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For the good of Stark Industries, it wasn’t all that often that Tony Stark had to sort and open his own mail. He usually didn’t. Pepper Potts did it for him; that’s what he had a personal assistant for, right?
But that particular day, Tony was sitting in his office, quite alone, with no personal assistant to keep the riffraff out, and nothing in particular to do. Pepper on the other hand, had gotten a call early in the morning Wednesday, to tell her that her mother had fallen down and broken her hip. So Pepper had thrown together a travel bag, borrowed the company jet, and disappeared for a few days.
Tony was supposed to go on vacation to Switzerland and do some skiing on Friday and be gone for almost three weeks.
He wasn’t really planning on skiing. He wasn’t even planning on going to Switzerland. He was in fact, merely hiding from the sets of merger meetings that were going to start on Monday.
Pepper’s orders. Tony could not be trusted at shareholder meetings. He could not be trusted to ask awkward questions at the wrong time-- and Pepper just thought the whole deal would go through a lot smoother if Tony wasn’t around.
Which was hurtful. But probably true.
Tony’s mouth ran off with him a mile a minute, and while his questions and insights were valuable, they weren’t necessarily polite. And while the company would benefit from a Stark Industries’ acquisition (and SI would benefit from taking them over) it wasn’t a set deal yet.
All of which meant, since he was supposed to be leaving today, and Pepper wasn’t around to tell him where he was supposed to go and what he was supposed to be doing, Tony had wandered into his own office to see if, possibly, he could find a note with that information on it. Somewhere.
Which is how he happened to be sitting there when the mailroom clerk came in, dropped a ton of mailers on Pepper’s desk, and trundled back out.
And without Pepper’s expertise and ability to slap Tony’s hands away from things he shouldn’t be touching, Tony found himself looking through the mail stack. Idle curiosity.
He was a genius, after all. He should be able to sort the mail.
Perhaps, for Pepper’s sake, it was a good thing that Tony’s nosiness got the better of him, and he opened the first three letters in the stack.
The first was an invitation to some gala, Tony was wanted to press palms and gladhand. He threw that in the trash. Might as well not even pretend he was going to show up at some Hammer Tech sponsored event. The moon was not made of blue cheese.
The second piece was a suggested confab to discuss improvements to the repulsor engine, suggested by some muckety muck down at the New Shield. Tony tossed that one into Pepper’s inbox. Might be worth looking over.
And the third one was a desperate plea for money from The Barton Foundation for Disadvantaged Children, which was currently putting together a stage performance of Aladdin for children who couldn’t see, or couldn’t hear, or had comprehension issues. Something accessible for people who were often forgotten or neglected by the performing arts. There was something about a grant for disadvantaged families, and wrapped up with saying their venue was suffering from electrical problems.
Apparently, as Tony read further, the Maria Stark Foundation had given them some help in the past when their funding goals hadn’t come close to covering their budget, and they were wondering if they might impose again.
The letter had a soft undertone of desperation to it.
Money Tony could do, but-- his eye kept coming back to electrical problems.
Rewiring a building wasn’t that hard, but a lot of electricians took shortcuts, needed graft to get the job done correctly. And that was going to take another bite out of the Barton Foundation’s money.
Why not take a few days and fix the problem himself? It would be fun, it would keep him out of Pepper’s hair, and he wouldn’t have to pretend to go skiing.
Tony folded up the letter, tucked it in his pocket, and headed back to his penthouse. He couldn’t show up as a for-hire electrician in his Tom Ford suit, now could he?
***
“Yeah, what?”
Tony peered at the woman from under his work hat; he was wearing baggy coveralls, the kind that painters tended to prefer, thick goggles, and carrying his old toolkit under one arm.
“I’m the electrician,” he said, offering her a clipboard with a copy of the letter on the top page. Underneath were the building’s schematics and electrical documents -- all easily accessible from the city court’s database, although they wouldn’t have thought it was easy. Hocus Pocus, no need to wait in line, just download and print it out. Wasn’t it great? “Reliant sent me over.”
“I don’t need an electrician--” the woman said. “Well, not yet. I need someone to pay--”
“No, ma’am,” Tony said. “It’s all covered. No bill, as much as you need me for the next two weeks.”
That might have been a mistake. The woman’s eyes lit up like he’d plugged her into a generator.
