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ready to comply.
*
So reach to the sky
The life we have has come
This night of our lives
We've only just begun
Together we are
Bright as the stars
We're a light that will never die
This is the moment we come alive
The moment we come alive
“The Moment We Come Alive” – Red
***
It wasn’t often that Tony himself went to the weapons conventions that those in the business knew about: he’d always been of the opinion that that was what his minions in R&D were for—scoping out the competition, making notes on key elements that they liked, seeing how Stark weapons were assessed by those in attendance. Tony already knew that his designs were top-of-the-line, that the companies who could stand up against the leviathan of his reputation were few and far between—but there were still contenders. Sometimes.
It was those ‘sometimes’ moments that drew the engineer away from his lab, tempted him out to mingle with other CEOs, weapons designers, black market dealers, corrupt government leaders; the dark-eyed man would have been more than happy enough to do without the socializing and playing nice to people he couldn’t stand (Howard despised most of them, and that was saying something) to see if whispered rumors held any grain of truth.
Reality always fell short, though.
“May I?” he asked of the vendor for Frost Exports, eyebrows raised expectantly as he gestured towards the company’s newest handgun release; it hadn’t yet hit the main market for public consumption—this convention was its long-awaited debut, but—from what Tony could see at a glance—only disappointment awaited those whose hopes had been raised too high.
A pinched look entered the vendor’s eyes, but the man couldn’t find any reason to tell Tony Stark no, not when a small audience was already gathering around the booth. “Sure,” the representative said, voice grudging. “Go ahead. Think you’ll be surprised with this one, Mr. Stark—maybe even give you a run for your money.”
A pause, lingering between the two men even as Tony reached for the gun, and then the vendor tossed down his company’s gauntlet: “Might even mean that the Merchant of Death will soon enough be out of a job.”
Not likely, Tony thought, biting his tongue to keep from saying it aloud.
He turned the handgun this way and that, mahogany gaze sharp and assessing: making note of obvious flaws, seeing the clunkiness of the design that others wouldn’t notice until the gun was used in the field—breaking the weapon down to its component parts with the briefest of glances before physically deconstructing the handgun.
Piece by piece, Tony broke apart the gun, laying all of the components out in a row along the edge of the booth’s table; faster and more smoothly than any of Frost Export’s own R&B personnel had ever managed to do, and the pinched look just tightened that much further in the representative’s eyes. When the gun was completely disassembled, Tony glanced over the edge of his dark red sunglasses and quirked a small smirk in the representative’s direction. “Cute,” he commented, thumb brushing over the gun’s slide stop.
It’d take a while, but the design flaw would eventually be found.
Until then, Tony would only be fighting windmills.
It would be rude to leave behind a mess and, without further ado, the SI CEO began to reassemble the handgun, each piece fitting with its neighbor in a smooth, effortless assembly that took even less time to put back together than it took to take it apart. Seconds later and Tony handed back the gun, smile predatory and sharp.
“Enjoy the convention… David, wasn’t it?”
There would be no toppling of Goliaths at this particular event.
Dismissing the representative and his company as inconsequential, Tony turned to continue making his way down this particular aisle when he glanced up, feeling the too-heavy gaze of a potential threat: that particular feeling had become ingrained in Tony after spending a lifetime in the public’s view, first as Howard Stark’s genius son and, nowadays, as Stark Industries’ leading engineer. Survival instincts, Tony supposed, and it had certainly saved his life a time or two.
Crimson-veiled brown met icy grey, and the CEO took in the watcher in a glance before stepping away, casual and comfortable and unable to shake the feeling of the hairs at the back of his neck standing at attention:
Dangerous.
The man with the pale eyes was built like a tank, shoulders straining at the seams of the suit that the black market dealer he was standing behind most likely stuffed him in. Focus sharp enough to scream Sniper! at Tony, intelligence hidden behind a consciousness that almost seemed—feral. Broken, cornered wolf just waiting to turn an impressive set of fangs on captor and trainer both. The intelligence and hungry curiosity was almost enough to pique Tony’s interest—but that wild, barely sane quality that came paired with it was enough for the engineer to let sleeping dragons lie.
