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He has lost track of how many hours he’s been waiting, legs cramping in the crouched position he folded himself into, eyes flicking mechanically over the sleek, shiny chrome of the Avengers Compound. There’s no weakness in the design, no dark, hidden crevice he can slink into undetected. And he’s weak, weaker than he likes to admit, his mangled left arm hanging uselessly by his side. There’s no way he can fight anyone in the state.
Not that he wants to. He’s not here for that, he’s not—he’s not sure why he’s here at all. But he’s been on the run for days, barely drinking, barely eating, barely sleeping, the days blurring together, and somehow he wound up here.
This is the only place he knows Steve wouldn’t dare follow.
In the end, he decides to bypass destruction and just walks up to the massive front doors, cap hanging low in his face, a thick, oversized biker jacket hiding the mess of his arm. He doesn’t know what to expect when the doors slide open but the complete, echoey emptiness on the other side is still startling. No one is around.
Just Stark, rattling around by himself in this big empty space.
He lingers by the doors for a while, indecisive. Now that the adrenaline has faded, he’s no longer sure of his decision to come here. Stark has every right to kick him out, to kill him—
"May I help you?" comes a disembodied female voice from the ceiling.
"I…want to talk to Tony Stark."
The voice doesn’t respond.
"I am—"
"One moment, please."
Bucky shuts his mouth. Waits. After two endless feeling minutes, the voice returns. "Please proceed to the north elevator. Mr. Stark has agreed to see you."
Bucky thanks her quietly and makes his way to the elevator, feeling her unseen eyes follow him like an itch on his back. He doesn’t want to, but he finds himself looking at his reflection in the mirrored walls anyway. He looks a mess, dark blue shadows under his eyes, his beard patchy and overgrown. He runs a harried hand through his greasy hair, the thought of Stark seeing him like this making him queasy.
The elevator doors slide open after a short ride to reveal a dimly lit workshop. It’s quiet, except for some light clicking sounds which turn out to be Stark typing away on a keyboard, screens lit up in blue. He turns only when Bucky takes one heavy step into the room. His eyes are dark and expressionless but Bucky can tell they’re taking him in from head to toe. He stands still, letting him look his fill.
"You look like shit," Stark says finally.
Bucky almost barks out a laugh. "I feel like it, too."
Stark nods. "Come on in." A facsimile of a smirk appears on his face. "Don’t be shy now."
Bucky takes a few faltering steps into the room, taking it in surreptitiously. Various pieces of metal strewn across tables. A few books. One lone giant monstera. Across the room, on a shelf, is what looks like a replica of Steve’s shield. He wonders where the real one is.
Stark makes a show of slouching in his chair, arms crossed over his chest with casual insouciance. He doesn’t look hostile but he also doesn’t look welcoming. This is, frankly, a lot better than the other scenarios Bucky imagined while loitering outside the building.
"I’m sorry for barging in," he begins. Stark makes a sound that could be a suppressed snort. "But I need your help."
Stark’s eyebrows crawl up to his forehead in slow motion. "My help. Interesting. Where are your friends?" When Bucky doesn’t immediately reply, he continues. "That was a trick question. I know where they are. Steve has a tracker in his suit he didn’t disable. Such an oversight. It’s almost as if he wants to be found." A pause. "You ran away from them, didn’t you?"
He doesn’t want to answer but—
"I don’t know where else to go. I don’t. I thought…" Bucky swallows reflexively. "And my arm." He clasps a hand over his mouth, the words sticking in his mouth like burning hot, melted sugar. He is so thirsty.
"Your arm," Stark repeats, gaze lingering on said arm under the jacket. "I scanned it, when you came in. You tried to rip it off?"
"Something like it."
Stark sighs. "Take off your jacket and shirt and come here."
Heart in his throat, Bucky does as he’s told, skin prickling when it gets exposed to the cool air of the workshop. Stark kicks out a stool in front of himself. Bucky sits down, his left arm facing Stark. He tries not to jerk when warm hands touch him but it happens anyway. Nobody and nothing that ever touched him meant him any good. All he’s known is pain but—but that’s not quite true. Steve’s hands on his shoulder were kind. But they were also too much. Bucky had felt himself buckle under the weight of everything Steve wanted him to be.
"You’re going to need to breathe if this is going to work out," Stark says, voice dry.
"Sorry."
Stark hums, nimble fingers working over his shoulders, his armpits. He’s not using a scanner as far as Bucky can tell, just his touch and his sharp gaze. He leans back after a moment, hands dropping into his lap, and says, "I can fix it. But I will need to remove it and that might take a day or two. Also, the skin around it is heavily infected and needs rest."
"You’ll help me?" Bucky asks, surprised, even though he shouldn’t be. Stark is a kind man.
"Yes," Stark replies, like it's stupid Bucky even asked. "And then I never want to see you again. Sound like a deal?"
Bucky nods, mechanical. Stark nods in satisfaction and motions him over to what appears to be a scanner.
