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.
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.
With the okay for scans, Tony has FRIDAY get to work. While it's a little vague, Soldier's instructions give Tony the perfect frame of reference for what areas he should focus on. Otherwise, he'd keep going until he'd tinkered with every inch of the damn thing.
(Keeping the star makes Tony frown in this scrunchy, pouty way of his-- not dissimilar to a child when they don't get what they want-- but he doesn't verbally object. You can't exactly expect Soldier to shake off the effects of the programming within a day, but Tony can still be grumbly about it.)
Since he has to wait for the scans to finish before he can do anything, Tony's attention span starts to itch for something else to keep it occupied. So of course his eyes skip around the room, and land back on Solider contemplating his coffee mug. And then Tony sees the tears, and-- fuck, what does he do?
Calling attention to it seems like a recipe for disaster. A gentle breeze would probably have Soldier retreating and pulling away, so like hell is Tony going to shine a spotlight directly onto him. The gut reaction he has is to just ignore it, but that's not what Tony really wants to do-- he's self aware enough to know that it's just a fear response, being anxious avoidant as usual.
The vow to avoid being vulnerable and honest was still hot off the press, was Tony seriously considering doing it again? But what else could he do?
(Begrudgingly, it was nice. Tony was the type of guy to dump and run, and talking with Soldier was sort of like talking to a brick wall. Well-- okay, that sounds meaner than he meant it. There's none of the pity eyes or sympathy frowns, is what he means-- which just makes Tony's skin prickle and make the urge to escape worse.)
"Good, isn't it?" Tony doesn't make eye contact, and it's only partly for Soldier's sake. It's easier to fake a casualness he doesn't feel, this way. "Admittedly I've always been a coffee snob, but I figure: 'hey, you only live once, why skimp on the good stuff?' It's the little things in life."
Touch is undoubtedly still risky, but Tony's stupid little touch starved hindbrain is in overdrive after earlier, so he can't help himself. He steps up next to Soldier (with his own mug in hand) and leans against the guy-- still not making eye contact. While taking some of the weight off his leg is nice, and Tony will absolutely use it as an excuse if asked, that's exactly what it feels like: an excuse. Taking weight off your leg doesn't mean you need to lay your head on someone's shoulder, but here he is.
God, age is making him soft. Stark men are made of iron-- all of them except Tony, that is.
(But being made of iron would mean he wouldn't get to feel the press of another against him, or their body heat, or the warmth of coffee through a ceramic mug, so maybe being flesh and blood isn't so bad.)
The Winter Soldier wouldn’t know what good coffee tastes like. If Stark says it’s good, it probably is.
It smells different, better, somehow, than what he’d picked up in HYDRA. Those stolen snatches of scent he wasn’t supposed to register and file away because they’re irrelevant to assignments or maintenance. Even so, the taste feels familiar as it floods across his tongue, the mug warm against his hand. Even the steam curling up feels…
It’s enough that when Tony comes up to him - close, maybe too close considering how poorly yesterday started out - the Soldier doesn’t step back, shoot a flat-eyed stare or shove him so he’ll have more clearance. There’s a moment where he stiffens at the sudden touch…but it’s slow, not too bad, a brush of the shoulders that almost feels as familiar as the taste of coffee warming his body. A difference in body size: the man he’d leaned up again was bigger than Stark, broader.
The Soldier doesn’t jerk away.
In fact, he stands right where he is, seemingly allowing (or, at least, tolerating), Tony’s presence. Maybe it’s because he’s not chattering up a storm, overwhelming him with new ideas about the arm improvements or going on about this man he’s supposed to be, this “Bucky Barnes”. He isn’t even making him struggle his way through a simple decision like what body wash to use of a choice from several. They’re just existing in close proximity.
In this crowded, messy workroom without guards or handlers or even the cries of prisoners echoing down concrete halls and the Soldier’s startled to realize this isn’t…bad.
He doesn’t bump back, exactly. But as he steals another sip of coffee, a part of him still surprised he’s allowed a cup of his own, he’ll let Stark lean against him all he wants. He’ll even let the other man rest his head against his shoulder.
They’ll stand there for awhile, silent, and the Soldier’s almost done with his coffee, glancing down at its reduced levels with dull alarm.
