(no subject)
I.
It’s the summer of ’34 and even after dark the heat still sticks under their clothes. Steve is sixteen when Bucky first asks him, fingers already slick with spit, if Steve trusts him. With his shirt pulled up and Bucky’s hands at his belt buckle, it’s not much of a question but Steve still nods with conviction and takes a deep breath. They’ve done this once or twice before, kissing in the boy’s bathroom between classes or in the stairwell of Steve’s mother’s walk-up when nobody else was around. Steve knows it doesn’t matter for much.
Bucky can get any girl he wants, if he puts his mind to it. He’s good-looking with his big blue eyes and his smile of straight white teeth. Even Steve can see it. The girls never spare Steve a second glance; it isn’t much a loss, anyway. Bucky never says why he sometimes pulls Steve close and kisses him, all sloppy tongue and quick hands, fingers twisting in hair and shirt collars. He never explains himself afterwards when Steve’s pulling his clothes back into place and wiping his mouth with a knuckle, his face red from kissing. Steve doesn’t ask why, either. He’s comfortable with it, more comfortable than he thought he would be with his best friend’s hands all over him. Because Bucky just smiles lopsidedly and kisses Steve’s lips once more, as though for good luck, and Steve can’t think of a question to ask.
In another week or two, Bucky will be on to some new girl he’s had his eye on. Maybe Sally Rainer from down the street, or that cute redhead that sits behind Bucky in class. Steve’s okay with that, too, back on the sidelines, back to normal. In a few years everything will change, but they don’t know that now. His mother will die of tuberculosis and Steve will be left alone. Adolf Hitler will declare war on the world and Bucky will leave and Steve will find a way to follow, to France and Germany and anywhere else the warfront takes them.
For now, they’re both teenagers in the front-seat of Bucky’s father’s beat-up old truck. Steve is perched in Bucky’s lap, straddling his waist with knobby knees. Bucky’s hands are all over him, pulling off his shirt, opening his trousers. The oil-dirty leather squeaks underneath them every time they move and the windows are already fogging up from their breath. Steve is grateful for the alley Bucky pulled them into before leaning in to kiss him. Grabbing for a handful of Bucky’s hair, Steve isn’t so sure he could stop himself at this point, otherwise.
“You trust me?” Bucky asks, looking up at Steve from the collarbone he’s kissing. The skin pulled over Steve’s narrow ribcage is already red, his breath already hitching. “If you don’t want to do this, just tell me.”
“Who said I didn’t want to do this?” Steve’s almost indignant when he answers. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
For it, Bucky laughs. “It’s not a competition, tough guy. I’m just saying.”
Swallowing, Steve leans in and kisses Bucky again, all heat and hunger. At sixteen he’s as big as he’s ever going to get, still frail and bony all over, like he’s fit to break. Bucky knows better, though. He knows by the way Steve kisses and bites and pluck at his shirt buttons that he’s not afraid of this, or anything else.
And Bucky grips Steve by the hips, nods and says, “Okay. Whatever you want.”
They do this only once or twice more after this. Bucky never brings it up again, so Steve doesn’t either. It’s easier that way, a closeness that dissolves as high schools peters to an uneventful conclusion. Bucky gets a job at his father’s factory and Steve leaves for his first term in art school, before dropping out at the start of the war. Before too long Bucky will be drafted to fight in France and Steve won’t be able to stay behind. They won’t talk about that, either. The war is going to change their lives, but for one night in Brooklyn, it’s still too far away to matter.
--
When Steve finally sees Bucky again it’s in a damp prison camp behind German lines. They’re twenty-six now and Steve is twice the man he was. If Bucky looks at him a little differently over beers with the rest of the guys or on the way to their bunks after, Bucky never says anything. He just flicks his gaze up and down the length of what Steve has become, big and strong and blonde all over, and shrugs like it’s nothing. If Steve catches himself wondering what it means, it isn’t worth mentioning the moment Peggy walks by and smiles softly over her shoulder. They never talk about that, either.
Before the war is over Bucky is going to slip from Steve’s fingers, and nothing’s ever going to be the same again. Steve is never going to forgive himself. The Red Skull makes sure he doesn’t get the chance.
--
When Steve awakes from the ice, it doesn’t seem fair that he’s the only one that gets to come back. Everyone else is long dead. Howard Stark has a grave site in upstate New York and Bucky Barnes gets a small headstone and an empty casket in his family’s graveyard in New Jersey. The rest of the Howling Commandos are scattered all over the country in plots next to wives and parents and only Peggy is left, but Steve can’t call her. Too much time has passed for that.
II.
Steve Rogers thinks he’s going to hate Tony Stark at first. Tony’s too bold, too brash, too hung up on shiny and superficial things for Steve to take him seriously. He’s nothing like his father, or any of the men that Steve’s left behind. He’s nothing like Bucky, who Steve still watches fall every night when he dreams of ice and water and of slowly drowning in the dark.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, that changes. Tony dies once or twice, as Steve soon discovers he is prone to doing, throwing himself on swords both real and imagined and always the first to make the sacrifice for everyone else. Each time Tony comes back Steve feels like eating his words from the first time he told Tony he wasn’t a hero. Tony never wants the apology, and in time it becomes the first thing they never talk about. They will add others to that list, things to do with Steve’s hands in Tony’s hair and Tony’s mouth on Steve’s bare skin.
For now, Steve meets Tony halfway across the flight deck of the Helicarrier with something like a smile. There’s a dent in Tony’s chest plate, a bruise under his left eye from the fight. Tony looks down reflexively at the hand Steve extends before he takes it. It feels like a step in the right direction.
“Good job out there today,” Steve says. “Partner.”
“Partner?” Tony looks somewhere between put-upon and amused. “That’s pretty forward of you, Captain. I feel like I barely know you.”
Steve shakes his head with a laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Stark.”
--
Trust is a four letter word to Tony. Steve knows that now. He says Trust me to Fury when he feels like grandstanding, to Pepper when he wants to reassure her and Rhodey when he’s looking to avoid a fight. He says it to Bruce because Bruce doesn’t trust much of anyone, and he says it to Natasha because no matter what he says, he wants to earn her respect. To Coulson it’s flippant because Coulson has known him longer than anyone else at S.H.I.E.L.D. and to Thor it’s taken for granted because the Asgardian places more esteem in Tony than Tony thinks he’s probably worth. Clint doesn’t trust Tony, not yet, and that suits them both fine. Clint doesn’t trust anybody but Natasha, anyway.
