Work Text:
Tony has a bad reputation for poor self-preservation skills. Something that is not going to be improved when he offers his new resident killing machine a new arm essentially equipping Barnes to kill him with his own tech.
“What…what is this?” Barnes asks, voice quiet. His confusion is guarded and cautious, but the way his eyes rove over the prototype arm says it all. He’s interested, and despite the actual purpose of this, Tony feels a surge of pride.
“I know you want the arm reattached,” he replies. Barnes stiffens. Tony ignores it. “But that Hydra arm’s shit so I’m making you a new one.”
There’s a barely-there ease to his shoulders, but Tony doesn’t pay it more attention than necessary. He’d been right about this being a good olive branch, and that’s all he needs to know.
Barton cajoles, “What about me, Stark, I need new arrows pronto, this government quality is –”
“Look it over,” Tony continues ignoring the archer, eyes trained on Barnes who still – despite living in Wakandan luxury for the past month after his defrost, and in the Compound in relative comfort for another month – still looks unkempt and greasy. “Tell me what you think, what you want, and we’ll go from there.”
Barnes stares back, brows furrowed in disbelief.
Tony worries for a second that the other man can hear just how much Tony doesn’t actually want to do that, even if it had been Tony’s decision to in the first place. Tony did shoot the Hydra arm off, at the very least he can replace it.
In another life, Tony wouldn’t have done shit for Barnes, but Tony’s also done enough reflection in the past year to know better than to blame Barnes for the things Hydra had forced him to do. Even if Tony’s still fighting off a panic attack right now because this is still the man who killed his mom.
Barnes blinks slowly before nodding his agreement, Tony huffs in relief and walks out, still pointedly ignoring Barton’s heckling.
Less than a week later, the prototype reappears in the workshop with several notebooks filled with mathematical equations and diagrams.
Tony peruses the pages with a hum.
Barnes had taken measurements, did calculations, adjustments, and basically written a dossier on the prototype-arm and all the ways it could be improved to ensure it functioned a hundred percent, both with the super serum’s capabilities and Barnes’ own physical strengths and weaknesses in mind.
It almost completely did away with the necessary consultations Tony would have to go through with him and took care of some of the legwork of adjusting the prototype before getting down to actually making the arm.
It’s a relief, and a bit of a turn on.
Tony really doesn’t want to examine that too closely.
It takes a month before Tony physically needs Barnes for the arm’s fitting, and that’s when he realizes that Barnes has a Thing with a capital “T”, and Tony pretends he doesn’t care because why should he?
Barnes is a Super Soldier Super Assassin that sent Tony through the emotional and physical wringer since day one (or negative day 7092, if he’s being honest) and given him grief on every level since, why should Tony care that Barnes is punishing himself? Tony's already replacing the arm – he’s already housing, feeding, and clothing him out of pocket because the government can’t be trusted with someone of Barnes’ skillset – he’s already protecting Barnes more than anyone else has, why should he do more?
The conclusion that Tony comes up with is this:
Bucky Barnes has been through the very definition of hell on earth. He’s been broken and unmade over and over again from the day he was drafted for war to the day Zemo forced him to bear witness to the extent with which he had become more weapon than man. He’s had to face the fact that he’s been more puppet than human for seventy-odd years, and realize that he’d only been caught up in that whole Civil War fiasco after almost being free because he was just another tool to be used.
After all, who was Bucky Barnes in exchange for the Winter Soldier?
Tony knows the feeling – Merchant of Death and Iron Man, yes. Tony Stark not recommended – and really, that’s why because at the end of the day Tony understands and empathizes and – he hates it. He does.
They’ve both been through way too much shit that they didn’t ask for, didn’t deserve, and it isn’t fair to hate Barnes, it isn’t fair to punish him.
But god help him, Barnes seems to be doing a pretty good job himself.
Since their sessions with the new arm, Tony notices the way Barnes will deprive himself of actual nutrition, how he’ll bleed out until the serum kicks in, how he’ll only sleep when he absolutely needs to and how he’ll train until his body gives up on him and collapses from under him.
