#little red and little boss found a big box of blocks in the dump once | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

serpentinesarang · 4 years

Text

NCT 127 reacting to you dressing up for a lowkey date

A/N: Gender-neutral reader. (Also, I apologize if these gifs are potato quality >.<)

Taeil

Taeil has been patiently lounging in the living room waiting for you to emerge from the bathroom. He’d told you yesterday he wanted to take you to a pumpkin patch today and carve designs together once you got home. No other plans or pitstops; just a scenic drive to the countyside in the increasingly chilly fall weather.

They’re taking a long time getting ready, wow... Taeil thinks, twiddling his thumbs together.

Not two minutes later, you finally unlock the bathroom door and saunter to the living room to stand in front of Taeil. You’re a knockout in a khaki trench coat, black turtleneck, and tight leather pants tucked into a pair of Doc Martens. You even smell fantastic.

Taeil’s spine snaps upright as his eyes drink you in. “I can’t believe you’re mine. Come here and let me kiss you,” he says with a warm smile, raising his arms.

Taeyong

Taeyong pulls his car up to your apartment building and weaves through the underground garage, parking in front of the main elevator he knows you always dance out of. He’s stupid-excited to take you to see the newest Marvel film and hold your hand the whole time, but he’s more so satisfied with himself for buying out every other open seat during your showing so it would feel like you two were at home.

Taeyong turns down his playlist and full on cranes his neck to watch you step out of the elevator, and damn are you a snack. Wearing a dark red bomber jacket, striped top, and black cargo pants with moto booties, Taeyong wants nothing more than to park in a garage space and take you back upstairs to cuddle.

He involuntarily lets out a content sigh before you yank open the passenger door and slide in.

“Hi, cutie!” you greet him brightly.

Taeyong immediately leans forward and presses his lips to yours then whispers almost into your mouth, “I’m gonna kiss you the entire movie, baby.”

Johnny

You hear a thunderous knock on your apartment door, and you don’t have to glance at your phone or watch to know who it is. It’s Johnny baby <3

He’d texted you an hour ago saying you two were going on an impromptu walk along the beautiful Han River because the sun is actually out today with minimal clouds. Really, he just wanted to escape the SM building and see you.

Once you swing your door open, Johnny nearly blows his eyes out of his sockets looking at you. You’re wearing a cute denim jacket over a low, scoopneck-style top that hugged your waist, along with black, ripped skinny jeans, and Vans. It’s just the right vibe for Johnny, and your legs have him wishing they were wrapped around his head instead.

“Goddamn,” he says in a hoarse voice, eyeing you coyly. “We’ll have to come back here after our walk...”

Yuta

It’s Thursday evening, and Yuta called you 30 minutes ago asking if you were nearby to grab some hot tea. Your board meeting had run super late, and you’d barely finished wolfing down a cheap salad when Yuta rang. This was just the pick-me-up you needed after such a long day, and you could handle the 15-minute walk to his favorite tea parlor.

You breeze through the shop door and scan the tables for your adorable man, finding him hunched in a corner by the window. He’s engrossed in something on his phone and doesn’t see you at all until your shadow looms over him.

He snaps his head up to see you wearing a slim, navy blazer, crisp white shirt underneath, and matching wide-leg slacks that made you look professional and bad-ass at the same time. Yuta wasn’t used to seeing you in your work clothes because he always came home rather late at night.

His posture springs back with excitement, and his eyes glitter in sheer amazement at the sight of his dressed-up partner. “Look at you, baby! Sexy enough to slurp.”

Doyoung

(This is a different kind of ‘dressed up’ lmaooo)

At long last, it’s Friday night, and just about time for Doyoung to come home with a big pizza. Friday is always Netflix night with your boyfriend, and after the stressful day you had at school, you desperately wanted to burrow into his arms and forget it all. With the TV all cued up and cans of soda sitting on the coffee table, you’re perched on the couch in nothing but Doyoung’s favorite white t-shirt, your underwear nowhere to be found.

You hear a key jiggling in the lock, and Doyoung carefully swings the door open while balancing the Domino’s box in his other hand. He tosses his keys on the small shelf across the coat closet and yeets his shoes off before finally looking at you.

