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Tony woke with a start, mind reeling back into consciousness steadily by Jarvis' voice, saying something a little too foggy to comprehend. He tossed and turned, attempting to block out Jarvis' words because he was too tired to care, but eventually he concluded that the Al obviously wasn't giving up anytime soon. He fought to stay awake despite the comfort of the satin blanket and soft, plush sheets that were in tangles by his feet, focusing as hard as he could on reality so words could properly register in his groggy brain; so they could slice through the thick clouds that were hovering over organizable thought. "Sir," Jarvis exclaimed with a hint of what could only be annoyance, indicating that it probably wasn't the first time he had to repeat himself. Each syllable aided to the guise of real human passion and sentiment. It was sometimes eerie how perfectly Tony had programmed Jarvis to resemble more of a humane, non-visible figure, speaking through a microphone somewhere with gods eye
at his disposal, instead of an Al system so advanced it could gracefully depict sarcasm and annoyance for one Tony Stark.
"Mr. Stark-"
"I'm up. I'm up, Jarvis. Don't get you freakin' technological panties in a twist," he grunted, hissing at the waves of pain that racked through his head after shouting. He sat up reluctantly, hands automatically going to his eyes to rub the grime of sleep from the corners and releasing a mighty yawn that felt as wide as a great whites jaw. "Hey, do me favor Mr. Giles and turn on the lights."
Within the millisecond the machine needed to take the man's order into account and fixate on his needs, Tony felt the headache recede the uttermost minuscule amount, to the point in which he optimistically concluded that maybe the roaring thrum of ethanol working its effects on his body wouldn't be as bad as first interpreted, but before the sanguine cogitation could relieve any stressed worries, Tony was blinded by fluorescent brightness coming in from every corner of the room, multiplying the headache by tenfold. "Jesus! Dim it down will you! How many times do I have to tell you Jarvis—if papa Tony was sipping the strong stuff the night before, he doesn't like the equivalent to the suns glare staring him down when he wakes up in the morning!"
As ordered, the lighting immediately dimmed to a steady level somewhere below medium. He tried to look around for his watch, but obviously had lost it at some point the night before, so he settled for glancing out what could be seen behind the curtain of the window. No semblance to stereo New York City morning was visible through the slit, only steady darkness. "Wait a second—is it even morning?" he asked, more or less a question to himself, trying to fit the bits and pieces of his scattered mind together in their uneven fragments. "Oh god, please don't tell me I slept an entire freaking day away." Surely, at least one of the other Avengers would check up on him to make sure he didn't accidentally forge himself into an alcohol induced coma. Maybe they did, but decided to let him sleep. It didn't make sense, though. He could still feel his head pounding a mile a minute. The residual aftertaste of whiskey was still hovering over his tongue, and it came to him with a bitter realization. "Jarvis, how long has it been since I passed out from my little venture in to the liquor cabinet?"
"About four hours Mr. Stark." He didn't sleep for more than twenty-four hours after all. At least it wasn't that bad, but now it was worse for another reason.
"I see, uh huh—and may I ask, ever so politely, why on God's green earth did you think that it would be wise to wake me up only /five hours/ after I drank my soul away?"
He was really not in the mood for this. He could barely remember why he started drinking in the first place. If he wasn't mistaken by his own not-completely-coherently-working-brain at the moment and he thought about it hard enough, it may have been about failing on some new prototype for the suit, but it could've just as easily been because he was bored and looking for a fun way to pass the time and by the looks of the two empty tall crystal glasses of fine aqua vetae strewn across the carpeted floor, he must have fulfilled his wishes of tranquility.
"Well sir, Ms. Potts called to be informed if you forgot to take your daily dosage of Adivan." Jarvis claimed.
A certain ounce of dread slipped into his stomach, and his mouth felt suddenly even more dry than before. He thought that she would've been too caught up with negotiation tactics and quota number study to remember to check if he had taken those pills. He didn't understand why he needed them. Pepper didn't need to worry about him. He was fine. He just wished that she would realize that. The pills didn't do anything for him except make him more tired. It was plain pointless. "Mhmm, and what did you tell her?" He decided to humor a reply even though he already knew the answer.
"I am very well aware of what you asked me to do if she decided to call and bring up the whereabouts of your medication digestion status-"
The false ignorant show hadn't lasted long, an uncertain disdain of knowing that he would be taking the pills tonight, whether he liked it or not was too strong for him to stay patient. "Jarvis can you just get to the point where you tell me that you're worried about me too so you told her the truth and thus proceeded to wake my crunked as hell face up to take those god awful drugs?"
