Chapter Text
He’s had many names over the years, though, he wasn’t particularly attached to any.
They were simply monikers to which he could be identified, to tell him who he was supposed to be. It was like a shorthand for orders, and for a long time, all he’d ever been was exactly who Hydra wanted: The Soldier.
When Captain America – Steve Rogers – called him “Bucky”, his first response was immediate, “Who the hell is Bucky?” Because he didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know what character he was expected to be, and it was enough of a distraction from his mission that he failed to accomplish it. He never quite forgave Steve for it, though he supposed that getting him out of Hydra clutches was a fair enough trade-off.
He pretended to know better later – after the triggers were activated, after that airport had been totaled after he came out of deep freeze – he pretended “Bucky” meant something, and in the end it did.
He was used to being used, used to filling in the spaces - the roles – the positions – of someone else. You needed someone killed, that’s what he was for. You needed someone to bury the body, he’s got two hands for a reason. You needed someone to rip through a base like a tank, just give him a gun. You needed someone to pretend to be your long-lost friend from the war, give him a name, and he would be anyone you want him to be.
Asset. Fist of Hydra. The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. It was all the same, really.
When he met Tony Stark – The Iron Man – again, names became something else.
After a moment of scrutinization, lingering on the prosthetic that the Princess gifted him with – even though he knows she didn’t make it, the design was too different to her signature – Tony asked, “How’s the arm?”
His lips lifted. I knew it.
A mission report tickled at his throat, lingering on his lower lip as he licked it before he remembered - with Steve at his left, he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, he was Bucky Barnes – and settled, with some difficulty on, “Operational."
The engineer tilted his head, oddly inquisitive.
The man reminded him of a handler. Reminded him of being tested, examined, found lacking. He couldn’t resist how his posture straightened, his body tensing for punishment until Tony declared, “That’ll do, Frosty.”
Names, he realized, were powerful things. They not only told you who you were but also who you were to others.
Tony referred to the Rogues by their last names or designation, and it seemed to upset them.
He recognized it for what it was, though: distance, civil courtesy, indifference. No matter how often Steve insisted that “Tony needs us.”
He snorted at the thought. The self-proclaimed genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist didn’t need anything.
The man had more money than God, a considerable sway in the media and the political ring, and the smarts and accompanying willpower to create a functioning Iron Man suit in a cave all while undergoing months of torture.
And that’s when he remembered, rather belatedly why Tony Stark was dangerous.
(Though he never forgot what the man could do – he earned the moniker of the Merchant of Death for a reason – and it was a sobering reminder that if Tony Stark had wanted to – Steve and he wouldn’t have been the ones to walk out of that bunker that day.)
Tony was also, despite his strange hours and insistence in avoiding “team meals” not actually alone, if the names he peppered his supposed-favorites meant anything. It meant something with the way Steve, Romanova, and Barton would look enviously at them.
DUM-E was nicknamed “Dumbo” and “old man” while U and Butterfingers were called forth as “sweet pea” and “tater tot” respectively. Even Friday, the most intelligent and youngest of his children, was spoken to with every version of “sweetheart” and “darling” that Tony could manage to squeeze into an interaction. Tony too, referred to the Vision as, “The fruit of my loins,” and his human charge, the frighteningly unafraid spider-kid, could practically be summoned by the monikor of “Underoos.”
Colonel Rhodes, as Tony’s oldest and dearest friend, had a variety of nicknames bestowed upon him, everything from “Honey-bear” to “Gum Drop” to “Sour Patch” and it reeked of familiarity and friendliness and family.
To Tony, names meant closeness, and none of the Rogues were considered close to him anymore.
Color them all surprised then when Tony began to address him with outlandish names.
They were randomly picked and were either a nod towards his Winter Soldier title (“Frosty” and “Tasty Freeze” being the two regularly in use) or a variation of Bucky (“Buckaroo” and “Bucky-bear” which Tony used sparingly, and only ever if Steve were in the room).
