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Tony's not an idiot. His accumulated PhDs, doctorates and the sheer overwhelming number of successful inventions that have shaped the modern world is a testament to that. However, he's well aware that his social skills aren't nearly at that level given the resulting consequences from his choices.
Nonetheless, life has taught him to have a naturally suspicious perception of others, something that has only worsened since the whole "Civil War" affair, and isn't improved when the Rogues are unceremoniously dropped on his doorstep.
Literally.
"Well," Hope exhales, "that saves us the trouble of doing it ourselves."
They're out-conscious in a heap of limbs - all, fortunately, or otherwise, still attached. But they're drugged, bound and gagged, and there's a fucking bow on Rogers' head.
Rhodey frowns. "Wait, aren't we missing a few?" And Tony looks them over and raises a brow curiously. The Witch isn't with them, but then again, neither is Barnes.
"You got them in the divorce," Tony complains an hour later.
T'Challa corrects, "I signed up for James, the rest were unexpected baggage."
"Tell me something I don't know." Then, casually, "Speaking of, the set's not complete."
"James and I agreed that it wouldn't be prudent to send the Witch to you, considering her vocal dislike of you during her stay here." Tony snorts indelicately. "While Barton was just as vocal, I have the highest confidence you can handle him."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, your highness.”
"As for the Witch,” T’Challa continues, as if he weren’t interrupted, “we've sent her to a Doctor Strange in New York, apparently he's a specialist of the mystic arts."
Tony's brows lift in surprise. Strange hadn't mentioned that the last time they spoke, but far be it for Tony to look a gift horse in the mouth. "And Barnes?"
"He had some business to attend to," the king says. Then, with a hint of amusement in his tone, "He hopes his gift makes up for his absence."
At Tony's look of muted surprise, T'Challa hums. "He's been staying up to date since his defrost. He'd been rather perturbed that the consensus had been that the Rogues were too elusive for your capture. As it was a request of mine for James' safety that you were discrete, James was of the opinion that the insult to your capabilities was no longer necessary."
"Oh?" Tony says mildly, keeping a tight rein on his curiosity. When T'Challa doesn't offer anything further, he chirps, "Well, tell him I appreciate the gesture."
A sentiment that meant something entirely different to the Winter Soldier when a box arrives a few days later. There's a communications device inside and a head.
It should say something about Tony and his life, that he's just annoyed at best. "Ha fucking ha."
Friday is similarly bemused, and runs a facial recognition.
Evidently, Barnes has something against former mailmen from tiny European countries.
Maybe, Tony muses out loud to the comm device which is hopefully linked to the man himself. Barnes, in a fit of rage that Tony had so casually expressed gratitude towards his mother's killer, had violently work through the confusing and complicated plethora of human feelings Tony inspired.
There isn’t a reply from the comm device.
Still, Tony cackles at the thought.
Up until Friday comes up with a name and a file with a familiar black skull and tentacled sigil of a certain organization. One of the missions the head, formally attached to a body and formally recognized as a person of apparent import in said organisation, is responsible for an operation of random Russian words with the targets identified as Howard and Maria Stark.
"Is there a reason the human equivalent to an apex predator is leaving me the heads of my enemies?" Tony poses, both to the comm device and to the video-screen he's pulled up.
"Oh?" T'Challa echoes in vague surprise. "The other ones arrived already?"
"Don't."
And look, it isn't that Tony really thinks Barnes will send him another head despite T'Challa's elusive confirmation to the contrary, and Barnes' pointed silence, Tony's just...more protective of his mail than usual. "I'm used to being the eccentric billionaire," he tells Barnes over the comms, "but this is a bit much, even for me."
Surprisingly, in a soft, rough whisper borne from a voice unused to speaking, Barnes replies, "You won't regret it." Which is a fortunate consequence given that Barnes' next delivery involves both a severed hand and an eye along with a USB drive.
Hydra was a lot closer to infiltrating Stark Industries than Tony had thought. It sends a shiver through him, and by the end of the day, the entire system of both his company and its subsidiaries are swept over with a fine-tooth comb. That he spends the initial process having a panic attack over the comms with Barnes, and then finds himself calming to the exaggerated breathes of the other man over the line, is something Tony doesn't want to examine too closely out of embarrassment.
The severed hand and eye are used to cross-reference all points of access, Barnes made it as easy as possible.
"Why are you doing this?"
"I can't ask for forgiveness from you or from anyone else," Barnes replies, "but I can do my part to make the world a little more safe. Hydra is my responsibility."
Which is all well and good, but Tony doesn't quite believe him.
It takes the headquarters of a terrorist cell in Central Africa blowing up with recovered Afghanistan-era Stark Tech, a coup of a government in Asia with ties to the Hydra arm that had tried to slither its way into SI; the uncensored file of what was once a heavily redacted MI6 agent with orders to take care of the Stark problem, and a single blossom of nightshade, dried out and pressed into the final page of the dossier (a bit of poetic irony Tony appreciates as it was the MI6 agent's weapon of choice) for him to realize why.
"Baby," Tony purrs, "are you sweet on me?"
Because sure, Tony figured that the first delivery of the Rogues had been an olive branch of sorts, and the second, an apology. While the Hydra-based attacks Barnes has inflicted in the last three months are what he says they are, they've been intercut with ventures that has more to do with Tony and his safety than anything else.
Suffice to say, he did not expect to be wooed like this. James' bashful silence is answer enough.
While watching him over CCTV cameras the world over, Tony admits that there's something to be said for James' feral, serial killer magnetism.
The man is like a giant black wolf, all shifting muscles beneath his ensemble, the silver glint of his knives and the grin of his teeth matching the ice shards of his eyes, his little grunts and grumbles and whispered fucks, the stuff of Tony's increasingly R-rated daydreams.
"Gotta say, handsome," Tony drawls, "you make a dirty job look real good."
Over the line, James hums, and even through the shitty CCTV quality of the camera, the dimple at his cheek gives Tony a little thrill, as does the wink. Although, "You realize that your courting rituals are the equivalent to leaving dead birds on my doorstep though, don't you?"
"Monsters aren't house pets," is James' excuse.
"Speaking of houses, just -- while we're on the topic. You should come over, see mine. I'll give you personal, grand tour."
Haltingly, James says, "Tony, you know I'm not...I'm not exactly the best person, and I don't...I don't fit in with your world. I won't."
"Please," Tony scoffs gently, "my world involves aliens and assassins and Norse Gods and magic." He may not be the most socially adjusted person out there, he isn't an idiot. He knew what this meant the instant he became a voice in James' ear after a mission gone sideways, first getting James to safety and then talking him through a night terror, before unleashing his own brand of hell on the Hydra scum on James' radar.
"Honestly," Tony continues, going for flippant, "having the reformed Winter Soldier as my significant other is really pretty on-brand for the kind of crazy I deal with."
Then, after a silence that stretches too long, James murmurs, aching and guilty, "Better people could love you."
Tony grins. "Well, now they'll have to get through you."