Jarvis returned the remark with the slightest undertone of wariness. "Indeed I did, so will you please take your dosage? I have calculated the risks of mixing the medicine with you recent alcohol intake and if I am correct, you have metabolized enough of the whiskey to take it safely. That is why I allowed you to sleep an additional four hours after Ms. Pott's call."
Tony groaned, "And I'm guessing that you aren't going to let me fall back into my peaceful stupor of sleep until I do?"
"Precisely sir," Jarvis replied, a hint of amusement residing in his voice.
"So it shall be!" Tony replied dramatically, wishful that he made Shakespeare proud, but of course, his headache decided to disagree. He grunted as he squeezed his head with both hands to the point that it felt as though a compressor had him in its grip and untangled himself from the piles of fabric surrounding him. "Where'd I put those damn things again?" he mumbled. He faltered over to the dresser, bracing himself against it and taking a few direly needed deep breathes before making his way out to the middle room, waiting for Jarvis to reply.
He purposely avoided the reflections of anything in a one-hundred mile radius. He didn't need to see his hungover face to add to all the discomfort he held right now. From many years of experience, Tony was well aware of how alcohol could change someone's looks, and he wasn't about to disrupt his own beliefs that he was aging like fine wine. Based on how long Jarvis was taking, he was probably sifting through hours of film to find out where Tony had clumsily put the meds, so the latter occupied the short time in-between exchanges with incomprehensible grumbling that he himself, couldn't decipher thoroughly without making the ringing in his ears crescendo.
"They're on the kitchen counter, sir." Like a dam cracking under the current of a rivers pressure, a tiny fissure in jumbled memories cleared and allowed him to see himself indeed putting the drugs there the day prior. Wordlessly, he went to the kitchen, right in the middle of the room, enclosed off only by three sides of counters and an island in the middle of the only opening. Cabinets were above the initial platforms, leaving a spacious gap between the latter and former so any occupants of the quaint little spot were in view of living space dwellers, kitchen perpendicular to them, as well as inhabitants of the bar which was to the right side of the room from where Tony stood, looking through a pair of cabinets and counters to see the great window behind the living area. After shoving down the white circular pill with some bubbly water from the fridge, he wandered over to the ginormous panes and viewed the city around him.
Whenever Pepper was away on business, Tony decided to take up residence in his pent house at the Avengers tower. What was the point of going to an empty bed across town when he could easily sleep in an empty bed in the tower in which he was working on advancements for his team the whole day? That was his logic anyway. He took in the glistening headlights of cars on the highways, the pointy tops of skyscrapers, and the starless night that was the only thing a city as big as New York City could offer.
Sometimes seeing the technological beauty of the place in which he had resided his whole life helped him forget that it had almost been torn to shreds by a weird Asgardian in a green robe and a sparkly, bright blue cube that could destroy anything that got a little too tactile for it's liking. It was almost like a guy in a highly advanced suit didn't have to go up into an evil realm with a nuclear in his arms, waiting to be disintegrated and making peace with it before he-Nope. Not going there. Stop thinking about it before you have another pani-
"Mr. Stark," Jarvis reeled him back into the present, causing an odd annoyance to bubble within, no real cause behind it except for the memories that he was now trying to shove down again.
"What is it now? You wanna tuck me in and read me a bed time story while I snuggle all up in your coding so l can feel safe and warm?" He took the Al's silence as a queue that he may have chewed at him a little too snidely. He instantly regretted what he said. He didn't mean it--he was just irritable because he was thinking about-STOP. Who knew Stark was such a genius that he could make his own AI system so advanced that it got hurt when he yelled at it? "Listen, I'm sorry Jarvis, 'm just tired is all. "He waited a beat before hesitantly continuing. "What is it?"
"Captain Rogers asked me to leave a message for you a few hours ago as well."
"What does Boy Scout Stevie have to tell me—decided to go with the blue tent instead of the green?" Wow, he really needed to slow down before everyone started hated him more than they already do.
What if that actually did happen? Would he be taken out of the organization that his father helped create in the first place? Was he going to be exiled from the group that he had been part in forming? That left him feeling even more panicked than before, but no sooner was Jarvis continuing, "No, he asked me to inform you that he was taking a trip to DC to see Sam Wilson for a week and to make a speech at the local Veterans Affairs Operation."