Bucky grits his teeth and follows. Machines always put him on edge but he finds himself trusting Stark despite it all. Stark is a man of his word. And—he’s here now. There’s no point in running.
"FRI, send down the first aid kit for super soldiers. Do not let anyone in. This is security clearance code red," Stark says.
"Got it, boss," comes the same voice who spoke to him earlier.
"Also, have someone bring some fresh clothes." He turns to Bucky, eyes roving over his sorry appearance. "Some soup, too. Toast. Whatever. You know the drill." Then he reaches for Bucky’s hand without preamble and positions it as he sees fit under the scanner.
A blue screen appears over their heads, showing a 3D model of his arm. Bucky winces. There’s extensive damage. Stark hums but makes no other comment. He directs Bucky to curl and uncurl his fingers, then presses down on some places, eyes never leaving the screen. Bucky finds himself watching the side of his face. His beard is as neat as ever, but there’s a tiredness to him that speaks of many sleepless nights.
"Impressive that you’ve managed to damage titanium alloy to such an extent with just a punch," Stark says after a while. "Shouldn’t be possible."
Bucky grunts in reply. He wonders if Stark is thinking of their fight, then shakes himself out of the memory.
Stark sits back after a moment, staring intently at Bucky. "This might take a while." A pause. "And it might hurt. I have nothing to sedate you."
"That’s alright."
Stark shrugs and unearths some safety glasses from under the table, then reaches for some complicated looking machinery. Panic surges in Bucky, but he pushes it down. He is good at enduring pain. He grits his teeth and stares unseeingly at the wall opposite him as Stark makes quick work of separating his arm from the socket.
He almost falls over when the weight of it leaves him, a sudden heavy loss like a trap door opening into nothing. He expects Stark to leave him to his own devices, but he wheels back over with the first aid kit after carefully dropping the arm on a surgical tray.
"I don’t need—" Bucky starts.
"Yeah, yeah, super serum heals it all. I still would sleep better if I put salve on it, alright? Can’t have you dying of sepsis. Steve would have my head."
Why do you care, Bucky wants to say, but he stays silent, gritting his teeth against the burn of the disinfectant. Stark is quick about this too, cleaning and wrapping up the open wound with no hesitation. He has experience with this, Bucky realizes with a start. Taking care of—
"You used to do this for Steve."
Stark doesn’t pause, but his face flinches imperceptibly. Bucky wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it.
"And he let you," Bucky continues, almost in wonder. Steve. His Steve. Their Steve. So stubborn. So convinced that he can take it all on on his own. But he let Stark in. "He—"
"How dare you.”
Bucky’s mouth clicks shut, the force in Stark’s calm words stunning him.
Stark gets up abruptly. "How dare you come here and, and…" He shakes his head. "I promised I’ll help you but if you’re here to apologize on his behalf, I swear to God I’ll—"
"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t…" Please don’t what? Please don’t send me away, a voice at the back of his head pipes up. He looks to the floor. How pathetic. How fucking pathetic. "I apologize."
When he looks back up, Stark is looking at him with strange pity in his eyes. "I’ll take a look at your arm," he says after a beat. "You eat and rest."
Bucky nods mutely. An actual robot left a tray next to a cozy looking couch earlier, so that’s where he goes. He uncovers the tray and stares, his stomach gurgling. Chicken soup, fragrant and hot. Buttered toast. A thick slice of lemon. Bucky squeezes some into the soup, then bites into the lemon, tart sharpness bursting on his tongue. He can’t remember the last time he ate fresh produce. He is starved like an animal but he paces himself, taking small bites while he watches Stark work.
Stark is silent about it, apart from the occasional muttering to himself. An hour passes. Two. Three. Bucky feels exhaustion wash over him. He can’t let himself fall asleep. Then again, Stark told him to wait. Told him to eat and rest. Maybe he can rest. It’s oddly easy to fall asleep to the sounds of Stark working.
Stark doesn’t expect anything of him.
Stark doesn’t come into his rooms at night and watches him as if he’s about to disappear into thin air.
Bucky wonders idly, guiltily, what Steve is doing, then banishes the thought to the back of his mind. Eventually, he manages to fall into a fitful sleep. When he comes to, the lights are dimmed and the workshop is quiet. He senses Stark asleep next to him before he turns his head. He wakes when Bucky shifts. Bucky hadn’t meant to wake him, but it feels wrong to watch him while he’s asleep.
It feels wrong to share the same space like this. He’s dangerous and yet, here Stark is, letting himself fall into slumber next to him.
They don’t speak for a long moment. Stark is very close, even though there’s more than three feet of distance between them.
"What time is it?" Bucky asks finally, just to break the silence.
"FRI?"
"3:54, boss."
Stark sighs and stretches. "I finished the preliminary repairs on your arm and put it into a machine which’ll do the rest of the work. We should be able to reattach it tomorrow morning if your wound has healed by then."
