Chapter Text
The life of a prolific superhero was not an easy life to live. There were bound to be mishaps and catastrophes at every turn—in fact, it was almost guaranteed that a moment of rest would be interrupted with something going wrong. Call it Murphy’s Law putting in the overtime hours on the small superhero population in particular, or the universe’s twisted sense of humor, or whatever modern slang analogy Bucky has long since given up catching up with. Whatever he called it didn’t change the simple truth:
Things went wrong when the Avenger’s least expected them to, and nine out of ten times, it was because of one particularly petty and spiteful god of trickery and chaos. Loki—God of Being A Pain in Bucky’s Ass—lived up to his name and unofficial title as the youngest sibling. Even gods weren’t immune to the genetic need to piss off their older siblings, apparently.
When things start going wrong this time, Bucky knows who to blame and silently curse at for his misfortunes.
Fucking Loki.
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Bucky often wondered what, exactly, it was about New York City that attracted villains and general monsters to it. Was it the chaos of the citizens? The overgrown (possibly mutated) rats on the Subway? Were the skyscrapers beacons screaming Here I am! Come target me, please! He’s sure other cities don’t deal with as much bullshit as NYC does. Los Angeles seems peaceful, if he ignores whatever the celebrities have going on down there. There aren’t any headlines about aliens invading Los Angeles that Bucky has seen, just the usual earthquakes and wildfires—perfectly normal natural disasters that only required the taxpayer-funded government services to handle.
New York City does not play by the same rules. It’s the torch on the Statue of Liberty, maybe, that draws every second-rate villain to try their luck at making it into the big-boy villain leagues of the Big City. This time, when the alarm had sounded and interrupted Bucky’s Cake Boss rerun relaxation ritual, it’s because of an entire horde of feline-like aliens terrorizing Central Park.
(If Bucky had sighed heavily when the alarm started to flash and blare right in the middle of an episode he always fell into blissful sleep to, that was between him and the integrated AI in the entire building. JARVIS wouldn’t tell anyone.)
The cat aliens were just slightly above the size of an average housecat, and they stood on their hind legs and wore what looked like kitty-tactical gear. It’s like they stepped off the set of the video games he had seen clips of online, complete with a variety of cat-sized weapons they wielded expertly. He’d barely had time to be amused at the sight of them before one had shot what was definitely a plasma shot at him, only narrowly missing his ear because he had moved out of the way just in time once he arrived on the scene. It hadn’t been nearly as amusing after that.
It was times like these Bucky wondered why he’d been so eager to pass his psych-evaluation all those months ago. Proving he wasn’t a homicidal flight risk had seemed like a swell idea at the time, but hindsight is a bitch and it’s reaping what Bucky hadn’t realized he had sown.
Punching cat-like creatures with foul mouths (the dirty language kind, but also the terrible breath kind) was not Bucky’s ideal workout, but it is what it is. Sometimes, ‘what it is’ is dodging plasma shots aimed right for his head and groin and ducking out of reach of rather sharp barbed blades wielded with deadly precision. He had to wonder how they even held the weapons when they didn’t have thumbs on their paws. For all intents and purposes, the aliens were just cats on back legs, yet they talked and waged war on the pigeons of Central Park just as well as humans. It was almost commendable, if Bucky weren’t another intended victim to their terror streak.
A brief pause in the static of the communicator in his ear precedes Stark’s voice. “I’ve got a clear visual on Puss in Boots.” Bucky risks a glance to see if he can spot a glimpse of the gaudy red and gold suit, but gets distracted by another cat-alien soldier charging straight for him. “Looks like the leader. I’m taking the shot.”
Steve grunts, followed by a yowl that gets cut off by his voice, not even out of breath. Show off. “We don’t even know what they want. We should try to see what their angle is.” There’s the sound of a scuffle, and Steve’s voice hisses out expletives Bucky somehow knows would make Steve’s mother roll around in her grave as America’s golden boy presumably dispatches another alien. “Wait for Widow.”
“On route to you.” Widow confirms. She isn’t out of breath, either. Bucky wonders if it was the ballet training that had made her impervious to ever showing any fatigue or crack to her perfect façade.