“...can I have more?” he surprises himself by daring to ask. An asset shouldn’t ask for anything, he knows that’s standard protocol. His voice still creaks out, his head tilting a little so he can glance down at Stark’s dark head resting against his shoulder.
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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.
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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.
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(Keeping the star makes Tony frown in this scrunchy, pouty way of his-- not dissimilar to a child when they don't get what they want-- but he doesn't verbally object. You can't exactly expect Soldier to shake off the effects of the programming within a day, but Tony can still be grumbly about it.)
Since he has to wait for the scans to finish before he can do anything, Tony's attention span starts to itch for something else to keep it occupied. So of course his eyes skip around the room, and land back on Solider contemplating his coffee mug. And then Tony sees the tears, and-- fuck, what does he do?
Calling attention to it seems like a recipe for disaster. A gentle breeze would probably have Soldier retreating and pulling away, so like hell is Tony going to shine a spotlight directly onto him. The gut reaction he has is to just ignore it, but that's not what Tony really wants to do-- he's self aware enough to know that it's just a fear response, being anxious avoidant as usual.
The vow to avoid being vulnerable and honest was still hot off the press, was Tony seriously considering doing it again? But what else could he do?
(Begrudgingly, it was nice. Tony was the type of guy to dump and run, and talking with Soldier was sort of like talking to a brick wall. Well-- okay, that sounds meaner than he meant it. There's none of the pity eyes or sympathy frowns, is what he means-- which just makes Tony's skin prickle and make the urge to escape worse.)
"Good, isn't it?" Tony doesn't make eye contact, and it's only partly for Soldier's sake. It's easier to fake a casualness he doesn't feel, this way. "Admittedly I've always been a coffee snob, but I figure: 'hey, you only live once, why skimp on the good stuff?' It's the little things in life."
Touch is undoubtedly still risky, but Tony's stupid little touch starved hindbrain is in overdrive after earlier, so he can't help himself. He steps up next to Soldier (with his own mug in hand) and leans against the guy-- still not making eye contact. While taking some of the weight off his leg is nice, and Tony will absolutely use it as an excuse if asked, that's exactly what it feels like: an excuse. Taking weight off your leg doesn't mean you need to lay your head on someone's shoulder, but here he is.
God, age is making him soft. Stark men are made of iron-- all of them except Tony, that is.
(But being made of iron would mean he wouldn't get to feel the press of another against him, or their body heat, or the warmth of coffee through a ceramic mug, so maybe being flesh and blood isn't so bad.)
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It smells different, better, somehow, than what he’d picked up in HYDRA. Those stolen snatches of scent he wasn’t supposed to register and file away because they’re irrelevant to assignments or maintenance. Even so, the taste feels familiar as it floods across his tongue, the mug warm against his hand. Even the steam curling up feels…
It’s enough that when Tony comes up to him - close, maybe too close considering how poorly yesterday started out - the Soldier doesn’t step back, shoot a flat-eyed stare or shove him so he’ll have more clearance. There’s a moment where he stiffens at the sudden touch…but it’s slow, not too bad, a brush of the shoulders that almost feels as familiar as the taste of coffee warming his body. A difference in body size: the man he’d leaned up again was bigger than Stark, broader.
The Soldier doesn’t jerk away.
In fact, he stands right where he is, seemingly allowing (or, at least, tolerating), Tony’s presence. Maybe it’s because he’s not chattering up a storm, overwhelming him with new ideas about the arm improvements or going on about this man he’s supposed to be, this “Bucky Barnes”. He isn’t even making him struggle his way through a simple decision like what body wash to use of a choice from several. They’re just existing in close proximity.
In this crowded, messy workroom without guards or handlers or even the cries of prisoners echoing down concrete halls and the Soldier’s startled to realize this isn’t…bad.
He doesn’t bump back, exactly. But as he steals another sip of coffee, a part of him still surprised he’s allowed a cup of his own, he’ll let Stark lean against him all he wants. He’ll even let the other man rest his head against his shoulder.
They’ll stand there for awhile, silent, and the Soldier’s almost done with his coffee, glancing down at its reduced levels with dull alarm.
“...can I have more?” he surprises himself by daring to ask. An asset shouldn’t ask for anything, he knows that’s standard protocol. His voice still creaks out, his head tilting a little so he can glance down at Stark’s dark head resting against his shoulder.