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If anyone thinks the whole Right on, fuck yeah, let’s join up with the goddamn Avengers! choice was an easy one, well: they’re wrong.
If Bucky were less-adjusted these days, he may even he willing to emphasize how really fucking wrong they are with his fists, but he’s mellowed out. It’s cool.
But it wasn’t an easy choice to throw his lot in with these crazy fucks; his lot was always in with Steve’s, of course, and he was always going to be watching Steve’s six, but signing on, being a part of a team, making it official and shit even as he went around routinely saving the lives of every single one of the dipshits he now called colleagues, friends, maybe someday-close to family?
That part was not even close to a given.
What had helped things along, though—and Bucky’s not too proud to admit it—was not being entirely alone in the whole acclimatization process. Alone was something he’s grown pretty fucking tired of, to be honest, so having people who were still feeling out their footing and coming to grips with who they were and how they fit inside this larger super-saving machine of theirs was at least something, footprints to watch and gauge the choice to follow, where to step.
And he does weigh the choice, every time, because while he’s grown fond of the motley crew, he’s not sold at all on their own decision making at large: his isn’t spotless, obviously, but when it’s his own it’s not entirely bad. But take Stevie—who he’s constantly reminded by anyone who’s finally wised up to the shell they’d taken for granted and the real deal in the now, hadn’t even been living in the skin they all took for the Captain, without look for the man beneath the suit, inside the muscles, beating in the heart.
Bucky still bristles at that thought; just the possibility of a soul like Steve languishing in limbo for so long, barely breathing, hardly being—but they’ve grown. They’d found each other again, and started figuring out the process of finding themselves in the meantime. And they’ve done damn good with it, too, if Bucky can say so. And it’s Bucky who’s saying it, so fuck yeah he can say so.
They’ve done damn good.
But yeah, so: there was Stevie, as ever, right by his side.
Then there’s Clint, who Bucky’s learned had his own share of slow-but-steady regrouping after the headtrip with Loki, and Bucky’s appreciated that unspoken solidarity—what it means to regain a self after a self’s been violated, twisted, stolen and only reclaimed in stealing straight back. It’s different, and the extent is far from any quantitative equivalent, but a hijacked mind is a hijacked mind and lives lost at the hands that you own but can’t control, blood on those palms that got sloshed there without your knowledge, let alone your consent: there’s no sense of being ‘even’ in that. Nowhere close.
Stark and him have had their share of run-ins, too—just-glancing at maybe-connecting beyond the superficial, but Bucky suspects that does qualify as connecting, for Tony Stark. He is in Stark’s workshop-cum-barspace at the moment, after all, and Tony’s playing barkeep with only the minimal amount of pissiness. For a Stark.
So that’s something.
But oddly—or else, not really oddly at all, given the givens—it’s Phil, in the end, that gives him the footprints he most often sees fit to follow, or else, follows because he trusts them, because Phil trusts Bucky’s own to not lead him toward stumbling and that’s something Bucky can feel good about; like if two people put feet in front of the other, and at least one of them is well-adjusted as a human and actually knew most of these people, and is their fucking boss as he tries to get to know them properly, now, well.
It’s Phil, basically, that makes it clear that he can do this.
Which is not to say that Bucky’s entirely comfortable with these little impromptu get-togethers-that-aren’t-get-togethers-because-Tony-fucking-Stark-doesn’t-have-get-togethers-no-he-has-moments-where-lesser-minds-interrupt-his-work-and-he-graciously-concedes-moments-and-alcohol-to-them-because-he’s-a-gracious-fuckface.
That last part Bucky added, but it fits.
But if Bucky’s not entirely comfortable, he’s getting better at navigating them. Is starting to feel like the defense of biting sarcasm is more playful, more of a team sport than a smokescreen. Like he remembers who he once was and the social role he played—smooth, sultry, and protective as fuck—and is starting to feel his way toward what that looks like in the man he is now.
And that’s something.
“Coulson,” Bucky blinks away from his thoughts, and catches that Stark barely manages a sidelong glance at the man he’s calling out; he’s still pissy, and Bucky can comprehend it, sure, but honestly—
"Tony, have some respect,” Steve chides, and the tone is that serious-put-upon-might-be-disappointed-in-your-poor-judgement one that Bucky always associated with that infamously fucking hilarious VD campaign, which likewise means it’s something Bucky will always know is directly correlated with words that are never actually true. And Bucky didn’t expect Stevie to be the first to rib Tony; just another reminder that the man can still surprise him in the most incredible ways, and Bucky’ll never stop finding new ways, new depths for loving him.