The crazy thing is, he isn’t even hiding his self-harm from anyone.
Barnes isn’t Steve’s Bucky, and he has no one – has had no one since the fall from the freight train – and that’s why Tony cares, probably always had since he caught that glint in Thaddeus Ross’ eye.
Because maybe no one else will.
After that, Tony starts bringing smoothies to share during their sessions with the arm because Super Soldiers burn more calories than pro-athletes and contrary to popular belief, bland protein bars do jack shit when they’re your only source of nutrition, even if you consume them by the truckload.
If anyone asks why, it’s because Tony’s finally taking an active role in keeping himself healthy, and making sure Barnes eats something of nutritional value is just a roundabout way of doing it.
“Do you want yours or…?”
Barnes withdraws from the workbench like he’s been smacked, but Tony is quietly patient, and returns to fine-tuning aspects of the arm, ignoring the smoothies he’s brought in that makes Barnes so antsy.
The first thing Tony had done when he got back from Afghanistan was get a cheeseburger. The minute he was alone, he’d thrown it up – tasting nothing but sand and blood and the sharp tang of metal.
Almost a decade after that and he’s still weening himself off the smoothies.
For now, for Barnes, it will have to do.
Tentatively, the man reaches for the smoothie with the same cautiousness one would attribute to an active bomb. Tony watches him drink it with a steady gaze.
Friday informs him later that Barnes doesn’t throw it up after he hastily retreats once the more delicate work on the arm has been completed, and Tony feels some semblance of relief.
It takes almost two weeks before, drinking their respective smoothies, Barnes releases the straw with an obscene pop and looks at him with wide blue eyes. Tony raises a brow.
“It’s…it’s good,” Barnes replies in wonder.
“I resent that, Frosty.”
Latching onto the straw again, Barnes sucks until his cheeks hollow lewdly and uh – okay, that’s just – “I…I like this,” he admits, his voice tinged with awe. “It tastes like…”
“Strawberries,” Tony interjects, clearing his throat. “Thought I’d try something new.”
A smile, or what passes for one anyway, knits itself on Barnes’ lips. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of the session but whenever his eyes land on the empty smoothie container, something in his eyes softens and Tony, well, Tony develops a Thing of his own.
Though, Tony would like to state that for the record, that he finds out completely by accident about Barnes’ preference for soft things.
Tony walks into the workshop after a full two weeks spent at various SI headquarters around the globe, and he’s exhausted.
He has every intention of checking out the progress of one of his fabrications, maybe take a nap while he’s down there, when he hears the tell-tale rumble on the sofa he had intended to sleep on. It doesn’t surprise him that Barnes is there.
Recently, Barnes has been making himself at home in the places. Specifically places like the lab and the workshop, that use to make him nervous.
It probably helps that the kids are down here a lot. They’re good kids, and even with Barnes’ general discomfort around other human beings, not even the legend of the Winter Soldier can keep the rugrats from making a friend out of him.
Along with consuming things of actual nutritional value, finding out that he's sleeping is a relief. Barnes is finally letting himself rest.
“Not willingly,” Friday says, sounding both annoyed and put out, “he still has to tire himself out first, and far beyond the usual threshold if the data on Mr. Rogers is any indication.”
“At least he’s resting horizontally now,” Tony notes with a bemused shake of his head. The things he misses when he’s away.
Not too long ago, Tony found Barnes in a nearly forgotten alcove near the communal labs where the kids were relegated when he or Bruce weren’t in the Compound. The only reason anyone had even known Barnes was there was that Peter was convinced there was some kind of beast growling somewhere completely unseen, when in actuality it had just been Barnes snoring loud enough to make the windows rattle, in a crouching position, for some reason?
Though, in Peter’s defense, there wasn’t much difference between Barnes being awake and Barnes being asleep.
Just like right now – there was a deep furrow in his brow and his lips were thinned in displeasure. If it weren’t for the slightest twitch in his limbs and his snoring, Tony would’ve thought the former Hydra assassin was just lying down.
