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No one ever sees Bucky.
Now that it’s been confirmed over, and over, and over again that he isn’t Steve’s Bucky, no one really knows what to do with him. Like all things people don’t know what to do with but can’t get rid of, they ignore it.
Bucky’s fine with it, really.
It gives him time, actually. Space.
Without Hydra or Steve’s expectations, Bucky has choices, and in this new millennium, there are almost too many to count.
Being ignored, being invisible – it’s like being allowed to breathe for the first time – and he takes it in big gulps, wondering only vaguely if it’s possible to drown on too much oxygen.
Even if everyone looks at him warily on the occasion that they do notice him, Bucky has found that this is the closest thing to free as he’s ever going to get. Without cryo or the darkness that has become his haunt, the world is brighter and fuller than any memory, warped or otherwise that Bucky owns, and it’s glorious and wonderful and…lonely.
Without Hydra, he has no one charged with keeping watch over him, standing guard.
Without Steve, there is no hope amongst the Rogues for their camaraderie because to them, he was only ever Steve’s.
Around the Compound, Bucky moves like the ghost that made up the Winter Soldier’s lore. He uses it to his advantage.
He watches the way others interact, catalogs, takes it apart, and wonders if he’ll ever have the way people smile at each other, the way they listen, the way they notice. Absently, he bites into what is probably his forth plum of the morning, and wonders.
The New Avengers are cautiously accepting of him, and as the newer members are just kids – “We’re seventeen, practically adults,” Riri’s told Steve off more than once before – they poke and prod at him curiously. But the kids, who Bucky takes to almost immediately, are only ever around the Compound on weekends, on-and-off during the week and during school breaks. Though they come charging through the Compound to “hang out” with him on occasion, they don’t linger long.
Not when their unofficial mentor is Tony Stark: Tony Stark who embodies the future. Tony Stark who is larger than life. Tony Stark who is seen.
It’s easy to not notice Bucky with Tony around. He doesn’t blame them. Not one bit.
All the news networks cycle through the recent attack, buildings are burning, and blasters are being shot, there’s smoke and dust swirling in the air as the noise of cars being thrown, scaffolding collapsing and the tell-tale groan and creak of a bridge on the break, crackle through the speakers.
The ominous shadow of an alien spacecraft hovers in the distance.
It would be horrifying and post-Apocalyptic if it hadn’t been like every other Thursday.
Bucky clicks to the next channel, catching a reporter say, “…these invasions are increasing in frequency” as the screen plays out Iron Man flying through the spacecraft like a crimson bullet before flashing back to the media circus that took place sometime after.
Tony is unmoved by the accusation, standing tall and looking them in the eye as he speaks, “We knew this was going to happen, and we’ve done all we can to mitigate the damage. All first responders are being appropriately outfitted and trained accordingly. We’re doing our best to ensure that our defenses on the ground are prepared while areas of safety have been identified and secured.” Still dressed in his flight suit, Iron Man helmet under his arm, a cut slicing his cheek open in a snarl, Tony assures, “Our sources have confirmed that no loss of life has occurred in this instance and we’re lucky that no one was seriously injured. While the attacks are increasing as you noted, our response time is as well. We will get through this. Rest assured, we are doing everything we possibly can.”
Another click of the remote, and again, Tony is there. Expression carefully neutral as he sits before a panel of US Congressmen being asked why he won’t provide any Stark Tech weapons for the cause against the aliens – and in the same breath – what his stance is on the war going on with the Middle East. His smirk is lazy, his answer sharp.
Another click and he’s standing before the Accords Council, watching the members go into semantics over the Guardians’ jurisdiction on Earth, before parting his lips to cut through their shit.
And another, and another, and another.
Every single talking head tries to make Tony look bad, and in every single one, he’s unwavering.
The Iron Man suit isn’t the only armor Tony owns. There are downsides to being seen, after all. Bucky doesn’t envy him.
With his chin raised and his eyes steady, Tony is defiant, but not uncompromising as he placates and cajoles like it doesn’t exhaust him to have to constantly defend how he’s trying to save the world. Tony is much the same in the Compound, even surrounded by comrades. Not that they’re all that different to the people berating Tony on every news site and station.