To Steve, Tony says Trust me when he really means the other thing. He says it when they’re on the deck of the Helicarrier ready for the fight and when he’s inside of Steve afterwards. Steve knows the difference and never asks about the other thing that neither of them say. Tony needs trust; he operates by cultivating it in others. After the last six months, Steve knows that above all else. Trust takes place of all those other things he never says, like I’m sorry and I need you and Please stay. He knows that when Tony crowds him in that way he always does when no one else is around, his voice dipping low like his lashes do and asks, “Do you trust me?”, to just tell the truth.
“With my life.”
--
It’s a Tuesday night. Tony’s home late after a twelve-hour flight from Dubai, tie undone, suit jacket lost somewhere in the car. Steve doesn’t know he’s back until he finds Tony in the elevator, heading to his quarters from the training gym. Private elevator, of course; there are a few perks to dating one’s land-lord, in that respect. The doors slide open and Steve is taken aback to see Tony look him over from head to toe, eyes lingering at the way the sweat makes his t-shirt stick to his skin. At that, Steve smirks.
“J.A.R.V.I.S. said you would be back tomorrow,” he says. “Sneak off early?”
“Why? Miss me?”
“Never.”
“The trade expo went off without a hitch, so I came home early to let the legal people draw up the papers for the new contracts.” Tony cants his head, pressing the button to keep the doors open. “Just heading upstairs to turn in, if you’d care to join me.”
“Well, I’m heading up to my room to take a shower.” Steve steps inside. “If you’d like to see me to my door.”
They still have separate rooms, Steve his own quarters and Tony the penthouse atop the tower whenever he’s in New York. Steve says he just needs his space sometimes; Tony says sleeping in separate beds is prehistoric, but lets him have it anyway. This time, Tony just scoffs at the idea.
“Yeah, about that - you noticed I didn’t phrase that as a question, right?”
“It’s the middle of the night, Tony.”
“And neither of us is sleeping. How ‘bout that?”
By the time they reach the penthouse, there’s no use in arguing. Steve settles in Tony’s lap to straddle him with a kiss, sitting on his knees to pin Tony in the center of the bed. His fingers busy themselves with the buttons of Tony’s shirt, opening it and peeling it away before leaving it to the floor. Lowering his head Steve dots kisses and bites from Tony’s jaw down to his throat and collarbone, stopping only when he meets the metal jut of the reactor’s casement. He lets a hand idle over it, warm like Tony’s skin and humming under his fingertips.
The reactor leaves bruises wherever it’s pressed into Steve’s body, in his chest or the center of his back. It’s alarming how comfortable the thought is now, how predictable he’s become in looking forward to the feeling. The way it digs into his breastplate when he wraps his legs around Tony’s waist and pulls Tony to him, an uncomfortable weight in the curve of his spine when Tony bends him over the sofa in his quarters. It’s as much a part of the sex as the pleasure itself, these fleeting moments of pain that Steve can retrace in the shower the next morning, hidden under his clothes for a few hours before they inevitably fade away. The pain is as much a part of Tony as everything he does and doesn’t talk about and Steve finds himself okay with all sorts of things, these days.
With a sigh he presses his lips to it, watches the way Tony’s eyes slant, mouth open on a breath as he winds a hand into Steve’s hair and angles his hips reflexively. Steve darts his tongue across the glass plating, teasing it over the bisecting metal lines to draw their outlines. Tony shakes his head with a swallow. Steve just smirks.
“You’re a tease, Rogers.”
“You like it.”
“Never said I didn’t.”
Leaning forward Tony pushes Steve back. He threads a hand into Steve’s hair and kisses him firmly until Steve has to sit on his haunches to keep balance, laughing into the kiss. Steve lets Tony undress him, pulling his sweat-damp shirt over his head, opening his belt and undoing his khakis before pressing Steve against the mattress to climb on top of him. Tony nips at Steve’s mouth twice, once with his lips and again with his teeth, studying the way Steve smiles up at him with a cant of his head.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Steve shakes his head. “Why?”
“You’re smiling.” Tony squints. “I don’t think I like it.”
“You’re getting distrustful in your old age.”
“Old age? Wow. Would you like to get your knife out of my back now or did you just want to twist it around a few more times?”
“Please.” Steve lifts his head to kiss Tony again. “Don’t crawl too far up on that cross, Stark. We need the wood.”
“Why stop now, Rogers? Do go on. You haven’t even started in my crow’s feet or my hairline.”
“Or your little pot belly,” Steve smirks.
“Okay, yeah, we’re done here.” Tony feigns indignation and moves away as Steve laughs. “Have fun with that on your own tonight, slick.”
“Hey, I happen to like the little belly.”
“You’re really not helping yourself right now.”
Steve sighs. Sitting up, he nudges Tony over onto his back, getting into his lap and holding his wrists together above his head, keeping him in place. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“That’s…comforting.” Tony shrugs. “I guess.”
“You don’t trust me?” It’s out of Steve’s mouth before he can even think of what it might mean. Once it’s done, he doesn’t necessarily regret it, either.
At that Tony lifts his chin and swallows. He looks like he’s calculating his response, and that rarely ever happens. “I didn’t say that.”
Looking from Tony’s eyes to his mouth and back up, Steve presses his lips together to wet them. Finally he leans in to kiss Tony again, first firmly and then softly. The way Tony closes his eyes and tries to catch Steve’s bottom lip in his teeth reminds Steve that Tony’s not the only one that gets to leave marks.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
Steve moves away, just out of Tony’s reach. Tony doesn’t open his eyes.
“More than you know.”
It isn’t exactly the question Steve thought he would be asking. Steve doesn’t ask questions about things like this, not when he was sixteen or twenty-six. At barely twenty-seven and almost a century later, he’s smart enough now, and at least this time the answer is worth it.
--
III.
It happens on a raid of a HYDRA base in Bulgaria, and again on a rooftop in Paris, and an attack on a Russian S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost.
The soldier appears out of nowhere in the heat of gunfire and flying arrows or with a sniper rifle on a high-rise just out of Steve’s field of vision. A silhouette cut from a black mask and uniform, a bionic arm bulging under a rolled sleeve, slipping in and out of sight like a ghost. He’s too quick in a fight, too brutal to be taken in and too fast to be caught in the aftermath, as Steve finds himself tracking the other man through the belly of a weapons depot or down winding alleyways. Steve never gets a long enough look at him to make an assessment to file in his mission reports. The way he moves is familiar, the build of him - smaller than Steve but muscular in a wiry sort of way - something he can’t put a finger on. After months of sightings, Steve never stops trying.
