Work Text:
Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.
Bucky clomped down the Quinjet ramp. He had his duffel bag of guns and ammunition slung over his shoulder, as the guns would need cleaning and the ammo needed restocking. The strap dug into his shoulder with its weight - more from the many guns then the dwindled ammo supply - but he barely felt it.
He tried to only feel the expansion of his chest with each breath in and deflation with each breath out.
Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.
A hand clamped onto his shoulder, and Bucky couldn’t suppress his twitch.
“Good work out there,” Steve told Bucky with a half-smile as he gave Bucky’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Bucky’s chest warmed with the praise, and his next breath in was easier. He smiled back.
“Yeah?” he couldn’t stop himself from pressing.
“Couldn’t have been better,” Steve assured, his smile growing to take up his entire face. “Hey, how about we clean up real quick and go grab some food, maybe catch a movie?” Steve’s blond hair was all mussed and sweat-streaked from his helmet, and there was dirt on the edge of his jaw that’d he’d missed in the quick post-mission clean-up.
Bucky’s stomach sank. Not at the offer - food sounded heavenly, and relaxing with a movie divine. But Bucky knew that he had made mistakes. Steve was lying. It was a nice lie, a kind lie, but a lie nonetheless and not one that Bucky could stand.
He needed to know how he did. He needed to know how to keep improving. He needed to know, above all, that he could trust his mind and instincts still in the heat of the battle.
He needed to find peace, and he needed it more than he needed food or a movie or company.
Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.
“Nah, think ‘m beat,” Bucky murmured in reply, mouth curved up into an approximation of a smile for Steve.
“You sure?” Steve searched Bucky’s face, but he wasn’t concerned, not like he would be if he knew .
Bucky appreciated the concern. He liked having Steve at his back, knowing Steve was looking out for him just like Bucky was looking out for Steve. But here, for this, he wanted to skate under Steve’s radar.
And Bucky knew how to do that.
He chuckled. “Give me some space, ya punk. Been crammed in next to your smelly ass the whole ride home. Go bug Sam with your adrenaline-coaster.”
Steve rolled his eyes.
“Git,” Bucky encouraged, waving Steve away.
Steve sighed but released Bucky.
“You aren’t going to spend your night cleaning your guns, are you?” Steve’s tone held only a minor accusation.
“None of your damn business, but no.” Bucky tightened the grip on his duffel bag. “‘M planning on enjoyin’ the peace and quiet of my own floor that doesn’t have Steve Rogers on it.”
Because Tony had been generous, too generous, and even when Steve dragged more people back to the Tower - first Sam, then Bucky - Tony gave them each their own individual floors. Bucky hadn’t had so much space to himself in his life. It had been weird at first, but now he was adjusted and enjoying it.
Steve snorted. “Jerk.”
“Go,” Bucky insisted, this time reaching out to shove Steve away.
Steve stumbled, grin on his face. “Sam is going to take your place as best friend,” he warned.
It was an empty threat, Bucky knew. Besides, Bucky was glad that Steve had someone like Sam, as it was helpful to have a close friend that hadn’t been brainwashed by an evil cult - Bucky just planned on taking that secret to his grave.
“He can have you,” Bucky replied. “Save me a headache or two.”
Steve flipped Bucky off. “You don’t get any leftovers then.”
“As if you could stop me if I wanted them!”
Steve strode away, off to either clean up or find Sam or order food in whichever order Steve chose.
Bucky sighed in relief.
Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.
Bucky dropped his duffel bag onto the floor with a grunt. He stripped, leaving his clothes in a haphazard line on his way to the shower. Under the hot water the tension drained out of his shoulders, but there was a tightness growing in his chest.
Good work out there , Steve had said.
Was it, though? Was it really? Steve wasn’t one to outright lie, not to Bucky, so that Steve said it meant that Steve believed it to be true.
But could Bucky believe Steve? Bucky trusted Steve and he loved Steve, but - but Steve would tell Bucky what Steve thought Bucky would need to hear.
Steve pulling Bucky out of a ramshackle apartment in the slums of Romania and reminding Bucky who Bucky was, helping Bucky get his mind back - that wasn’t so long ago.
Couldn’t have been better, Steve had said.
That wasn’t true. Bucky could’ve done better. He could’ve been faster, could’ve been smarter.
Bucky finished up in the shower, then toweled himself dry and threw on some baggy, comfortable clothes.
He could spend hours, even days, spinning himself in the constant circle of what-if. What if he had turned there, what if he’d made that shot, what if he’d chosen a different route, what if he’d picked a better perch.
Steve, Bucky, Nat, and Clint had come back safe. There had been only minor injuries, even to Clint.
Still. Could Bucky have ended the mission sooner? Should he have kept more enemy agents alive for questioning? Or should he have picked different, better targets from his sniper’s perch?
No, he wasn’t doing this. He could trust his mind, but he was still wary of his interpretation of his memories. He knew what he did, but wasn’t so confident that what he did was best .
But he knew someone who would tell him.
Bucky picked up his duffel bag and shuffled out the door. He had lied to Steve in turn, but just a small one. Bucky hadn’t planned on spending his evening on his own floor.
Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.