Shaking his head, Tony thought better of trying to move Barnes (purely out of self-preservation, Barnes put Rogers through the wall once, the man clearly sleeps like a bear) – though Tony’s own neck ached in sympathy, and he notes when Barnes shivers minutely, curling in tighter.
Reaching for the ratty throw blanket he kept in the ‘shop, once a rough plaid material, the blanket was softened by a thousand washes and smelled a bit like his own faded cologne, Tony intended to tuck Barnes in loosely. Right until Barnes made a strange whimpering noise and rolled over, easily burrito-wrapping himself in it before taking a deep breath and exhaling. The deep furrow eases, his jaw unclenches, and his mouth relaxes, releasing his slightly spit-shiny, plump lower lip.
Tony finds himself staring, shaking his head and retreating.
The results are similar with soft t-shirts, sweatshirts, and hoodies, an experiment that is easily disguised as Tony’s fussing: “You can’t be looking homeless when you live with me, we have standards here, Frosty!”
And if Tony bedecks him in New Avengers merchandise, Barnes doesn’t complain, though he does eye him like Tony’s purposely keeping something from him, and he doesn’t like it.
Well, Tony soothes himself, at least Barnes has gone from murderous, grungy ex-assassin to murderous, wholesomely (if geekily) dressed ex-assassin, and Tony will take what he can get.
Barnes even stops scowling for the sake of it. Tony even has footage of him smiling now!
Though Barnes’ improvements have been plentiful, Tony’s still surprised when Barnes nabs one of Tony’s discarded Stark Industries shirts with a determination that is usually reserved for beating Harley at Battleship.
“No, no, that’s a step back, Barnes,” he says, nose wrinkled. “I’m pretty sure it’s got motor oil stains from five years ago.”
“I want it,” Barnes declares, and then freezes entirely, eyes wide.
Tony blinks. “Barnes…?” When that doesn’t produce a response, he tries, “Bucky?”
Suddenly, he shakes his head. “No…no, I…I don’t…I don’t want you to call me that.”
“Alright, I won’t,” Tony dismisses easily, though Barnes still looks spooked. “Frosty, what’s going on?”
“I…I want,” he says hesitantly and stops entirely.
“What do you want?” Tony prods, patient, but suddenly keyed up, like he’s on the cusp of something major.
“I want,” Barnes declares like it’s a full sentence. He meets Tony’s eyes, still wide, still stunned, but there’s no fear there, nothing caged and frightened and – Tony grins.
“You want, huh?”
“I do,” he says, quieter, but firmer, surer. His smile curls hesitantly at the corner of his mouth as his eyes begin to crinkle at the corners. “I want.”
And that’s the biggest Eureka moment Tony’s had in a long time.
If Tony’s Thing about taking care of Barnes happens to involve keeping a close eye on him and investing entirely too much time in ensuring his comfort, if only to pull that reluctant smile from him again, that’s his business.
The change takes over two months after Barnes' declaration, and it's gradual and tentative, but with the kids taking Tony’s lead, and in their own ways, drawing Barnes into conversation or roughhousing, Tony can only sigh in relief that they’ve got a higher level of empathy than most.
Barnes, himself, does not disappoint.
After false starts where he doesn’t share the same opinions with what’s being said in conversation, and he looks like he’s going to get thrown in the Chair (and really, Tony can’t decide what look pushes him to help Barnes more), and then accepting the fact that it’s okay to disagree, Barnes finally grows comfortable enough to inform them that he’d like to be called James, please. Pepper’s so proud of his politeness, she kisses his cheek, and the lipstick stain stays on until James’ next shower.
Now that he’s comfortable, James has questions and Tony, is of course, indulgent.
“So, you’re telling me that being gay is legal now, but people are still jerks about it?” James begins, nose wrinkled. “But it has nothing to do with them.”
“No one ever said hate was classy, Boo Bun.”
Riri snickers. “Not like you can talk about class, Pops.”