“I mean,” Steve tilts his head meaningfully, twitch of his lips almost imperceptible to the untrained eye: “his first name is Agent, after all."
Bucky bites back a snort in order to make his own frown believable, in order to lend some credence to the way he swats at Steve’s shoulders.
“Your momma’d be ashamed of you, Rogers,” Bucky shakes his head, disappointed as his eyes slide to Phil: “His first name is Director.”
Tony’s mouth flattens into a fine line.
“Vodka tonic,” he announces blandly, and twirls a hand around to indicate the robot—a new one, Bucky thinks its name is MIX-R and he lives solely behind the bar, which is why Tony Stark is so fucking busy all the time, obviously—
“That’s surprisingly…” Steve starts before Phil cuts him off—which is awesome, every time it happens, because the more Bucky learns about these lovable idiots he’s finding himself fitting in with far too easily (and no, that does not say anything about himself and his own status as an idiot, Natalia, but it can say whatever you’d like it to about just how lovable Bucky has always been and continues to perpetually be, thanks for asking)—but hell, going from watching the Great Captain America like a fairy princess while he slept, which Bucky of course brings up to needle Phil every so often, just to keep him honest, to ordering Steve into battle in without batting an eye in just a few years’ time is pretty damn impressive.
And makes the cutting-off thing that much more amusing.
“Boring,” Phil says decisively, and leaves no room for misunderstanding as he revises Tony’s poor judgement: “it’s pretty boring. Vodka cranberry.”
“Nope,” Tony says idly, knocking on the bot when it had paused at Phil’s new request. “Tonic. Really, very boring,” Tony nods, walking down the bar toward a complicated looking mixer and tossing over his shoulder: “almost dead, it’s so boring, really. So dull.”
Even Bucky can appreciate that burn.
Phil sighs. “Ever going to get over that?”
Tony says nothing as he flips switches and presses buttons and something thick and green starts filling a waiting glass from a spout on the big complicated milkshake blender, apparently.
“Give me one of those things,” Phil concedes with a nod as the glass starts to fill with green gloop; “while you’re already making them.” But then Phil frowns.
“Why are you still making them, anyway?”
“Habit,” Tony mumbles, flipping the switches with more force than necessary as he takes the glass now full and puts his mouth straight on the rim before deigning to start another for Phil, because the concept of a ‘generous host’ is not one Tony’s familiar with on a good day, and if it were a good day?
Phil wouldn’t be on the receiving end of the moment. Phil would be in…
Tahiti.
Phil’d be in Tahiti on the opposite side of Tony’s hypothetical hospitality, and Bucky snorts to himself at the black humor, wondering idly what it’d cost him to find an in for the comment before this little get-together ends.
“Plus they started tasting good after a while,” Tiny notes for no reason save the sound of his own voice, and Bucky’s just decided the answer is probably too much. To the question of what the Tahiti jab would cost him on the particular occasion, so having squared that away, he’s free to harass Tony to his heart’s content from almost any other angle, really
Which is awesome.
“Pavlovian,” Bucky sighs. “What you meant to day is that it’s Pavlovian how you go for that lettuce mush, Stark. Though I for one do want a vodka cranberry. Chop chop, Rocket Man.”
Tony rolls his eyes and grabs for Coulson’s salad shake. “Not your butler, Klondike.”
“JARVIS,” Bucky calls out; “wanna whip me up a vodka cranberry?”
“Not especially, Agent Barnes,”
Bucky grins. Fuck, but he loves that AI.
“Excellent answer, J.” Bucky turns to Tony and bats his eyes exaggeratedly, though not without the smug bite of a smirk as he raps demanding knuckles on the bar:
“Looks like it’s on you, Rose Gold.”
He turns away before Tony can reply to his face, swivelling in his chair and leaning back and to the side, balancing against the counter and Steve’s heat in turn.
“Turn on something good?” Steve suggests, nodding toward something that looks like an audio...thing.
“Television,” Bucky scowls, just a little, and doesn’t encourage Tony with even so much as a glance back toward the inevitable smirk that’s there, because: “Iron Asshat over there reprogrammed the music library to only play Van Halen when we’re around and I’m not in the mood to figure out the override.”
“You realize it’s not your system, right?” Tony calls out. “Not your music, not your—”
“How do you feel about Supernanny, Tony?” Bucky says, walking over to get something that he’s pretty sure is a television remote, pointing it at the massive ass screen and seeing it come to life: bingo. ”I feel like it's garbage, but I need a modern opinion."
