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The first thought that runs through Tony’s head at the sight of the room is well, this is non-optimal.
It is, it really is. Bucky stands near him, just a little behind, close enough for Tony to feel his presence; judging by what Tony can get from the limited view of his profile, Bucky’s thoughts on the matter are akin to his own.
To be fair, it’s not even the bed, although the bed is what catches the eye first: only one bed in the middle of the room, the central piece of composition, a double but still small for two grown men, one of whom happens to be ridiculously wide in the upper area. But the bed’s not the only misfit here: the whole room is subpar. It looks like a setting for a cheap horror movie, bleak and depressing and cramped.
Tony could complain about it — loudly and incessantly — but to be honest, he’s tired, too tired, exhausted, even after the mission that went too long, after its resolve, falling somewhere between failure and success but not quite hitting either. This is just another thing in a row of many. Instead, he turns around to look at Bucky and watches him assess the room.
“It probably could’ve been worse?” Bucky says, eyebrow lifting, and while the sentiment isn’t new, the shy hope in Bucky’s voice and his quiet acceptance are a balm to Tony’s frustrated soul.
“You aren’t wrong there.” Tony shakes his head and gets inside.
They have a long night before them, and — after it ends, after, hopefully, the storm outside ends as well — a long road home, finally.
Tony feels a sudden longing for his bathtub, then a shame of his shallowness.
They are quiet, both of them, for the remains of the evening, too tired to start a conversation or do anything but the staying at shitty motel routine; it’s comfortable enough, which is a rare treat, a surprising one, but still the one Tony should start getting used to, perhaps. The mission brought them something good, at least: two of them, able to be so relaxed in each other’s orbits. A side effect of being in mortal danger for a couple of days.
Tony will allocate some time in the future to feel all giddy and stupid because of it, to marvel at their new relationship, at the easiness he now has for deciphering Bucky’s grumpy demeanor. If he feels generous, maybe he’ll add a couple of hours for daydreaming about the future; perhaps some fantasy in which Bucky will be down for more bonding, this time with fewer Nazis shooting at them and, maybe, fewer clothes. Or even in some romantic setting or other; it depends on the mood.
For now, he doesn’t have the energy to imagine ridiculous things like Bucky smiling at him and calling him old-timey nicknames; for now, Tony just wants to rest.
His body has other plans, of course. Unsurprising, but very fucking annoying.
They get in bed, shuffle around each other in a bit of awkwardness — it is small for them, the empirical method proved the earlier hypothesis — turn off the lights and get ready to sleep. Tony is very ready, at least, he’s not sure about Bucky; he wants it. He needs it. He’s exhausted.
The burst of excitement about lying so close to Bucky comes and goes, and then it’s just Tony. In the dark. Not able to sleep.
If asked to list all the reasons he can’t fall asleep Tony would— well, he would lie and bullshit and go away from the asker, the question flaring up his defensive mechanisms, but if he wanted to list all the reasons to himself for some reason, it’s be something like this: it’s too fucking hot (from Bucky’s side), too fucking cold (from the other side), too fucking loud (they’re in the middle of nowhere, Jesus fuck, why?), too fucking stuffy (and not really helped by the open window, although it does enlargen the previous reason), the blanket is too fucking scratchy, and he’s going insane.
It’s not a surprise, not a novelty. His insomnia is easily triggered by the most idiotic things. Still; he needs to sleep, requires it after the mission that exhausted a supersoldier, needs to be not a mess tomorrow. So he lies there and tries to make himself sleep, so he doesn’t get up (not that there’s anything to do if he does get up). He lies there. He tosses and turns. He tries to get more comfortable. He moves the blanket and gets a leg out. An arm. Both the leg and arm are freezing. His back is on fire. Bucky is a fucking furnace.
Tony wants to blow something up, preferably himself, to end his suffering.
He’s going mad.
His brain both runs a million thoughts per minute and doesn’t get any input aside from HOT! COLD! Blaring in big red letters. It’s horrible.
Tony moves again, this time trying to get away from Bucky as much as possible and take the blanket with him. He should just accept he won’t be able to sleep, but he can’t. He still tries and tries for no reason but the fact that he doesn’t have anything else to do. He hates it, hates more than the actual danger he’s regularly in; it’s the helplessness. The inability to find a way out.
Tony turns again. There’s space between him and Bucky now, but it’s not enough. He sighs.
“Tony?”