“Whatchu talkin’ 'bout Ri?” Tony mocks. “I’m the classiest.”
The teenager squishes herself between them on the couch, a Starkpad in hand, and a youtube video already displayed that Tony is well aware the contents. She presses play, and his own voice permeates the air as Tony Stark from 2008 shouts as he hangs out the car window, “I love sucking dick!”
Tony coughs as James stares wide-eyed.
“No one can ever accuse you of being subtle, Daddio,” Harley informs disinterestedly.
Like a good spider-son, Peter defends, “Not true, he stealth-mode-ed an entire plane!”
“His suit is also red and gold,” Kamala reminds. “Which can only mean…
“He’s that bitch,” James concludes, and at that everyone double-takes. The handful of popcorn Ned had been unfortunate enough to stick in his mouth just a second before, drops to the floor sullenly.
“Who did this?” Tony accuses the room at large in faux outrage.
From the corner of the couch, Vision decrees, “Sometimes it just be like that.”
As the shell-shocked silence continues, Tony decides, “Alright that’s it, no more internet.”
James chuckles and reaches over to pat Tony’s hand. “It’s alright darlin’, I’m sure we can find other ways to entertain ourselves.”
James is still quiet outside of the kids and Tony, though a different kind of quiet when he’s around Pepper, Rhodey, Bruce or Carol.
Tony keeps an eye on him regardless, and his attentiveness towards James does not go unnoticed.
“Don’t know why you’ve got a sudden interest in him, Stark,” Barton decrees, “but he’s Steve’s.”
And it truly does say something about how they see James that Barton doesn’t even care that James is in the room, finagling with the blender that hates him. Tony doesn’t know how sentiment he may have accidentally made the blender, but even he would understand holding a grudge against James for trying to shove a whole melon in the last time.
Despite the distance between them, and the quiet voice Barton offered his “warning”, James freezes.
The absence of movement unnoticed by Rogers who continues in his near-daily, “you’ll be back to your old self in no time” speech.
“James is his own person, he doesn’t have to be any body’s,” Tony says, throwing Barton a bored look before exchanging a glance with James.
Hopefully, he’s communicating his “told you so” look to James’ executive decision to have breakfast in the common area kitchen.
Tony will personally move Bruce’s entire herb garden to the East Wing if it means he never has to share a space with the Rogues outside of missions. He doesn’t care if the West Wing has optimal conditions to grow clove and spring onion, I love you Bruce, but your plants will grow just fine in an incubator!
Barton snorts none too discretely. “You just want to get Barnes on your side.”
“Side of what? Newsflash, Katniss, you and your merry men signed the Accords, we’re a team again whether you or I, like it or not.” God, Tony almost wishes Thanos would hurry up and make landfall already. The sooner they wipe him, the sooner he can have his home back.
“You’re just trying to rile Steve up,” Barton continues to accuse.
“I don’t care about Rogers," Tony says, rolling his eyes, "grow the hell up, it's weird as hell to me that you’re so hellbent on believing otherwise. And despite my treatment of you which you've earned, I can care about people for no other reason than I just do.”
Again, Barton snorts. “Yeah, and we all know what happens to them.” The implication of Rhodey in a wheelchair looms like an approaching storm in his mind, but Tony – Tony’s so fucking tired of this shit he’s tempted to wrap his fist in the Bleeding Edge armor and physically knock some sense into the gremlin.
Except, James gets there first.
How he practically flew across the room without Tony noticing is a miracle, how Barton’s head is still intact when it’s leaving an imprint against the wall, isn’t. As angry as James is, his control is unparalleled.
“James,” Tony says soothingly at the same time that Rogers shouts, “Bucky!”
“I don’t want to be my old self,” James informs, “I don’t know who that is.”
“Of course, you do,” Rogers says, tone somehow both placating and condescending, “you’re Bucky, who else could you be?”
“Mine,” James declares. “I’m mine, not yours, not your Bucky.”
“Buck -”
“And don’t – don’t call mebthat, I’m not – that’s not who I am.”
