Chapter Text
“Hey– hey. Earth to Terminator. C’mon,” There’s a voice speaking from somewhere above him, and the Soldier finds himself drifting slowly into consciousness. “Seriously – if you just opened your eyes you’d know I’m not exactly in peak physical condition to lift you off of the floor.”
The Soldier does as told. There’s the silhouette of a face blocking his vision of the dark ceiling above him. He squints, and upon closer inspection, the Soldier concludes that it’s a man.
“Hey. Again,” The man says, and a beat passes before the man smiles – a flash of white teeth – like he’d just remembered to be friendly and non-threatening. There’s a ridiculous beard over the man’s chin.
“Hi. Sergeant Barnes? Or uh, do you prefer Bucky?” Bucky – it’s familiar. Someone else had called him by that, very recently. Wasn’t that his name?
It must be his name, but how does this man know that?
Bucky blinks. “Bucky,” he finally responds, and the man nods.
The man doesn’t look like a threat, but Bucky’s been in enough situations to know that looks are often deceiving. There is a strain to the man’s words that suggest nervousness, which can either be attributed to a wolf in sheep’s clothing – intent on maintaining their cover – or genuine fear for one’s life. He has a gentle grip on Bucky’s shoulder, and while it’s reassuring, it’s not as reassuring as feeling the cold metal of his knife pressed against his left calf.
The man seems to be a civilian, which makes it easier for Bucky to eliminate him in a single movement if the man is indeed hostile. However, people that call him by his name operate in a grey area where Bucky can’t differentiate between friend or foe.
“Okay. Uh— you know me. I think. I hope, ” The man says, and slowly helps Bucky up into a seated position. It’s then that Bucky takes the time to look around. They’re on the floor, and there’s broken, dented tables and equipment all around them. There’s also a dead uniformed body a few feet away from the man, a bloody knife loose in its grip. Its form matches the red gash across the man’s hip, visible through the tear in his t-shirt. There’s blood trickling down from a cut on the man’s cheekbone; like he was quick enough to dodge the full extent of a knife attack, but not all the way. “I’m Tony,” he says. In an afterthought, he adds, “Stark.”
“Stark.” Bucky repeats. The word is achingly familiar in his mouth. He knows that name. “I know that name.”
“Yeah, a lot of people do. It’s also an adjective.”
Stark.
“Howard,” Bucky whispers absently, eyes flitting away as a sharp memory spikes in his brain. The hand on his shoulder tenses, but it’s still mostly gentle.
“—was also a Stark, yeah.” The man – Tony – says. Tony Stark. Only child of Maria and Howard Stark. Mission report December 16th— Bucky was supposed to—
“I was supposed to kill you.”
“Figured as much,” Tony says, and Bucky freezes.
He knows.
“But, you could at least buy me dinner first,” Tony adds, a lopsided grin on his lips, seemingly unaware of Bucky’s realization. Bucky’s lips unconsciously mirror the man’s smile, twitching for a brief second before the words sink in. He shakes his head, blinks, and then;
“What?”
“Never mind.” Tony shifts, increasing the distance between him and Bucky by a few inches. “Think you can stand?”
“Yes,” Bucky answers in reflex. He doesn’t really know if he can, but he doesn’t want to give Tony the benefit of pitying Bucky’s vulnerable state.
Tony stares at him, and a few moments pass until Bucky realizes it had been his cue to stand up. He moves his feet – there’s blood on his thigh, pooled around a piece of metal jutting out of his flesh. In one swift movement, he pulls it out. There’s an audible hiss – not from Bucky, but from the man, who then looks up in surprise at Bucky’s lack of reaction.
He doesn’t feel physical pain anymore. Not so much, anyway.
“What happened?” He asks instead, deviating the interest from his wound.
“Not much. I barged in guns blazing and saved your life.”
Bucky stiffens.
“What guns?” If Tony senses the sudden shift in Bucky’s tone, he ignores it – which means he’s either really dumb or really smart.
Tony shakes his head, like Bucky said something funny, and leans to the side as he cranes his neck, chin motioning towards the object of attention. “That gun.”
Bucky follows his gaze, only to be met with a standing metallic man. He’s painted red and gold, and at first glance, he doesn’t look all that deadly, but every bone in Bucky’s body is suddenly on high alert. The man doesn’t move.