"Wonderful, I hope him and his sweetheart are- wait, did Bucky go with him?" This was absolutely not what he needed right now. No way. Steve did not leave Tony to care for his freaking boy toy while he was off somewhere in DC chatting it up new acquaintances.
"No sir, I'm afraid not."
"Oh, that son if a b-"
"Mr. Stark, I don't think it's wise to lash out on Sergeant Barnes at the present time." There it was again, vexation rising without restraint and overtaking his rationality, clouding all sensible thought like a unforgiving virus attacking every cell the body had to offer.
The mutated cells stormed into his room at once. He was already snatching up his pants and shoving his unforgiving legs through the holes. "I'm so done with this right now," he muttered. "Why is it that I shouldn't 'lash out on Sergeant Barnes' right freaking now, Jarvis, huh?" he asked, mimicking the British tone of the AI almost to perfection. Now he was heading for his slippers.
"Well," Jarvis seemed a bit nervous to continue, "it seems that Mr. Barnes is experiencing... an episode." Tony instantly froze, straightening up and looking at an invisible Jarvis somewhere in the ceiling. Sometimes, when Tony was bored out of his mind and chatting with Jarvis to eradicate the abiding monotonous feeling of having nothing to do, he would imagine what the AI looked like--maybe he was a dapper fellow, with a pipe hat and lapels that lasted for days, or a British chap to match his accent, bowler hat situated lopsided on his head and smoke pipe loosely held between his index and middle finger. Now, Tony thought he looked like a squeamish guy, trying to hide something, he wasn't sure he was at liberty to expose, but no matter how believably alive Jarvis seemed, he still had systeming. He wouldn't be able to keep a secret if it was of paramount importance or graveness to his creator--unless someone had hacked into his mainframe, but it was highly unlikely.
"And what the hell do you mean by an episode? Is he killing all my guards as we speak right now and letting all of his Hydra goonies stomp their grimy boots all over my beautiful, million dollar floors?"
"Not exactly." He waited for what felt like a millennium for any more insight than that. "Jarvis!"
"Sir, I can infer that this may be a personal matter for him."
"Listen, I don't care if he's bouncing it with someone--what is he doing!?"
Silence. He was done.
"Jarvis where is he?"
"In his room."
"Show me the security camera right now."
"Sir, I-"
"Jarvis, you are going to show me that footage or, so help me, you will end up just like Ultron." It was a low blow and he knew It was, but he could apologize for it later.
He knew it wasn't Bucky that killed his parents. It was Hydra. He knew that. He knew Bucky was not the bad guy, but it was so hard to believe it, even if it was true. It was so hard not to go after him every time he saw him, so hard not to punch him until he felt what he had inflicted on Tony's mother. At the same time, he felt guilty for having those exact thoughts. He didn't care right now though—no he didn't. He was already peeved off in the first place and this was just adding to the ever-kindling fire.
Jarvis doesn't say anything after that and simply just pulls up the bedroom footage on the nearest holographic projector within the flat floor, situated on the kitchen island's surface. It's a little hard to perceive the footage at first, considering the majority of darkness, but obviously Jarvis picks up on this bit of information on his own accord and follows up by turning on the night vision mode. Sometimes Tony, himself, forgets all the neat little gadgets and tools that he has around his tower, implanted into devices, and imbedded into his Al's coding.
To his surprise, he doesn't see Bucky scheming out some evil plan or trying to screw up something in the room to aid to his calculating domination of the Avengers tower like Tony had suspected at first, but he is in his bed. Tony thought he may have been asleep--that maybe something malfunctioned in Jarvis' programming (highly doubtful) until he saw the soldier jerk. It looked like he was just shocked or something of the sort. He was tangling himself up further in the comforter and sheets as he continued to squirm, face contorted in one of despair with his eyes closed, brows furrowed, and his mouth agape.
The whole scene was disturbing to say the least, but Tony wasn't exactly sure what he was supposed to do per se. "Jarvis, can you turn on the audio?" He didn't know what made him so suddenly curious in the situation. His rage was subsiding unusually fast. He tried to find reasoning for what was happening that didn't include the likes of actual human feelings and emotions but continued to come up short. To put it in Layman’s terms, if it was indeed a nightmare that he was witnessing The Winter Soldier go through, then the night was going to getting a lot more complicated, at least if Tony decided to interfere. A symbol in the bottom right corner of the screen that depicted a speaker with three bars and a slash through it quickly changed into just the speaker and the bars. Simultaneously,
Tony could now hear whimpering through the speakers as Bucky desperately grasped to any physical ropes that withstood the strength of his possible subconscious creations and memories. It made his gut churn and his brain automatically attempt to find reasoning for the feeling that didn't include pity for the man. It was odd seeing a guy of such stoic manner whimpering and crying out pleas of 'no' and 'stop' over and over again, and the longer Tony continued to view it, the harder it was to find a Evel Knievel reason to be angry with the guy.