When intelligence photos of Red Skull in Berlin surface, Natasha disappears from the conference room without a word. Clint follows after with a backwards glance at Fury. Maria pulls the pictures up on the holographic screen for the rest of the team to see and Steve’s blood turns cold. The Red Skull stands reborn, and the soldier at his side died in 1944 when Steve watched him slip from his grasp, lost in the snow.
“Our intel confirms Red Skull has either been replaced or regenerated,” Fury explains. “Either way, he’s asserting himself above other high-ranking leaders of HYDRA command and assuming control. The man at his side has been identified as The Winter Soldier, a pet-project of theirs that has been responsible for numerous assassinations since the late ‘60s.”
Images of blood in the streets of Vietnam and Serbia, bodies in the backs of cars and restaurants in Germany and Cuba flash by in grainy videos and photographs. Timestamps indicate the years they were taken, the decades and conflicts adding up to a narrative of violence. Each time The Winter Soldier looks the same, never aging, never changing, always a blur at the edge of the frame, a smudge in the corner of someone’s recollection.
“No.” Steve feels sick. Tony looks at him from across the table like he already knows why. “His name is James Barnes.”
Fury straightens up. “And how do you know that?”
“Because he died in 1944. He was my best friend.”
--
It’s only been ten years since Steve and Bucky were just kids stealing time and kisses behind closed doors, but seventy since Steve watched Bucky fall from that train. The thought scares Steve, pouring through surveillance photos and intelligence reports, trying to make the pieces fit. The kid he knew from Brooklyn is gone, hard in his eyes and in the lines around his knuckles when he’s holding a gun. Only Natasha knows the man he’s become, strong and capable, the killer she trained with and fought beside; the lover she let go of when they were both still too young to deal with the repercussions of their affair. She says nothing of it to anyone but Steve. No one else would understand.
They speak in hushed tones, because Steve can’t help himself whenever he asks What happened and What did they do to him and What is he like. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and feels sixteen again, weak and useless and unprepared for this. Crossing her arms, Natasha leans back against the wall of the corridor they’re standing - not hiding, not really - in. She looks through Steve rather than at him.
“He’s stronger than you know, and he’s more capable than any agent in the field,” she tells him. “You have to be careful.”
“I think I can get through to him.”
“James doesn’t remember you the way you’re hoping, Steve.” Her face softens by degrees. “I’m sorry, but he just doesn’t. He might try to hurt you and if he does, I guarantee he won’t fail.”
“I have to try,” he says. “I let him slip away once.”
“This isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have seen any of this coming.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“You’ll have to do it behind Stark’s back.”
At that Steve stiffens. Natasha shrugs.
“He won’t let you do this. You know he’ll fight you the minute he finds out you’re going after James.”
“We always fight.”
“Not like this.”
After a moment, Steve just shakes his head. “Then we’ll just have to fight about this, too.”
When he turns to walk away, she stops him. It takes a moment to find her voice; Steve doesn’t have to ask why.
“I’m not asking you to save him, Steve. I know that may not be an option. I’m just asking you to keep Fury and Stark back long enough to try.”
He nods. “I’ll do what I can. I owe him that much. We both do.”
--
“Do you even know if this will work?” Tony asks one night over the conference room table, looking through a holographic display three tiers deep. Everyone else has gone to temporary quarters aboard the Helicarrier, and he isn’t looking at Steve. His are fingers busy scrolling and rearranging files and images, trying to keep himself distracted from the dings and dents in his armor, the scrape on his cheek. “After everything that he’s done, do you honestly believe you can get through to him?”
There’s blood in the fabric of Steve’s uniform but he doesn’t remember how it got there. Running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, Steve sighs. “Tony.”
“I’m just asking a question.”
“I think I can.”
“You think?” Tony’s voice is sharp with accusation, but he still doesn’t look at Steve. “Yeah, well, sorry if I’m not willing to bet on what you think will happen, Steve.”
“I think I can, because I know him, Tony. I grew up with him. I know I can reach him.”
“And you trust him?”
Before Steve can think to stop himself, it’s out of his mouth. “With my life.”
Tony’s jaw tics with a swallow and Steve knows he’s made a mistake. He rakes a hand at his cascade of files and shoves them all away, collapsing into themselves and disappearing in the tablet at the center of the table. When he turns to face Steve, Steve knows he’s crossed a line.
“So, what - you’re just going to go out there and hope he doesn’t shoot you on sight, right? That he’ll remember all the good times and conveniently forget that he’s been ordered to kill you the first chance he gets?”
Steve sighs again. “It’s more than that.”
“No, it’s stupid.”
Steve is the one who gets close this time, fences Tony in, keeps him at the table. “I’m going on more than just a hunch here. You know that. All I’m asking is that you trust me on this one.”
“No, you’re asking me to trust him not to put a bullet in your head, and I can’t do that.”
“I’ve backed every one of your plays for the last year, Tony. All I’m asking is for you to do the same for me.”
Tony shakes his head. “Don’t, Rogers. Do not try to guilt me.”
“I don’t want to guilt you. I just want you to trust me.”
“You know I trust you.”
“So let me do this,” Steve says, quietly the way he does when other people are around and he only wants Tony to hear. “Please.”
After a moment, Tony swallows. “If he makes a move I don’t like - if he so much as breathes funny at you - I will take him out. And I won’t care if you and Natasha hate me for the rest of your lives.”
“I know.” Steve nods. “That’s why I won’t let it come to that.”
“No, you won’t.”
When Tony turns to leave, Steve knows better than to follow this time.
--
IV.
They’ve been chasing Red Skull for weeks, from the attack on the Ogallala Aquifer in Nebraska to the HYDRA invasion in Washington, D.C. Wherever Red Skull appeared Winter Soldier wasn’t far behind, waiting to ambush S.H.I.E.L.D. agents or provide a cover for the Skull’s escape. The hunt has to go on, even after every misstep and close call. Red Skull was planning something bigger than S.H.I.E.L.D. had foreseen and bolder than Steve had ever known; there was far too much at stake.
It’s winter in Belarus when Steve finally catches up, standing in a clearing in the forests surrounding a nearby HYDRA base. Snow drifts lazily between them as Bucky draws a gun on Steve, the muzzle so close he can feel its warmth. He doesn’t even blink; Bucky doesn’t either. This is the closest they’ve stood to each other since 1944 and Steve can barely recognize him. That scares him more than he thought it would.
“Try to remember,” Steve says, softly, firmly. “I know what they’ve done to you, but you don’t have to let it control you anymore.”