You’re feeling a lil’ spicy tonight, so you undo your cross-legged position and stretch one leg off to the side of the couch, providing a tantalizing view for your frozen boyfriend. You smirk and beckon him with your pointer finger.

“Bon appetit to me,” he murmurs.

Jaehyun

Sunday afternoon, and Jaehyun’s knocked out on your bed, curled up like a little kitten. You’d disappeared an hour ago to grab groceries for tonight’s homecooked meal you told him this morning that you’d prepare, but you didn’t tell him the part about you being the appetizer.

Once you get home and dump the grocery bags on the kitchen counter (thankfully nothing needing refrigeration), you tip-toe to the bedroom, and just as you expected, Jaehyun was still napping. You sighed to yourself, remembering how hard he’s been working to memorize his upcoming drama show’s lines. A lot was riding on this for him, and he took his TV appearances seriously.

You lean down to your man’s face and gently stroke his cheek to wake him. He comes to and wastes no time beaming a tired smile your way.

“That was fast,” he whispers before chuckling. “Is dinner ready?”

The moment he watches you step back and untie your long trench coat to reveal absolutely nothing on your body, as you’d specifically planned, Jaehyun shoots off the bed and seizes you in his muscular arms.

“I’m definitely fine with this main course,” he says as he wraps a hand behind your neck and kisses you passionately.

Jungwoo

“Hey sweetheart, I hope work wasn’t too bad. Can we play FIFA tonight??” Jungwoo’s text reads.

You smile and snort through your nose. Damn that cutie, always wanting to stay in together. You can’t say no to your boyfriend though because he’s always so good to you, and you’d had a good shift at work today. You heart-react to his text before unlocking the door to your shared apartment. It’s a good thing you’d decided this morning to go all-out for your work outfit.

You throw your bag to the floor and shimmy out of your shoes, making your way to the living room where you know Jungwoo is patiently playing that silly go-kart game on his phone.

You clear your throat to get his attention, and he stares at your burgundy dress shirt tucked into your best pair of tight cigarette pants, the Gucci belt at your hips completing the glamorous boss babe look.

Jungwoo tosses his phone against a pillow to the side and says, “Well don’t just stand there; come cuddle me!”

Mark

Your sweet boyfriend, going crazy in one of SM’s studios all by himself, had asked you to swing by. He needed some inspiration for the newest 127 song’s rap verse, and he was too shy to admit you’ve always been his muse.

An SM employee had graciously guided you to the particular music studio Mark was hiding in, on the opposite end of the dance studios. Too much stomping and distraction.

You enter the studio nervously, not sure who else would be in here. Luckily, it’s just your cutie lying on the carpet with a legal pad of paper splayed across his chest. He cranes his neck upward to look at you, decked in a white, crochet turtleneck, black overalls, and Chucks.

“BAY-beee...” Mark coos as he sits up and throws the paper pad on top of the nearby table. “Whatchu lookin’ so damn precious for?”

Haechan

(*Feminine-presenting reader)

You had just gotten off work and were eagerly speed-walking the few blocks’ distance to the SM dorms. Haechan had invited you over to show you the new piano melody he came up with last night, but you were fairly certain he was using this excuse to be touchy-feely with you after not being able to text him back all day.

SM security was always an ordeal to get through to ward off sasaengs, but one of the guards was beginning to recognize you, so thankfully it’s not as long a check-in process as usual.

By the time you get off the elevator and ring the boys’ doorbell, you’re feeling extra giddy and ready to throw your arms around your boyfriend. Haechan opens the door with a smile, but it fades when he notices the red sundress and nude kitten heels you’re wearing.

In a hushed voice, he leans forward and says, “Good, you’re as excited to get bent over the piano as I am to do it to you.”

19 notes · View notes

thepunisher · 7 years

Text

A Bottle Marked ‘Poison’

Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes | E | 14765 words | 2/? |

ao3 link

Summary: The headstones are clean and well preserved and surrounded by fresh, colorful flowers when he reaches them. Not lilies, never lilies. But roses and sunflowers and violets. Someone has been taking care of them for years. (Not him. He can’t even take care of himself.) There’s names and dates and pictures. There’s quotes. Beloved mother. He has a split lip, his eye is a nasty shade of purple and he’s still nursing three bruised ribs. Somehow this hurts more. OR On the anniversary of their deaths, Tony visits his parents’ graves. He has an unexpected encounter. Things go downhill from there.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Haunting TW: Panic Attack

8. I came home on Tuesday and found all of the chairs that I own stacked in a tower in the center of my kitchen. I don’t know how long they had been like that but it can only be me that did it. It’s the kind of thing a ghost might do to prove to the living that he is still there. I am haunting my own apartment.