"Hey, uh, you sure that there isn't some hidden
monster lurking somewhere in his room that's just working their magic on him and making him all mopey with pain?"
"I'm afraid not, sir," Jarvis voices.
"Why are humans so complicated, Jarvis?"
"I don't think I have a plausible answer to that inquiry."
"Of course you don't," Tony says, "because you're a robot and you don't have experience as a human—no offense. You don't have to carry the burdens of a human being, so you don't know what it's like. You're concrete. You have systeming and data, and that's all you need, but stupid humans are filled with all the weird things like fear and sadness. You know, I think being a robot would be a lot easier than being a human sometimes. That is, until I think about the pleasure of humane satisfaction if you know what I mean, and there isn't any way that I'm giving up that anytime soon," he scoffed. He still continued to watch as Bucky's nightmare transpired for some mysterious reason, unbeknownst to him. He chalked it up to wanting to make sure the other man was okay before he went back to bed so he didn't have to feel as guilty. Eventually, the intense crescendo to Bucky's night terror ended with him shouting 'NO' at the top of his lungs before waking up, gasping and panting. Tony clenched his jaw at the sight of the sergeant as he receded back into the pliable mattress once he seemingly realized it was just a dream, looking around at all of his surroundings for visual confirmation, curling up on himself with a blank face and a trembling body. He didn't look like he was going to get any more sleep that night.
"Alright," Tony stated, clearing his throat. "I've seen enough." At once, the hologram faded away and Bucky's bedroom terror rendezvouses were out of sight. An odd, almost protective, discomfort from not being able to see the struggling soldier anymore wavered in his chest.
He headed back into the direction of his room before stopping midway, decisions whirling in his brain in rapid-fire succession. These weren't his problems. Why was he the one feeling bad for the ex-assassin? It was a nightmare. Probably everyone on the Avengers team had them. They were like the island of traumatized, heroic, misfits toys. It wasn't anything new. He had done plenty enough when he made a final truce with Steve and allowed them to return to the team after learning about Zemo and Bucky's non-consensual brainwashing and torture. They should've been thanking him.
He did enough, but his brain was telling him two different things. The devil on his right complained about not getting enough sleep, selfishly minimalizing Bucky's emotionally draining endeavors to nothing more than daily occurrences of an average ninety-year-old, serum-advanced, Joe. The angel on his left was scrutinizing him and his morally recalcitrant attitude, altruistically voicing it wasn't about systematic thinking or equalization, ratio proportionality, but it was about one person being there for another when they were in need, differences aside.
Who knew Tony's inner thoughts were so poetic?
Gritted his teeth and dredging across the wide expanse of spruce floor he eventually came short at the elevator doors, frustrated with his own consciousness. He wavered into the enclosed lift, previous to ordering Jarvis to send him to James' floor. He looked out the window, facing the view opposite to what he saw on his own floor, on the other side of his building, the sight slowly altering in perspective planes of vision as the gigantic box lowered farther to reach its destination—phosphorescent colors littering the night sky in true New York City style and irrepressible traffic flooding the streets below.
A chime from the elevator turned his ever-shifting attention to the two metal doors sliding open soundlessly.
He walked out into the new floor with a wary dread settled on the bottom of his whirling stomach. Even with verification from a mechanically engineered artificial intelligence system, Tony was still worried about the mix of Adivan with whiskey and whatever else he decided it was smart to consume almost five hours ago. The human psyche wasn't precisely his main area of connoisseur. Anyone could guess that assessment if they spent one drunken night with the entrepreneur. Heading to the wide hallway—one of which would lead to Bucky's room—his eyes caught on an odd glare shining upon the glossy obsidian profile of the kitchen counter. He narrowed his eyes when the ray strobed his corneas, and he brought up his hand in protest of the brightness before looking for the source of the refraction. He nearly jumped out of his skin when his eyes settled on Bucky. He was in front of the large wall window with a certain light from outside reflecting off of his metal arm, slack to his side and sending the ray to the kitchenette sector. Saying that he was mostly lurking in the shadow could have helped Tony believe, for a confidence boost, that he was at least a little more intuitive of his surroundings, but Bucky was standing front and center, visible even in the absence of illumination within the actual interior of the Avengers Tower compound. If he had been aware of Tony's presence at all, he didn't feel accustomed to act on it, but the likelihood of the soldier truly being ignorant to another person was slim for two reasons: He was a highly trained, dutiful, docile, assassin that had been in action for seventy years, and Tony was almost definitely sure that Schmidt or Zola wouldn't have let the crafted sergeant out on the field if he didn't have a niche for having unworldly observance skills; furthermore, the elevator itself spread its blaze of fluorescence far and wide across the level's floor like the sun's horizon when the doors first slid open, so only the most distracted person would have missed his entrance--that wasn't saying much considering Bucky's present state, though.
