed into the ceilings and corners.
He runs out of things to do.
The Soldier wanders back into the bedroom to stare at the king-size bed with its silk sheets, a muscle in his jaw faintly ticking as he grits his teeth: he knows without even lying down to test it out that it's too soft, that he shouldn't fool himself into thinking it's okay to use the bed. After a second he opts for the floor, positioning himself in a corner where he has a good line of sight just in case, and curls on his side in a fetal position with his head pillowed by the unforgiving metal of his left arm. Exhaustion closes in, pressing down like a weight tolerance stress test on his body...
He jolts awake with a grunt, eyes flaring open to dawn's dim light filtering in through the windows. The sky outside swells with the gray underbellies of a storm rolling in from the river; he sees more than hears the lightning skittering across the clouds as he sits up, his neck and body sore, his head feeling a little better now that he's finally snatched a few hours of sleep -
Something beeps from the doorway.
It's one of Stark's drones, the crude looking ones that wheel around with a single manipulator arm and basic prongs. Not sure which one. Stark's named the things but they look the same to the Soldier. The robot spins in a little circle and then waggles its prongs at him, almost like it's beckoning him over. It does it a second and then a third time before he gets up, takes a step toward it and that earns him what sounds an awful lot like a pleased trill as it backs up a few more feet and then waves again.
He's been herded before, but having a robot coming to fetch him is new. As they get into the elevator, the robot tapping the button to Stark's workshop with its prong, he gets the inexplicable feeling it's...happy? A sidelong glance and he can see the arm bobbing up and down slightly, as if moving to some invisible song.
Stark doesn't seem to have left the workshop since last night. He has, however, made it to a couch shoved up against the wall, almost nestled between half-finished projects, one leg sprawling over the edge, the blanket he'd been using half kicked off. Without thinking about it, the Winter Soldier reaches down, picks up the blanket, and then drapes it back over Stark, telling himself he just doesn't want him to trip on it if he suddenly wakes up.
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Regardless of the condition, he knew immediately that whatever internal wiring was in there, had to go. Who knew what Hydra had going on (which, unfortunately, he wouldn't know for sure until he could get a scan in the workshop itself plus take a look inside), and it was seventy years old, to boot! Yeah, no. Tony absolutely could do better. He planned out roughly what he wanted, but it would get refined and adjusted based on the actual state of Soldier's arm.
Design wise, Tony didn't have much to say. Other than the star (which he was hoping he could talk Soldier into removing, but they'd just have to see), the aesthetics were actually quite nice. He'd see what he could do about what was likely annoying gaps in the finger joints and plates, but everything else seemed fine to stay. That seemed to be what Soldier wanted, also-- Tony was given permission to work off of the old one, not make one from scratch (yet?). No, what would probably be the biggest undergoing was the shoulder joint.
He'd read the files, he saw it on scans-- the thing was drilled into Soldier. Without undergoing major surgery, there was nothing Tony could do to remove it, if Soldier would even let him (and that would definitely be a no). Now, one thing Tony could do was dull or completely block any nerves that might be causing chronic pain. The rest of Soldier's pain, Tony assumes, is from shoddy craftsmanship and repair work. Maybe Tony couldn't remove the arm from being drilled into Soldier, but he could definitely build a better connection point. Hell, maybe he could build some kind of shoulder joint housing, so Soldier could remove the rest of the arm for some relief. And, definitely on the list: hopefully he can do something about the skin to metal attachment site, but that was another thing Tony would have to confirm in person.
After finishing everything in one sitting, he'd been bullied onto the couch to finally rest. (As per usual, Tony insisted he wasn't tired, and then promptly fell asleep within seconds.)
Tony could only get a few hours at a time before the nightmares hit, so, even to FRIDAY's displeasure, she always woke him before that point. This time it seemed to be by sending DUM-E to retrieve Soldier.
And, look. He had been a light sleeper before Afghanistan, okay? So of course as soon as Soldier is in his space, fixing his blanket, Tony wakes.