There are still people torn between the camps of “Rogers” and “Stark” thanks to the mess of the Civil War two years ago, not to mention the surprise ace that Fury had hidden away in the form of Captain Danvers, that everyone was now expected to follow.
Bucky has no problems with the change in command. It’s all he’s ever known. Stepping into line for someone who only sees him as a fellow soldier is practically a relief, and Captain Danvers is efficient in her task. Her eyes are on the end game, and the original Avengers’ drama plays zero role in it.
Tony follows her lead.
Steve, however, doesn’t share the sentiment. Neither do the majority of the Rogues and their supporters which results in thinly veiled insults and heavily suspicious side-glances near hourly, like they want to re-enact the Cold War in every hallway, common room, training session and debrief.
Tony couldn’t be blamed for grinning and bearing it, pretending it doesn’t matter that the people who’ve betrayed him and used him are back in his home and helping themselves to his resources like they’re entitled to it.
Bucky grimaces, thinking of how Barton and the Witch swan around the Compound like it’s theirs.
He would’ve shot them himself, and with the way Captain Danvers and Colonel Rhodes look at them too, Bucky doesn’t think he’ll get in trouble for it.
But Tony doesn’t even flinch.
There are threats coming that are bigger than them, stronger and faster than even Iron Man can keep up with.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, a sentiment shared by the Colonel if the way he works his jaw on every occasion that Steve is in the room is any indication or the way Ms Potts is all cold politeness and ruthless efficiency in the face of Romanova, and practically cruel to Barton with the quickness that she shuts him down and shields his own kids and ex-wife from him. The entirety of the Revengers know the feeling similarly if the way Thor and the Valkyrie glare while Loki smirks, all sharp teeth, at the Witch whenever Doctor Banner is in the room.
But Tony soothes them all, waving them down and diffusing any landmines the Rogues try to push themselves into. He’s always been praised for being a Big Picture guy, and he’s not going to disappoint. Of all the material wealth Tony owns, his endless accomplishments and accolades, he can’t afford to fail in this.
Bucky wonders how tired he is.
The doors of the elevator slide open in the foyer, and Bucky smells Tony before he hears him.
Tony's expensive cologne has already faded bleeding his natural scent as he steps deeper into the residential floor. It reminds Bucky of freshly bloomed autumn when the leaves are just starting to turn but the air’s already gotten crisp, a combination of a woodfire and something infused with leather and spice.
Bucky’s eyes snap open and he makes to stand, slipping into the shadows where he’s always belonged.
Tony enters the room without a glance around, walking right through to the open plan kitchen as he undoes the buttons of his tuxedo. Quietly, he putters around. He grabs random canisters in the cupboard that he has to stand on his toes to reach, before dumping his load onto the counter, stooping to grab a mug in the dishwasher and flipping on the kettle.
He rubs at his face to wake himself up a little as he measures out a seemingly random concoction into the mug, biting back a yawn that leaves his mouth red, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips obscenely as he turns whiskey dark eyes to where Bucky stands.
Bucky's breath hitches, and he’s distracted long enough that he doesn’t even hear the vibration of Tony’s phone until he’s answering it, a video-holograph popping up with a quiet snap from the counter. “Kid,” Tony greets, voice gruff from overuse, but soft in that way that it always is when he’s speaking to any of them.
“Hey Mr. Stark, just wanted to check in,” Peter says, and Bucky can hear the teenager's smile. “Did you just get back?”
“Yeah, same old – same old, the usual song and dance.” Tony shrugs. “What’s up, did you need help with anything?”
“Oh no, no, no of course not.” Bucky manages to stifle his snort. “No! I can’t just say hello? I mean, I finished my homework and everything!”
“Mimmo,” Tony begins in that patient impatient way that Bucky’s heard Ms. Barton use on Cooper and Lila.
Bucky bites back a smile as Peter caves just as quickly as they do, “I don’t want to bother you, I know you’re busy and –”
“It’s never a bother, Pete. What is it?”
“Alright,” Peter exhales in preparation before rapidly spitting out, “so it’s Aunt May’s birthday tomorrow, right?”
“Yes,” Tony confirms slowly, nodding, “we already got her a present, and those flights for you and her to Bali for the summer are already booked. Did you forget we did this or…?”