He had a white t-shirt on that made Tony contemplate whether the soldier had one on when he was struggling from a night terror in his bed, only moments ago. The thought was instantly ripped from his frontal lobe when movement caught in his peripheral view. Bucky didn't turn around to take in Tony's presence—instead he dragged his flesh hand across the clear pane as he waltzed along it, a slight tremor laden to his body as he took each step with calculated quietness, gaze centered on the glass he continued to look at. After a beat of unadulterated silence, with Tony compartmentalizing the right way to approach the situation, he took a few steps towards Bucky and rejoiced internally when the latter didn't automatically put a bullet through his head.
It was then when Tony realized that, still in his right hand, wrapped in his olive fingers, was the cold glass of water he used to down the godawful pill up on his own floor. He praised himself quite exuberantly in the best silence he could muster, because his mouth was unusually dry at the moment. He pursued further into the living room like a coyote slowing gaining less distance from its prey, but it felt truly like Tony was the prey, and Bucky was leading him further into his wide, awaiting mouth. Even if the other was still entirely lost in the trance the luminescence and architectural beauty's and faults outside left him in, he was still scarier than ever, but Tony wasn't about to openly admit that. Tony made his way to the corner of the room that extinguished the glass window and met it with plaster. He hovered as he finished off the rest of the tangy liquid, emitting a presence obviously not wanted but completely stubborn to leave almost like a bad case of strep. He wasn't sure if he was fully imagining it, if the meds were finally hitting all the needed veins and systems to calm him out, but as mute time passed by, the tension began to slowly dissolve within Bucky's hunched shoulders, still gliding his hand across the cold glass when he was a walking farther away from Tony and just pacing with his head sunken and hidden by a mess of dark hair when he followed that by turning around and starting the process over again, walking closer to the other man with his metal arm on the windows side and a decency to not scrape up the glass, repeating the process over and over like a distorted pendulum. Why was it that Tony began to calm the other with no words but sheer aura whenever the soldier caught sight of the others slippers, when he finished a round before turning away weakly to begin another series. Was it really Tony’s doing? He didn't understand why. It couldn't be him. Did Bucky think he was Steve?
The silence was driving him mad. "So," he began warily, risking his throat on a whim. Bucky froze for the first time since Tony had arrived, gangly strands of hair swinging from the loss of motion, "wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" He turned around and looked up, face tense and eyes red.
"Hi," he said in a wispy tone, rough around the edges from his fest of pleas when he was sleeping.
"You okay?" Tony asked, not exactly confident in what to do or why he was attempting this approach. Why did he even come down here? What could he do for Bucky? He basically gave the guy a dirty look every single time he saw him—constantly jibed at him for nothing in particular except to just feel the pleasure of seeing his surly exterior crack and hint at how the comment hurt him.
Bucky didn't reply; instead, he looked back out the window like it could answer all his questions before sitting down, both legs bent and pulled in by his arms. He rested head gently onto his knee as if the caps, themselves, would tear him to shreds if he relaxed too fast.
Tony waited a beat, expecting a reply and getting nothing. Letting the silence drown them again, he shrugs before placing his cup on the glass surface of the living room table, instantly cringing at the action when Bucky hardly contained the flinch that simultaneously wracked through his still partially trembling body. Backing away, Tony resides onto one of the love seats, the coldness that the leather holds pressing into his pajamas and latching onto his skin underneath, running chills up and down his arms.
"Why are you down here?" Bucky asked, no snarky hint riddled within the question anywhere, more or less actual curiosity. It was hard to even realize what he said considering the small volume it attained. He wasn’t looking at Tony, at least, as far as the engineer could see in the dim lighting, but he knew Bucky was paying attention. It was a weird observation, but seeing Bucky, dressed down in only a t-shirt and sweats, bare feet, made him seem even the least bit less intimidating.