Doc Luben, 14 lines from love letters or suicide notes

He jolts awake, a scream on his lips, gasping for breath, heart pounding inside his chest.

He's disoriented at first, frantic, not making any sense of the bed, the room, the ceiling. It takes a few seconds to place where he is, but the realization does nothing to quiet the roar in his ears.

(He's still falling. Falling, falling, falling. There's no stopping, there's no ground beneath him, there's no air. He's surrounded by darkness.)

He struggles to free himself from the covers, their weight, their texture impossibly unbearable for his too sensitive skin. He only manages to tumble off the bed, sheets still tangled around his legs and his movements are too frenzied and uncoordinated, it takes him a minute to get them off. And then he's crawling a few paces away, throwing them off of himself as if they were on fire.

(He is on fire.)

He folds himself in half on the floor, head between his legs, arms hugging his knees, wheezing.

The taste of ozone lingers on his mouth each time he sucks in a breath.

He can hear Friday's soothing voice over the loud buzzing of his brain, but he can't make out the words she's saying. He squeezes his eyes shut.

(He's in a cave. He's in space. He's in a bunker.)

It'll pass.

(He's dead. They're all dead. He killed them. They killed him.)

Panic attacks can only last for so long. The body cannot withstand that kind of pressure for over a certain amount of time.

It's not helpful knowledge when a minute lasts a lifetime. When his hands shake so hard he has to force them into tight fists. When even breathing is a task he fails at.

He rocks himself back and forth, eyes wet.

(It'll pass.)

When it's gone, when his muscles stop spasming and he lets himself fall backwards, head dropping to the floor with a thud, each nerve ending almost fried - when it's done, and Tony is a person again and not a bundle of white noise, he lets out a long exhale and closes his eyes.

Centuries later, he becomes aware of the cold sweat drying on his skin, his threadbare tank top clinging to him like a second skin, wet and uncomfortable; the glass of water he knocked off the bedside table, shards everywhere; the digital clock blinking 2:34am in angry red. The exhaustion a dead weight on his soul.

He stands up on wobbly legs, and waits a few seconds to make sure he won't topple over before putting one foot in front of the other with uttermost care. He dumps his shirt on the floor along with his boxers as he walks to the bathroom unsteadily, the marble cold under his bare feet.

He doesn't bother with the lights, doesn't pause at the mirror. He hops in the shower and he doesn't wait for the water to reach a comfortable temperature before throwing himself under its spray. It's freezing at first, but he doesn't really register it. Soon it's so hot it's scalding, but Tony doesn't move. He stands there, water pouring over his head, pasting his hair to his forehead, and down his body, painting his skin red. He braces one hand on the wall, the contact the only thing keeping him upright and for the longest time he just watches the water drains, not really seeing it.

He's used to nightmares and he's used to panic attacks. He's good at neither.

(He's not good at much these days.)

There's no light at the end of some tunnels. No getting out of some locked rooms. Some tunnels you start to decorate. Some rooms you settle in.

Some darkness, you feel at home in.

There's no way in hell he's going to go back to sleep, nor face the mess he left in the room. The mess inside his head. So Tony gets out of the shower and grabs a fluffy white towel, doing a poor job of patting himself dry, its soft fibres still too harsh on his skin.

He bypasses the bed and goes straight for the closet, grabbing a graphic shirt at random and putting on a pair of well worn jeans over clean underwear.

Lights still off, he heads down to the workshop.

Time to tinker.

Dum-E stirs from his charging station when he enters, and greets him with a whirring sound. Tony pats him on the head, ignoring the countless cardboard boxes scattered all over, covering most worktables and moves towards one of the few free spots, sitting on a bench.

“Give me some music, Fri,” he says, and as Friday complies, the room is filled with too loud hard rock. Loud enough that he can't hear himself think.