“Oooooh,” she trilled. “Well, I’ll just-- come this way, we can start with the-- well, honestly, I don’t know anything about lights or electrical systems, so let me give you over to Bruce, he’s been keeping track of all the broken shit. I’m Maria Hill, the production manager. Bruce’ll take care of you, tho.”
“I’m sure he will,” Tony said, trying not to make the sexual innuendo, because usually people didn’t like that sort of thing. Or they liked it too much. In either case, it was usually inappropriate.
“Bruce!”
“You bellowed, Hill?” Bruce was a slump-shouldered, soft looking academic, with a curly mop of going-grey hair and deep brown eyes.
“I did,” she said. “This is-- what’s your name, anyway?”
“Tony,” Tony said. “I’m an electrician, handyman, metal-worker, all around, whatever you need. Circuit boards are my specialty, but pretty much anything. Two weeks, you’ve got me, courtesy of Reliant.”
“Sure,” Hill said. “Get him started.”
Bruce was, apparently, keeping track of everything. He had a neat, orderly system, with all the repairs needed laid out in grids based on how important the issue was that needed to be resolved.
“So, what’s your job here?”
“Script doctor,” Bruce said, pushing another piece of paper at Tony. “I’m converting the scripts into understandable and relatable material for our audience. We have a few different shows, based on accessibility needs; a show for deaf children, or ones that don’t like loud noises, and one for blind-- you get the idea.”
“Not really,” Tony said, wondering what sort of show you could have for a blind child. Seemed like the theater arts would be lost on someone like that. Which was, as far as Tony was concerned, all for the best. Theater was boring. He knew. His mother had dragged him to operas and ballets from the time he was two until he actually refused to go, around fourteen. Boring, sitting in his seat, not talking, and certainly not asking questions.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bruce said. “There’s your list of just the electrical problems. Have fun, let me know if you’re going to take the power out for any extended amount of time.”
“What’s the work schedule around here?”
“Come in when you want, leave when you want. This is a theater.” Bruce said that like it meant something.
“Come again?”
“There’s almost always someone here. Crew in the morning, prop-makers, talent at night. The door never closes, someone’s always here, refill the coffee pot if you drink the last of it.”
“Okay.”
Bruce went back to writing frantically, ignoring Tony until he went away. That wasn’t entirely unheard of-- a lot of people ignored Tony out of spite.
But usually people did pay attention to him, good or bad. This was like… being invisible in the best way. No one wanted anything from him, no one was trying to suck up, or pretend they knew him when they didn’t. He read through Bruce’s list, memorized it, and then went to see what he was looking at.
It was well after lunch, and while his stomach had started grumbling at him about an hour ago or so, Tony was almost done tracking this one short down, when someone moved carefully into his line of sight. He made a quick series of gestures that seemed more purposeful than random. Tony turned his head to watch-- “What?”
“Are you hungry?” the man said, signing along with the words.
“Oh, yeah, just a minute--” Tony said, turning back to his work. The guy moved again, shook his head, indicated his ear and drew a fierce line from his ear to his mouth.
“He said he’s deaf and proud of it,” another guy said. “He can read lips, but not if you’re talking to the wall. Clint, this is-- what, who are you anyway?”
“Name’s Tony,” Tony said, taking care to keep facing in Clint’s direction. “The electrician.”
“Bucky,” he introduced himself, making a production of waving his prosthetic arm at Tony. “Weird to see a normal around here. Most people don’t care about shit that don’t benefit them.”
Clint and the new guy made a few gestures between them, not bothering to translate for Tony’s benefit.
“I’m not being an asshole,” Bucky said, gesturing for emphasis. “Clint thinks I am. What do you think?”
“Don’t have enough data,” Tony said. He held up one finger. “Hang tight and let me check--” He flicked the switch and… nothing happened. Damn short. “Well, that was anticlimactic. Still trying to figure out where this wiring is fried.”
“I’ll save you the time,” Bucky said. “It all sucks.”
“I was gathering that your previous electrician was high as a kite and deranged, besides,” Tony said. “Now, what was the question?”
“Even actors eat,” Bucky said. “Come have lunch, there’s fried chicken and biscuits.”
Tony shrugged, tucked his wrench in his back pocket, and followed Bucky and Clint back to the green room. It wasn’t actually green, but that was okay. It was full to bursting with people and food. The conversations were some in sign and some not. At least four people were speaking rapid Spanish while they laughed and poked at each other with greasy fingers.
There were a dozen or more chairs and sofas, all second (or third) hand, easily, but when Tony got a plate of food and shoved into one to sit, they were also all comfortable.