Bucky tunes them out in favor of moving locations. There are a trio of cats trying to discretely retreat deeper into the park, following another cat that appears to be holding some kind of communicator. Bodyguards and an important member, Bucky assumes. He gives chase.
“Yeah, no. You’re taking too long. I’m already taking out their little toys.” The high whine of the repulsor gauntlet firing and the resulting crackle of an explosion is quickly muffled by the communicator, a neat trick that saved his hearing. “Going in.”
“Wait for backup!” Steve barks. Bucky picks up his pace as the cats seem to have caught onto him tailing them. They hiss words at him he barely registers as he closes the distance between them.
Stark, of course, doesn’t listen. Bucky already knew he wouldn’t listen—Steve should have known, too. It’s not like this was new. Iron Man always takes the shot if it’s open; it’s part of why he is such a great asset to the team. He makes snap decisions rather than waiting for the orders, and maybe it infuriates Steve and grates on Bucky’s nerves sometimes, but it’s usually a good call on their teammate’s end.
Still, it’s dangerous to go in alone without the faintest idea of who the enemy is, or what they want. “Stark!” Bucky snaps, echoed by Steve, and he knows it’s too late before he even finishes speaking the single syllable of his name. He feels the crackle of energy in the air, hair standing on end and a chill down his spine, long before he realizes what has happened. The trio somehow manages to grin through their snouts, flashing sharp teeth that shouldn’t be as menacing as they are. Bucky takes the shot for two of them, but the third says something in what must be it’s language before it drops to all fours and sprints away from Bucky much faster than before. He curses, ignoring the rogue and deciding to deal with it later in favor of seeking out what the hell is about to come.
Here's a common misconception about battle: things slow down when your adrenaline is high. Really, battle goes too fast. It’s like moving in flashes of hitting one enemy and the other, of staying alive and staying vigilant and ignoring every sign your body gives that demands rest and safety. The way time moves in the middle of the battlefield is just snapshots of action and pain and enemies at every corner.
And yet, time seems to slow.
“Widow, cover him!” Steve’s voice is urgent, tense like a live wire.
“On it. I have visual on Stark.” Even Widow’s voice is tighter than usual. All it does is make the cold, caged thing Bucky refuses to acknowledge inside of him gnaw at the bars. It has instincts Bucky could never have, training that he can’t rely on. It’s him and it isn’t—a shadow of himself that was broken and molded into a shape suited to the needs of narcissists and psychopaths. Monsters only ever create monsters, and the thing locked in the cage in the back of Bucky’s mind might be the worst of them yet. He could only ever be something destructive when the hands that made him only ever ruined things.
Run. It insists. Bucky’s hackles rise. He feels, inexplicably, like he is trapped in the strike zone of a bolt of lightning. Ozone on his tongue, hair raised, a bitter tingle from the root of his hair to the balls of his feet. Thor isn’t even around—there’s no reason to feel this when the god isn't even on the planet. Still. Run. This is not right. Something dangerous is coming. Run. Survive.
“Iron Man.” A smooth, silky voice faintly rings through the comm. It's faintly accented, and the way they curl their lips around the syllables is too perfect, too practiced. Bucky’s spine straightens against his will. This man speaks like power is a given, like he has never felt small without his permission. He speaks like the Handlers did. They are human; he was a tool. There isn't respect to demand when they believe you are so far beneath them your respect is worth less than the dirt they crush beneath the heels of their boots. Right then and there, Bucky decides that he hates this man, whoever (or whatever) he is. “Do you like my new friends? Delightfully vicious, aren’t they?”
Steve’s voice is hard, tight, and panicked. Bucky starts sprinting toward the very danger his every nerve is telling him to run away from before Steve is even finished speaking. “Shit, it’s Loki. Widow, get him out of there!"
“I can’t.” Her cool and collected facade is cracked, worry and frustration actually bleeding through. She is the fractured shank of a pointe shoe in that moment, not the dancer wearing them. Bucky pushes himself faster. He can spot them, suddenly, standing on one of the buildings across the haggard street. A tall man in a dark suit accented with green, dark hair curling around his nape and what appears to be a staff in his hands, glowing a sick vivid green. The man makes Bucky uneasy, more so when wisps of green smoke wrap around him and Iron Man, the suit of armor quickly pulled out of the sky like it was made of cotton, not hundreds of pounds of reinforced metal armor.