With a flick of his wrist a project appears in a flash of blue light. He takes apart something irrelevant, something of no consequence. He just needs to keep his hands busy, his brain on stand by.

It's not long before one of the monitors that takes up an entire wall bleeps an alert. The algorithms are always running in the background and, every once in awhile, a false positive throws him off, but more often than not, though not as often as he would like, something very real pops up.

He spends some time sorting through the incoming data, analysing blueprints, confronting stats to form a half coherent plan of action, and even longer debating whether he should wait for a day in which he's not in such turmoil - why bother? - or for a moment in which his hands won't tremble anymore - a waste of time.

Fourteen missions, four months, hundreds of files, dozens of junk and memorabilia.

He put together crumbs bit by bit, and yet something is always missing. He doesn't know what will take to complete his puzzle, or if there's no closure to be had and he's just deluding himself and what he's searching for are not facts and pieces, but just a reason wake up in the morning.

But there's no choice to make, not really. He only spares a second to strip and put on the underarmor, the black fabric fitting him like a glove.

It's gonna take him a little less than two hours to reach Oregon, if he pushes it. Plenty of time to catch his breath.

----------------------

The building is massive and block-like, a monstrous thing that seems to sprout from the ground, and it's the only form of civilization hidden between miles and miles of vegetation. An iron fence circles its perimeter, with old cameras mounted every hundred yard or so, most of them busted.

Nothing looks particularly recent in terms of tech, but Tony takes no chances, Friday running every scan, keeping an eye out for silent alarms and explosives. Three of the five Hydra bases he raided between December and January had been burned down to a crisp quite recently. One was still smoking when he got there.

Tony doesn't know if Hydra is just covering its tracks, aware that someone is targeting their old hideouts, or if he needs to look out for a new player, but there's no harm in being overly cautious.

It's a child's game getting past the fence and the main gate. Getting inside the grid and looping the security cameras feed, just in case, is a couple of minutes’ job and after that he easily makes his way to the subterranean floors, quiet as a mouse, his black and golden armor almost invisible in the dark.

Nothing jumps out of the shadows and no guards appear out of thin air to attack him. The place reeks of abandonment.

Level -1 is a labyrinth he can navigate only thanks to the blueprints he acquired, each hallway the same as the one before, a long stretch of dust and concrete, the air stale.

His reactors light the way as Friday doesn't detect any heat signature in proximity, close or otherwise. The place has been deserted for at least a decade. Everything is silent except for the mute mechanical whirring of the armor joints as he moves.

The doors are big and heavy, and it'd be satisfying to blow them up with a small well placed missile, but he's not 100% sure of what's on the other side.

Tony discovered the wrong way Hydra's predilection for booby traps.

The security system is old but solid, and it takes him a good five minutes to hack into the panel controlling the lock and work his way around it. The doors slide open with a loud screeching sound of metal striding, and he holds his breath, but no alarm breeches the night.

He detects a strong smell of mold even through the faceplate filters as soon as he steps over the threshold. The room spacious, its surface almost entirely occupied by cabinets.

“Jackpot,” Tony says, using a gauntlet to lighten the place enough to see.

Some cabinets are sideways, a few on the floor, gutted, drawers spilling their contents like entrails. Most have faded labels, and he can't find any logical sorting system as he looks around.

“Friday?” he calls.

“All clear, boss.”

He lets the suit disassemble behind him. He's gonna need patience and his dexterity to find anything remotely useful in this mess.

“Sentry mode,” he says, and the armor takes its place behind him, ever vigilant.

He takes a small torchlight from one of the suit’s compartments and puts it in his mouth, teeth clicking, opening a drawer at random from the cabinet nearest to him.

All the folders are pretty much irrelevant. Contracts, properties, business transactions, some over fifty years old, paper turned yellow with age. Some corporate names look familiar, and he takes pictures, making a mental note to check on their current status. It's tedious but necessary work, and with a sigh, he moves on to another drawer, another cabinet.

He's not even sure what he's looking for, not really, but he knows he's gonna find something. Hacking his way online has been pretty much useless so far. Hydra is good at what it does, always has been. But this is one of the bases where they kept him , and if experience taught him anything, it’s that they always left something behind.