The door to the workshop automatically opens for him. Bucky shuffles inside, head ducked even though he knows that JARVIS would’ve announced him. Tony would’ve expected him, anyway.
This was almost a routine. Bucky kept that ‘almost,’ just to give himself a way out. He liked to hope that maybe next time, the next mission, he won’t need this reassurance. He’d be confident, sure. He’d know that he’d made the right decisions and he wouldn’t worry.
So far, he continued to worry. But the worry doesn’t come close to the amount of relief as Tony looked up and smiled at him.
Tony didn’t mind. Tony was happy to do this. He kept telling Bucky that, but it consoled Bucky to see it on Tony’s face each time.
Tony pushed himself away from the keyboard he’d been typing on and gestured to the couch.
“Welcome back, Buck-a-roo. I’ve got food on the way so your super soldier body doesn’t eat you inside out.”
“Anything special?” Bucky walked over to the couch and let his duffel bag thud to the floor. He collapsed onto a cushion, and a thread of the anxiety that was balled in his chest pulled loose.
Across from the couch, JARVIS had projected an image that waited for them. Bucky recognized the still picture from what he’d seen earlier that day.
Bucky wore a camera on his gear. The rest of the team didn’t know, hadn’t noticed. It was his and Tony’s secret, and Tony had hidden the camera well. The feed wasn’t a live transmission - both Bucky and Tony had worried about the security risk if someone hacked into the connection and was able to track Bucky’s movements. The footage was simply stored up until Bucky was back in JARVIS’ domain, and JARVIS pulled the feed and projected it for review.
Bucky knew what he had done on the mission. He knew what shots he’d taken, which ones he hadn’t. But it was such a balm to see it confirmed, the events matching up with his memories.
The true relief, though, was having Tony review what happened.
Tony took a seat next to Bucky.
“Got you a variety. Pizza for ease, pasta for carb loading, curry for flavor. If you dare to eat my massaman though -”
“I know, I know.” Bucky cut Tony off with a chuckle. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He’d wake up once the food arrived and he ate something, but right now he was dragging. “Any spring rolls?”
Tony scoffed. “You think I’d forget your spring rolls?”
Bucky liked the crunch and the peanut sauce that came with, but part of it was definitely that he still felt the height of luxury eating shrimp. He didn’t even think shrimp really tasted like anything, but the specialty added just enough that Bucky claimed to love Thai spring rolls.
“Just checkin’.”
Tony scooted closer on the couch, his shoulder pressing against Bucky’s.
“Play it, J.”
Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.
Tony’s voice was soft in Bucky’s ear. Bucky latched onto the words as Tony spoke his commentary over the events. Tony said what Bucky had done, but also what Bucky had done right, what Bucky might have done wrong, and what would’ve happened in either case.
Tony’s brain was so good at calculating, so good at projections. Even with only one viewpoint of the battle, Tony would fill in the gaps. Tony would use the information that Bucky had - Bucky’s view, Bucky’s comm - and talk though what could’ve, should’ve, would’ve happened if Bucky had or hadn’t done what he had done.
Mostly, Bucky did things right. He was good at his job - experienced and trained, even before the brainwashing - and so Bucky made the right choices under the circumstances. He kept his teammates alive and he kept himself alive. He did good.
Tony said that, so often.
The warmth of the praise had Bucky relaxing, almost boneless on the couch. He’d curled into Tony, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder.
Tony’s hand came around to play with Bucky’s hair. It was soothing, listening to him talk and for him tell Bucky that Bucky did good.
Bucky did good things. He was still capable of good things.
But Tony also told him how to improve. Tony saw and pointed out the moment where, if Bucky had only waited, he could’ve taken out two men with one move instead of taking them on individually. If Bucky had noticed the insignia on the jacket, then Bucky could’ve sniped the commander instead of the lackey. Small decisions, this time. It had been a straightforward if bloody mission.
Tony’s critiques, even gentle, felt like pricks into Bucky’s bubble of happiness, trying to pop it, but he was grateful for them. Now, now the next line of Tony’s praise felt earned, genuine. He only relaxed further into the warmth.
Tony wasn’t sparing with compliments - which Bucky needed - but he wouldn’t skimp over Bucky’s mistakes - which Bucky craved. Tony had had no reason to spare Bucky’s feelings, not when Bucky first asked for Tony’s feedback.
Tony had been honest, and Bucky hadn’t held it against him. Now, more and more often - every time, Bucky had to admit - after a mission, Bucky would make his way down to the workshop and to this couch where Tony would murmur in his ear about what had just happened.
Tony’s fingers carded through Bucky’s hair, helping dry out the strands. It was nice, pleasant. More than Bucky deserved, and he was grateful for it.
JARVIS paused the video.
“Your food has arrived.”
With a groan, Bucky lifted himself off of Tony. Tony patted Bucky’s shoulder and then headed for the elevator.
Bucky flopped back into the warm spot that Tony had left. He was excited for food, for more of Tony’s review, for more of Tony’s touch.
Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.
Later, they would clean Bucky’s guns together and make sure he was restocked on ammunition. They would make sure that Bucky was ready for the next mission, whenever it came.
Bucky breathed easy, waiting for Tony.