“Woah, hands off!” Stark’s voice is tight and barely even. “We have a thing on Earth called consent—”
“Yes,” The smooth voice says, and suddenly eerie green eyes turn to see where Bucky is fast approaching. They glint, and the man smiles, amused by this all. The smoke swallows up the rest of the Iron Man armor, and Stark’s voice cuts from the communicator mid-shout. “You’ll do. I’ve been dying to test out something new.”
A blinding flash of green light, shouts from his teammates, and then sudden silence. When Bucky’s vision clears, the Central Park is uncharacteristically silent, save for the rest of the team rushing toward them. In the eerie silence, Bucky hears Widow’s breath hitch, and the vulgar Russian curse she hisses.
A child’s voice comes next, soft spoken and suspicious, trembling ever so slightly. “Who are you?”
Hawkeye speaks up for the first time during that fight. “Fucking Loki.”
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There is a child sitting in the cold medical bay of the SHEILD helicarrier. He’s wrapped in a blanket and dressed in what appears to be hastily grabbed child-sized pajama pants with a logo of NYC all over them, and a neon green t-shirt. He doesn’t have shoes on or socks, and he hadn’t been impressed by it at all when he had been all but dragged to the helicarrier. Bucky hadn't been there to see that argument, choosing instead to hunt down any straggling alien felines in need of dispatching, and he had only met up with them by the time they had wrangled the boy into the cockpit. Bucky had, however, witnessed the stubborn boy being swept up into Steve Rogers' arms, and how the boy had all but frozen in shock and what might have been awe.
The child kicks his feet on the bench now, tiny arms crossed moodily in front of his chest. He regards them all with sharp eyes, far too sharp for someone that small, Bucky thinks. No one with that much baby fat on their cheeks should look so shrewd at the adults in the room. He’d only really allowed Steve to get near him before all of this. After whatever bullshit Loki had pulled, Stark had taken refuge near the dismembered Iron Man armor until Steve had finally reached the roof and frozen at the sight of him as a small child. This was something else Bucky had been able to witness, just before he had run off to do his own self-assigned task.
“You’re Captain America. Steve Rogers.” Tiny-Stark had said simply, staring right through him. “My dad’s been looking for you.”
Steve had shifted his weight on his feet uncomfortably, and had said, “Tony?” and somehow, between that moment and the current moment they gathered in the med-bay, time had resumed its quick pace, and it was just flashes of being ushered into a jet and watching from the sidelines as Steve struggled to get Tiny-Stark to stay still inside the jet.
Now, Tony—Bucky couldn’t continue to call him Tiny-Stark when he looked so small, could he? The kid had a name, and Bucky would use it. Everyone with a name deserved to have it used, so they wouldn't lose it and themselves like all nameless things tend to do—eyes all of them silently, tiny shoulders tensed. He sits up perfectly straight, his chin held out calmly, but Bucky sees the faint wobble of his lips, the way his breathing is just a little too quick even for his smaller lungs. He’s anxious. For all of the calm and haughtiness he tries to exude, Tony is a scared child in a room of people he doesn’t know or are meant to be dead in the last moment he remembers.
“Captain America, sir.” Tony speaks up after a long period of silence. The child ignores the way every adult in the room seems to flinch at the sound of his voice, even though his shoulders climb even higher in defense. “Does my dad know you’re alive?”
Steve—minus the terrible cowl and shield—tries to smile reassuringly at Tony. “He does, Tony.”
Tony stares at Steve sharply for a moment, then nods. He leans away from Steve just a little more, strangely eager to put distance between them. Did he know Steve was lying? No, Bucky reassures his overactive mind. A child wouldn't have that skill. “Okay. Can I go home now? You should come to dinner, too. Dad will be happy to see you.”
“How are you feeling, Tony?” Steve asks instead of answering. The way Tony’s fingers tighten on the blanket around him indicates he hadn’t missed the redirection, either. “Do you remember anything?”