“Who’s that?”
Tony looks at Bucky, back to the metallic man, and back at Bucky again. “What, the suit? Nobody, I— it’s empty. I wear it,” Tony says, as he stands up. Bucky notices Tony’s breathing is coming out ragged. He looks down – the spot where Tony had sat has a growing pool of blood. “I usually use it to fly around, deliver babies, all that.”
“Okay,” Bucky says. He hadn’t really listened to Tony, too focused on calculating how much more blood Tony can afford to lose. “You need to take care of your wound before you bleed out.”
Tony frowns at Bucky, and Bucky directs his gaze to the blood on the floor. “Ah shit,” Tony says, as one should when they’re bleeding out of their abdomen. “Sounds like a plan.” He looks up. “But I’ll need you to come to my tower with me. That okay?”
He’s never had anybody ask permission. He’s only been ordered. “Why?”
“Because the rest of the world is out for your blood.”
Bucky doesn’t have to think twice. He knows who he is. What he’s done. “Okay.”
But he doesn’t know why the son of the man he murdered is offering to help him.
“Okay? Seriously?” It seemed like Tony hadn’t quite expected Bucky’s answer. “Wow. Okay, great. Let’s get out of here before I bleed out for real.”
Bucky nods, and he moves to the first door on his left. It looks vaguely familiar, and he suddenly realizes he’s been here before. Before Bucky can push the door open, Tony stops him – too quickly.
“No, not that one.” There’s a hint of fear in Tony’s voice; worry etched into his features as his eyes flick from the door to Bucky. He jerks a finger up to the caved-in ceiling. “We’re this way.”
“What is this place?” Bucky asks, following Tony, although he’s all too eager to know what’s behind the door, fingers itching to shove it open on its hinges.
“Ideal Federal Savings Bank,” Tony says, stopping right in front of the metal man. “And until ten minutes ago, a HYDRA base.”
“It’s familiar,” Bucky notes. He watches as the metal suit opens up, hollowed just enough for a man of Tony’s size to fit into. Tony steps in, and the metal suit closes, enveloping Tony. Bucky stares as the dark slits of its eyes come alive with a glowing blue color.
“Yeah, I’m assuming you were forced to spend quite a bit of time here.” The metal man speaks in a faraway voice that echoes around the room. It doesn’t sound like Tony. “Okay, I know this sounds weird, and I know you’re not a damsel in distress, but I’ll have to carry you.”
“I’m heavy.”
“Are you fishing for compliments? Don’t underestimate me. C’mon, lift your arms.”
Bucky does. Red metal arms sneak its way under Bucky’s, and there’s the clink of metal when it meets Bucky’s left arm.
“You good?” Tony asks from behind Bucky, who only nods in response. There’s a low whine from the metal suit and then – “Up we go.”
Bucky’s feet are no longer touching the ground, and the next thing he knows, they’ve shot straight up through the hole in the ceiling, and Bucky can see the whole city around him. The city’s speckled with golden and white lights, with the roads paving its way through the city like golden veins. A city that would have been bustling with noises and lights suddenly seemed so tranquil and picturesque from above – glowing dots from buildings, from streetlights, from cars almost glittering in his vision. Bucky doesn’t think he’s seen anything as beautiful as this before.
He’s had his fair share of international missions, ultimately ending them with a trail of bodies on all seven continents. He’s never not been on the move, never been able to just stop and take in the beauty of the world. The Winter Soldier never cared about the world, never cared about what it looked like, never cared for its ever-changing technology, the growing infrastructure, or the different cultures and cities bridged themselves. The man he had once been would not have hesitated to stop and take in the beauty of the world, but it’s been a long time since he’s been that man.
They’ve been in the air for almost an hour when Bucky figures that a reasonable time has passed, and as much as he would like not to put an end to the scenic view from above, he’s slightly concerned about the bleeding man. He shifts the attention away from the cities passing below him, turning his head ever so slightly so that his words aren’t lost to the high wind speeds.
“How much longer?”
“We’re just a few dozen miles away from New York,” comes the reply from above him. “12.4 minutes.”
Since he has nothing better to do to fill the time, Bucky starts counting. Exactly 12 minutes and 24 seconds later, they land on the balcony of a tall building.