Forty minutes later, neck sore and eyes dry, he stiffens, shoulders going tight, stomach dropping under his feet, as he recognises the first name in hundreds he must have read so far.

Stane.

A large sum of money addressed to one Obadiah Stane, May 12th, 1987.

When his heart starts beating again, Tony hurries through the pages, paper whistling between his fingers. Schematics for weapons, guns, bombs. Stark Industries prototypes. More checks. 1985, 1989. 1990.

It's ridiculous how a strip of black ink has the power to turn his insides into molten lava. How a string of words and numbers can turn him into stone.

He has come to terms with Stane’s corruption a long time ago, or at least he thought he had.

But then he sees it, December 16th, 1991.

He sees it and he stops breathing, pain gripping his chest in a vice. He stumbles back, torchlight falling to the floor.

His back hits a cabinet, and the metal rattles loudly in the silence, almost as loud as his heart.

He made a working version of the serum. Barnes’ words echo in his mind. Hydra wanted it and they wanted him dead. That's why.

It has drilled a hole inside his brain for over two months cause how, how had Hydra known about the serum, when Howard was so secretive about his projects? And how could they have known when and where to attack and to take it? Howard was a lot of things, but he was not careless.

Deep down he had known. Deep down Tony had always known, the thought like a virus nagging at the back of his mind, corrupting his memories.

Was he thinking about the money when he hugged Tony in the middle of the night, whispering soothing words to a son who had just lost his parents? Did he go home twirling his moustache in glee because he had taken a threat out of the equation? A rival? A pawn.

One he had used as long as it suited him, just like he had Tony.

It’s just another betrayal he expected and yet is not prepared for. All these months hunting Hydra down, carrying his one man crusade, trying to understand, trying to erase. Trying to move forward.

(There's no moving forward. There's only the past coming full circle, eating its own tail.)

He pushes himself upright, hoping to find more files in some other folders, but the cabinet he was leaning on falls backward and finds the floor with a loud bang.

Nothing happens for the longest second, and his shoulders drop in relief, when all the lights turn on suddenly, bathing the room in white-blue neon.

Tony barely even flinches, retinas burning, before something flies over his head and starts shooting. The drawer where his hand just was, covered in holes, shredded papers exploding in the air like confetti.

The suit engages immediately as Tony runs to take cover, repulsors blasting several times, their target moving swiftly in a zigzag motion before getting hit and falling to the floor heavily.

“Fuck,” Tony mutters, as two more flying robots enter the room, spraying bullets.

“Friday!” he yells, and the armor tries to dodge and attack, several cabinets bursting in flames when it misses its mark.

Tony holds his breath and crawls his way out of the line of fire, clutching the Stane folder in one hand, so tightly he's creasing the sheets.

Two gun shots resonate loudly in the room, and a moment later he hears something hit the ground. He turns to see both robots on the floor, unmoving.

When he looks towards the doorway it's to see the snout of a rifle, gunmetal still smoking.

“What the fuck,” Tony finds himself saying in disbelief, as his gaze runs past the weapon and finds metal fingers on the trigger and one intense blue eyed stare.

Barnes advances with sure strides, swinging his rifle left and right, checking the perimeter. He's wearing his tactical gear, black from head to toe, combat boots silent as he shortens the distance between them.

For a second, Tony is half afraid he's facing Hydra’s executioner again, but Barnes doesn't shoot again.

“Take what you came here for, and hurry. We gotta go,” he says instead, voice quiet and commanding when he's a few steps away.

“What the fuck,” Tony repeats a little less breathy but no less stunned.

“They know someone's here. You tripped an alarm,” Barnes says. “There's more incoming.”

What the fuck, he refrains to say for a third time, knowing it would not be enough to convey his stupor.

“So, you are following me,” Tony manages when he finds his voice again, pointing an accusing finger.

“So not the time, Stark,” Barnes replies, eyes darting across the room with focused precision, searching for threats.

“Oh, I think it's the perfect time. What the hell is going on? Why are you here? How did you know I was here?

Barnes sighs, takes advantage of the moment of relative peace, no psychotic drones attacking. “Rhodes was worried about you.”

Tony sputters. “Rhodey asked you to follow me?”