"Thank you," Bucky croaks out. Already, he feels better, the ever present ache in his arm numb for once. He hovers a hand over his shoulder but drops it when he feels Stark’s attention on it.
"Don’t mention it," Stark replies. "I wanted to get my hands on that arm the moment I saw it."
Bucky has no idea what to reply. He stays silent.
"Where will you go when we’re done?" Stark says after a while.
Bucky shrugs. "Dunno. Everywhere. Nowhere. I’m good at that."
Stark is silent for a moment. Then: "I have a safe house in Peru."
"Why do you keep helping me?"
"Maybe I feel sorry for you."
"You should hate me."
Stark’s head thumps back against the back of the couch. "I don’t have the time for that. Or the inclination. You’re a victim, as much as my mom and my sorry excuse for a father were. I know that. What point is there in hating you, in resenting you?" He pauses, staring at the ceiling. "I would much rather reserve that energy for Steve. Now there’s a person who deserves it wholeheartedly."
Bucky swallows, staring down at his knees.
"God," Stark continues, drawing a hand over his face. "To think that I let this man in my life, in my home, and the whole time…the whole time he was lying straight to my face. We were lying in bed together, laughing, and he was lying."
He turns to stare at Bucky challengingly, as if Bucky is blind, as if Steve’s grief doesn’t cling to him like oil. Bucky stares back. If Stark wants him to feel jealousy, he can wait a long time. Him and Stevie were never like that, even when he wondered, sometimes, at the dark possessiveness he felt when gals looked Stevie’s way, and sure, he fucked a man or two and imagined—
Well, it didn’t matter what he imagined because he died and then he was reborn and now Steve won’t stop looking at him without sadness in his eyes and whatever was or wasn’t doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
"And the worst part is," Stark continues, "I understand. I understand why he did it. He did it to protect you. And to protect himself. Maybe I would’ve done the same thing, if it meant protecting Rhodey or Pepper. Hell, if it were me, I would’ve nuked the tape from the face of the earth in a blink—"
"He did it to protect you, too." The words come out shaky, but it doesn't make them any less true.
Stark shakes his head. "I would like to believe that, Barnes. I really do. But I think you overestimate the relationship Steve and I had. We fucked a few times, went on a few missions. So what? It means nothing." He bends forward and hangs his head, revealing the vulnerable skin of his nape. "Fuck, I am so tired. I am so tired. I just…" He trails off, silence filling the space between once more.
Bucky watches him breathe in and out a few times, watches the curl of his hair on his nape.
Then he does something he hasn’t done in a long, long time. He reaches out and touches another human being for comfort, one trembling hand on Stark’s neck. Stark stills under his hand but doesn’t push him away. Bucky’s heart rabbits in his chest. His hands have never known anything but pain and now he touches the man whose parents he killed, whose love he took away.
Stark’s face reappears after a moment, half smirk, half frown on his face. "How the tables have turned, huh? Now you’re the one feeling sorry for me."
"I’m not."
Stark snorts.
"I’m not. You’ll find your way back to each other," Bucky says and knows it, deep in his gut. There’s something unshakeable between Steve and Tony. No matter how much they rally against it, no matter how much they rally against each other.
The smirk slides off Stark’s face. "He’s yours now," he says matter-of-factly. "I am free."
"You can never be free of Steve. He’s like a splinter wedged just right under your thumb nail."
"Wonderful. If you feel this way about him after seventy fucking years, I might as well just go ahead and off myself right now. You’re telling me this feeling doesn’t go away?"
Bucky bites his lip, feeling something long forgotten bubble up in him. He forgot he knew how to feel things. Good things. They stare at each other for a moment. Stark’s a beautiful man. It’s a strange thing to notice in their current situation, but he is. It’s no wonder Steve fell for him. There’s something magnetic in his gaze. Stark’s mouth curls into a smirk. It’s a little mean. Bucky bites on his tongue until it’s bloody.
"Now I am a very nice man," Stark murmurs, "So I shall not act on my impulses and kiss you silly. Steve will commit murder suicide."
Bucky swallows back the retort he had ready, which was to lean in. His nape burns with heat. He hardly recognizes himself.
Stark stretches and gets up. "I am going to bed. Can I trust you in here alone?"
"I’ll leave, if you want—"
"Please, we went this far. Might as well go all the way. Tomorrow, 9 am. Don’t go anywhere."
Bucky nods and watches him leave. When he’s alone, he lets out a shaky breath. Panic surges in him, raw, unfiltered, overwhelming panic, the kind of panic that makes everything dark and blurry, the kind that makes him do bad things, but underneath it, he feels something else too—
For the first time in a long, long time, he feels like not running. He draws his human hand over the worn cotton of the couch, once, twice, the touch grounding, and breathes.
It’s an odd impulse, wanting to trust Stark, wanting to trust that Steve will return to them eventually, but he decides to go along with it.