“No, I don't remember anything.” Tony answers, looking away and fiddling with the edge of the fabric. He has a strangely soft voice. Bucky would have thought it would be higher, more energetic like the kids he has faint impressions of around his neighborhood. Kids his size should sound like chattering chipmunks, not like soft-spoken and delicately trained cadences of a politician. It’s uncomfortable. “I feel weird. I want to go home and eat. Jarvis can make us something to eat while we wait for dad.” He pauses, looking around the room, then cautiously adds. “You can bring your friends, if you want. We can host them, too.”
Steve smiles tightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, looking as lost as Bucky feels, then nods. “Sure. We’ll go home soon. JARVIS can order some pizza for us, but we need to see some people first.”
“Like a business meeting?” The boy glances around what is clearly not an office building.
“Something like that, yeah.”
Tony’s tiny nose wrinkles. “Boring. Do we have to go? Can't you just tell them we’re going home?”
Steve glances around for help that he won’t be getting. Natasha makes a point of adjusting her holsters on her body, and Clint hadn’t stopped staring slack-jawed at Tony ever since he had even seen the boy reluctantly pulled into the helicarrier. Bucky, too, is gawking, but in his defense, the sight of a tiny Tony Stark is oddly disturbing but cute. He’s much quieter than his adult counterpart, his energy much more contained within himself.
“I can’t.” Steve finally admits.
“But you’re Captain America.” Tony’s face scrunches with displeasure. “Can’t you just tell them no?”
“It’s not that simple, no.”
“But you’re Captain America.” Tony insists. He draws the blanket tighter around himself.
“Unfortunately, even Captain America has to go to important business meetings.” Steve shakes his head, and then he crouches down in front of Tony. “After the meeting, I’ll see about calling Happy and getting you back, yeah?”
“Who is Happy?” Tony’s eyes dart around the room, landing on Bucky and immediately moving past him, the idea of the man lurking in dark leather in the corner of the room being named Happy too ridiculous even for a child’s imagination. Fair enough. Bucky has had better days. He's also had worse days, but there was no need to think about what the opinion of a small child would be on the days Bucky looks more Winter Soldier than Bucky; the lack of sleep only weakened his own mental barriers that keep him reacting like a normal, not fundamentally broken down excuse of a person.
“He’s your driver,” Steve explains. “I should let him explain better, but I know him as your driver and bodyguard.”
Something funny happens to Tiny-Tony’s expression. It clouds over, anxiety bleeding out through his eyes just briefly. He parts his lips, forms words that he doesn't actually say. Bucky is only able to catch it because he had been watching so closely. They form around the words but Jarvis... before he shutsters his emotions away, locked away again, and his big doe eyes are back with a vengeance. Wide and confused, just like a child should be. None of the calculated spark Bucky is becoming more and more convinced he isn't imagining. Bucky frowns.
The change was too quick, deliberate and practiced. Liar. This kid was lying about something. His fingers were fidgeting, too, and he wouldn’t look at any one person for too long. Tony’s eyes kept darting to the windows high up, and the door that the team stands in front of.
He will run.
“Hey buddy, how old are you?” Clint asks suddenly, drawing Tony’s attention to him. The archer smiles at him warmly, scratching his head.
Tony hesitates before he says, “Seven, sir. Seven and three-quarters.”
“Big man.” Clint nods, but Bucky sees the way his brows had furrowed. “You’re older than you look, squirt.”
The glare the seven-year-old fixes on Clint is honestly impressive. “How old are you? One hundred? Your wrinkles have wrinkles.”
The stunned silence that falls over the room is broken by Clint sputtering and Natasha snorting with a small laugh. Clint squawks, “I’m thirty-seven!”
“Times two.”
“Are you hearing this disrespectful little shit?” Clint throws his arms up and turns to Steve, completely missing the way Tiny-Tony’s back had gone ramrod straight at the comment, or how his flushed cheeks paled and his lips pursed. They didn’t notice he stopped kicking his feet.