The cabinet on his left rattles, bullets piercing it in rapid succession and turning it into a colander, the sound so loud Tony’s ears ring. He doesn't have time to react before Barnes is on him, pushing Tony behind him with enough force Tony's sure Barnes must have left a handprint on his chest. With Tony behind him, Barnes raises his left arm like a shield, bullets bouncing off of it.

Tony sees Barnes grunt and stagger back a couple of steps before pointing his rifle so fast it's a blur and shooting the bot off with perfect accuracy.

He doesn't have time to protest nor to process the fact that Bucky fucking Barnes apparently just saved his life, before five more bots appear.

Tony wastes no time and hops into the suit, taking care of one with a couple of well placed hits.

When he finishes disposing the second one, he turns just in time to see Barnes shooting one off, arm steady, aim never wavering before leaping high enough to grab another one off the air and pulling it apart with his bare hands. He throws a knife across the room at the third and last bot. It hits it dead centre, and the bot falls noisily, while Tony is hovering uselessly.

He’s grateful for his faceplate cause he's quite sure his mouth has been hanging open for the past minute at least.

There's no point in denying even to himself that it's almost fascinating watching Barnes fight, the calibrated precision with which he moves, each blow hitting its target perfectly, no wastes. Something about it reminds him of Natasha.

He heard from Rhodey that the two spar quite often together.

(He hears from Rhodey more than he would care to know.)

He's still staring when an increasingly faster beeping noise fills the room. He looks around frantic and his eyes fall on the angry red lights flashing in all the bots.

“Fuck,” he mutters, throwing himself on Barnes, with no hesitation, lifting him off his feet and flying as fast as he can, hoping to get away in time.

He's not fast enough. The explosion finds them when they’re almost out of the building, propelling them both forward and throwing them violently against a wall.

Tony barely has time to flip their positions to catch the worst of the impact, thinking his armor surely is better protection than combat gears.

His head hurts and the hud flickers, making him dizzier. He groans, managing to sit on all fours.

Plaster falls all around them, but the fire doesn't consume the upper levels.

Barnes grunts, gets up on unsure legs. He pauses for a handful of heartbeats, hand on the wall to steady himself, eyes closed.

When he opens them again he stands straighter. “We need to leave,” he says, already walking towards the gates. “The bots activated when you tripped the alarm. Hydra would have been alerted. They're probably on their way already.”

“See, you keep saying that,” Tony says, prissy. “But how do I know it wasn't you who tripped the alarm, Mr. Brooding Stalker.”

Barnes levels him with a stare. “I'm the Winter Soldier, Stark. I don't trip alarms. Beside, I know this base. I was kept here for a while.”

Tony doesn't say, I know. He doesn't say, that's one of the reasons I'm here. He doesn't mention the stasis room he found when he explored the building earlier. Doesn't say he got claustrophobic just by looking at the cryo chamber.

He clears his throat instead. “You still haven't said why you're here,” he says, and his left boot keeps sputtering, hud marking it in angry red.

“Flying system compromised,” Friday informs him, and he could compensate with his other boot and his repulsors. It would be an uncomfortable flight, but he could make it. He drops to the ground instead and starts walking, falling two steps behind Barnes.

“Rhodes was concerned about you. But he doesn't know I'm here. I’d like to keep it that way.” He's pensive for a moment. “He doesn't know you're here either.”

“So why are you here?” Tony asks.

“This may come as a huge surprise to you, but believe it or not, you're not the only one with a grudge against Hydra.”

Too many thoughts go through his mind too fast to grasp, too inconsistent to follow through. There's a lot he feels he should say and even more he knows he shouldn't.

In the end, Tony says nothing, and they keep on walking away from the building at a brisk pace, vegetation getting tighter around them.

“It still doesn't explain why you're following me,” he says, some time later.

“I'm not.”

Tony snorts.

“We got more in common than you think,” Barnes says cryptically, before abruptly turning left.

(He knows.)

“That's my ride,” Barnes says, and he doesn't wait for a reply.

Tony follows.

Amidst a clearing in the mass of trees, he can see some flickering, the tell tale sign of retro reflective panels.

They both board the Quinjet in silence, automatic door closing behind them.

“I'm probably gonna pass out soon,” Barnes says, as soon as they do, tone almost conversational.

Tony whips around in time to see him stumble and lean heavily against the wall.

