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If Tony’s being honest being around the guy with Bucky’s face is a little unfair.
Even with that messy situation that was 2016's "Civil War”. As well as the time, perspective and therapy to reconcile that Bucky murdered his parents but was brainwashed and didn’t choose to commit the act, Tony likes to think that he’s moved on.
He’s accounted for the awkwardness that would likely color their first meeting in two years, a tension would make up their acquaintance considering the rest of the Rogues’ return. Tony reconciled himself to the notion that his relationship with James Buchanan Barnes would be strictly professional save-the-world business, as it should.
What he didn’t account for was his long-forgotten crush on the man.
It wasn’t his fault.
If anything it was Howard’s.
While dear old dad was mourning the loss of his greatest creation in Captain America, Tony’s main take away from endless reruns of the war reels his father forced upon him were that he liked boys, thanks to Bucky.
Not that he could be blamed.
Bucky and his blue eyes could make pudding out of your insides if you looked at him long enough. Not to mention his incredible skill and known mathematical proficiency that required an incredible amount of accuracy. What can Tony say? He’s got a competence kink.
That Bucky was quick as a whip, good-humored and so charming that he stood on the same field as prime patriotic beef in the eyes of the Howling Commandos’ adoring fanbase said a lot.
Fortunately, though Barnes may have Bucky’s face, Tony knows the difference.
Tony’s been through a lot, that goes without saying.
When you’ve dedicated the better portion of your life atoning for your naivete and negligence, and been betrayed and left for dead as a result, and note: this is the better portion of his life. Tony is the first to admit that this superhero thing hasn’t really been the best hand he’s been dealt, out of all of them.
In addition to his designer baggage of daddy issues, alcoholism and non-specific brand of self-preservation – lack thereof – he now has raging PTSD, anxiety enough to make his left arm ache at even the suggestion of his blood pressure going up, and a fucking star embedded into his chest.
But, what doesn’t kill you gives you a dark sense of humor.
Tony can personally attest to how hilarious he’s gotten since the kidnapping that kick-started this whole superhero gig. Peter and the rest of the kids think he’s funny and teenagers tend to be unimpressed on principle.
The point, however, is this: Tony’s been through a lot.
But Barnes has been through a hell of a lot more.
Purely based on the fact that he’s had seventy-odd years to accumulate the kind of baggage that is both hideously vintage and also covered in blood.
Don’t get him wrong. If Tony ever sees his century (which is highly improbable considering the state of his entire life), he doesn’t doubt that he’d be able to ramp up enough trauma to match, but the facts are these: James Buchanan Barnes has gone from unwilling draftee in the forties to a prisoner-of-war turned brainwashed assassin in the year 2018, and that’s a fucking lot.
He isn’t convinced, even if Rogers is, that Barnes is exactly who he was before the fall, before his first experimentation with Hydra, hell, before his first step onto the battlefield after his enlistment.
Sure, Barnes has the same swagger as Bucky, the same devilish twinkle in his blue eyes and the same plush lips. Barnes can shave and cut his hair and look almost like the Bucky in the war reels, but that doesn’t make him Bucky.
“I hear I have you to thank for getting me back here.”
Okay. So.
He’d forgotten about the Brooklyn accent. That’s. That’s something. Tony cleared his throat. “I did blow your arm off.”
He doesn’t know why it’s a thing. Rogers has a Brooklyn thing. But Rogers’ Brooklyn thing isn’t the same as Bucky’s Brooklyn thing because –
Barnes exhaled, a smile breaking free, and – wow, okay – that’s… “Wasn’t mine, actually, I’m glad you got rid of it for me.”
Tony shrugged, going for nonchalant. “Don’t, it gives me an excuse to fit you with another.”
Suddenly shy (god, had Bucky ever been shy in the reels? Holy shit, they missed out), Barnes rubbed the back of his neck, head tilted down so his eyes looked a little grayer. “That would be great, but uhm…you really don’t have to considering…you know…everything. I mean, Fury offered to find someone who would –”
As if. Tony scoffed. “Please, like I’d let anyone else get their hands on you.”
The shyness evaporates as Bucky’s lips quirk in a sexuality-defying smirk. Live, in color, and in HD. “Plannin’ to keep me all to yourself, doll?”
Oh, god.
Rogers looks fondly exasperated, and Tony almost regrets having to eat his words.
Almost.
Then the other shoe drops.
Like Tony suspected, Barnes isn’t all there.
The man’s been tortured and imprisoned for seventy-odd years, he’s bound to come out with some issues which is why Tony doesn’t even raise a brow at the occasional needless property damage that have become Barnes’ MO when they’re out in the field.
Anger issues are a given, and destruction of property seems like a very Avenger-based coping mechanism which is also why Tony’s property portfolio is huge.