“You know nothing.” Bucky’s grip changes, his trigger finger twitching. “Stay out of my way or I will kill you.”
“I know they’ve used you, turned into you a weapon - but you’re so much more than that.”
“To who?”
“To Natasha, and to me. Damnit, Bucky, I’ve known you since second grade. We grew up together. Doesn’t that still mean something to you?”
“What, Bucky Barnes? The factory worker’s son? Your best friend?” Bucky’s smirk is sharp and empty. “He’s been gone seventy years, Cap, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Steve sighs out heavily, breath visible in the air. “I couldn’t save you then. It was my fault they got to you and I can’t make that right by you, I know that. But let me help you now.”
“You don’t get it: S.H.I.E.L.D. will lock me in the deepest hole they can find, after they cut everything I know out of me, piece of by piece.” Bucky shakes his head. Steve can practically taste gun powder. “If I go with you, I’m already dead.”
“I’ll talk to Fury. He’ll listen to me. I won’t let them hurt you.”
“You can’t stop them.”
“I can.”
For a moment, Bucky’s gaze wavers. His eyes flick from Steve’s face at the end of the gun barrel to the hands Steve extends to him. He swallows.
“You have to trust me, Bucky. Please.”
The sudden hot sound of metal slices through the air like a knife and Bucky goes down. It happens too quickly for Steve to react as he drops to the ground to hold Bucky close. Blood runs from the deep puncture in Bucky’s side into the snow, his fingers grasping at Steve’s collar with a pained grunt. The low thunder of rockets echoes in the forest, and when Iron Man touches down ten feet away, Steve is more heartbroken than angry.
“Why?” he demands, pressing a hand to Bucky’s wound to stop the bleeding. “I told you I could do this.”
“He had a gun on you.” The face plate flips up and Tony moves closer, without caution or regret. “I had a clear shot. I made the call.”
“I asked one thing from you, Tony. One thing, you son of a bitch.”
Overhead engine turbines roar closer, whipping the clearing into a squall of snow and shaking trees. The belly of the Helicarrier peeks through the cloud cover, signaling S.H.I.E.L.D.’s presence. Steve feels only betrayal.
“Yeah, I know. And I told you I’d take the shot.” Tony stoops at Steve’s side and scoops Bucky up. “He’ll live as long as I get him to Medical, unless you want to keep yelling at me.”
“What?”
The face plate flips down in a soft metallic clang. “Fury wants Winter Soldier brought in alive. It seems he’s changed his mind.”
“Tony, I -”
“We’ll talk about this later, Cap. And, sorry, there’s only room for one. You’ll have to find another ride home.”
It’s hard to let Bucky go this time but Steve does, sitting back as Tony stands to put Bucky over his shoulder. As the suit’s rockets fire up again Tony flies up to meet the Helicarrier above them, leaving Steve in the clearing, blood on his hands as he watches them disappear into the falling snow.
--
Steve waits outside the medical bay doors long after dark, red still staining his uniform. Bucky is on the other side, restrained in a bed by cuffs and straps, his side stitched closed. Unpredictable as he was, like the wounded dog he had become under Red Skull’s boot heels, but nonetheless alive. The debriefings and reports, as Steve had decided, could wait until morning. Fury knows better than to press the issue and Maria has steered clear, locking eyes with him in the corridor with just a nod before leaving him there. Steve was grateful for that much.
He doesn’t know where the rest of the team is. No one has come looking for him and he’s grateful for that, too. He’s not prepared to deal with all of them, not yet. It bothers him that this has made him so fragile, unable to take lead when the others need him, making deals and promises that could have hurt them all in the end. Trusting Bucky was dangerous; Tony was right about that. It doesn’t make it any less worthwhile, his resolve any less sturdy, willing to stare down the barrel of that gun to see Bucky brought in from the cold.
In the end it’s Tony that finds Steve, and it’s not surprising. From his spot on the floor by the medical bay doors, Steve looks up to find Tony beside him, a cup of coffee extended like an olive branch. It’s something like fondness that makes Steve smile despite himself, one of those things they never talk about as he takes it with a nod. Letting out a sigh, Tony sits down next to Steve.
“Are you done being mad at me?” Tony asks.
“I don’t know yet,” Steve says truthfully.
“I wasn’t going to kill him. I had a clear shot. I knew what I was doing.”
“I know.” After a moment, Steve shrugs. “But you didn’t trust me.”
“No, I trusted you to do exactly what you said you would do. But you were gambling with your life, Steve, and I didn’t like the odds.”
“Is that why you went to Fury behind my back?”
For that, it’s Tony’s turn to shrug. “All I did was point out that Winter Soldier was a bigger asset to us alive than dead, and that you needed more time to bring him in.”
“And you threatened him,” Steve smirks.
“And I may have threatened him, yes. That’s really not the poignant take-home message that I was going for, but whatever.”
The silence they settle into is comfortable after the year they’ve been together, both in the field and off of it. Still, Tony fidgets, trying to keep his hands busy, trying to keep this from hurting as much as it does.
“So what now? What do we do about all of this?”
Steve presses his lips together to wet them and shakes his head. “I don’t know. He’s hurt, he’s angry, he doesn’t know who he can trust. It’s going to take time.”
“I don’t care about him,” Tony says, just north of hurt. “I mean us. What do we do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to know if you’re in love with him, for starters.”
The words catch Steve off-guard. “It’s not what you think it is, Tony. What’s happened between us is - complicated.”
“Then, please, Steve - enlighten me.”
“I care about him. I always have, and that isn’t going to change. He was the only family I had left during the war and when I lost him, too...” Steve shakes his head. “It was bad. Maybe I never really got over that, but finding out that he’s been brought back as some kind of weapon? I can never make that okay. That’s my burden to live with.”
“So what does that make me?” Tony shrugs it off, but the look in his eye betrays him. “Am I one of your burdens, too?”
“You’re my partner, and you know that. I can’t do any of this without you.” Having to say it makes Steve’s mouth cotton up, his hands feel empty and useless. “I need you here.”
After a moment, Tony swallows. “And how much do you need him?”
Steve shakes his head again. Instead of answering he leans in to put his hand over Tony’s neck, letting his thumb roll over the jut of Tony’s Adam’s apple and down to the collar of his shirt. He kisses Tony, regardless of where they are or who might see, and closes his eyes.
“I’ve already made my choice.”
Whatever comes next, with Bucky or Red Skull or anything else, when Tony closes a hand around Steve’s wrist to keep him there, it’s enough.
