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 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.
no subject
(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."
no subject
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.