Redirecting the question, because that's what Tony was good at, he spoke, "This is my building. What are you doing out of bed?" Chastising himself for sounding like a scolding parent, Tony pursed his lips to restrain from openly voicing his frustrations. He wasn't about to admit that he was almost definitely stalking on the soldier from his pent house at the top of the tower. He didn't really think that would glaze over very well.
"Did you think that I was going to try something... you know—since Steve isn't here?" Bucky asked.
He thought he heard the smallest bit of self-deprecation laced into the words. "Maybe," Tony admitted guiltily.
"Yah... me too," Bucky whispered hoarsely.
That wasn't what he was expecting.
"Mind expanding on that little tidbit?"
"Sorry, it's not your problem. I shouldn’t be burdening you with this. I'll go back to bed if you want to be alone in here." Bucky stood up swiftly in one move, already heading for the hall.
"Uh, hey Terminator—you do realize this is you and your hunk's floor, right?"
Bucky turned around, "You said it yourself... your tower."
"Okay, yah... I did say that, but still. Come sit back down."
Bucky responded immediately, suddenly stiff as he made his way back to where he had sat prior, posture perfect and eyes alert before finally deflating again after getting back on the floor. He looked around as if he didn't know where he was when it looked like he came to a realization. Tony's brows furrowed and he tightened his lips into a thin line of interest. Bucky noticed. "Sorry, sometimes—sometimees my body just does what people say."
"Uh huh... right," Tony replied. This was too creepy for him to handle. He could feel the silent indignation of not knowing what to say, how he should say it and, yet again, he questioned why he came down here. "So, what did you mean about the whole afraid-you'd-do-something thing?" The possibility of Bucky opening up to him was slim, and he knew it, but he needed to rip through the silence that covered them before he started thinking about other things—like how he went into the portal to save- NO
"I don't..." Bucky began with a wary voice, "I don't know, just scared of becoming... him again."
"Him as in Frosty the Psycho Killer Snowman?" The name got a little rise out of Bucky. He gave a chuckle that was more air than anything. Tony continued on his own accord, "Why're you up so late? And don't pull a three-sixty on me. I have a liable reason for my disregard for sleep that includes the involvement of alcohol and the fact that I'm Tony Stark."
A beat passed. Overwhelming deafness shown upon everything around them like a colossal wool crafted blanket making their shouts empty, but in reality, the only thing taking Bucky's voice away were haunted memories of the past. "I—I had a nightmare."
Tony gave a quiet mhmm and pretended like he was contemplating something, digesting the information that he was, secretly, already aware of. "Mind telling me what about?"
"Mind telling me why you want to know?" he retorted, sounding more exhausted than he looked.
There were multiple situations in which Tony was the master of speech. He knew the right words to say and the right way to say them, his own rendition of a hypnotic iambic pentameter. His voice could negotiate the most stubborn of leaders into complete compliance and understanding. His eclectic expanse of vocabulary entranced those who listened, but right now those nifty niches were not helping him formulate any reliable sentence that sounded remotely plausible, so he acquiesced for a simple, "Humor me."
Bucky let out a shaky sigh. "Its already fading away."
"Well, what do you still remember? I'm not coming down here to judge you. I'm too tired for that right now."
"A lot of things... I was watching myself crash a target's car when she was driving, with her kids, for a camping trip. I-I had my hands on some old man's neck while he struggled in his wheelchair. I eliminated a little girl because she woke up when I was killing her aunt." Bucky's shaky hands clasped onto to his face, then slowly to his hair before grabbing it with a severity that had to hurt, breathing heavily.
Tony chewed his inner cheek to resist the urge to speak. He could see how severely the soldier felt the guilt of all of his victims. Was that how he felt about Tony's dad? His mom? Because he knew Howard before he fell, did it hurt even worse? Did the memory of working with Tony's dad leave a bit of confusion on Bucky's tongue when he reported back from his assignment, recounting the events in the sharpest detail to Karpov and experiencing the other man smile as the Hydra officer probably imagined what it was like. Tony hated himself for feeling a flash of satisfaction from the possibility, immediately flushed out by Bucky's broken voice continuing.
"I get flashes—you know memories from back then all the time, day or night, asleep or awake, but I think the worst happen when I'm not conscious enough to stop the thoughts from invading my mind, when I'm dreaming, or rather having a nightmare..."
"Do you remember the times in between—you know, like what was happening...before and after the missions?" Tony couldn't help but interject, relieved that Bucky was actually talking about his time as Hydras fist at all.