His fear prepares him for violence. Instead, he gets warmth.
There are barely there memories of his mother tucking him into bed when he was really, really young. So young, and so worn by time, that they're more of a whispy, foggy recollection than a clear image. It's painful, that he stopped getting that treatment so long ago, that he can't remember.
(The pain of not being able to clearly remember his mother's face, unless he's reminded by a picture, is a whole different beast.)
But it's not really about the act of being tucked in, it's about the care and consideration of it all. It stirs the same warmth in him as when Pepper would leave him coffee and a kiss on the forehead, back when he was still CEO of SI. It stirs the same warmth in him as when he and Rhodey were at MTI, and Rhodey would carry him to bed after he passed out-- be it at a movie or homework or whatever they were doing. Maybe even more so, because it's the fucking Winter Soldier. In the sleep haze, Tony doesn't even consider that it might all just be some mandatory obligation to him. It's just plain nice.
This will be mortifying later, but Tony's sleep deprived and just waking up, so instead of doing anything sensible, he's entirely too vulnerable for his liking. Which is to say: Tony gives the man a sleepily smile, and then grabs the nearest hand (the metal one, it so happens) that's adjusting the blanket, plonking his face into it.
"Good, you're still here," he mumbles. It says a lot about him that the uncomfortable, unwavering give of the metal is immensely comforting. "W's afraid you left again. Tower's been so quiet lately. Hate it."
(Yeah. Definitely mortifying. This is why he needs caffeine first thing in the morning.)
Tony stays there until Dum-E wheels his way over, a mug gripped in his claw. The little guy is finally getting the hang of the coffee machine-- FRIDAY only warns Tony of motor oil in the coffee once a week now! And since there's no such warning, Tony sits up and emerges from his blanket cocoon enough to start drinking from the mug.
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He starts to pull free. Stark squeezes - not hard, just a little - and he immediately stops trying to extricate his hand.
…Now what?
Unsure what he should do next with his hand trapped against Stark’s cheek, the Soldier glances around and then finally settles slowly into a crouch, his right hand resting loosely on his thigh. He doesn’t say anything and Stark doesn’t either, the other man’s eyelashes fluttering like he’s tempted to go back to sleep with a titanium hand as a pillow instead of the perfectly good one less than a foot away. Huffing a faint sound under his breath, the Winter Soldier’s about to prepare for the very real possibility that he’ll be stuck here when that robot from before rolls up wafting the scent of freshly brewed coffee from the mug in its manipulator.
He’ll remain crouched even when Stark finally frees his hand to reach for the coffee. The robot warbles, pivots, wheels off…and comes back with a second cup, filled almost to the brim. This time the machine comes to a stop in front of the Soldier. When he doesn’t reach for the mug, the robot beeps, insistently jolts forward, and almost slops hot coffee all over him.
The Winter Soldier’s forced to intercept it before the thing comes at him for a third try. He grips the handle in his right hand, cupping the mug’s bottom with his left. Ignoring the robot's triumphant trill, he turns toward Stark with that flat-eyed blue stare of his, his mouth pressed into that line.
“Why aren’t you sleeping in your bed?” he asks, because it doesn’t occur at all to start with even a polite good morning or how’d you sleep? “It’d be better for your leg.”
Insomnia? Or did the medicated gel wear off and it was too painful for Stark to make it to the elevator? The Soldier continues to stare at Stark, unblinking, searching for signs of pain in the skin around his eyes or if he’s gritting his jaw or maybe he’s holding his himself gingerly, favoring the stab wound in his thigh.
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(Dawning awareness of what he just did also horrifies Tony, but Soldier isn't talking about it, so he can just pretend it never happened. Yep. Yes.)
With a snort, Tony replies, "dust probably sleeps in my bed more than I do," into his mug. It's not really an answer, though, so Soldier keeps staring at him. The feeling of eyes on him makes Tony squirm, (well, no, not exactly. Tony is good at ignoring people staring at him, it's just that he knows Soldier won't eventually give up that unnerves him), and he cracks pretty quickly. "This time? I worked until I couldn't anymore and it's the nearest soft surface. FRIDAY gets grouchy when I pass out at my workbench."