Thinking about it now, almost three months since their return to the United States, he was both surprised and amused that he hadn’t figured it out sooner. “You’re petty as hell,” he concluded.
And there it was, that glacial to grow smirk that was everything devious and mischievous as his reward. “Does it rub you the wrong way, Grease Lightning?” the engineer practically purred.
“No.”
Tony snorted, feigning disappointment. “Figures.” Grimacing against the motor oil staining his fingers, he added, “Here I was thinking it made both parties uncomfortable and I was getting the ultimate satisfaction.”
“You’ve got a strange scale for what qualifies as satisfaction, kotenok.”
“Gotta take it where I can get it,” he defended, though the smirk still tugged at his lips. “Love the accent, by the way, suits you better than the phony Brooklyn you’ve got Rogers buying.” He froze, he hadn’t even realized – “Don’t stop on my account,” Tony continued. “I figured you were more After than Before; otherwise you’re way too well adjusted.” With a passing wink, he continued, “I know the game: be exactly who you pretend to be to keep everyone off the scent of trauma. It isn’t the worst coping mechanism. Trust me, I’m a connoisseur.”
To that, he was silent, at a loss. That was all true but how did he – Musingly, Tony asked, “What do I actually call you, by the way?”
“Call me?” he echoed.
Tony’s brows lifted. “You know, like your name. Rogers introduced you as Bucky, is that what you call yourself?”
“No, I…” He hadn’t really – thought about it. He was just…himself? Not even in his thoughts did he refer to himself as anything. Bucky wasn't him, that was who Steve wanted him to be, and he certainly wasn't the Winter Soldier or the Asset or Soldat, so that left him with -
Tony frowned, turning to give him his full attention. “I didn’t give you identity issues by giving the game up, did I?”
“I just never thought about who I was without someone telling me who to be.”
After a few minutes of a decidedly loaded silence, Tony declared, “Alright, this is starting to smell of an existential crisis. You and me, we’re sticking with the pet names – and you can be...whoever the hell you want. Got it?”
Whoever he wanted...huh. “Parameters accepted.”
“You,” Tony began warningly, pointing a wrench in his direction, getting him to smirk. After huffing under his breath with a mutter of, “the sass on this man”, he asked, “So, you got any preferences?”
Consideringly, he replied, “You seem to be having a good time with all of them.”
“Goes without saying, Red October.”
“I like those,” he decided after a moment’s contemplation, “the Winter Soldier ones.”
“Yeah, Bucky’s a weird enough name, right? Though don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be caught dead calling you that, and if I do, just assume something bad is happening and I’m trying to covertly signal you.”
“Noted," he allowed, and before he could even really think about it, he began, "otherwise..."
“Otherwise,” Tony repeated, tentatively prompting.
“I’m not,” he began slowly, “opposed to James. No one’s called me that since...”
Before. Before the war, before the Fall, before even Steve. It was just Before.
He probably didn't even have an identity then, James had been just a name to put on a birth certificate. Maybe it meant something in the family, maybe it was his father's name or his grandfather's, and they passed it to him so he could be like them. But James didn't remember them anyway - doesn't recall - so he really didn't know what it meant to be James, but no one's called him that since -
“Me,” Tony decided. “No one’s called you that since me, I’m calling you that.”
But it didn't mean he didn't like the other names Tony came up with. "But the nicknames," he began, hearing the defensiveness in his own voice.
“Pet names,” Tony corrected with a wiggle of his brows. “You know it, I know it, everyone else knows it. Those are still a thing, full effect, all the time.”
About an hour into his next building binge, Tony murmured, “James” slowly, as if tasting the word on his tongue.
He’s had many names over the years, but that – and the way Tony said it all soft and secretive and gentle and –
Swallowing hard, James licked his lips and hoarsely managed a distracted, “Yeah?”
With soft denim hanging low on his lips, black vest plastered against olive skin and a smear of oil against his cheek, Tony winked like he knew exactly what James wanted to do with him, and teased, “I think I’ll use that for special occasions.”
Oh.
Uh oh.