Steve just grinned, because Steve had always been someone who enabled all kinds of chaos. How he had made it through Basic when Steve’s instinctive response to authority was to question it, Bucky would never know. It was one of the wonders of the world. “You’re gonna just stand there and take that, Clint? Gonna let a child get to you?”
Tony’s knuckles are white, but he still juts his chin out and snaps, “M’not a child. I’m just young.”
“Of course,” Natasha finally speaks up, her voice fond and soft. “You’re young enough to be a child, still.
It was refreshing to see a familiar stubborn glint flash in Tony’s eyes, even at this young age. He opens his mouth to retort, but then he pauses, and Bucky realizes that he has somehow earned Tony’s attention. Bucky straightens up, caught off guard by the sudden widening of the large brown eyes, and how his cheeks flush suddenly. Bucky was standing as far back from the child as he could politely be, trying not to draw any of the attention to himself. He didn’t exactly paint the image of a figure that was dependable or child-friendly in his heavy tactical gear and hastily swept back tangle of hair. Really, he should just cut it, but the curtain barrier that it provides on his worse days is something he is loathe to give up, even for convenience.
And yet, the seven-year-old Tony Stark on the bench is struck silent at the sight of him, tiny mouth gaping just a little. “You’re Bucky Barnes.”
Bucky stares back, uncomfortable with the attention he is receiving. With Tony’s full attention, he can make out what features will fade as he grows, and which ones he would grow into. His round cheeks and wide eyes would sharpen with time, but his long eyelashes and warm brown irises would remain unchanged well into his adult years, as will the slope of his nose and that specific glint indicative of Tony working out a puzzle in his mind.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
And just like that, Bucky feels the air sucked out of his lungs. It hits him like a hammer to the face all of a sudden that Tony Stark is seven years old. Two hours ago, he had easily been middle-aged, and now he was seven. He was a child, not a full-grown adult superhero. Tony Stark was younger, more breakable, more impressionable, and too smart for his age. Tony should not be allowed in Bucky’s general vicinity; he shouldn’t even be in the same building as the Winter Fucking Soldier, recovering or not.
The Winter Soldier was not meant to be around children. Psych-evaluation be damned; there was no way anyone in their right mind would think that anything about this situation was acceptable. Bucky barely kept track of his senses on a good day, and on bad days he lost track of time and couldn’t account for entire periods of his day when his brain had been hijacked by the thing he fights so hard to keep from resurfacing. It’s better now, but not perfect. It’s not safe for a child to be around him. What if he loses track of the time, and when he wakes up Tony is hurt? What if he hurts Tony? He can see it now; a well-meaning child unaware that Bucky is a ticking time bomb, startling him on a bad day and being unable to defend himself when Bucky would lash out blindly.
Children like Tony should be around the heroes they can idolize. They should be with Steve, the golden boy, and Clint, the man who took it upon himself to take in just about every stray child he runs into. He should be around his family, and something in him feels like it stabs right through him at the thought of Tony’s family, and he can’t understand why he feels it. He doesn’t know why the image of Howard Stark is so sharp in his mind, why Bucky wants to flinch under the bright stare of the child. They have the same eyes.
Bucky takes too long to answer; Tony Stark slides off the bench hesitantly, inching his way to Bucky and reaching out his tiny hand to Bucky. He hesitantly touches a finger to the metal arm, fascinated. “This is so cool. Did my dad make this for you? Can I take a look inside? How strong is it? Can you feel things from the arm, or is it something you can’t control? How long have you had it?” It’s the most Bucky has heard from the child since he had been magically transformed into this version of himself.
Bucky can’t appreciate the familiarity of the chattering because he has found that he has stopped functioning at the first touch, ears ringing.
Danger. He is in danger.
“Did he break Barnes?”
“Broke him?” Tony’s voice wobbles. “I broke him? I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please don’t tell my dad. Please, I’ll fix it.”
It’s a testament to Bucky’s spiraling thoughts that he hadn’t latched onto that last sentence, too distracted with the small hand that had touched a murder weapon like it was nothing, like it was alright for any of this to happen.
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Fury is, understandably, displeased with the development.
“Why is there a child on my desk?”