It’s the summer of ’34 and even after dark the heat still sticks under their clothes. Steve is sixteen when Bucky first asks him, fingers already slick with spit, if Steve trusts him. With his shirt pulled up and Bucky’s hands at his belt buckle, it’s not much of a question but Steve still nods with conviction and takes a deep breath. They’ve done this once or twice before, kissing in the boy’s bathroom between classes or in the stairwell of Steve’s mother’s walk-up when nobody else was around. Steve knows it doesn’t matter for much.
Bucky can get any girl he wants, if he puts his mind to it. He’s good-looking with his big blue eyes and his smile of straight white teeth. Even Steve can see it. The girls never spare Steve a second glance; it isn’t much a loss, anyway. Bucky never says why he sometimes pulls Steve close and kisses him, all sloppy tongue and quick hands, fingers twisting in hair and shirt collars. He never explains himself afterwards when Steve’s pulling his clothes back into place and wiping his mouth with a knuckle, his face red from kissing. Steve doesn’t ask why, either. He’s comfortable with it, more comfortable than he thought he would be with his best friend’s hands all over him. Because Bucky just smiles lopsidedly and kisses Steve’s lips once more, as though for good luck, and Steve can’t think of a question to ask.
In another week or two, Bucky will be on to some new girl he’s had his eye on. Maybe Sally Rainer from down the street, or that cute redhead that sits behind Bucky in class. Steve’s okay with that, too, back on the sidelines, back to normal. In a few years everything will change, but they don’t know that now. His mother will die of tuberculosis and Steve will be left alone. Adolf Hitler will declare war on the world and Bucky will leave and Steve will find a way to follow, to France and Germany and anywhere else the warfront takes them.
For now, they’re both teenagers in the front-seat of Bucky’s father’s beat-up old truck. Steve is perched in Bucky’s lap, straddling his waist with knobby knees. Bucky’s hands are all over him, pulling off his shirt, opening his trousers. The oil-dirty leather squeaks underneath them every time they move and the windows are already fogging up from their breath. Steve is grateful for the alley Bucky pulled them into before leaning in to kiss him. Grabbing for a handful of Bucky’s hair, Steve isn’t so sure he could stop himself at this point, otherwise.
“You trust me?” Bucky asks, looking up at Steve from the collarbone he’s kissing. The skin pulled over Steve’s narrow ribcage is already red, his breath already hitching. “If you don’t want to do this, just tell me.”
“Who said I didn’t want to do this?” Steve’s almost indignant when he answers. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
For it, Bucky laughs. “It’s not a competition, tough guy. I’m just saying.”
Swallowing, Steve leans in and kisses Bucky again, all heat and hunger. At sixteen he’s as big as he’s ever going to get, still frail and bony all over, like he’s fit to break. Bucky knows better, though. He knows by the way Steve kisses and bites and pluck at his shirt buttons that he’s not afraid of this, or anything else.
And Bucky grips Steve by the hips, nods and says, “Okay. Whatever you want.”
They do this only once or twice more after this. Bucky never brings it up again, so Steve doesn’t either. It’s easier that way, a closeness that dissolves as high schools peters to an uneventful conclusion. Bucky gets a job at his father’s factory and Steve leaves for his first term in art school, before dropping out at the start of the war. Before too long Bucky will be drafted to fight in France and Steve won’t be able to stay behind. They won’t talk about that, either. The war is going to change their lives, but for one night in Brooklyn, it’s still too far away to matter.
--
When Steve finally sees Bucky again it’s in a damp prison camp behind German lines. They’re twenty-six now and Steve is twice the man he was. If Bucky looks at him a little differently over beers with the rest of the guys or on the way to their bunks after, Bucky never says anything. He just flicks his gaze up and down the length of what Steve has become, big and strong and blonde all over, and shrugs like it’s nothing. If Steve catches himself wondering what it means, it isn’t worth mentioning the moment Peggy walks by and smiles softly over her shoulder. They never talk about that, either.
Before the war is over Bucky is going to slip from Steve’s fingers, and nothing’s ever going to be the same again. Steve is never going to forgive himself. The Red Skull makes sure he doesn’t get the chance.
--
When Steve awakes from the ice, it doesn’t seem fair that he’s the only one that gets to come back. Everyone else is long dead. Howard Stark has a grave site in upstate New York and Bucky Barnes gets a small headstone and an empty casket in his family’s graveyard in New Jersey. The rest of the Howling Commandos are scattered all over the country in plots next to wives and parents and only Peggy is left, but Steve can’t call her. Too much time has passed for that.
II.
Steve Rogers thinks he’s going to hate Tony Stark at first. Tony’s too bold, too brash, too hung up on shiny and superficial things for Steve to take him seriously. He’s nothing like his father, or any of the men that Steve’s left behind. He’s nothing like Bucky, who Steve still watches fall every night when he dreams of ice and water and of slowly drowning in the dark.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, that changes. Tony dies once or twice, as Steve soon discovers he is prone to doing, throwing himself on swords both real and imagined and always the first to make the sacrifice for everyone else. Each time Tony comes back Steve feels like eating his words from the first time he told Tony he wasn’t a hero. Tony never wants the apology, and in time it becomes the first thing they never talk about. They will add others to that list, things to do with Steve’s hands in Tony’s hair and Tony’s mouth on Steve’s bare skin.
For now, Steve meets Tony halfway across the flight deck of the Helicarrier with something like a smile. There’s a dent in Tony’s chest plate, a bruise under his left eye from the fight. Tony looks down reflexively at the hand Steve extends before he takes it. It feels like a step in the right direction.
“Good job out there today,” Steve says. “Partner.”
“Partner?” Tony looks somewhere between put-upon and amused. “That’s pretty forward of you, Captain. I feel like I barely know you.”
Steve shakes his head with a laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Stark.”
--
Trust is a four letter word to Tony. Steve knows that now. He says Trust me to Fury when he feels like grandstanding, to Pepper when he wants to reassure her and Rhodey when he’s looking to avoid a fight. He says it to Bruce because Bruce doesn’t trust much of anyone, and he says it to Natasha because no matter what he says, he wants to earn her respect. To Coulson it’s flippant because Coulson has known him longer than anyone else at S.H.I.E.L.D. and to Thor it’s taken for granted because the Asgardian places more esteem in Tony than Tony thinks he’s probably worth. Clint doesn’t trust Tony, not yet, and that suits them both fine. Clint doesn’t trust anybody but Natasha, anyway.