Clint sat on the kitchen counter, shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could, his eyes darting around the room to catch snatches of conversation, sometimes participating and balancing his plate of chicken on his lap while he signed, mouth still full.
“Guys, guys, guys,” Bucky said, signing along with his announcement, his bionic hand moving smoothly, if a little slow. Muscle connected, probably to subtle shifts in the shoulder, Tony decided. Interesting, and a mechanical problem. Bucky probably wasn’t going to let him look at it, though. “So, this is Tony, the new guy. Everyone say hi.”
“Hi Tony,” a chorus of voices echoed.
“Wow, I feel like I’m back at AA,” Tony said, and that got a few laughs and a couple of sharp looks from people who-- well, Tony knew the signs of people who were on the wagon. He gave one of them a quick nod. Gallows humor, but only the guy wearing the noose could make it funny. Tony kept his chip in his pocket to remind himself what falling prey to that demon could do.
“Welcome to the island of misfit toys,” another man said, and when Tony turned to look, he was greeted with a tilted head, beautiful smile, and eyes that didn’t track movement. “Matt Murdock.”
“The lawyer?” Tony asked because everyone knew about Matt Murdock, the lawyer that laid out the case against slumlord Wilson Fisk.
“The same, avocado at law,” he said. “And Tony--”
“Nice to meet you,” Tony said, squeezing the proffered hand a little harder than perhaps he needed to. Of course someone who couldn’t see would recognize Tony’s voice. “The Foundation sent me over for a few weeks, to help out.”
“Well, that’s great,” Matt said. “If you’ve got some time, we could use an engineer. Aladdin’s carpet’s still not going up--”
“Try giving it some Viagra,” Tony joked. “I mean, it’s not an uncommon problem, one in five carpets--”
There was more laughter and the moment of recognition passed. Matt wasn’t going to call him out, and Tony felt a sense of warmth…
Belonging.
Yeah, this was a good plan.
***
“Wrench!” someone yelled, and since the voice was coming from above, and that damn close, Tony didn’t even bother to look, he just fucking dodged, and a clatter of tools rained down near his head.
“Sorry, sorry, are you okay--” the woman who was up in the girders clipped something to her belt and then zipped down to the floor, scooping the tools into her belt pouch. “Damn buckle broke, sorry about that, did anything hit you?”
“No, I’m fine,” Tony said, carefully, observing the woman. She had red hair that looked like she’d dyed it blonde once and then forgotten it, letting it grow out, but she wasn’t exhibiting any of the signs of deafness that her colleagues had, certainly she wasn’t blind, and all her limbs seemed intact. Tony decided that unless she needed him to know, it wasn’t his business. “Tony.”
Not all handicaps are visible, he told himself firmly.
“Nat,” she said, offering him a hand. “I was swapping the gels out, now that you’ve got the house lights up again. Wenches with wrenches.” Three of them dangled around her thighs, affixed to strings attached to her belt.
“You said it, not me,” Tony said. “Although having now introduced wenches and wrenches, I might feel compelled to comment that witches should get to the winches.”
Nat chuckled harder than the joke actually called for. “You’ve been in the theater before, then, I see. No good trying to trick you into the Scottish play routine?”
Tony rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “I didn’t think we were doing-- what’s the Scottish play? I thought we were doing Aladdin.”
“I can’t decide if you’re being the straight man, or if you really don’t know.”
“Nothing straight about me, sister,” Tony told her.
“Oh, yeah, you’re a theater nerd.”
Technically, while Tony was multiple sorts of nerds, he had never been in a theater production before, not even playing Second Lobster in the children’s nativity play. No homemade costumes, no applause.
His parents would have both died from shock if Tony had indicated a desire to trod the boards. Huh, too bad he hadn’t thought of that earlier. Oh well, lost opportunity to make Howard’s hair turn gray. Grayer.
“Be that as it may,” Tony said, “what are you talking about?”
“Oh, unless you’re actually doing a production of the Scottish Play, one does not say the name of the Scottish play, or the name of the main character-- it’s bad luck.”
“I don’t believe in lu--mrph?”
Nat clamped her fingers over his mouth. “Don’t say that either, even if it’s true. Luck is all that stands between us and ruin, most of the time.”
Tony licked her fingers, because what the hell else was he going to do.
“God, you’re as bad as my brother,” she said, wiping her spit-covered fingers on Tony’s shirt.