Phil does an admirable job of smothering his snort in his smoothie. He doesn’t even seem to try to do any sort of job, admirable or otherwise, of stopping the snort in itself.
“Y’know, good question,” Steve jumps in, eyes big and innocent and totally transparent about having heard this particular story on the couch one night sprawled across Bucky’s lap. “My radar on that sort of thing just, isn't quite up to snuff."
"This smoothie tastes like metal,” Phil announces, apropos of nothing expect the flush that’s rising from under Tony’s stubble as Phil carries one: “Metal and coconut. Weird."
“Here,” Bucky reaches out for the smoothie, gives it a sip and considers the taste carefully.
“No, not metal,” Bucky shakes his head, wiggling the fingers on his left hand: “I know metal.”
He passes the drink back to Phil as he sucks around his teeth, making a show of contemplating the flavor before he brightens.
"Naw, I’m getting,” Bucky smacks his lips loudly: “you know what? I’m getting strawberries."
Phil coughs and Steve cocks his head, leaning in for a kiss that surprises even Bucky, there in the moment, licking into Bucky’s mouth as if to confirm before he pulls back, frowning and sighing deeply before he turns sad eyes on Tony over the bar:
“The one thing, Tony.”
Tony shoves Bucky’s vodka cranberry at him a little too forcefully; Steve doesn’t so much as flinch when he asks for a strawberry daiquiri because Steve’s kind of an asshole and it’s awesome, and just because Tony does right by Pepper more than he doesn’t these days doesn’t mean he’s so little of a dickhead to be excused from some friendly reminding to continue to be a good fucking partner to the brilliant woman who puts up with his ass.
Though Bucky’s not so deluded to pretend that’s the singular, or even the foremost reason they needle him. It’s mostly just fun to watch Tony squirm.
“But hey. You know what I’m craving?” Bucky cuts in as Tony stands, seeming to try to figure out if Steve’s drink order had been a genuine thing. “Fondue. Like, I am craving fondue,”
“There’s a set in the main kitchen,” Steve answers, way too quickly.
“Behind the 24-karat gold KitchenAid,” a voice interjects, the way that it trails uo-todown-on descent evident even though its owner sticks a flawless, silent landing.
“How much did that even set you back, Stark?” Clint asks, having emerged from whatever-the-fuck perch he’d taken as he saunters over and takes a seat at the bar. “Plus it’s obviously for show, why’s it in a cupboard?”
“The fuck did you come from, Barton?” Stark narrows his eyes, and tries to make it inconspicuous, the way his eyes dart around his own space to see where Clint may have dropped from.
Clint shrugs, leaning dangerous over the counter and grabbing a bottle of Bailey’s and scanning for a coffee machine. “Rafters.”
“This is an underground lab—”
“I can go up and grab—” Phil starts, ignoring Tony before the man bursts out:
“The hell do you people know where the fondue—”
“Oh, no, don’t trouble yourself,” Bucky waves Phil’s offer off with a hand to Phil’s shoulder as Bucky leans over him and addresses the corner. “But do you mind…?”
It takes a second, but the bot pokes out, knowing where Bucky’s question was directed almost immediately before it starts to whir in response.
“Go ahead,” Bucky nods, and waits on a few more high-pitched revs of sorts before he grins. “No, you’re the best, really. Just bring it down here, but can you make sure you grab the fontina? That shit’s amazing.”
There’s a parting whir, and then Bucky’s leaning back again, pondering the ratio of juice to liquor in his drink, in the silence that beats a little extra-long before Tony splutters, beautifully, just as intended:
“Why are you,” Tony starts, then: “wait, back up, what are you doing with my robot, Barnes?”
“DUM-E and I have become real chums,” Bucky shrugs, nodding to Phil, Clint, and Steve in explanation: “Lots of bonding time while Tony fucks around with the arm,” he winks, and waits for it, waits for it...
“Not literally,” Tony counters, like he wishes he hadn’t, like it’s against his nature to protest, like maybe protesting implies things that he’s protesting in the first place and maybe he’s wondering why he gave his robots so much autonomous capacity for movement.
It’s golden.
“Aww,” Bucky glances at Tony just a little seductively; “jealous?”
“Not literally,” Steve butts in, arm around Bucky suddenly because Steve’s kind of a possessive bastard and he’s damn lucky Bucky’s usually not bothered by it.
“Cheese!”
Barton’s outburst is the heralding of the swift arrival of DUM-E and the fondue set, along with a plethora of dippers and, yes: cheese.
So much fucking cheese.