To Steve, Tony says Trust me when he really means the other thing. He says it when they’re on the deck of the Helicarrier ready for the fight and when he’s inside of Steve afterwards. Steve knows the difference and never asks about the other thing that neither of them say. Tony needs trust; he operates by cultivating it in others. After the last six months, Steve knows that above all else. Trust takes place of all those other things he never says, like I’m sorry and I need you and Please stay. He knows that when Tony crowds him in that way he always does when no one else is around, his voice dipping low like his lashes do and asks, “Do you trust me?”, to just tell the truth.
“With my life.”
--
It’s a Tuesday night. Tony’s home late after a twelve-hour flight from Dubai, tie undone, suit jacket lost somewhere in the car. Steve doesn’t know he’s back until he finds Tony in the elevator, heading to his quarters from the training gym. Private elevator, of course; there are a few perks to dating one’s land-lord, in that respect. The doors slide open and Steve is taken aback to see Tony look him over from head to toe, eyes lingering at the way the sweat makes his t-shirt stick to his skin. At that, Steve smirks.
“J.A.R.V.I.S. said you would be back tomorrow,” he says. “Sneak off early?”
“Why? Miss me?”
“Never.”
“The trade expo went off without a hitch, so I came home early to let the legal people draw up the papers for the new contracts.” Tony cants his head, pressing the button to keep the doors open. “Just heading upstairs to turn in, if you’d care to join me.”
“Well, I’m heading up to my room to take a shower.” Steve steps inside. “If you’d like to see me to my door.”
They still have separate rooms, Steve his own quarters and Tony the penthouse atop the tower whenever he’s in New York. Steve says he just needs his space sometimes; Tony says sleeping in separate beds is prehistoric, but lets him have it anyway. This time, Tony just scoffs at the idea.
“Yeah, about that - you noticed I didn’t phrase that as a question, right?”
“It’s the middle of the night, Tony.”
“And neither of us is sleeping. How ‘bout that?”
By the time they reach the penthouse, there’s no use in arguing. Steve settles in Tony’s lap to straddle him with a kiss, sitting on his knees to pin Tony in the center of the bed. His fingers busy themselves with the buttons of Tony’s shirt, opening it and peeling it away before leaving it to the floor. Lowering his head Steve dots kisses and bites from Tony’s jaw down to his throat and collarbone, stopping only when he meets the metal jut of the reactor’s casement. He lets a hand idle over it, warm like Tony’s skin and humming under his fingertips.
The reactor leaves bruises wherever it’s pressed into Steve’s body, in his chest or the center of his back. It’s alarming how comfortable the thought is now, how predictable he’s become in looking forward to the feeling. The way it digs into his breastplate when he wraps his legs around Tony’s waist and pulls Tony to him, an uncomfortable weight in the curve of his spine when Tony bends him over the sofa in his quarters. It’s as much a part of the sex as the pleasure itself, these fleeting moments of pain that Steve can retrace in the shower the next morning, hidden under his clothes for a few hours before they inevitably fade away. The pain is as much a part of Tony as everything he does and doesn’t talk about and Steve finds himself okay with all sorts of things, these days.
With a sigh he presses his lips to it, watches the way Tony’s eyes slant, mouth open on a breath as he winds a hand into Steve’s hair and angles his hips reflexively. Steve darts his tongue across the glass plating, teasing it over the bisecting metal lines to draw their outlines. Tony shakes his head with a swallow. Steve just smirks.
“You’re a tease, Rogers.”
“You like it.”
“Never said I didn’t.”
Leaning forward Tony pushes Steve back. He threads a hand into Steve’s hair and kisses him firmly until Steve has to sit on his haunches to keep balance, laughing into the kiss. Steve lets Tony undress him, pulling his sweat-damp shirt over his head, opening his belt and undoing his khakis before pressing Steve against the mattress to climb on top of him. Tony nips at Steve’s mouth twice, once with his lips and again with his teeth, studying the way Steve smiles up at him with a cant of his head.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Steve shakes his head. “Why?”
“You’re smiling.” Tony squints. “I don’t think I like it.”
“You’re getting distrustful in your old age.”
“Old age? Wow. Would you like to get your knife out of my back now or did you just want to twist it around a few more times?”
“Please.” Steve lifts his head to kiss Tony again. “Don’t crawl too far up on that cross, Stark. We need the wood.”
“Why stop now, Rogers? Do go on. You haven’t even started in my crow’s feet or my hairline.”
“Or your little pot belly,” Steve smirks.
“Okay, yeah, we’re done here.” Tony feigns indignation and moves away as Steve laughs. “Have fun with that on your own tonight, slick.”
“Hey, I happen to like the little belly.”
“You’re really not helping yourself right now.”
Steve sighs. Sitting up, he nudges Tony over onto his back, getting into his lap and holding his wrists together above his head, keeping him in place. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“That’s…comforting.” Tony shrugs. “I guess.”
“You don’t trust me?” It’s out of Steve’s mouth before he can even think of what it might mean. Once it’s done, he doesn’t necessarily regret it, either.
At that Tony lifts his chin and swallows. He looks like he’s calculating his response, and that rarely ever happens. “I didn’t say that.”
Looking from Tony’s eyes to his mouth and back up, Steve presses his lips together to wet them. Finally he leans in to kiss Tony again, first firmly and then softly. The way Tony closes his eyes and tries to catch Steve’s bottom lip in his teeth reminds Steve that Tony’s not the only one that gets to leave marks.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
Steve moves away, just out of Tony’s reach. Tony doesn’t open his eyes.
“More than you know.”
It isn’t exactly the question Steve thought he would be asking. Steve doesn’t ask questions about things like this, not when he was sixteen or twenty-six. At barely twenty-seven and almost a century later, he’s smart enough now, and at least this time the answer is worth it.
--
III.
It happens on a raid of a HYDRA base in Bulgaria, and again on a rooftop in Paris, and an attack on a Russian S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost.
The soldier appears out of nowhere in the heat of gunfire and flying arrows or with a sniper rifle on a high-rise just out of Steve’s field of vision. A silhouette cut from a black mask and uniform, a bionic arm bulging under a rolled sleeve, slipping in and out of sight like a ghost. He’s too quick in a fight, too brutal to be taken in and too fast to be caught in the aftermath, as Steve finds himself tracking the other man through the belly of a weapons depot or down winding alleyways. Steve never gets a long enough look at him to make an assessment to file in his mission reports. The way he moves is familiar, the build of him - smaller than Steve but muscular in a wiry sort of way - something he can’t put a finger on. After months of sightings, Steve never stops trying.