“Have I met him?”
“Yeah, Bucky-- he was at lunch,” Nat said.
“Oh, yeah, good looking guy with the--”
“Fake arm, yes,” Nat said, her face going a little tight.
“I was gonna say great thighs, but you do you,” Tony said. She squinted at him as if she wasn’t sure he was serious. Tony was perfectly serious; he thought Bucky’s jeans were going to have a heart attack and die from serious strain. Not to mention what it was doing to choice parts of Tony’s anatomy.
“Yeah, I guess,” Nat said, off balanced for a moment until Tony steadied her.
“Then I'm in good company,” Tony said.
“You're in the theater,” Nat pointed out. “We're always good Company.”
***
It took two days before he knew everyone in the company and three before his entire body wasn't aching in the morning.
The Tony of his twenties would given up the second day in after electrocuting himself for the second time. It didn't hurt exactly but it was unbearable.
The first time, Clint had kept him from falling over and made him sit down until his head stopping spinning.
The second time, Bucky had been there and after calling the initial installer a dozen different foul names, each one more creative than the last -- gotta put that Shakespearean vocabulary to use somehow, Tony baby -- he'd rubbed the tension out of Tony's neck with his one good hand and then joked around about how the guy who made his fake arm neglected to put a lighter in his thumb, or a vibrator in his fingers, until Tony was laughing and blushing at the same time.
Tony in his thirties might have called out after the fourth day, citing some work emergency because he was just so damn exhausted.
But by the weekend, Tony wasn't so sore, and he wanted to see the project to completion. Also, he was assured of at least several hours of Bucky's company, who took it on himself, as he said, to keep Tony from joining their ranks by losing several fingers.
Sunday, he and Bucky sat out in the audience for the first ever full dress rehearsal; Tony wasn’t working any of the set, and Bucky was, weirdly enough for a guy as beefed up as he was, the caterer. He liked to cook, and making sure the whole company was fed and watered satisfied the part of him that wanted to take care of people. Tony had become his number one problem child.
Which meant that, even sitting out on the seats, Bucky was cajoling Tony into eating a few triangles of a caprese sandwich on toast points, or something. It was cheesy, with tomatoes, and a bite of vinegar glaze and Tony couldn’t decide what was better, the sandwich, or the guy feeding it to him.
The sandwich was eaten entirely too soon, but Bucky was still sitting there while they watched Aladdin done all in easy to understand, low-key special effects; while Clint stood off to the side and signed the entire play.
“Decidedly the guy,” Tony said.
“Excuse me?” Bucky whispered.
“The guy, better than the sandwich,” Tony said. “Sandwich is gone. Guy’s still here.”
“Glad to know I rate above a few pieces of bread and some fresh mozzarella,” Bucky quipped. “The question is, am I better than chocolate cake?”
“Why, do you have cake?” Tony demanded. “I must see this cake.”
“After the show, cool your jets,” Bucky told him, and then made a big production of yawning and stretching, and when his arm came down around Tony’s shoulders, he was already snuggling in.
“Way to be subtle,” Tony said.
“I just want you to like me more than cake.”
“We’ll see on the cake, but you’re giving it a good race,” Tony said. “I… uh, I’m bad with this sort of thing, so are you hitting on me?”
“You are bad with this sort of thing,” Bucky repeated.
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a yes. Why, are you interested?”
“That’s a yes.”
***
Dating Bucky was like falling sideways into meme culture. Tony knew what Netflix and Chill meant, but he’d never actually done it. Nor had he considered getting an ice cream and walking around a park to be a date. Or going to an old fashioned arcade and playing skeeball until the wee hours of the morning.
For a guy with one arm who was left handed, Bucky was a wickedly good skeeball player, and Tony only barely kept up with him for tickets by having a lot more quarters.
Bucky turned in his rack of tickets and got a shiny plastic crown with fake rubies that said King of the Fair on it, and Tony turned his in for a statue of the Green M, striking a pose. “Always liked her,” Tony said.
“Yeah, when you get the green ones, you take the ball dooooown town.”
“You are too young to remember that commercial,” Tony accused him. And then he was sulking a little, because Tony was not too young to remember that commercial, and Bucky was young and beautiful and Tony--
Got pushed up against a wall and kissed thoroughly. “Stop talkin’ like that,” Bucky told him. “I like you, I asked you out. You ain’t too old for me.” But Tony knew they were just barely skating the line, Bucky being twenty-seven to Tony’s over forty. And it would be worse, just as soon as anyone figured out who Tony was and who he was seeing.