“And oh,” Clint leans in, grabbing a tortilla chip and dipping it point-first as soon as the cheese melts enough. “It’s like a little sauceless pizza,” he says, almost reverently, and only notices by the smell with DUM-E brings him a cup of coffee and drops it next to the Bailey’s he’d liberated earler.
“You’re a fuckin’ dream,” Clint sighs, all fucking heart-eyes and shit, the weirdo. “Oh,” he groans as he takes a sip, and bites at his mini-pizza chip. “Oh.” He leans in and bumps his head against DUM-E’s metal optical processor.
“I’d kiss you if that wasn’t weird,” he says, too-sincerely, and Phil snorts.
“We both know that wouldn’t stop you.”
Clint’s face scrunches for a second before he finally dips another chip into the cheese and feeds it to Coulson. Bucky, on the other hand, grabs for the forks and stabs a chuck of the really nice Italian baguette thingy, twisting it deftly around in the cheese.
“Blow,” he says, lifting the tines in offering with a playfully-quirked brow that swells Steve’s pupils just a little bit as he lets the morsel linger just outside Steve’s lips. “I’m told it’s good luck.”
“I fucking hate you,” Tony says, almost passionate about it; almost believable as he folds his arms across his chest and leans against the bar. “All of you. Get out of my house.”
“Sit your ass down, Stark,” Phil rolls his eyes and leads Clint, and then Bucky and Steve in turn over to the questionably-ratty sofa that they all know Tony only keeps for the “aesthetic”; “and watch Jo Frost exercise her admirable skills.”
Tony doesn’t move.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’ve still got a taser,” Phil calls over his shoulder. “And this carpet looks new. No need to invite drooling.”
“It’s a good choice, anyway,” Bucky adds. “We watch it every so often, you know, for tips,” Bucky stretches his neck across the back of the sofa and eyes Tony upside-down. “Dealing with willful personalities.”
“Obstinate personalities,” Clint elaborates.
“Helpful, really,” Phil adds on.
“Insightful,” Bucky nods, flashing Stark a cheeky fucking grin.
“Out,” Tony says, tone flat. “of. My. House.” He’s halfway to pouting, is what he is, and Bucky almost feels bad.
Almost.
“Now.”
“What’d I do?” Bucky turns properly, raising open palms in surrender that means nothing, and they all know it. “I meant Stevie,” he bumps shoulder with the man in question. “He’s a stubborn little brat in bed sometimes. Gotta put him in his place. I mean, when it does come to fucking with the—”
Bucky stops without a yelp, but only just, when Steve pinches his side; he’d have stopped anyway, when he smells the fontina go into the fonue pot.
“Oh, bring that shit here,” Bucky gestures to DUM-E, his loyal pal, and eyes the cheese hungrily. “Awesome.”
Maybe he dips a finger in, this time. Maybe he brings it to Steve’s lips and lets him suck it straight off. Maybe it makes everyone else groan a little, but it makes Steve moan so sweet, and it lays claim to the rest of the pot, so: win. All around.
His finger’s still between Steve’s lips, gorgeous as fuck, when the pneumatic door swishes open across the lab.
“Phil,” comes Pepper’s voice before her heels click their way. “This is really too much.”
Bucky takes his finger back, but leans heavy into Steve warmth when Pepper comes into view, massive floral arrangement in hand: it’s the anniversary of her official installment as CEO, and she deserves it.
They also knew that Tony hadn’t bought her anything for the anniversary because Tony doesn’t process business accomplishments as things to celebrate.
Tony’s scowl only deepens.
“Barnes picked the bouquet,” Phil concedes, reaching around Clint for a carrot to swirl in the cheese, not at all suggestive as it gets popped into his mouth.
“Bucky,” Pepper smiles his way. “Too kind, honestly.”
“Only the best for you, Pepper,” he nods gratefully. “You put up with us as houseguests, after all. Only polite to get you a hostess gift every now and again.”
She grins, and smells the flowers indulgently, and then strides away, because she’s a fucking badass and has better things to do.
“I hate you.”
They all look at Tony, who’s glancing at the sofa like he can’t decide whether to ignore the people on it forever and for always, or to claim it back despite their presence, because it’s his fucking sofa, in his fucking house.
“I hate you all.”
Bucky’s the only one who ventures a snort when Tony flops down in the corner of the couch, but he’s also the only one who reaches out to share his vodka cranberry, which Tony reluctantly samples, and then downs the remainder of, so: probably square.
DUM-E’s got another waiting for him within seconds, anyway.