“Yeah, no, I didn’t forget! I just – I wanted to make her dinner, you know, to go with that cake you ordered, it’s just – all the recipes in the house are hers and…” Tony mirrors the wince on Peter’s face before nodding again in understanding.
“What are you thinking?”
“Well,” he trails sheepishly, “you know I inherited her cooking skills…”
He snorts out a laugh, and Bucky finds himself drifting closer in the shadows to get nearer to it as something akin to a dimple bites into Tony’s cheek.
“I’ve got just the thing,” Tony says, digging out another mug as he speaks, “My Aunt Angie’s Cacio e Pepe, it’s literally three ingredients.”
He talks as he fills the mug as he had with the first, needing to keep his hands busy as his English shifts fluidly to Italian as he explains his rationale for every step. Peter murmuring back in the same curling phrases. Apparently, the teenager learns faster when he knows the ifs and whys, and even from the inverted image of Peter that Bucky has, he can see the pinpricks of tension in Peter's shoulders have drooped in relief, something Tony clearly knows, and has no problem doing without the asking.
Whatever tension that still held Tony tight has slackened in the same way as it did with the kid, and as he waves his hands around, Bucky finds himself mesmerized.
He’s rarely seen the man so close to relaxed. He’s much more familiar with the smiles that look a little too sharp, a little too polite, a little too contrived. Bucky’s used to the way Tony holds his hands close to his body, tucking them under his arms or sliding them out of sight into his pockets.
Bucky doesn’t know if it’s the Italian, but Tony’s words come out languid and whiskey toned, honeyed further by his deep voice.
Tony even moves differently here, seemingly alone.
With his call ended, he discards his tuxedo jacket haphazardly on the back of the couch in the same move that he climbs over it, shoes slipped off with a clatter as he sighs. He sags into the cushions, socked feet sliding onto the nearest ottoman in all their bright green, HULK SMASH glory. A smile tugs at Bucky’s lips at the sight.
Here, Tony is loose-limbed, careless and vulnerable.
When he rubs at his face now, there’s a bone-deep weariness that tugs at the crows’ feet around his eyes, that droops his lips and musses his meticulously groomed beard like he’s readjusting one of the many masks he wears.
For a while, Tony doesn’t move.
His lashes cast long, inky shadows across his cheeks while his eyes rove beneath closed lids.
Bucky is relieved that at least there’s evidence that Tony does get in his rest somewhere, but now he knows that there’s no excuse to linger.
Tony won’t notice.
No one ever does anyway.
But – it’s cold out here.
Bucky's gaze falls on the throw at the end of the other couch, and he reaches for it without a second thought.
It smells like Tony, and it felt just as soft as Tony looked. The tag reads, “cashmere” and even he in his limited knowledge of the finer things in life knew that it probably was Tony’s anyway.
Carefully, he drapes it over the other man, having to stoop a little to make sure his feet were covered and tucked in before making a move to leave the room entirely.
He’s halted at his retreat when Tony says, “Grab me my mug before you leave, would you, tesoro? You made me all comfy and now I don’t want to move.” His look is quietly amused, a tired smile pulling at his mouth as he tilts his head to watch him, hair partially mushed up against the cushion of the couch.
Slowly, Bucky nods, cheeks burning hot.
Coming around the couch, Bucky sets the mug aside on the closest stable surface in Tony’s reach. Only when Tony huffs out an amused sound does Bucky realize how hard he’s concentrating on not spilling any of it. Its ridiculous. He exchanges a sheepish glance with a cartoon drawing of Thor with his hammer above the phrase HERE COMES THE THUNDER, GOD OF THUNDER.
Tony makes grabby hands in dismissal, and Bucky is careful handing it over, holding his breath as their hands brush. “Appreciate it, tesero,” he says with a wink making Bucky duck his head, only snapping up once to look him in the eye as Tony adds, “Don’t forget yours.”
Too bewildered, Bucky nods again, and when he’s half-way in the hallway, mug in hand, does he hear Tony utter, “Good night, Bucky.”
His hold on the MARVELLOUS CAPTAIN MARVEL mug tightens, and when Bucky takes his first tentative sip in the safety of his room, he outright moans. Bucky thinks he imagines the taste, but after another sip, there’s no mistaking it.
There’s a hint of plum.