“Home sweet home.” Tony’s voice is back to normal. Bucky turns, and instead of facing the metal mask, he meets Tony’s face. The suit continues to open up, from his chest to his arms, down his torso and his legs. Tony steps out of the suit, clearly expecting his own two feet to hold him up, but he stumbles. Bucky’s arms shoot out to brace Tony; hands placed on either side of his shoulders to steady him. Going off of the man’s paling complexion, Bucky figures it’s from the blood loss.
“It’s your wound,” Bucky says when the shorter man finds his bearings.
“Really?” Tony breathes out, lifting his t-shirt to look at his wound. “And here I thought it’s old age catching up to me.”
“It could be.”
Tony’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing only a brief second before his face stretches into an amused smile. “Look at you catchin’ up.”
Bucky mirrors the smile and follows Tony while the man heads inside the building. Bucky would have preferred to stay out on the balcony a little while longer, but something tells him Tony might appreciate the company. He slows his strides as he takes in the interior of the building.
It’s a living room, and it’s more than spacious for a single person.
He spots two exits – elevator, stairwell – (three, if he counts the balcony) and thirteen cameras. There’s a glimpse of a metal shutter in the thin space along the upper seams of the glass walls. There’s a reflective surface on almost every piece of furniture, and where there’s a table, there’s a mirror or a reflective object placed on it. The corridor towards the end of the room probably leads to the bedrooms and bathrooms, but there’s nothing that’s remotely close to the exits except for a single table. Everything else is a considerable distance away.
It doesn’t take long for Bucky to recognize the interior as belonging to someone who doesn’t like people sneaking up on them.
“I’d give you a tour, but it seems like you helped yourself in that area,” Tony says from somewhere to the side. Bucky turns, only to see Tony shirtless and perched upon a counter, feet dangling a good 20 inches above the tiled floor. He’s wrapped a white bandage around his waist; a light patch of red seeping into the material from where his wound is.
“Are you sure that’s enough?” Bucky eyes the growing patch of red.
“Yeah,” Tony shrugs, looking down at his waist. “Nothing a few hours of bed rest can’t fix.”
“A day of bed rest, Sir.”
Tony scrunches his nose in slight annoyance just as Bucky’s head snaps up, more focused on the new voice that seems to have come from the walls. His fingers twitch for the knife tucked against his calf.
“Who’s that?”
“Someone who thinks he’s my father,” Tony answers hotly. He shoots one glare towards the corner of the ceiling – where one of the camera’s rested – before turning to Bucky. “That’s JARVIS. He’s an artificial intelligence – part-time father and full-time know-it-all.”
“I’m honored you think so highly of me.” Bucky still can’t figure out where the voice is coming from; there must be a speaker somewhere that he hadn’t noticed. He looks at Tony, who’s staring right back at Bucky.
Tony’s the first to look away, eyes settling on a vague area to his right. “Note the sarcasm, Jarv.”
“Right back at you, Sir.”
Tony lets out an amused laugh and shakes his head fondly, before turning to Bucky. “If you need help with something, just call out to him. He’ll help you when I’m not around.”
When he’s not around?
“Where are you going?” Bucky asks, his voice coming out sharper than he’d expected it to. Tony looks taken aback, peering at Bucky with narrowed, curious eyes.
“Nowhere—?” Tony says, but it comes out as more of a question. And then his eyes widen. “Oh, I meant— Sorry, I just assumed you were staying.”
Bucky notes Tony looks slightly embarrassed. It’s weird.
“Here?” Bucky clarifies. Why would anyone willingly let the Winter Soldier, an assassin with over seventy years of kills, invade their space?
Suddenly, Bucky wonders if this is some kind of cruel, psychological punishment that Tony wants to inflict upon him. Every moment of every day would serve as a waking reminder of the lives he took, of the cold-blooded murder of Howard and Maria Stark, and their orphaned child. Everywhere he’d look, the name Stark would glare right back at him. And, every time he’d look at Tony, Howard and Maria would be glaring back at him. It would only be a matter of time before the overwhelming force of guilt takes over and Bucky loses his grip on reality. The Winter Soldier could take it – he felt no remorse, no pain – but the longer Bucky goes without being reprogrammed, the more vulnerable he becomes. He’d be forced to uncover seventy years of guilt, seventy years of blood on his hands, and seventy years of being used as a machine.
