Chapter Text
alchemy /ˈalkɪmi/
noun
‘the medieval forerunner of chemistry, concerned with the transmutation of matter, in particular with attempts to convert base metals into gold or find a universal elixir’ or ‘a seemingly magical process of transformation, creation, or combination’
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Bucky’s lived in the village all his life.
It’s not big, though it’s not tiny – he’d call it a town, but it’s cute and quaint; town seems too bulky, too busy to describe where he lives. There’s a few shops – a baker’s, a butcher’s, the farmer’s wife’s stall, the book shop and several others Bucky rarely sets foot in, some empty and full of dust – a large square and then winding roads of tiny cottages, all tucked together and covered in flowers. The roads are cobbled and few own horses, they’re surrounded by woodland and there’s a river not far down the path at the bottom of the valley.
There’s also the mansion on the hill.
It’s dark and imposing from the village – a large black shape that sticks out on the skyline above. There’s a single solitary path that leads up the hill, directly to the old building. It’s thin and it’s difficult as the hillside grows steeper, and more treacherous. People rarely take that path, and no one ever takes it twice. It’s not out of fear, of course it’s not – except when it is, and the village does like to gossip about the family said to live there, once. A mother taken before her time, a father too grief-stricken to be much of anything, and a son now left alone.
The son never comes down to the village, is never seen – some claim to have seen him by the church in the dead of night, and others think it’s him when they set foot down in their stores come morning, to find few supplies missing and a handful of coins in their place. No one knows though, and there are moments in which Bucky wonders what life must be like so alone.
He’s probably about to find out.
Two days ago, there was an ad in the little village paper – unusual, given ads are only worth something when they’re put in the paper delivered from the city at the behest of the King – asking for a research assistant for one Anthony Stark. Many had discussed the prospect; the job came with food and board, after all, but too many were put off by the address, the mansion on the hill.
So here was Bucky, spending the day of the anniversary of his Ma’s death climbing up the steep path, still one arm down from his short service to the King, and hoping beyond hope he might be of some use to Stark.
Dawn had settled comfortably over the valley by the time he reached the wrought iron gates, and for a moment Bucky was certain he’d have to climb them, when they swung open with nary a creak. He took a deep breath, before straightening his back and walking as confidently as he could into the overgrown grounds. There might have been life in this garden once – Bucky could see how much beauty it might’ve once held – but now there were only what seemed to be miles and miles of weeds. The path between the gate and the door of the house were thankfully well trodden, and Bucky swallowed as he paused before the door. He knocked, just once, and the door swung open.
No one appeared in the gap, and Bucky cautiously stepped inside.
“Hello?” he called out, and his voice echoed eerily in the muffled silence of the house. The floor of the entryway was stone, and each step Bucky took echoed. The first thing that struck Bucky was the surprising cleanliness – there seemed to be no dust upon the surfaces – and how beautiful the interior of the house was. A grand staircase swept upwards in front of him, and split to curve up to the landing above his head. There were large windows, through which the fall sunlight streamed, and the candles were all lit, a soft glow that dispelled some of the cold the walk up had settled into Bucky.
The second thing that struck him were the mirrors. There must’ve been seven or eight in the hallway alone, and looking around Bucky could see the frequency didn’t wane. Bucky filed away to ask his hopefully new employer about them if he could, and placed his bag down by an empty umbrella stand, and shut the door. He tugged at his pinned-up sleeve for a moment, before running his hand through his hair and stepping further into the mansion.
“I’m here about the job?” Bucky tried and this time a reply came.
“Oh, young sir will be pleased.” The voice was amused and posh, and Bucky whirled, trying to find its owner. He caught a glance in one of the mirrors, but it was only upon a double-take that Bucky realised it was not him. The face of a kind old man was lit up as if by blue flame in the glass, backed only by black. Bucky felt his jaw drop, but was too concerned by the person in the mirror to close it. “Oh, do forgive me, it has been so long since there was another about the house,” the man smiled kindly, “I am Edwin Jarvis, and I am- was- the butler of this house.”
“James, Barnes. But most people call me Bucky.” Bucky replied in kind, smiling and nodding and trying not to be weirded out by the whole thing when the mirror – Edwin – nodded his greetings.
“If you’ll follow me, Mr Barnes, I’ll take you to meet Anthony. I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.” Edwin nodded his head to the right.
“Wait- do I not need to be interviewed first, or?” Bucky asked, glancing sideways at the mirror as he began to walk.
“I’m sure young sir will have questions, but for the most part, consider yourself hired.” Edwin suddenly disappeared and reappeared in a mirror nearby a door on the right-hand side, nestled under the staircase, and Bucky stalled in his step before carrying on smoothly. Edwin didn’t engage him truly again, only switched between mirrors and enquired if the light was enough as he led Bucky down the narrow, doorless corridor, to a spiral staircase that lead under the mansion at the end of it. As Bucky approached the bottom of the staircase, he could hear voices growing louder and louder with each step he took. One was more familiar in accent than the other, which lilted slightly, like the owner was from across the water someplace.
“… are you serious- why would you-?” the first man spoke, his accent not local, but still from the same country, only to be cut off by the second man.
“For science Brucie-bear!” The man spoke with fondness and excitement.
“Tony…” and that was a woman’s voice, accented like the people he’d been asked to fight against for the King, but her exasperation was fond and the second man, Tony – Anthony? – answered her.
“-and magic, yes I know, but magic is science, and you can’t say shit, ballerina, because you’ve never done magic-“ Bucky stifled a laugh as he came to stand in front of a door at last – it was more apparent now to Bucky that the accent was slightly Italian, that the first man was probably from old Ohio. Edwin smiled at him from the mirror by the door, before winking and disappearing, leaving the mirror normal once more.