That Barnes tends to be a growly, glowering sentinel for hours afterward, stalking the Compound, hiding in shadows and openly (and threateningly) cleaning his guns and knives at the dinner table, is also unsurprising.
Until he’s willing to seek therapy, or at the very least, reach out and open up on his own, the key is to simply let him be, let him know that this is as safe as it can get. Barnes has been dealing with this for years, he knows what he needs.
Though, no one else seems to agree.
Wilson won’t stop making a Face that looks like a mirror of Rhodey's during Tony's younger and less...stable years. Rogers says nothing – does nothing – after his physical touch and “Bucky, what’s wrong” was answered with a gun to the face, gun oil (and possibly blood) sliding from the grip, and onto the table. Lang’s nervous twitching only compounds the terse silence that descends the mandatory “team building” dinner that Carol instated, and Tony isn’t about this.
"Do you mind? You’re getting your murder all over my good china.”
Barnes’ eyes flicker glacial blue, and he exhales, the corner of his lip twitching slightly in what Tony would charitably call a smirk before he lowers his weapon.
Another stilted silence lapses before Carol re-joins them in the dining room with Rhodey in tow, both of them balancing Styrofoam containers of takeaway Chinese food, none the wiser.
Unsurprisingly, Lang is the first to retreat.
Barnes follows soon after.
When Tony gets up to leave, he doesn’t expect to be sharing the elevator with the latter, nor does he expect the Russian drawl that slips from Barnes’ lips, “You aren’t scared of me.”
Tony eyes the other man.
He’s bigger, bulkier and taller. Built like a bear, really. Tony knows he’s got a veritable arsenal on him too, all those guns Barnes takes to cleaning and the knives he wears with the casualness one would a favorite watch. The Super Serum and the Winter Soldier training can never be forgotten, the arc reactor being back in Tony’s chest is proof of that. But.
The nanotech has been spreading out beneath the Tom Ford, a second skin whose only equal is Vibranium with the gauntlets warm in his palms, an armor and a weapon that’s always just beneath the surface now, called forth by any sign of danger, any uptick of panic. Tony replies, “No, I’m not afraid of you.”
Barnes wouldn’t have a chance in that bunker if Tony had really tried, and Tony is willing to try if the soldier is willing to push.
As if he could hear Tony’s warning, Barnes’ smirk comes slow and lazy. “Good.” Reaching over to tap gently against the plate of the arc reactor, hidden beneath layers of his suit, the Russian drawl thickens as his voice lowers, “I won’t hurt you.”
“Good,” Tony retorts, raising his chin, “because I won’t let you.”
The surprise the soldier shows is more pleased than anything before his chest rumbles with a chuckle that Tony feels like the purr of an engine. “I’ll keep that in mind, kitten.”
The elevator opens to let Barnes out, and as the doors close again with him on the other side, the look the soldier throws over his shoulder is dark with something filthy, and Christ. Kitten, really?
Tony can’t tell if he’s more annoyed, embarrassed or turned on which is just fucking great.
It’s bad enough that Barnes has Bucky’s face, but apparently Tony’s got other kinks he doesn’t know about.
Whether it’s the Russian or the casual murder threats is neither here nor there which is a fortunate conclusion because at the end of the week, Tony’s started to realize that the Barnes from their first meeting and the Barnes from the elevator aren’t the same.
At least, not all the way the same.
Friday’s had some thoughts and compiled video evidence to corroborate. Tony’s super proud – creating a powerpoint to show your work really is the peak of nerdy behavior – his little girl is growing up so fast!
Her conclusion, after extensive references to various psychological studies, is that both Barneses are actually one whole person with separate personalities or something.
Tony's a little distracted.
The attached video evidence has the Bucky Barnes being gorgeously cocky, whipping off his shirt during a particularly rigorous workout and taunting Barton while Soldier Barnes is gloriously lethal, putting down both Romanova and Rogers with feral pleasure. That both Barneses were fully aware of Friday’s study, and knowing that he'd likely be featured in a video report for Tony’s perusal, giving Both Barnes' probable cause to show off his best angles (though really, did he have a bad one?). The entire thing is pretty unhelpful.
Right until a third shoe drops, and Friday concludes her presentation with a chirp of, “Which is why I think you need to approach Sergeant Barnes with caution, this time.”
“What?” Tony asked, shaking his head to try and get blood back there because – yeah – he doesn’t want to talk about it. “What do you mean?”
Again, the screen flickers, and this time it’s Barnes curled up, hyperventilating and – “Fri, we need to talk about priorities!”
“But my presentation!”
He finds Barnes still curled up against the shower wall, still fully clothed but soaking wet. Barnes sits staring at nothing and struggling to breathe.