Fuck.
“Yep?”
“Are you okay?”
“Peachy.”
He hears a sigh.
“Alright. Give me that cover, I’m going to the floor.”
Double fuck. Tony winces and reaches for the lamp. In its dim light, Bucky looks extra soft, his hair in disarray, eyes sleepy. He also looks sad, which is unacceptable.
“Please don’t. Am I bothering you? I should go to the floor, it’s really—”
“It’s fine, you don’t have to—”
“I do. If you can’t sleep because of me—”
“Tony. It’s okay. I can sleep anywhere, I’m fine, and you’re clearly uncomfortable.”
Bucky shoots him a sad smile, and while one part of Tony’s brain is on clearly uncomfortable, the other can’t help but focus on the sight and be floored by it.
(Here lies Tony Stark, after all the attempted murders, he was finally finished by not being able to deal with the beauty of Bucky’s forlorn face.)
Then he reboots and gets back to the conversation.
“I’m not uncomfortable.”
It’s the most unconvincing he’s ever been in his life.
Bucky lifts his eyebrow, unimpressed.
“It’s okay. I get it,” his voice is so gentle, placating, almost a murmur. Tony wants to record it and listen to it in his saddest moments. “You don’t have to lie at my account, it’s understandable you can’t just sleep around me. I can— I’ll give you the bed.”
Bucky keeps looking so— sad but accepting, excluding that easy calmness that he demonstrates at every new bullshit the world keeps throwing at them — it’s heartbreaking. And really fucking wrong.
“No! Come on, what? Everything that just came out of your mouth is so wrong I thought I was talking to Justin Hammer.” Bucky chuckles at that; yay, win for Tony. “No, I mean, I am uncomfortable, but it’s just ‘cause— ugh.”
He sighs and gives up. No secrecy’s worth this.
“You’re too hot,” Tony blurts and watches Bucky’s eyebrows rushing up. “Not in the— okay, that too, not gonna lie, but I meant literally. You’re a fucking furnace, and the other’s side too cold, and the blanket is scratchy, and I can’t fucking breathe and— yeah, I’m a whiny kid, Jesus, I heard how it sounds.”
Tony closes his eyes. Then feels Bucky’s hand circling around his.
“Hey,” again the soft voice, but more confident, less sad now. “You’re not a whiny kid. You ignore serious injuries on a regular basis.”
Tony snorts. It sounds self-deprecating even to his own usually oblivious ears.
“What can we do for you to be more at ease here? Open the window? Blankets?”
“Um, it’s fine. I probably won’t sleep anyway. You sleep, though, and I watch you. Uh, not in a creepy way, in a we’re stranded here, and I can’t sleep way?”
Bucky laughs. He keeps holding Tony’s hand. It’s ridiculous what small things can make Tony feel all mushy inside.
“I can still sleep on the floor if it’d be less hot for you,” and his mouth starts twitching at that, like he thinks of some private joke.
“Eh, let me do it. At least one of us will be sleeping then, right?”
Bucky nods and helps him to improvise a nestle from the bed cover and pillows on the floor.
“So,” Bucky says after they’re done, less asleep now, his eyes with a rare mischievous glint, “you think I’m hot.”
Tony sends him his best unimpressed stare.
“You’re an objectively attractive person.”
Bucky beams, the loveable bastard.
“Uh-huh. So how do you feel about sleeping with people without, uh, actually sleeping?”
Tony squints at him.
“That was a one-eighty.”
“I’m very adaptable.”
Bucky looks very different from what he did just several minutes ago: teasing and snarky at first glance, but with a slimmer of hope underneath. Tony feels a similar hope himself.
“It’s a very public fact that I’m okay with it. How do you feel about hand holding in a different context?”
He can ask, too, take a step closer. The ball’s on his side.
Bucky’s whole face lights up, and what a sight. Tony corrects his previous statement: this is what finishes him.
They lay down, keeping the flirting on, the exhaustion of the day half-forgotten in the face of this new thing unfolding between them. Tony’s nestle is very close to the bed — the room doesn’t have much space, so they don’t need to raise their voices to hear each other.
When Bucky reaches with his arm to swat at Tony’s face after some ridiculous remark, Tony catches it in his, and they stay like that. It’s a comfort. Not too hot, not too cold (Tony has several blankets), and he doesn’t care about the stiffness.
He falls asleep soon, still holding Bucky’s hand.