“Loki.” Natasha explains simply, gently carding her fingers through the aforementioned child’s locks of hair. He had allowed the touch after a final suspicious glare, and now he blinked away drowsiness and half leaned on Natasha. In his hands, Tony held a can of Coke Clint had snagged for him on their way to report to Fury. Tony had insisted on walking, but Natasha wasn’t having it. He didn’t have shoes on; who knew what was on the SHIELD floors. Bucky had silently agreed.
Tony stared down Fury with a startling intensity from the leather chair just behind the large desk. It didn’t seem to phase him that Fury was funneling all of his irritation and intimidation into his gaze. Tony took a sip of the soda; next to him, Natasha almost smiled.
Nick Fury sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m getting sick of these Asgardians and their inability to keep track of one god.”
Bucky coughs to hide the brief flicker of amusement. Tony locked his gaze on him again, shining with interest and open curiosity. Bucky quickly averts his gaze.
“You said no meeting.” Tony grumbles to nobody in particular.
“How long is this—” he gestures to the seven-year-old genius in the room. “—going to last?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Steve winces, just as Tony says, “Loki is wily.”
The regret that blooms on Steve’s face is truly a sight to behold. Bucky isn't an artist, so he doesn't exactly have an eye for these things, but he thinks that expression should be framed in a museum. Bucky would pay money to see that exhibit. Informing Tiny-Tony about his current circumstances didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore, had it? Regardless of how necessary it was, Bucky just knew Steve wished he could take it back. Still, he couldn’t deny answers to the stubborn child that immediately realized the cars on the streets were very different than what he would be accustomed to at that age, and why New York looked like some foreign city to him. Tony had threatened to find the answers on his own, somehow, if nobody explained, and when he noticed the others trying to cut off Steve’s explanation, he had threatened to take the shield Steve wielded and toss it out the helicarrier window.
The kid was a menace.
“Alright.” Another long-suffering sigh. “We’ll make room for him here until this wears off. Who knows what’ll happen if he’s not monitored.”
Tony crushes the soda can in his grip, voice strong. “No. I want to go home.”
“You’re currently under an unknown spell by the universe’s most prolific trickster god,” Fury turns to Tony, standing firm. “You’re not going anywhere until this wears off.”
“I want to go home,” Tony repeats, setting down the can of soda just a bit too hard on the desk but seemingly not noticing. “You can’t keep me here. This is kidnapping.”
To further solidify his point, Tony moves to his feet, startling the others as he strode to the door with determination. He had taken the soda with him, funnily enough. The humor faded when Tony turned the knob and nothing happened.
The door was locked. The tiny body coils with tension, and he tries again to open the door, and again, like the outcome would change. He kept trying, each attempt to turn the knob and get out as futile as the last, until they’re frantic and Tony is breathing so heavily Bucky clenches his hands into fists.
Then, Tony threw his body into the door, and he clawed at the doorknob. Everyone in the room—with the exception of Nick Fury and Natasha—flinched. The next moment, Tony’s face was whirling around, red and blotchy, and he demanded, “Let me out!”
His voice was shaking.
“Let me out!” Tony repeated, pounding his fist into the door. His tiny chest was heaving alarmingly fast. He turned to them again, and much to Bucky’s surprise, Tony drew back his arm and threw the half-finished soda can straight at the SHIELD director. Even more surprising: Tony didn’t miss. He hit the man in the dead center of his chest, making him blink in shock. Bucky is impressed; the kid has a great arm. If he hadn't grown up to be a superhero, he might have had a successful career as a baseball player, or a professional wine-spiller at weddings on anyone who dares wear white that isn't the bride.
Tony’s hands fisted at his sides, his posture rigid. In the large shirt and children’s sleep pants, it was a pitiful sight. Bucky’s stomach dropped. “Howard won’t pay the ransom. It won’t work, so just let me go home.”
Fury didn’t sound even a little sorry as he said, “Sorry, Stark, but this is what’s best for everyone.”
Tony’s eyes welled up with tears. His fists shook, and he looked a moment away from crying before Bucky realized his feet were already moving without his permission, positioning him in between Nick Fury and the child version of his former teammate. Patience snapped, Bucky said flatly, “The hell he is. He’s coming back to the tower. Just try and make him stay.” I dare you.