When intelligence photos of Red Skull in Berlin surface, Natasha disappears from the conference room without a word. Clint follows after with a backwards glance at Fury. Maria pulls the pictures up on the holographic screen for the rest of the team to see and Steve’s blood turns cold. The Red Skull stands reborn, and the soldier at his side died in 1944 when Steve watched him slip from his grasp, lost in the snow.
“Our intel confirms Red Skull has either been replaced or regenerated,” Fury explains. “Either way, he’s asserting himself above other high-ranking leaders of HYDRA command and assuming control. The man at his side has been identified as The Winter Soldier, a pet-project of theirs that has been responsible for numerous assassinations since the late ‘60s.”
Images of blood in the streets of Vietnam and Serbia, bodies in the backs of cars and restaurants in Germany and Cuba flash by in grainy videos and photographs. Timestamps indicate the years they were taken, the decades and conflicts adding up to a narrative of violence. Each time The Winter Soldier looks the same, never aging, never changing, always a blur at the edge of the frame, a smudge in the corner of someone’s recollection.
“No.” Steve feels sick. Tony looks at him from across the table like he already knows why. “His name is James Barnes.”
Fury straightens up. “And how do you know that?”
“Because he died in 1944. He was my best friend.”
--
It’s only been ten years since Steve and Bucky were just kids stealing time and kisses behind closed doors, but seventy since Steve watched Bucky fall from that train. The thought scares Steve, pouring through surveillance photos and intelligence reports, trying to make the pieces fit. The kid he knew from Brooklyn is gone, hard in his eyes and in the lines around his knuckles when he’s holding a gun. Only Natasha knows the man he’s become, strong and capable, the killer she trained with and fought beside; the lover she let go of when they were both still too young to deal with the repercussions of their affair. She says nothing of it to anyone but Steve. No one else would understand.
They speak in hushed tones, because Steve can’t help himself whenever he asks What happened and What did they do to him and What is he like. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and feels sixteen again, weak and useless and unprepared for this. Crossing her arms, Natasha leans back against the wall of the corridor they’re standing - not hiding, not really - in. She looks through Steve rather than at him.
“He’s stronger than you know, and he’s more capable than any agent in the field,” she tells him. “You have to be careful.”
“I think I can get through to him.”
“James doesn’t remember you the way you’re hoping, Steve.” Her face softens by degrees. “I’m sorry, but he just doesn’t. He might try to hurt you and if he does, I guarantee he won’t fail.”
“I have to try,” he says. “I let him slip away once.”
“This isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have seen any of this coming.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“You’ll have to do it behind Stark’s back.”
At that Steve stiffens. Natasha shrugs.
“He won’t let you do this. You know he’ll fight you the minute he finds out you’re going after James.”
“We always fight.”
“Not like this.”
After a moment, Steve just shakes his head. “Then we’ll just have to fight about this, too.”
When he turns to walk away, she stops him. It takes a moment to find her voice; Steve doesn’t have to ask why.
“I’m not asking you to save him, Steve. I know that may not be an option. I’m just asking you to keep Fury and Stark back long enough to try.”
He nods. “I’ll do what I can. I owe him that much. We both do.”
--
“Do you even know if this will work?” Tony asks one night over the conference room table, looking through a holographic display three tiers deep. Everyone else has gone to temporary quarters aboard the Helicarrier, and he isn’t looking at Steve. His are fingers busy scrolling and rearranging files and images, trying to keep himself distracted from the dings and dents in his armor, the scrape on his cheek. “After everything that he’s done, do you honestly believe you can get through to him?”
There’s blood in the fabric of Steve’s uniform but he doesn’t remember how it got there. Running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, Steve sighs. “Tony.”
“I’m just asking a question.”
“I think I can.”
“You think?” Tony’s voice is sharp with accusation, but he still doesn’t look at Steve. “Yeah, well, sorry if I’m not willing to bet on what you think will happen, Steve.”
“I think I can, because I know him, Tony. I grew up with him. I know I can reach him.”
“And you trust him?”
Before Steve can think to stop himself, it’s out of his mouth. “With my life.”
Tony’s jaw tics with a swallow and Steve knows he’s made a mistake. He rakes a hand at his cascade of files and shoves them all away, collapsing into themselves and disappearing in the tablet at the center of the table. When he turns to face Steve, Steve knows he’s crossed a line.
“So, what - you’re just going to go out there and hope he doesn’t shoot you on sight, right? That he’ll remember all the good times and conveniently forget that he’s been ordered to kill you the first chance he gets?”
Steve sighs again. “It’s more than that.”
“No, it’s stupid.”
Steve is the one who gets close this time, fences Tony in, keeps him at the table. “I’m going on more than just a hunch here. You know that. All I’m asking is that you trust me on this one.”
“No, you’re asking me to trust him not to put a bullet in your head, and I can’t do that.”
“I’ve backed every one of your plays for the last year, Tony. All I’m asking is for you to do the same for me.”
Tony shakes his head. “Don’t, Rogers. Do not try to guilt me.”
“I don’t want to guilt you. I just want you to trust me.”
“You know I trust you.”
“So let me do this,” Steve says, quietly the way he does when other people are around and he only wants Tony to hear. “Please.”
After a moment, Tony swallows. “If he makes a move I don’t like - if he so much as breathes funny at you - I will take him out. And I won’t care if you and Natasha hate me for the rest of your lives.”
“I know.” Steve nods. “That’s why I won’t let it come to that.”
“No, you won’t.”
When Tony turns to leave, Steve knows better than to follow this time.
--
IV.
They’ve been chasing Red Skull for weeks, from the attack on the Ogallala Aquifer in Nebraska to the HYDRA invasion in Washington, D.C. Wherever Red Skull appeared Winter Soldier wasn’t far behind, waiting to ambush S.H.I.E.L.D. agents or provide a cover for the Skull’s escape. The hunt has to go on, even after every misstep and close call. Red Skull was planning something bigger than S.H.I.E.L.D. had foreseen and bolder than Steve had ever known; there was far too much at stake.
It’s winter in Belarus when Steve finally catches up, standing in a clearing in the forests surrounding a nearby HYDRA base. Snow drifts lazily between them as Bucky draws a gun on Steve, the muzzle so close he can feel its warmth. He doesn’t even blink; Bucky doesn’t either. This is the closest they’ve stood to each other since 1944 and Steve can barely recognize him. That scares him more than he thought it would.
“Try to remember,” Steve says, softly, firmly. “I know what they’ve done to you, but you don’t have to let it control you anymore.”
