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The man was a good three inches smaller than either super soldier and at least twenty pounds leaner. He was wearing a tailored sapphire blue suit over a black silk shirt and silver tie. His shades were tinted red and his shoes reflected the sunlight. He was… beautiful.
Then he opened his mouth and James’ breath caught in his chest.
“Welcome back from exile,” he said in a bored drawl. “Congrats of the pardons for being complete assholes with god complexes. The Compound no longer supports individual private floors. Your dorm is in the east wing, rooms 5, 6 and 7. The kitchen is open from 5am until 9pm. Your contract with the Accords Council grants you three meals a day, two hours in the training room and 24 hour access to the communal rooms, gym and pool.” A trilling sound had Stark pulling out a phone, glancing at it with a soft smile and placing it back in his pocket before continuing. “Your Accords appointed liaison will be in contact within 48 hours to discuss any needs you have. If you have any questions before then, I suggest Google.”
Before any of the former Avengers could respond, the billionaire had turned on his heel and walked back into the building. James barely even registered the words of derision and complaint from the group beside him. He was busy watching intently as the slacks Stark wore clung to his ass and thighs enticingly. It wasn’t until Rogers placed a hand on his shoulder that James pulled his attention back to the rogues.
“Don’t worry, Bucky,” Rogers said gently.
James manage not to roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. He wasn’t Bucky. He wasn’t Sgt. Barnes. He wasn’t even the Winter Soldier, anymore. He was a combination of all of them while somehow being none of them. He had tried to explain that to Rogers, but the stubborn man insisted on believing that his old friend was still alive, just lost somehow.
“We’ll straighten Stark out,” Barton promised darkly. “Knock him off his high horse and remind him that he’s nothing without us.”
James looked at Barton, then Romanov, Maximoff, Wilson and finally, Rogers. “He’s mine,” he said firmly.
Barton had the nerve to chuckle with eager amusement. “Sure, pal. We’ll let you put him in his place.”
James rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You do not understand,” he said in a stern voice. “He is mine. Touch him and I will end you. Hurt him and I will make you suffer before I end you.”
Roger’s eyes went wide and he sputtered incoherently. The others looked shocked and confused. James turned away from them and began walking toward the building. He needed to get some rest, first and foremost. Then he would seek out Tony Stark and ask what he should do to win the man’s favor. In the 90+ years of life that James had memories for, no one and nothing had ever captured his attention as much as this brave, strong, damaged, beautiful, skittish man had.
Tony Stark would be his and he would be Tony Stark’s. There was no other mission but this one.