A shrug, another sip of coffee, then turning the mug around and around in his palms so Tony has something to do with his hands. He speaks about it all so flippantly, like it's no big deal. "Insomnia. Fun perks of C-PTSD: nightmares. I dunno; I spent three months captive in a cave in Afghanistan-- beds haven't really felt the same, since."
Unfortunately, Soldier does have a point: a bed would definitely have been better for the leg. The more awake Tony is, the more he feels it. Plus, every other pain and ache, be it chronic or 'I sleep on a couch, and I'm not as young as I used to be' related. Some neck and shoulder and everywhere rolling results in some pretty sickening cracks, but it's the thigh that Tony ultimately rubs at with a slight grimace.
"I'm gonna need to call my physical therapist, aren't I?" The pinched 'I just swallowed a lemon' face says all it needs to about how he feels about that. "Whatevs. Fri, put it on my to-do for later."
Tony stands (on wobbly legs). "Okie-dokie. That's enough vulnerability for a lifetime, I think. C'mon, hot stuff, lemme show you what I cooked up for that arm of yours. I've got some questions for you."
The workshop has much more expansive hologram technology, so the interactive blueprint Tony pulls up is huge. More than life sized. He pulls it apart into multiple components, so Soldier can see more clearly what Tony plans to do externally and internally.
"It's your arm, so you can veto whatever you'd like. Would you be cool for some more in depth scans? I did the best I could with what I have, but I'd do better if I knew exactly what I was working with. Oh, and how do you feel about the star? Can we buff it out? Leave it blank, put something different there...? It, and the whole," vague hand gestures to the arm's whole shiny chrome, "make this thing kind of... anti inconspicuous. I get the whole point used to be that it wasn't, but I figured you might want differently. You're a pretty lowkey guy, and all."
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If it wasn’t for the Iron Man suit, he’d be almost painfully easy to kill as soon as he took it off.
…so why does he continue to put it on? It must make him a target and yet…
The Soldier quietly turns that over in his head as he obeys, following Tony’s limping figure deeper into the workshop as they wind their way around half-finished projects, slabs of metal and seemingly endless coils of wire in various sizes that Tony steps over without having to look down. He comes to a stop when Tony does; flick of his hand, an easy twist of his wrist and suddenly the air fills with ghostly images of holo schematics slowly turning in space.
Gazing up at it, his face awash with blue light that seems to erase the exhaustion lines etched in it, the Soldier supposes that looks…surprisingly accurate. He thinks. He knows basic repairs on the arm if it needs to be dealt with in the field, but anything more in-depth has always been left to the mechanics. For awhile he doesn’t say anything, just looks at the image of the cybernetic arm pulled apart while distantly aware that it’s still hanging at his side at the same time, heavy, humming quietly into the socket where it meets his shoulder.
Tony’s questions drag him back. His head tilts down, eyes searching out the other man as he levels a cool, flinty stare at him.
“Scans are fine,” the Asset says after thinking about it. “Make it lighter. All that matters is you increase its efficiency and remove any obsolete tech that could be slowing me down. Leave the star.”
He says it as if it’s his idea and maybe he even believes it because he’s been made to believe it. But that star marks the arm - and by extension, him - as HYDRA’s property and he instinctively balks at the idea of changing it when it’s always been there and always will. Suddenly aware he’s still cupping the coffee, the Winter Soldier lifts it as he gazes at Tony. For a second surprise - maybe even pleasure - flits across his face as he inhales the scent of roasted coffee beans. It smells…fresh. Not the stale stuff they used to have when he was quivering in the chair and there was something wrong with the halo and they were arguing about it over his head, pissed they had to work late into the night.
It’s his first cup of coffee since…he doesn’t know. But the Soldier sips it, pauses, and now he’s staring at the mug with a frown, his eyes glistening almost as if there’s the start of involuntary tears brimming.