“Master Anthony, you have a visitor outside the door.” The man told the occupants of the room, and Bucky was almost alarmed by the sudden amount of clatter that followed his words, while Anthony- Tony- protested.
“Jarvis, I told you, I don’t need an assistant!” Bucky would’ve been hurt, but the protest wasn’t personal, and was only half-hearted Bucky could tell.
“I am certain you will like the young man who has come, young sir. All I ask is that you give him a chance.” Edwin was obviously also aware that the protest wasn’t all it could’ve been.
“…Only because it’s you, Jarvis.”
Edwin reappeared in the mirror then, mouthed ‘knock’ and then disappeared as quick as he’d come. Bucky steadied himself a moment, and raised his hand to knock. Three beats against the heavy wood, and another one before the door was yanked open. Bucky found himself face-to-face with Tony, floundering for words.
Tony was gorgeous. Deep olive skin, big dark eyes and a mess of dark hair, he couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. He wore the signature robes of an alchemist – but this one was burnt in places and the sleeves were rolled up and then stitched up, and Bucky could see in places that the runes had been re-sewn. He had oil on his face, a litany of scars across his hands and tattoos curling down his arms from under the robes, and Bucky felt his mouth run dry. Box after box the guy ticked for Bucky, and he looked back up at pink lips just as his tongue flicked out to wet them.
Tony gave Bucky an appreciative sweeping glance before looking up with a grin and a spark in his eye that gave Bucky cause to stand just a little straighter. “You never said he came with a project, Jarvis.” Tony quipped over his shoulder as he stepped aside with a swish of his robes to allow Bucky entrance into what was evidently a workshop of some kind.
“Project?” Bucky asked, only a little wary of the reply.
“Your arm.” Tony replied, by way of explanation, and Tony must’ve seen the colour drain from his face, because he barrelled on before Bucky could say anything. “I want to build you one, I know I can do it, a little engineering and magic never hurt anyone.” Tony was grinning, and Bucky could see no trace of a lie on his face. “Look-“
“-Bucky-“
“-Bucky, if you want to work with me, you’ve got to let me build you one.” Bucky hesitated, “I can’t have a one-handed assistant.” Tony smiled, nothing malicious, and Bucky needed the job too much to refuse – and having his arm back would be nice. He nodded hesitantly and Tony grinned. “Do you have any experience?” Tony asked, and Bucky smiled.
“Some, I guess. My best friend’s Ma was an alchemist who did most’ve the healing in town. I used to help her out as best I could before I joined the Guard.” Bucky told him, and Tony nodded.
“Well, healing alchemy is a bit different to the kind I specialise in, and very different to engineering…” he trailed off in a string of muttering, wandering over to his desk to jot something down. He glanced over his shoulder though, and smiled with a quick gesture for Bucky to come into the room. Bucky was now able to look around the room – and was startled to find that there were no people, but also no windows or doors from which they could have left. “You’ll pick up the magical elements of what I do, easy enough.” Tony told him.
“I’ll try.” Bucky promised him – because if he didn’t have this job, he wasn’t sure he’d have anything to go back to. “Uh- where- there were voices, earlier?” Bucky asked carefully.
To Tony’s credit he gave no outward sign of panic that Bucky could see, but his face was turned away. He waved a hand and muttered something about how Bucky would probably meet them later, but gave no explanation for where the people might’ve gone. Tony, Bucky could see as he moved closer, was drawing up a contract, and the knot in Bucky’s chest loosened somewhat.
He took the opportunity to glance around the room, and was reminded of a small passage from a book he’d once read. The room was large, with several furnaces – and the lack of windows explained the scent of smoke that hung in the air even though they were barely lit. There was a bookcase, and something bubbling in the hearth, and jar after jar of both of building parts and animal parts, plant husks and tiny bottle next to big bottle. It was a jumbled mess, only just clinging to the term organised chaos, with parts and papers scattered across worktop and floor alike. Like the book had said; the air smelled of a limited life expectancy.
Except, except, the kind that set Bucky alight, and now the nerves were gone, Bucky was excited to get started. He’d always thought he’d die in the army – had been certain he was going to die in the moments of losing his arm – and now he was here, on what felt like borrowed time, in a basement workshop that smelt of creation.
Within the workshop, the only things that were clean – and therefore seemed quite greatly out of place – alongside the various mirrors, were six objects. First, was an old grandfather clock, simplistic and yet stunning, tucked against the wall near Tony’s desk. The rest sat upon a silver tray – and the tray was itself quite dull and dusty – a candle in an elegant dark silver holder, a salt pot carved from dark wood and a pepper pot carved from light, a ceramic bird (of all things?) and a teapot in intricate golden design, yet no teacup.
“Shall we?”
Bucky was drawn from staring at the objects by Tony’s question, and he turned to find the alchemist holding out a pen to him. Bucky took the pen, and leant over the table to read over the contract Tony had written up. It granted Bucky the choice to leave the employment at any time, with bed and food 7 days a week, with a bonus payment at least once a month for his own wares; he just had to be aware that his services might be required at any moment, and may include tasks such as testing potions or equipment, cleaning, modelling (what the hell?), background noise, nodding for a few hours, and passing things over. Bucky blinked at the ridiculous list, but signed his name awkwardly on the line. Tony plucked the pen away and signed his name on the line below, before shoving the offending paper into a drawer.
The action was surprisingly violent for such a simple thing, and Bucky startled at it, suddenly nervous as Tony stared darkly down at the drawer for a moment. He didn’t glance up at Bucky, not even once, as he moved back into the workshop. “Jarvis will show you to a room, we’ll start tomorrow.”
And with that, Bucky was dismissed.