Tony is still staring at him.
“You want me to stay?” Bucky asks and hopes that he has a choice. He knows he’s asking for too much – having a choice, being able to choose the consequences, is a privilege, and it was a privilege he’s missed out on for a long time. But Tony doesn’t speak to him the way that Bucky’s usually been spoken to. Tony asks questions. Questions that he wants Bucky to answer, from asking what he prefers to be called to being concerned for Bucky’s well-being.
Tony treats him like an equal; like a friend.
“I wouldn’t be averse to it,” Tony says, and it’s way too casual, almost like he’s trying too hard to be indifferent. But it’s not a no, which means Bucky has a choice to leave.
“That’s not a no,” he notes, trying to hide the relief in his voice.
Tony shoots him a pointed look. “Don’t push it.”
“I’m sorry about your parents,” Bucky says, his voice coming out in a near whisper. Tony had given him the cup of coffee about five minutes ago, and Bucky had cradled it in his hands for the whole of five minutes, having an internal debate on whether he should bring up the elephant in the room.
The hot mug had been burning into his human palm, going entirely unnoticed because he was too absorbed in his own thoughts. Beside him, Tony had stayed silent the entire time, absently sipping on his coffee and looking deep in thought, until Bucky spoke, and Tony seemed to freeze mid-sip. Bucky hates the idea that he may have just ruined the rest of Tony’s coffee. Or day.
“S’fine,” Tony says shortly. “It was a long time ago.” Tony’s voice sounds distant. Closed-off. He hates me. I killed his parents and he hates me.
“Still,” Bucky insists. Tell me you hate me.
“Nothing you could have done about it,” Tony says, a bitter-edge to his voice. As much as it is the truth, it’s still a painful reminder of how helpless he’d been under the hands of HYDRA. A hollow, carved out human with no humanity in him.
“That doesn’t excuse—”
“I’m over it.” Tony snaps – his words final.
“Okay.” Bucky doesn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t make matters worse, so he takes a sip of the coffee and lets his mind wander.
У меня есть для тебя миссия. Санкционируй и Извлекай. Без свидетелей // I have a mission for you. Sanction and extract. No witnesses.
Eliminate Howard Stark and retrieve the Winter Soldier serum. Eliminate the wife and son if they’re present.
“I’m sorry,” Tony says, and Bucky’s head snaps up. Tony’s eyes are fixed on him. Bucky blinks. Why is he apologizing?
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I know— I just.” Tony stops, breathes. “I’ve been told that sometimes I offend without meaning to– so. Just in case.”
“What I’ve done trumps anything you could do to offend me.”
Tony’s lips pull into a bittersweet smile. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“You live here alone?” Bucky asks, once again reminded that the space around them was much too spacious for a single person.
“Mostly,” Tony shrugs, and when Bucky looks at him with a look that says elaborate, Tony continues. “I’m sorta seeing someone; he stays over sometimes.”
He, Bucky notes. He doesn’t remember anybody being so open about their sexuality back when he was – well, human. But Tony seems like the type to be confident about anything, no matter the era. “Where is he now?”
“Out of the world.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow, which Tony doesn’t spot until he senses Bucky looking at him in silence and turns to him.
“No— like. Literally,” Tony starts to explain. “He’s a god – it’s weird. You’ll probably meet him soon. He has a habit of showing up unannounced.”
“God? Like— Jesus Christ?” Bucky asks, entirely dumbfounded. He knows gods, knows religions, knows that god’s don’t spend their time dating humans, much less even physically exist. How do you date a god? Is Tony a pastor?
“Oh, no,” Tony says immediately. “Do not let him hear you say that. He’s Norse. Deals with mischief, chaos, all that. You’ll see.”
Norse, Bucky notes, European.
“Do you curse when he’s around?” Bucky asks, and Tony laughs like Bucky just made the funniest joke of the year until he realizes Bucky was serious, and stops.
What the hell has the world come to?
“What do you remember?” Tony asks softly, breaking the silence that enveloped them. The lights had previously dimmed to a warm yellow – Bucky doesn’t know how, Tony had been beside him the entire time, comfortably leaning against the couch – and it had set a somber mood around them. It was a comfortable silence that Bucky found solace in, and he had strayed away to thinking of his past. Tony asking him the question had caught him off-guard, because it had been so long since they spoke, Bucky assumed Tony had slept in his seated position.