It didn’t matter that Bucky had no idea Tony could have set him up for life (and thereby wasn’t a gold digger, because anyone after the money wouldn’t have spent all evening playing skeeball, even if it had been a lot of fun), that was what the press was going to make him out to be. He was getting in deep, and Tony had no idea how to fix it before it blew up in his face.
So, as with a lot of things that tended to blow up on Tony’s face (both literally and figuratively) Tony was ignoring it until the explosion actually happened.
“Do you, uh, want to come stay over tonight,” Bucky asked, his ears turning a little pink. “Steve’ll be home, but he won’t mind, s’long as we’re quiet.”
Tony laughed and almost offered his own place, but that would be putting the fallout in front of the explosion. Besides, they’d necked on Bucky’s bed a few times already, it was comfortable enough, and if Steve grouched at them over breakfast for keeping him up, it just went further to making Tony feel like he’d actually found something, for a change.
Family, friends, whatever. He was enjoying it.
In the meanwhile, he was just as glad to have gotten all the electrical problems re-wired in the old theater, and that they were on their final two weeks of dress rehearsals before opening, since Pepper wanted him back in the office.
Tony was rushing through business contracts and meetings, spending a few hours in R&D before changing clothes and heading into the city to work an evening shift at the theater. Adding dating Bucky in there, and Tony was almost getting less sleep than he’d gotten the year he decided to chase a doctorate in robotics along with finishing a second master’s in computer engineering.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Tony said. “Take me home. I gotta get up stupid early in the morning, though, so don’t expect me for breakfast.”
“You work too much,” Bucky said, but it was a standard grumble.
“I just took two weeks of vacation,” Tony protested.
“Where you worked to keep our theater from burnin’ down. Not that I don’t appreciate it, we all are super grateful, but don’t you ever jus’ sleep in?”
“Not since I stopped drinking like I had a grudge against my liver,” Tony admitted. “But being drunk constantly and working with electricity isn’t exactly safe.”
“No, I reckon not,” Bucky said. “Come on, let’s see if we can get a cab?”
Steve was not, in fact, home when they got there, which had ended up with Tony sitting in Bucky’s lap, necking frantically. And sometimes laughing, because Bucky was still watching his show out of the corner of his eye and would sometimes shift Tony around a bit so he could look.
It was nice, Tony thought, once Steve had come in and told them to go lick each other like ice cream cones somewhere that Steve didn’t have to watch. Nice that Bucky seemed to like him for himself. Nice that no one seemed to feel the urge to kowtow or suck up to Tony. Nice that Bucky didn’t have any expectations of Tony aside from having fun, and some sex that was -- while fun and satisfying -- normal.
Tony didn’t feel like he needed to perform to match his 12-for-12 playboy centerfold of the month reputation. He didn’t need to be the best sex ever, and so, weirdly enough, it seemed like he was having the best sex of his life, just laying with Bucky in his somewhat sagging old bed.
Of course it wasn’t going to last, Tony knew that. He was a futurist, but he also wasn’t an idiot.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the idyll while it lasted.
He got a page from the theater the day before opening night; circuit blew in the rafters, 8 gels out. Can come?
He texted back, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the way the team from Germany gave him the side-eye. Sure, lemme get out of this bullshit. Should bring donuts?
You are the absolute best.
The absolute best electrician, Tony thought, grinning. When he headed to the theater -- later than he wanted to, the Germans were particularly pedantic about their requirements -- he had two dozen glazed and two dozen jelly under one arm and one of those terrible boxed coffees under the other.
He got halfway across the stage, headed toward the green room when someone swore, viciously, from up in the catwalks, then --”Fuck, fuck, look out--!”
Tony actually looked up, which was not at all what he should have been doing.
“Tony, watch--” Several strings of lights went smashing down, glass breaking and sparks flying.
Something hit him in the legs, and he went sprawling, squashed doughnuts and powdered sugar everywhere, the smell of coffee erupting, and then-- something else rang out, loud and--
Canvas and broken wood and splinters of glass and rope littered the stage as the entire row of elevated flats came tumbling out of the rafters. Bucky managed to crawl over Tony, prosthetic arm up, forming a small, protective umbrella, and then Bucky was there, laying on him, cushioning him.