“Bucky, of course, it is,” Rogers stubbornly insists, obviously frustrated before he changes gears and says, “Bucky, let Clint go, he didn’t do anything to deserve -”
“Deserve? This dumb fuck’s been spitting in Tony’s face since Tony got him his life back after he willingly threw it away to follow you. Clint deserves to be thrown out a window," James snarls.
“And what? You think you deserve?" Barton manages to choke out. “Look at you, you’re just a monster on a leash aren’t ya, Bucky-boy?”
James growls.
Before Rogers can even attempt to make this worse, Tony steps in, gently touching James’ shoulder and backing off when he openly flinches. Tony doesn’t back down though, only lingers until he can feel the warmth radiating from James’ back when he speaks softly, “James, it’s alright, let him go. He’s not worth it.”
“He hurts you,” James finally says after a few tense minutes.
“He’s a sad man who doesn’t have anything else left to do but hurt,” Tony says. “He hurts me because he doesn’t want to take responsibility for himself. I’ve been used for worse, James, it’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he returns, though his voice is hard, Tony can hear when it wavers like he doesn’t want to disagree with Tony but has to.
“No, it’s not,” Tony agrees softly, and infinitesimally, James’ tense posture slackens just a bit. “But I’ve got my family, and that’s more than Barton has.”
“The best revenge is living well,” James parrots Pepper’s motto in life. Then again, Pepper’s the Queen of Petty and makes sure to subtly flaunt her good fortune on all who attempt to hurt hers and theirs. Tony can’t deny the results, so he nods, smiling.
“Exactly. Come on, I think this is enough excitement for breakfast, don’t you think?”
James nods and slowly retreats, letting Barton loose enough that the only thing holding him up is the wall.
Tony almost has James out of this situation when Barton laughs wetly and declares, “See, what I tell you? Just a monster on a leash.”
That’s the last thing he says before James’ fist flies and Barton’s out for the count.
Tony can’t even fake the shits about Barton to care beyond an exasperated sigh before he gently touches James’ arm, the same one that went out and knocked Barton’s nose out of alignment, and asks, “Can I clean up the blood on your knuckles?”
That frenzied look in James’ eye is stifled and he nods, following Tony until they’re in the elevator, and when Tony doesn’t indicate which floor to go, Friday simply shuts the doors.
Against the wall, James leans heavily.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere – anywhere that isn’t here,” James manages through forced exhales. “Penthouse?”
“Yeah…yes.” While Rogers may be barred from entering the workshop, he can still stand in front of the doors and make a nuisance of himself. Tony’s private rooms though, not even Rogers would dare.
Friday silently agrees and sets them off.
It’s a good decision in the end.
The penthouse is made almost entirely of glass and has a balcony overlooking the man-made lake. With James’ history, open spaces and sunlight is a good call, somewhere calm with as few people as possible. James, however, still looks trapped, and he stares unseeingly ahead.
“Do you want to be alone?” Tony asks, and though it takes a little longer than necessary, James finally manages to shake his head minutely. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
He shakes his head again, more certain, and takes a tentative step forward.
At his stumble, Tony keeps his hand movements visible. Barnes relaxes at Tony’s growing proximity, buthe flinches when Tony finally makes contact – hand barely touching James’ lower back. James tries to relax though, and Tony shoots him what he hopes is an encouraging smile.
Tony knows what that’s like.
Hell, Tony still can’t stand people touching him. He plays it off well enough and he hates that he has to – hates that he can still feel the aborted rush of adrenaline when someone brushes up against him, and all he can think about is the phantom grip of the terrorists holding him down on the operating table as Yinsen saves his life.
Of Obie grasping his shoulder as he reaches into Tony’s chest with his free hand, congratulating him for having one last golden egg.
Of Steve, when he was still Steve to Tony, looking him in the eyes, empty of apology or even pity as the sound of Howard’s bones breaking crackle through the speakers, before he repeats, firm and unrepentant, “I could do this all day.”
