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Tony doesn’t know how it happens which is something he hates because knowing things has always given him his edge, but its a passing thought that’s easily remedied by contacting Shuri and getting both Helen and Stephen in on the dossier of information accumulated during Bucky’s de-triggering.
“This is your wheelhouse,” he tells the pair of good doctors who both huff but assure him they’ll get in touch when they have anything. Tony assumes Helen means she’ll call, but Stephen’s probably just going to show up as he does, and Tony decides that’s good enough for him.
It isn’t like he’s in any danger.
On the contrary.
While the Winter Soldier has apparently reactivated and threatened everyone in the West Wing, he’d turned downright docile for Tony when he’d appeared, summoned by the Rogues’ terror and Friday’s surprise. The latter of which, had spread to everyone else, and resulted in a not very intelligent remark by Barton that almost had him skewered, if Tony hadn’t got in the way.
Apparently, Bucky can’t -- or won’t -- hurt Tony, no matter how much Barton pisses him off.
Again, Tony has no idea why, but he isn’t going to complain.
Not when whatever self-preservation he has only identified Bucky’s prowl in Tony’s direction as yes please, take me now.
It isn’t that Tony’s survival instincts are abysmal, no matter what Rhodey says. Rather, it’s because despite their tumultuous beginnings, he and Bucky are. Good. They’d have to be. Tony calls him Bucky for god’s sake. Far be it for Tony to give someone shit about the name they want to be called by, but being the personification of Ares at war, it’s a damn shame.
“You really don’t look like a Bucky,” Tony tells him as the Soldier secures the room he’d all but carried Tony into.
It’s Bucky’s room, an almost exact replica of the one in that Romanian apartment he’d been hiding in before everything went to shit.
After he’d signed the Accords and agreed to live in the Compound, Tony had done his best to offer an olive branch that would help Bucky’s transition into the United States as a welcomed part of the team. Bucky seemed grateful at the time, and the Soldier is too, given that he seems satisfied enough in the space to take Tony there.
“You can call me whatever you want,” and if it weren’t for his deadpan delivery and the steel blue of his eyes, Tony would think it was a come-on, not that dumping Tony on his bed wasn’t suggestive enough, but Tony’s never really needed much encouragement to be a little shit when he wants to be -- which is always. It’s part of his personality.
“James is a nice name,” Tony tells him. “I know a lot of good Jameses. Rhodey’s a James.”
“You don’t call him that, though,” the Soldier reminds, still deadpan, and though he seems calm enough, there’s something unsettling about the way he’s stalking around the room -- checking the reinforcements on the door and window, and a cache of weapons Tony’s signed off on Bucky to keep in his quarters.
Tony really shouldn’t find the Soldier’s handling of the guns hot, but he’s a man of many peculiar tastes, and honestly, Tony’s kind of fond of the way the Soldier’s eyes shift, the tone getting warmer until they’re comparable to sapphires than steel. Something Bucky’s eyes do whenever he’s doing something familiar and comforting.
In this case, it just happens to be dealing his guns.
“Rhodes is his last name,” Tony reminds him, “I call him Rhodey because I’m special.”
“And he is special to you,” is the conclusion, still flat but with a hint of a growl, and oh~
“Are you jealous, Frosty?”
His mouth twitches like he wants to lie which is frankly adorable because it doesn’t look like he knows how given the anguished expression on his face, the sweet confusion in the sky blue of his eyes. It’s adorable.
“You’re special to me too,” Tony teases and is only momentarily surprised when the Soldier growls a little louder, gaze flitting stormier.
Then, “You call me Bucky.”
“I...do?” Tony says uncertainly. “That’s...what you want to be called, right?”
Again, his expression turns complicated, torn, before he admits, “Steve said.” Then he shakes his head. “You call people special to you other things.”
It takes a few seconds but then it clicks, “Ah, you mean the nicknames?”
His nod is jerky, then he pauses, head snapping up to the door before he’s barking in Russian at who is apparently Romanoff. The exchange is short, but tense, obvious in how the Soldier is holding himself, how the steel is bleeding back into his eyes.
There’s a beat of silence, then Rogers is placating, “We need to anchor you Buck, you need to come out so we can help you --”
There’s another spew of Russian before Romanoff is saying, “Tony just...keep him calm.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, we’re cool as cucumbers in here,” Tony says, and to the Soldier, “Thanks for preemptively ruining it with the Russian threats though.”
“They deserved it,” is his reply, and gradually the steel softens and melts into a cool glacier blue.
“You guys not getting along?” Tony asks which wouldn’t surprise him given how insistent Rogers is to absolve Bucky of all his sins as the Fist of Hydra, against Bucky’s own wishes.
“Used to it,” is the Soldier’s reply then, “They’re ungrateful to you.”
“That’s nothing new,” Tony dismisses easily.
The growl is harsher, his eyes stay cool, “It’s wrong.”
“I know,” he says, going for soothing, and then he pats the space next to him on the bed in invitation.
Though the Soldier looks considering, he doesn’t appear suspicious and only seems to be weighing the chance of the room being stormed while he isn’t standing. He seems to decide that he can make it if he needs to, and if nothing else, he angles his body in such a way that it’s almost like he’s shielding Tony with his body and oh.
Clearing his throat at the sudden tightening of emotion he feels there, Tony says, “I can’t change them, only my reaction to them, and they’re not worth it.”
The Soldier looks unhappy, but he nods his understanding.
“Did you...were you feeling this way for a while? Were we stressing you out with how everything’s been between me and them?”
He doesn’t reply immediately, parsing through the words and rolling them around in his mouth, before he nods. Adding, “They should be nicer to you.”
Tony squeezes his knee, and Tony doesn’t miss the way the Soldier’s shoulder droop a little from his ears. With a grin, Tony tells him, “You’re nice enough for all of them, Blue.”
“Blue.”
“For your eyes,” Tony decides. “No one’s got blue eyes like you, and Barnesy sounds even more ridiculous than Bucky.”
“Blue,” the Soldier repeats, tasting the word.
“Yeah, that way other people can call you that too, if you don’t want them to call you Bucky,” Tony says, leaving it up to him because choice is king and if Tony would serve a monarchy it would be that one. When the Soldier’s eyes lighten again at the thought, going soft in a way Tony’s never seen before (probably because it’s aimed at him when he isn’t looking). Tony absentmindedly notes, “Huh, baby blue.”
“Baby,” the Soldier repeats without inflection.
Momentarily embarrassed for being caught musing aloud, Tony recovers with a wiggle of his brow. “That’s what I can call you.”
Considering, the Soldier says, “Other people call Rhodes Rhodey.”
Inclining his head in agreement, Tony decides with a wink, “Well then, baby is just for me then.” And Tony can’t decide what he likes more, the way the Soldier’s eyes get a little more softer or the way his cheeks flush red. Either way, Tony thinks he’s going to see it a lot more often.