One last piece of scenery, the Cave of Wonder, Tony saw, smashed to the floor, and Bucky screamed as it hit him, the sound searing into Tony’s brain like a brand.
A dull chunk of metal and plastic, and Bucky’s arm was--
Off. The fingers spasmed once, hectic and without purpose, and then the few lights in the circuitry sparked.
Tony was reminded of the one time he’d gone to a farm and accidentally seen a chicken get beheaded. He’d always thought that was a myth until he saw the damn thing running around, too stupid to know it was already dead.
Bucky’s face was grey with shock.
“Are you bleeding, are you-- Bucky?”
“Someone call 911,” a voice yelled.
“Oh, oh, Christ, what the hell happened--”
Everything was loud and confusing, and Tony didn’t even realize that he was in pain until someone carefully tucked his arm closer to his body and Tony shrieked.
“Yeah, that’s broken, just--”
“Bucky?”
“He’s fine-- well, he’s not fine, he took three forty pound flats to the head, he’s hurt, but he’s alive, he’ll be okay, Tony, calm--”
“Do you have insurance? Someone we should call?”
Tony almost laughed at that. “Pepper.”
“What?”
“My phone,” Tony said, and for a wonder, the thing was neither smashed by the falling scenery, nor drenched with spilled coffee. “Call Pepper Potts.”
Natasha stared at him. “Potts?”
“Yeah,” Tony said, not understanding. “Call Pep, tell her what happened. She’ll take care of everything.”
“You want me to call the CEO of Stark Industries?”
Oh. Tony blinked, the world going out of focus and refusing to come back in. Well, okay, so he’d given up the game, but it didn’t matter. “Yes,” Tony said, carefully. “Tell her Tony Stark said to get her ass over here now.”
“You’re Tony Stark,” Natasha said. She almost sighed. “No, nevermind. Of course you are. Right. Mr. Electrician. Come on, ambulance is on the way.”
***
“Pep, just--”
“Tony, no,” Pepper said, pushing him -- gently, but still -- back into the bed at the hospital. “You have a concussion and a broken collarbone, you are not, and allow me to repeat this, not, going to go back to that should-be-condemned theater.”
“They have performances tomorrow,” Tony protested. “The show must go on--”
“Anthony Edward Stark,” Pepper said, tapping her foot--
“Look, if you won’t let me do it, make some calls,” Tony said, because really, just trying to sit up had made him dizzy. What the fuck were they giving him for pain management? He was an ex-alcoholic, he had it in his file that narcotic drugs were a no-no. “It’s a problem I can throw money at, so throw some. Preferably construction companies with disabled owners/operators, or ones that hire a diverse workforce. Get them in there, fix that stage scenery, and get it ready for tomorrow night’s opening.”
“Tony--”
“Miss Potts,” Tony said, “you’re still standing here. Go… also, I need the number for top of the line prosthetics company-- hell with that, get me a specialist and have them meet me in R&D tomorrow--”
Pepper’s cheeks were so red he couldn’t see her freckles and Tony braced himself for an explosion of Pompeiian magnitude, but then she just sighed. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”
“That will be all, Miss Potts.”
Tony waited until she was gone before he tried to get out of the bed. He wobbled a bit more than he wanted and ended up having to lean on the IV pole to keep from pitching face-first off the bed, but he managed it.
Hospital gowns were decidedly unattractive, Tony decided, after using the bathroom and washing his hands. He finger combed out his hair, which was sticky with doughnut residue. He didn’t have time -- or frankly, the energy -- to try to shower, so this was going to have to do.
Bucky was probably in the hospital somewhere, it was just a matter of finding him, and not letting anyone stop him.
Pepper was usually the biggest obstacle for that, so with her gone--
He shuffled to the door, pushed it open and--
“Crap! You scared me,” Tony complained, hand to his chest. “I’m in the hospital, Natasha, don’t give me a heart attack.”
“Safest place for you to have one,” she pointed out. “Here--”
She had a folding wheelchair and a determined expression.
“Should I ask how you got that?”
“Stole it,” Natasha said. “Come on, my brother needs to see you.”
“Is Bucky okay?”
“Get in the chair, it’ll be faster to just take you to him.”
Natasha waited until he sat down, and then said, “by the way, nice ass. Your gown is completely open in the back.”
“Well, it’s not like people haven’t seen me with my altogether hanging in the breeze before.” He was too tired and too worried about Bucky to even pretend to be embarrassed. He’d lost most of his body shame in college, and the rest of it had gone the way of the brontosaurus after the second time his sex videos went viral. Everyone who wanted to see him naked had usually already done so.