To this day, Tony still hates being touched even if right now, it’s still something he craves – the casual physical affection that warmed his chest of together and family and safe – has been perverted – ruined – by people who’d betrayed him, hurt him – leaving nothing but a star that steals his breath as fast as the anxiety does.
Tony knows what it’s like to push through the panic, to want to sink into the initial meanings of touch, and resists the urge to squeeze in comfort until he has them both seated on the couch.
The center table’s surface flips over, revealing an extensive medical kit (not that James needs any of it) before Tony gently takes James’ blooded hand.
For a while as Tony cleans up the blood, James is quiet, his breathing steadily returning to normal until all Tony’s doing is rubbing his thumb against the already-healed skin of his knuckles.
James is leaning against the couch, staring ahead at the wall to ceiling window, the morning sun setting his skin golden, making his blue eyes shine in stark contrast. His expression is blank, and quietly, loath to break the peace, Tony asks, “You doing okay, babe?”
“Are you scared of me?” James asks instead.
“What?”
James blinks as if surprised himself that he’d spoken before he steels himself, setting his jaw. “Barton’s right, you know? I am a monster.”
And Tony would disagree, he would – but James has made a decision to speak honestly whenever he can and keep silent when he can’t. Tony will do him the same favor. “Aren’t we all?” When James doesn’t reply, Tony doesn’t stop tracing circles over his knuckles, aware that this is probably the longest he’s physically touched someone beyond the friendly arm-thrown-over-the-shoulders or the quick squeezes he throws in when his family is feeling affectionate. Tony can’t seem to stop. “I know what you’ve done. I know your number. Do you know mine?”
“Tony…”
“I don’t,” he says, unable to meet James’ eyes. “I don’t know how many people are dead because of me.” He laughs then, slightly hysterical. “With the way we act so high and mighty, it's easy to forget that we're just as bad as you, and honestly, babe, I’m the worst offender.”
Between them, the silence stretches, and Tony’s surprised that James doesn’t shake him off.
Happy-Happy never lets him drive, never lets him be alone when they’re out in public if he can help it. Not after being the first one to deal with his panic attacks post-Afghanistan. Pepper cried the first time Tony had told her, heartbroken that Tony could’ve been so hurt with no one to protect him, thinking he was alone.
Rhodey hadn’t let go of him, trying to hug him as tight as he could, as if he could open up his ribcage and hide Tony there.
He hasn’t told the kids. Knowing them, they probably know enough. Yet still, they let him in – let him protect them, and teach them, and love them.
And Tony’s lucky, he knows it, to have a family so willing to take him as he is.
He shouldn’t be surprised that James is the same when James wraps his free hand – the hand that James helped to make, that Tony fabricated – over Tony’s own. A chance look at James’ face shows the man’s expression has softened.
“You scared the hell out of me when we first met, you know that babydoll? Hand to God, I was convinced you were going to throw me to the wolves, shoot me in both kneecaps and leave me for dead. Hell, let the witch have her way with me when I was less than the effective weapon of mass destruction Hydra turned me into, that SHIELD and the government wanted me to be. But instead...” He huffs out a laugh through his nose. “You took care of me, helped me be mine again. After everything I did, the things I did to you.” James shakes his head. “You…forgave me, and that makes you the scariest one out of us all.”
Tony huffs out a laugh of his own and squeezes back.
From the grateful look James sends his way, Tony knows he made the right choice, even as his heart takes a hot minute to get back into rhythm.
And it’s the longest minute of Tony’s life, if he’s being honest because James is staring at him with his stupid blue eyes and swaying forward by increments and then, Tony’s mouth runs away from him, “I love you.”
He wants, urgently to tack on “ like family”, but nothing comes out which is just great when the other man chuckles and replies, “I know.”
Despite the moment, Tony snorts. “Did you just Han-Solo me?”
“No, darlin',” James says, swaying close enough that their foreheads are pressed together, his next words shaped by his smile, “I’m just surprised you think I don’t know how to love you."