“As Bucky Barnes? A few flashes,” Bucky confesses. “As the Winter Soldier? Everything.”
“Must be tough,” Tony comments. Behind the casualness in his words, there was a strain in Tony’s voice, and the unknown reason is only slightly worrying.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Bucky says, repeating Tony’s remark from earlier. Tony cocks his head, eyebrows raised, in a gesture of touché, and looks away. It’s a familiar action, and it may have been several decades, but Tony’s gestures – even the minuscule ones – are a mirror reflection of a man Bucky had once admired, a man the Winter Soldier killed.
“I knew your father,” Bucky says, and I didn’t even hesitate to kill him.
Tony smiles, sad and amused at the same time. “You’re not the first person to say that to me.”
“Who else has?”
“Steve Rogers. Captain America.” Tony pauses, and then smirks. “You might have heard of him.”
“He’s a friend.”
“Yeah,” Tony says, swallows and then looks away. “He is.”
“Tell me more.” And so, Tony starts.
“He called me Bucky,” He says once Tony finishes.” That’s how I knew it was my name.”
“You didn’t know your name before that?” Tony asks, brows knitted in concern, like the absence of a name was worrisome. What’s in a name? He remembers reading somewhere, in a book maybe, that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. He shakes the memory away. Now is probably not the time to have his brain flooded with insignificant memories that contribute nothing to his identity.
“Asset. Soldier. Winter,” Bucky lists out, face blank. “Any name that could dehumanize me. When they found out I recognized Steve, I knew they were angry. And then–” Bucky stops; frowns. He remembers people shouting. The trigger words had stopped halfway, his brain trapped at the threshold of who he was, and who he was forced to be.
The familiar sensation of losing his freedom, his thoughts and memories, had come to an abrupt stop.
“They didn’t— couldn’t finish— someone came.” He blinks, and looks at Tony. “Was that you?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s why the door was familiar.”
“Maybe.”
“If you were wearing the metal suit, how did they cut you?” Bucky asks, and immediately regrets it a moment later, because Tony winces like Bucky just brought up a bad memory. He’s just about to tell Tony that he doesn’t have to answer when–
“I got out of it, had to see if you were alive. Someone sneaked up on me and took me an embarrassingly long time to get the upper hand,” Tony says, leaning back against the sofa as his eyes dart down to his hip, where the wound was hidden behind his black t-shirt.
“You were protecting me,” Bucky notes.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
There are a few minutes of silence, and Bucky lets his thoughts consume him. From the corner of his eyes, Bucky can see Tony’s eyes fluttering shut. Tony is human, after all. Single-handedly taking down a HYDRA base wouldn’t have been easy, and he hadn’t come out of it unscathed either.
There’s a question that’s been nagging at Bucky ever since he realized that Tony was there to help him; since he realized that Tony doesn’t seem to have any ulterior motives.
Why would anybody want to help the Winter Soldier?
Tony, in the simplest sense, is a victim of the Soldier’s crimes, orphaned and thrust into a world of heavy responsibility – the Stark fortune and empire – because Bucky couldn’t fight back. And after all that, here Tony was, helping the man who murdered his parents.
He could still see Howard’s face as clear as day; the flicker of recognition when he realized who the Winter Soldier was, the desperate plea for help as he said Bucky’s name. Maria Stark had her life squeezed out of her, and not through the weapon that HYDRA had fitted him with, but using his human arm.
His arm was no longer a weapon, no longer a part of his body that he could blame his actions on, because with the murder of Maria Stark, The Winter Soldier became a weapon himself.
Beside him, Tony stirs and then wakes up in a jolt, apparently realizing he had fallen asleep without so much as a word.
“C’mon.” Tony stands up and looks down at Bucky, his face or tone showing no evidence that he’d been dead to the world the past half an hour. “Let’s get you some sleep.”
“I don’t usually sleep,” Bucky says, but he gets up anyway. Bucky never really slept – most of his life was spent in a cryogenic chamber, and he was only ever awoken for missions. Once a mission was done – Bucky was skilled; it rarely took him more than a day – it was back to the chamber.