“You know nothing.” Bucky’s grip changes, his trigger finger twitching. “Stay out of my way or I will kill you.”
“I know they’ve used you, turned into you a weapon - but you’re so much more than that.”
“To who?”
“To Natasha, and to me. Damnit, Bucky, I’ve known you since second grade. We grew up together. Doesn’t that still mean something to you?”
“What, Bucky Barnes? The factory worker’s son? Your best friend?” Bucky’s smirk is sharp and empty. “He’s been gone seventy years, Cap, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Steve sighs out heavily, breath visible in the air. “I couldn’t save you then. It was my fault they got to you and I can’t make that right by you, I know that. But let me help you now.”
“You don’t get it: S.H.I.E.L.D. will lock me in the deepest hole they can find, after they cut everything I know out of me, piece of by piece.” Bucky shakes his head. Steve can practically taste gun powder. “If I go with you, I’m already dead.”
“I’ll talk to Fury. He’ll listen to me. I won’t let them hurt you.”
“You can’t stop them.”
“I can.”
For a moment, Bucky’s gaze wavers. His eyes flick from Steve’s face at the end of the gun barrel to the hands Steve extends to him. He swallows.
“You have to trust me, Bucky. Please.”
The sudden hot sound of metal slices through the air like a knife and Bucky goes down. It happens too quickly for Steve to react as he drops to the ground to hold Bucky close. Blood runs from the deep puncture in Bucky’s side into the snow, his fingers grasping at Steve’s collar with a pained grunt. The low thunder of rockets echoes in the forest, and when Iron Man touches down ten feet away, Steve is more heartbroken than angry.
“Why?” he demands, pressing a hand to Bucky’s wound to stop the bleeding. “I told you I could do this.”
“He had a gun on you.” The face plate flips up and Tony moves closer, without caution or regret. “I had a clear shot. I made the call.”
“I asked one thing from you, Tony. One thing, you son of a bitch.”
Overhead engine turbines roar closer, whipping the clearing into a squall of snow and shaking trees. The belly of the Helicarrier peeks through the cloud cover, signaling S.H.I.E.L.D.’s presence. Steve feels only betrayal.
“Yeah, I know. And I told you I’d take the shot.” Tony stoops at Steve’s side and scoops Bucky up. “He’ll live as long as I get him to Medical, unless you want to keep yelling at me.”
“What?”
The face plate flips down in a soft metallic clang. “Fury wants Winter Soldier brought in alive. It seems he’s changed his mind.”
“Tony, I -”
“We’ll talk about this later, Cap. And, sorry, there’s only room for one. You’ll have to find another ride home.”
It’s hard to let Bucky go this time but Steve does, sitting back as Tony stands to put Bucky over his shoulder. As the suit’s rockets fire up again Tony flies up to meet the Helicarrier above them, leaving Steve in the clearing, blood on his hands as he watches them disappear into the falling snow.
--
Steve waits outside the medical bay doors long after dark, red still staining his uniform. Bucky is on the other side, restrained in a bed by cuffs and straps, his side stitched closed. Unpredictable as he was, like the wounded dog he had become under Red Skull’s boot heels, but nonetheless alive. The debriefings and reports, as Steve had decided, could wait until morning. Fury knows better than to press the issue and Maria has steered clear, locking eyes with him in the corridor with just a nod before leaving him there. Steve was grateful for that much.
He doesn’t know where the rest of the team is. No one has come looking for him and he’s grateful for that, too. He’s not prepared to deal with all of them, not yet. It bothers him that this has made him so fragile, unable to take lead when the others need him, making deals and promises that could have hurt them all in the end. Trusting Bucky was dangerous; Tony was right about that. It doesn’t make it any less worthwhile, his resolve any less sturdy, willing to stare down the barrel of that gun to see Bucky brought in from the cold.
In the end it’s Tony that finds Steve, and it’s not surprising. From his spot on the floor by the medical bay doors, Steve looks up to find Tony beside him, a cup of coffee extended like an olive branch. It’s something like fondness that makes Steve smile despite himself, one of those things they never talk about as he takes it with a nod. Letting out a sigh, Tony sits down next to Steve.
“Are you done being mad at me?” Tony asks.
“I don’t know yet,” Steve says truthfully.
“I wasn’t going to kill him. I had a clear shot. I knew what I was doing.”
“I know.” After a moment, Steve shrugs. “But you didn’t trust me.”
“No, I trusted you to do exactly what you said you would do. But you were gambling with your life, Steve, and I didn’t like the odds.”
“Is that why you went to Fury behind my back?”
For that, it’s Tony’s turn to shrug. “All I did was point out that Winter Soldier was a bigger asset to us alive than dead, and that you needed more time to bring him in.”
“And you threatened him,” Steve smirks.
“And I may have threatened him, yes. That’s really not the poignant take-home message that I was going for, but whatever.”
The silence they settle into is comfortable after the year they’ve been together, both in the field and off of it. Still, Tony fidgets, trying to keep his hands busy, trying to keep this from hurting as much as it does.
“So what now? What do we do about all of this?”
Steve presses his lips together to wet them and shakes his head. “I don’t know. He’s hurt, he’s angry, he doesn’t know who he can trust. It’s going to take time.”
“I don’t care about him,” Tony says, just north of hurt. “I mean us. What do we do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to know if you’re in love with him, for starters.”
The words catch Steve off-guard. “It’s not what you think it is, Tony. What’s happened between us is - complicated.”
“Then, please, Steve - enlighten me.”
“I care about him. I always have, and that isn’t going to change. He was the only family I had left during the war and when I lost him, too...” Steve shakes his head. “It was bad. Maybe I never really got over that, but finding out that he’s been brought back as some kind of weapon? I can never make that okay. That’s my burden to live with.”
“So what does that make me?” Tony shrugs it off, but the look in his eye betrays him. “Am I one of your burdens, too?”
“You’re my partner, and you know that. I can’t do any of this without you.” Having to say it makes Steve’s mouth cotton up, his hands feel empty and useless. “I need you here.”
After a moment, Tony swallows. “And how much do you need him?”
Steve shakes his head again. Instead of answering he leans in to put his hand over Tony’s neck, letting his thumb roll over the jut of Tony’s Adam’s apple and down to the collar of his shirt. He kisses Tony, regardless of where they are or who might see, and closes his eyes.
“I’ve already made my choice.”
Whatever comes next, with Bucky or Red Skull or anything else, when Tony closes a hand around Steve’s wrist to keep him there, it’s enough.