When he first came, he was mostly mute, even with Steve. Tony had monitored him for a large amount of time before trusting Jarvis enough to alarm him if something was wrong. He never opened up to any of his therapists or psychologists—Sam even attempted some exercises with him that would help cope with everything he had done and everything they'd done to him after the initial annoyance the man fronted at Bucky when they first found him.
All of the specialists concluded that he had severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as well as acute anxiety and depression. Reading it off sounded so wrong—like you were just simply listing the spices and herbs you'd need for the final dish that was the one and only, Bucky Barnes; longest Prisoner of War in American history, laudable Hydra assassin with twelve kills recorded in his name, multiple still unaccounted for, a kid who grew up in Brooklyn who went into World War II seeking to make a difference. Steve had come to Tony a multitude of times, griping about Bucky's complete lack of peace due to the disturbing memories that arose with his metal arm. Sometimes he wouldn't even come out of his bedroom because he had said, according to Steve, that he was 'too dangerous and didn't deserve to find happiness with all of the things he had done.' Other days, he would work out till all he seemed to be was a blank form doused in sweat and exasperation. It probably took his mind off of things. Doing things, eating, exercising, hanging out with friends, were good ways to keep your mind off of the stuff you want to forget. They're distractions. Why else would Tony drink so much?
Tony looked back down at Bucky's arm, hovering over one half of the latter's face. He had considered the idea of repainting the arm, ridding of that god-awful star, advertising the communists of the world's past and present, for everyone to see, when he first reattached it. Reluctantly he'd agreed to the procedure once they were back on good terms since he was technically the one that blasted it off. Like it or not, Tony knew the team needed Captain America, and it was obvious that he wasn't going anywhere without his best pal. Still, Tony didn't have enough grasp on the in and outs of the titanium contraption to know the exact repercussions of adding paint—it could be too dense and distort his equilibrium, infiltrate the crevices that were dire to its functionality—who knew if any type of paint would be able to resist the wear and tear of daily business or the grit and dust of working on the field? He had to admit, Zola had created a sinister masterpiece.
Bucky looked like he was evaluating the question. He could shift his face to manipulate anyone in particular with a perfect ease, almost better than Natasha, but that wasn't surprising since she had admitted that they had crossed paths in the Red Room. He had trained her after all. It explained a lot.
"I—yah I do... for the most part at least." His sturdy facade cracked the uttermost miniscule fraction, releasing a wave of graveness to seep into his expression. He looked away.
Tony decided it not the wisest to push any further unless the other was comfortable, a brief and surprising notion juxtaposed to his normal demeanor of getting it done quick and efficient. He took a deep breath, allowing Bucky to work through what ever he was running over again and again within his brain.
He took in the silence around him. It was shockingly calm, despite what one may suspect while in the company of a prized super soldier. The glow of the city sent miscellaneous factions of rays across the otherwise dim floor, so soft it made it still bearable with a hangover, yet bright enough to showcase the delicate dust bunnies roaming around in the air, slowly and with no absolute destination set. Tony blew out a dainty breath, watching as the flecks scurried in sudden chaos before settling again, like it never even happened. That's how simple he wished human life could be. Why couldn't bad things happen and not leave the victim so scarred they can't stand the feeling of touch or the slightest hint of a trigger wiggling it's way within their brains once they catch onto something the tiniest bit familiar to their trauma. Why were humans so complicated.
"You know," Tony began, observing the way Bucky reacted, making certain that he wasn’t aiding to the return of past fragments of time revisiting the soldiers subconscious, "I'm not sure if you know about that New York attack... the one a while of go with all the blue looking fellas and gigantic robotic centipede, worm looking creatures coming from that-," he cleared his throat, stay calm, stay calm, "that hole, but I actually—there was--I had to do something... to stop it, and I-I haven't really been... the same ever since?" he finished, unintentionally leaving the statement like a question, like he was unsure if those were the correct words to use, which he really wasn't sure about.
The other man turned his head towards Tony again, brows furrowed at he listened intently. His eyes bore into Tony, not particularly making him nervous exactly, yet more open, exposed. Still, he continued. "Anyways, long story short, I actually ended up not being as okay with... with what happened as I pretended to be. To be frank, I honestly don't know if I'm still okay with it," he admitted, gauging at himself for being so open. Why was he doing this. Why with Barnes? When Bucky doesn't seem like he's going to reply any time soon, continuously just staring at Tony, the latter simply decides to continue. He was already on an unexpected roll, right? "I have nightmares too... sometimes—and panic attacks, b-but I try not to let it rule my life." Barnes' eyes softened the slightest, tense shoulders releasing the faintest portion of pent up nervousness within.