Tony moved on.
(But still felt that assessing gaze between his shoulderblades, even minutes later.)
*
When everything went to hell three hours later, Tony was taken by surprise.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have been—a fair amount of the advertisements for the weapons convention had been Tony Stark’s attendance, after all—but hope always sprung eternal and surely some of the more radical groups always railing against SI or Tony Stark himself wouldn’t be braindead enough to actually attack a weapons convention.
…that assumption was proven incorrect the moment the building’s walls shuddered at the force of the first explosion.
Tony cursed and immediately ducked down to crouch in the opening of the nearest doorway, hand bracing against the doorframe to steady himself even as the next explosion hit to send out a shockwave of force amongst the attendees. It was right about then that the screams started and panic set in, people stampeding towards the nearest exit en masse: terror was a tangible, thick fog in the air, blurring details as thoroughly as the debris that began to rain down from the ceiling. Fear was an equalizer among men, the desire to save themselves overriding any and all other instincts as each and every person fought tooth and nail to get out.
It was then that the next shockwave hit, this one much closer than all of the rest:
Pain followed closely at the shockwave’s heels as Tony was thrown through the air before skidding to a halt feet from where he thought himself safe; then heat, liquid and body-warm trickling over his chest—I was hit, I’m hurt, I need to get medical attention.: thoughts flickering hummingbird-fast through his mind as shock and panic strangled back his shout of agony—and finally a glimpse of winter skies as a thick body crouched protectively over Tony’s sprawled form.
Then—
Nothing.
*
If Tony had to be completely honest with himself—and, truly, he was at least honest with himself if no one else—he hadn’t expected to wake up. Not after the too-hot warmth of freshly spilled blood trickled over the curve of his ribcage. Not when agony had slammed into him with an unexpectedness that was absolutely unfair; not when unconsciousness had swamped up to drag him down.
So opening his eyes, eyelids still feeling too heavy and lashes gummed with sleep and remnants of tears, to stare up at the ceiling of his hotel room was… unanticipated. Unexpected.
(Some might say a miracle, but the Stark heir had never claimed to believe in God.)
Tony inhaled slowly, chest cautiously expanding as he took in air, and lifted a hand to brush fingertips over the rough edge of thick bandages. Someone had—hopefully?—tended to his wounds and brought him here after the attack. Who…? Why…?
There came the faintest sound of clothes rustling, just loud enough to be intentionally made, and the amber-eyed man turned his head towards the open floorplan of the suite’s sitting room, gaze immediately settling on the bodyguard that had been shadowing Damewood at the convention. The winter-eyed man that had been watching Tony while the engineer had disassembled and reassembled the market’s newest gun: the man that had set all of Tony’s survival instincts blaring and blaring loudly.
The same man who had apparently saved Tony, as well.
The stranger stared at Tony for one more long, lingering moment before inclining his head slightly, easing down to his knees to kneel before the bed. “Ya gotov otvechat',” the grey-eyed man rasped, attention never straying from the engineer, even as the bodyguard only tilted his head just enough to watch Tony from beneath the thick line of his lashes.
Ready to comply.
What the--?
Tony inhaled shakily, lifting a hand to rub tiredly at his eyes. I’m not drunk enough for this, he thought and carefully levered himself out of bed to pad wordlessly towards the bathroom.
*
Forty-five minutes later and Tony finally stepped out of the bathroom.
Dirt and grime had been a thick, itchy layer that the engineer had wanted nothing more than to wash away—add in the blood that lingered in rusty clumps beneath his nails and in patches over his body… a shower was absolutely necessary to feel clean, fresh--untouched, for the most part, by the tragedy that Tony had just barely managed to skirt past. So, too, he took the opportunity to inspect the work that the stranger had done over Tony’s chest, looking over injuries he’d sustained in the attack, seeing if there was anything more he’d need to fix himself.