“Wait till you hit the bed,” Tony says, leading Bucky to where he assumes the bedrooms are. If only Tony knew that the Winter Soldier hasn’t never slept on a bed, or that he hasn’t even felt one.
Bucky follows silently, and when Tony opens the door to a bedroom and tells him to consider the room his – it’s yours as long as you want it to be – Bucky can only stare at the man.
A kind, forgiving man who’s all but giving a murderer a fresh start.
“Thank you,” Bucky finally says. He doesn’t quite trust himself to say anything more. He fears that if he starts talking, he may never stop.
Желание. Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. Возвращение на Родину. Один. Товарный вагон // Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.
Ready to comply.
“Please, don’t do this. I have a family.”
Ready to comply.
“Help my wife. Please.”
“Howard?”
“Sergeant Barnes?”
Ready to comply.
“Don’t kill me. Have mercy. I beg you.”
Ready to comply.
“Hey! What the—"
Ready to comply.
"Soldier?"
Ready to comply.
Ready to comp–
“Bucky?”
“Who the hell is Bucky?”
“Bucky.”
“Bucky.” Someone says. Their voice doesn’t fit… but it’s familiar. It’s not a hostile presence.
“Hey. Wake up.” There are strong hands on his shoulders– attack. He’s being attacked. He was careless – he exposed himself. His handler will punish him. There’s no other way-
“Hey, you’re okay.” It’s the same voice again. Someone’s calling out to him, pleading and desperate, but it’s dark and Bucky can’t see– can’t see . He’s trapped in his own mind. One by one, the trigger words close the doors of his brain, and Bucky can no longer reach out to the person he once was. He no longer feels pain, no longer feels emotion. He is numb. A vacant shell of a man.
Bucky’s eyes snap open.
“Hi,” Tony’s face looms over him for the second time that day. “I got you.” Tony’s crouched over him, and Bucky suddenly realizes the material beneath him isn’t fabric, and neither is it soft. “JARVIS told me you were shaking in your sleep, speaking Russian.”
“Why am I on the floor?” Bucky asks instead, only to end up answering his own question a moment later. The floor is the only thing familiar to him. It’s what he’s become used to – not the comfort of a bed.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” comes the helpful response. “Get up now. I’m guessing you had a nightmare.”
“That’s what happens when I sleep,” Bucky answers with a shrug too painful to execute, allowing Tony to lift him up even though Bucky was doing most of the lifting himself.
“You sleep on the floor often?”
“As far as I can remember,” Bucky admits. Tony watches, standing awkwardly at the side of the bed, as Bucky climbs over the sheets. The thick navy blue blanket remains untouched and folded at the foot of the bed. It’s only another element of comfort that Bucky is expected to get used to.
Once Bucky has settled on the bed, he continues to look down at his feet, unsure of why Tony was still looking at him. He feels like he’s under observation, under judgment for his cold-blooded actions.
You killed my parents.
A beat passes, and then Tony moves.
“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, eyeing the man who’s shamelessly climbing on the bed and placing himself at the edge. Tony looks at him, and Bucky can sense a kind of conflict in Tony’s eyes, like he wants to say something, but he’s thinking once, twice, thrice. Finally, Tony shrugs. The casualness of the action looks forced.
“It helps to have someone in close proximity,” is what he decides to say. Bucky isn’t one to push anybody out of their comfort zone, isn’t one to force someone to justify their actions. Tony looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t want to, but has to brace himself for whatever Bucky will say that might hurt Tony’s offer of an olive branch. “...If this is okay with you?”
A choice, again. There’s no logical reason why Tony would choose to be kind, to welcome Bucky with open arms and provide him with a living space. There may be no reason, but the explanation might be something to do with the calm before the storm.
Tony must have seen something on Bucky’s face, possibly because Bucky may have been careless enough to let his feelings show, since his hopeful expression just drops. Tony starts moving, clearly intent on shifting away from the bed and leaving Bucky alone only so he could act like his little show of being a good samaritan never happened, but Bucky speaks before Tony can move any further.
“Okay,” Bucky says, and Tony stops mid-movement. He turns to Bucky, posture unsure and hesitant. “But, hands to yourself,” Bucky warns lightly – an empty threat in all its definitions – and the change in Tony's face is immediate. Tony smiles, and his shoulders drop in relaxation before he huffs out a small laugh.