"How can you do it so easily?" Bucky asks eventually.
Tony scoffed, "That’s a bit of a faulty interpretation."
Then he was doing it again. Bucky's brows scrunched up, obviously confused. It was really hard to explain things to someone who had been taken captive for seventy years. "Yah, I try to ignore it, but that only helps sometimes. I-I guess I should probably find a better way to handle it," he concedes reluctantly, mostly to set a good image for the man on front of him. Something occurs to him quickly after that, "Wait, have you spoke to Steve about this? Don't you think it's important?"
Bucky sighed before replying, "'s not that big of a deal. H-he's got a enough things on his plate."
It made Tony irritated, astoundingly, the sheer depreciation in the formers tone. "Come on... t-that's not true." he attempted, half-heartedly, not exactly the best at comfort in general. At times like these, he really wished Wilson was around.
"Really?" Bucky asked sarcastically, like he wasn’t chastising himself, belittling his problems to the smallest degree possible.
"Yah really!" Tony exclaimed suddenly, his voice raised. He arose simultaneously, walking forward a few steps before regretting his transactions when Bucky shrank down in on himself and sunk his head down between his knees. Tony advanced warily. Pleading internally that he wasn't about to resign his fate to kibble bits, he rested his hand on the other man's shoulder. Instead of acting out like Tony had first suspected, he shrinks back, if possible, more. Tony slowly gets on his knees to become leveled with the soldier.
Bucky made no indications that he wanted the other man to do so, yet, for some reason, he feels as though it's an obligation. It was weird how fast one's opinions can change for another. A few weeks after Tony had reluctantly allowed the serum duo to return to the tower and acquire their own floor, Natasha decided to visit Tony in his pent house at the top.
It had been a while since either of them had spoken to each other considering her so called missions. He knew for certain that she wasn't accommodating to S.H.E.I.L.D's wishes since the facility had crumbled to ash and dust once Hydra finally revealed itself, hiding within, nor was he aware of the orders coming from the World Security Council since she had gave them a personal, 'screw you' the last time she had been called to their quarters.
He summed it up to being a personal vendetta, coming as a shock when she shared the whereabouts and insight of said vendetta with him during their meet up. As it turned out, she had been scouring the remnants of HYDRA facilities to obtain some information about Barnes' time within captivity. Being Romanoff, she had succeeded in the mission with what could be defined as the utmost guile.
Tony had a sneaking suspicion that the sought out information was not only for her, but a key to placating his ever-fueled want for vengeance towards Bucky. She didn't say it out-loud, obviously, but why else would she come to him with the files describing every little thing they did to him, hiding under a guise of just wanting him to be aware of her return and sneakily leaving a few file behind with the trained slyness of an ex-assassin.
He only got through two files and a tape before throwing it all away, both because he couldn't bare to see anymore of the here dos things Hydra deemed preparatory to The Winter Soldier's construction, and because he didn't want to admit to the way the point of view was suddenly changing his perspective of Sargent Barnes' past misdeeds.
He ignored the soft, protesting cracks of his knees as he lowered him self. Frankly, unaware of what he was truly planning to do to comfort the man cowering in front of him, he reached his hand again, wrapping it gently around Bucky's metal wrist and pulling it away from the others face, surprised when it went easily and Bucky's sullen face was revealed. The exhaustion in his face allows itself to be presented ruefully even behind the curtains of dark hair.
"Barnes," Tony whispers, "can you look at me?"
After a long time, the soldier complies. They stare at each other for what feels like forever, eyes exchanging understanding that hopefully with help Bucky relax a little.
They stay there until Tony catches the sunset slowly seeping over the horizon in his peripheral. Bucky seems at least a little more relaxed than he was when Tony first entered his floor the night before. When the engineer decided it may be wise to finally leave, a voice grabs his attention as he pulls himself up. "Thank you," Bucky says shyly.
Tony doesn't know exactly what he did to help but settles for nodding and painting a thin smile on his face before he heads for the elevator, drowsiness finally reaching his body and urging him to go to bed. He ventures one more glance at Bucky as he pushes the button labeled with his floor level and watches as the man finally gets up and starts heading for the hall that leads to his room. Tony silently wishes him a, 'sweet dreams' before the metal doors envelope where Steve and Bucky's floor once was. He makes a note to have a serious talk to Steve when he comes back from DC.