(There was nothing. The gray-eyed stranger had done an excellent job in the medical attention he’d paid to Tony. The level of detail that the stitches showed was… alarming, in a way. But a relief, too, in knowing that Tony wouldn’t have to make a visit to the ER at a later date.)
Finally stepping out of the bathroom in a new set of clothes and patting his hair dry with the edge of a towel, the Stark heir paused when he caught sight of the still kneeling man.
“…why are you on the floor?”
The man continued to watch Tony from beneath the veil of his lashes, eyes pale enough to match the winter sky standing as a backdrop at the other’s back. “Orders were not given to do otherwise.”
Cautious, now, in the phrasing of the words, the engineer made his way closer—and the man did not move, only the shifting of his eyes giving away the fact that he was easily tracking Tony as the weapons designer padded silently on thick carpet, following the layout of the suite’s sitting room.
Figuring that it’d be better to tackle the minefield that the response presented at a later point, Tony instead asked what he assumed would be an easy enough question to answer, “What’s your name, then?” After all, I can’t keep referring to him as ‘the stranger’ in my thoughts or otherwise, he silently mused as he finally paused before the more muscled man, tilting his head to the side as he looked down at the kneeling would-be bodyguard.
“The Asset has no name.”
“--what?”
“Aktiv ne imeyet imeni. Aktiv ne imeyet golosa. Aktiv sushchestvuyet tol'ko dlya ispol'zovaniya v kachestve oruzhiya, kotorym vladeyet chuzhaya ustoychivaya ruka. Ya gotov otvechat',” the man whispered, voice once more rasping over the Russian that fell from his lips.
The Asset has no name. The Asset has no voice. The Asset only exists to be used as a weapon, wielded by another's steady hand. Ready to comply.
Tony’s eyes widened as realization hit—rumors murmured in the backrooms of weapons conventions, tall tales that never panned out or ghost stories told to incite fear in rival’s hearts: the Winter Soldier was a fairy tale, something that wasn’t supposed to exist except as the Bogeyman for people like Tony Stark, but this—here—the pieces were falling into place, the wording used, the Russian--
The man’s hands snapped out before Tony could step very far away, palms cupping over the sharp jut of the engineer’s hips.
“The Asset—I—wanted to choose a new Handler. Competent. Strong. Intelligent. The… I wanted a new Technician,” the fingers of the Winter Soldier’s left hand flexed, tightening his hold on Tony, using the grip he had to bring the inventor closer, near enough to rest his forehead against the other man’s abdomen, “Wanted the pain to stop, wanted the arm fixed right--wanted Handler and Technician both, and the Asset saw how well your hands could wield this weapon.”
“Ya gotov otvechat',” the Winter Soldier repeated for the third time, shifting closer still to finally wrap his arms around Tony’s upper thighs, and he was close enough, now, for the engineer to feel just how much the gray-eyed man trembled as he leaned into the solid warmth that Tony provided.
“Please,” the man whispered, voice cracking on the single syllable—Brooklyn accent there and gone again with the word, and Tony breathed--
And reached down to tangle his fingers in the messy strands of dark hair, eyes closing as the other man’s hold tightened that much further around his body, desperation bleeding over with every slight tremble of his massive frame.
“Ya ne khoroshiy chelovek, Snowflake,” Tony warned when he eventually opened his eyes once more, whiskey gaze dark as he looked down at the prostrate man. He used his hold in the Winter Soldier’s hair to force the other’s head upwards, finally meeting his eyes head-on for the first time since the convention.
“Khorosho.”
The single word of confirmation came paired with a bared throat, thick line pale and offered up in a vulnerable arch for Tony’s pleasure or pain. Mind quiet for now, the Stark heir’s eyes went lidded as he brushed a thumb over the steady pulse of the Winter Soldier’s pulse—and the other man leaned into the touch.
Well, Tony thought after a moment, words flavored with irony, sardonic and darkly amused, I suppose it’s only fitting that the Merchant of Death have the Winter Solider in his arsenal.
::end::