The itch to run was strong. His nerves were on fire. That part of him he didn’t like to think about urged him to just take Tony and run before they were both locked up.
“Bucky…” Steve warned.
“No.” He heard himself like from a distance. “It’s a kid, Steve. He’s a kid. He’s scared. I’m not gonna let him be locked up.” Bucky fixed the stare he knew made even Natasha on Fury. “Stark comes home with us.”
“Well, I’m glad we have a volunteer for babysitting duty.” Fury says, and he smiles slowly, and that’s when Bucky understands.
A trap.
Of course it was a trap. Of course Bucky had been stupid enough to fall for it.
He sets his jaw. “Unlock the door. I don’t like being trapped.”
It wasn’t a threat, not really, but Bucky knew how even the slightest indication of any kind of mention of the Winter Soldier made them cagey. A rougher, flat quality to his voice usually did the trick, as did shifting his posture just enough to be tensed and ready for orders, not relaxed and at ease. Even just being too quiet at certain hours made the more skittish of his team members do a double-take at him. He would never admit to anyone how often he used these little tricks to get them off his back and let him have time alone, or to get him out of situations that were spiraling out of his comfort zone. Sometimes it was real, but sometimes Bucky just didn't know how else to get the well-meaning but annoyingly nosy teammates off his back without a feelings intervention.
So, Bucky wasn’t making a threat, technically. What he was doing was instead suggesting an outcome that nobody wanted. A trapped Winter Soldier. They were trapped in here with him, not the other way around.
Fury deliberated with himself for a moment before nodding, and suddenly, the door slid open. Bucky expected to hear small footsteps rushing out, but instead was shocked to feel the tiny fist reaching for his flesh arm. Tony hid half behind Bucky, sniffling as quietly as he could. He squeezed Bucky’s arm tightly. He didn’t mind.
Wordlessly, Bucky turned and picked the child right off the floor without breaking a step, swinging him up and settling him on his hip. Tony stared at him silently, something like wonder and suspicion laced in those eyes. As he walked out with the child, hearing the footsteps of the others follow after a beat of hesitation, Bucky watched those round, intelligent eyes come to a conclusion, and the child was relaxing into his hold.
This was such a stupid idea.
|||
Bucky didn’t set Tony down even when the elevator had reached the penthouse and he had stepped through it, the lights automatically flicking on to the setting JARVIS knew Bucky preferred. He had never liked blinding overhead lights, had felt his chest constricting at how similar they were to the lab lights that haunted his nightmares. The lighting for any room Bucky was in was dimmed and warm, and never directly above his head.
JARVIS was really a godsend creation.
The rest of the team was already waiting around the common area, standing and gawking at the duo as they walked out first, followed by Natasha, Steve, and Clint. Tony froze up in Bucky’s arms at the sight of them all, his fingers digging into Bucky’s shoulder. Tony squirmed to be put down, but Bucky pretended not to notice. He instead glared a silent challenge at the others, daring them to say anything that would upset the child in the room.
“Who are they?” Tony asked quietly, clearly intending for only Bucky to hear.
Steve answered, though. His hearing was better than even Bucky’s was. “They’re the Avengers.”
“I thought you were the Avengers.” The skepticism was not lost to any of them. Tony side-eyes Steve.
“We are.” Steve agreed, opening his mouth to explain onto to be interrupted by Clint coming up to Tony and gesturing with his head, introducing each of the others with a pointed finger. “That’s Wanda, Vision, Bruce, Rhodes, and Sam. They’re the rest of the Avengers.”
Tony stares in silence at the new people, too serious and too quiet, holding too tightly to Bucky like if he loosens it, he will expose how hard his hands shake. Bucky understands the feeling all too well. He doesn't like that the child has that in common with him. The fear is still there, no matter what Bucky tries to do to ease the anxiety. “My name is Tony. Tony Stark.”
The team smiles hesitantly at the child who had been one of their oldest members just this morning. Tony doesn’t seem to notice; Bucky barely pays attention.
All he can think is: fucking Loki.