“The fact that I am now also familiar with my brother’s boyfriend’s ass is something so deeply distressing to me, I don’t think you can possibly understand,” Natasha said.
“Am I?”
“My brother’s boyfriend? Last time I checked.”
“And when was that?”
“About twenty minutes ago, when he begged me to find out where you were and if you were okay,” Natasha said. “So, like, we get it, you’re Tony Stark and richer than God and all that. But you are also a member of our Company, and we take care of our own.”
“Is he okay?”
“His arm fell off,” Natasha said. “For the second time. How do you think he is?”
But she was pushing him into another hospital room, somewhat less posh than Tony’s, but already holding a ton of flowers, cards, and ugly stuffed animals.
Bucky looked pale, and smaller than normal. Lopsided, in the bed. And half of his face looked like he’d been smacked with a door. Which was pretty much what had happened, Tony supposed.
“Tony--”
“Hey honey,” Tony said. “How are y-- Nat, push me over, would you, please?”
“Yep,” Nat said. “I’m going to go get food, you guys want something?”
“Talk to the redhead pacing around by my room,” Tony said. “I’m pretty sure she’s already called my chef.”
“Your chef,” Nat said, flatly. “Right.” She wheeled him over to Bucky’s bedside and disappeared.
“So, Tony Stark, huh?”
“Admittedly, this wasn’t how I wanted you to find out,” Tony said. “In my defense, I was on vacation. And like, I don’t want you to worry about-- this. You just get better, I’ve already got my people on it. Please don’t tell me not to, because I’d just have to make them stop working and then they’d get cranky about it. So, it’s handled. I’m handling it. It’s the least I can do.”
“Okay,” Bucky said, and there was some stiffness in his tone. “I won’t-- worry about it. If you can tell me one thing.”
“Whatever you want,” Tony promised, and he wanted to take Bucky’s hand, hold it for what was probably the last time, but he didn’t, because Bucky only had the one, and if Tony had learned anything, it was that Bucky talked with his hands almost constantly, and depriving him of his means of emphasis was probably a bad idea. So Tony just rested his hand against Bucky’s thigh, under the covers. Contact, maybe a little more intimate than necessary.
But necessary.
“What happens now?”
“With us?”
“No, with Denmark,” Bucky snapped. “Yeah, with us.”
“Uh, well, my-- technically, you could call her my boss, I suppose, if you wanted to, but… she’ll have legal send you up a ton of NDAs to sign. It’s weirdly standard if you’re dating Tony Stark. Stuff like not posting sexy pictures of me for blackmail, or spilling any company secrets. Not that it really helps, but it gives us a basis to sue you with, if you do. I’ve unfortunately dealt with enough of that bullshit to be done with it, honestly.”
“Date-ing. Present tense?”
“If you’re planning on dumping me, I mean, I wouldn’t blame you or anything. I know it can be… well, I’m a lot, and then the whole Tony Stark thing is a lot.”
“Aren’t you Tony Stark?”
“Not really by choice,” Tony admitted. “I… was going to tell you. After the play. I just… people don’t usually like me. I mean, they act like they’re my friends, but I can count the real friends I have on one hand and have leftover fingers. Can you blame me for-- just enjoying what I had, at the theater. For a little while?”
“So-- this wasn’t just a lark for you?” Bucky wondered. “Slumming it?”
“A lark? Yeah, sure, it was a ton of fun, and I didn’t expect-- I like you. That wasn’t a lie,” Tony said. He gave into the temptation to take Bucky’s hand, kiss his fingers lightly.
“I like you, too,” Bucky said. “If you’re not dropping me, and I’m not dropping you, where’s that leave us?”
“Still a thing?” Tony said, hopefully. “Assuming you can handle the press, who are going to eat this up with a spoon, sorry about that.”
Bucky gave him a level, unfazed stare. “Dude, I am a combat vet. I work in the theater by choice. I have watched my arm fall off twice now. I don’t think a paparazzi is going to upset me. The show must go on.”
“The show must go on,” Tony said, and when Bucky cupped his face, Tony leaned into it. “It’s a weird way to say you love me, but I’ll take it.”
Bucky flushed, cheeks going pretty-pink, but he didn’t deny it, either. “Such a diva,” he said.
“Then I fit right in.”
Bucky drew him in for a light kiss. “Yeah, you do.”