“You look like shit,” Tony finds himself greeting for lack of anything better, the distraction enough to rouse Barnes from his stupor. The glassy look in Barnes’ stupidly blue eyes only recedes a touch too little for the clarity Tony was hoping for.
Barnes exhales a choked up sort of laugh. “You’ve got a way with words.”
“Funny enough, I’m better at numbers,” Tony admits. “Mind?” he asks, gesturing to the wet spot on the tiled floor beside him.
Nervous, or still just fidgety from the adrenaline rush of his panic attack, Barnes nods his assent slowly and Tony follows suit, grimacing only a little at the cold wetness that’s already seeping into his pants. Tony continues, “How do you feel about them?”
“Numbers?”
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, and when Barnes doesn’t say anything further, he prods, “can you count for me? Just to ten, I forget the easy stuff sometimes.”
Again, he huffs, but when Barnes starts to count, he stumbles at three. Patiently, Tony waits and Barnes tries another two times (he stumbles on four on his next attempt and then hesitates entirely on two on his second).
“Do you want some help?” Tony tentatively offers.
There’s a frown crinkling his forehead as he catches his lower lip in a thoughtful frown before Barnes nods again.
“May I?” At the shaky nod, Tony gently reaches for Barnes' hand, lacing their fingers together before he nudges each one as he counts aloud, Barnes following along in a whisper until they reach ten. Tony listens to Barnes’ breathing go quiet, can practically feel his heart rate gentle, and in the wet, echoing room, Tony’s thoughtless question bounces against the wall, “So, which one are you?”
The silence that follows is yawning and Barnes doesn’t look at him even as he hesitantly replies, “Neither.”
“Oh.”
They sit together, unmoving, hands still clasped together before Barnes asks,“Which…which do you prefer?”
And Tony has a terrible thought that the Bucky Barnes from their first encounter was just a ploy for Rogers’ benefit and that Soldier Barnes from the battlefield is only a result of what they – as the Avengers – need, and shit – Tony is not equipped for this. He clears his throat. “I don’t think it matters.”
“It doesn’t?” Barnes asks, quiet.
“Nah,” Tony waves off, “you've still got the same face, don't you?"
Barnes huffs out a laugh before he murmurs, “I’m James.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Tony returns, smile small and encouraging.
Then, nervously, “How…how long have you known?”
“That you’re not alone in there?” Tony takes James Barnes’ silence as agreement. “I suspected. You hold yourself different when it’s someone else in the driver’s seat.”
Bucky, Tony recalls, is charming and easy-going, a natural naughty flirt that the same easy confidence as the man in the war reels. Rogers is endlessly pleased until the Soldier takes over, and then it’s all serial killer magnatism and brooding silence.
Tony wonders if Rogers, or anyone else, has seen James, but James holds himself tight and small – and he thinks no, no one’s seen James before.
“You don’t…come out often, do you?” Tony ventures to say.
“No, not often,” he replies, quiet and wary. “They’re already asking questions.” He exhales slowly, the breath coming out a little like a whistle. “They’re thinking of an intervention to get me to agree to the witch taking a look –”
“Like fuck she’s going near you.” James looks up, startled, and if Tony is surprised by his own vehemence, he recovers quickly, “First off, it’s twisted that they jump to mind control. Secondly, there are other ways besides mind-bending you to find out if you’re doing okay.”
“I am,” James says, voice firmer than it has been the entire conversation. “I’m…this is fine, this is okay. We…we get along in here. It’s….” He smiles hesitantly at nothing. “Steve…he doesn’t understand that things are different – that I’m different. And…it helps to have them with me, it’s not so lonely. I don’t…I don’t have to pretend when I’ve got them.”
“And me,” Tony remarks with a moment later, bumping shoulders. “I won’t tell.”
“Yeah,” James chuckles. “Winter figured as much.”
Tony has theories about that. “Is that an instinct thing?”
“That, and he isn’t a dick when he has your ass to look at. Let me tell you, it’s the nicest I’ve seen him since we started rooming together.”
Tony coughed, though James didn’t seem to care for his sudden brush with bashfulness when he continued with another chuckle, “Bucky’s a menace though, keeps making suggestions and feeding Winter’s special brand of flirtation. Winter’s never done it before.” He adds, somewhat apologetically, “I’m sorry if it came across threatening, I tried to tell him.”
With a snicker, Tony mused, “Well, it’s a good thing I have zero self-preservation skills, huh?”
“You don’t…mind?” Goddamn it, James was the blushing, shy one. “I mean, we’re all pretty different but we do agree on you and that’s…that’s saying a lot. But you-you don’t mind?”
“Why would I?”
“I…uh, well…I mean." James flushes. "There is three of us in here.”
Tony wiggled his brows. “Wanna make it four?”
Somewhere Rhodey groans, “Tony, no.”