“What?” Tony asks. “What do you mean ‘pass out’? Why would you pass out?”

Barnes is breathing heavily, both arms clutching his middle. It's eerily terrifying how wholly different he seems from the focused machine he was while fighting, he was until now. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut off. When he takes one hand away, the flesh one, it comes away crimson.

For a moment, Tony can't make sense of it. “Why the hell are you bleeding?” he almost yells, getting out of the suit and coming to Barnes fast, slapping his hands away to take a look himself.

There's several holes in the fabric of his vest.

Bullet holes.

He never noticed the blood in the dark, the black of Barnes’ uniform masking it. Barnes had never wavered inside the archive. Never stumbled once.

Tony’s mind reviews the entire fight in a matter of seconds. Barnes shooting bots, Barnes taking them apart with brute force. Barnes shielding him.

He falters, heart fluttering inside his chest like a hummingbird’s wings.

He must have been hit protecting him.

“Why the fuck is this not bulletproof?” Tony asks, distress making his voice higher than he would like.

“It is,” Barnes says, through gritted teeth.

“Does this look bulletproof to you?”

“I'll be fine. It's just superficial. The kevlar must have absorbed most of the impact.”

“Oh, sure. You look totally fine.”

“Stark,” Barnes tries, but Tony is not really listening.

“Oh my god, Steve is gonna kill me.” He runs his hands through his hair, pacing the length of the plane.

How could he explain that he never even knew Barnes was with him? That it wasn't him who shot him? How can he take him back to the compound when, according to Barnes, no one even knew he left? Would anyone listen?

He knows how it would look, no matter the truth. Steve's concerned stare back at the Christmas party is still too fresh in his mind.

“Stark,” repeats Barnes, a little more forcefully.

Tony doesn't hear him. “Scratch that! Rhodey is gonna kill me first.”

He's been working so hard trying to build a bridge between all of them, trying to build a team again. How to tell him that he's been working on his own behind his back for months and he got Barnes hurt in the process?

He's not ready to give up his hunt.

“I'm gonna kill you, if you don't pull yourself together,” Barnes mutters.

It gets Tony’s attention, grounding him. He turns to Barnes.

“Yeah, you already tried that. Didn't really work out for you, did it,” he says, and it comes out harsher than he intended. None of this would be happening if Barnes had just minded his own business.

Barnes is quiet for a while. “I never tried to kill you,” he says, dead serious.

“Right,” Tony says drily.

“I never tried to kill you,” Barnes repeats. “If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead.”

Something in the flatness of his tone bothers Tony.

His breathing is labored, his left hand leaning on the wall denting the metal.

“We need to take off,” Tony says, letting go. They wasted too much time already. Barnes needs medical attention and he doesn't want to be here when Hydra shows up.

“Can you fly this thing?” Barnes ask. “I'd rather not, but I will if you can't.”

Tony scoffs. “I designed this thing.”

He reaches for Barnes again, putting one arm under his, supporting him as they advance towards the seats of the cockpit, Barnes’ long hair tickling his cheek.

It's the closest they've ever been, no murderous rage between them, no armor.

For a fleeting second he thinks he can smell a whiff of coconut. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, good for you. But can you fly it?” Barnes asks, through gritted teeth. Tony has no idea how he's still standing, let alone talking.

“Put pressure on the wounds,” he says as Barnes sits heavily in the chair next to the pilot’s. Tony helps him strap himself in before heading over to the pilot seat and starting a fast flight check.

“I can fly anything,” he says distractedly, when he's satisfied.

Barnes makes a sound that resembles a snort. He coughs after. “I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board.”

Tony stops mid motion, he’s so stunned he turns around, mouth hanging open. “Did you just-- was that a Star Wars reference?”

“Stark. For fuck's sake,” Barnes says, but there's something that looks like a small smile on his lips. It soften his features.

“Right. Priorities. Friday?”

“All set up, boss,” comes from the speakers.

“Then takes us home, Fri. To the Mansion. Maximum stealth,” he orders, and they take off smoothly, the engines a soft humming under their feet.

Five minutes in, the Big Empty already a dot behind them, he engages the autopilot and walks to Barnes.

He's sitting with his eyes closed, brows furrowed, hands tightly gripping the armrests.

“Alright. Take your top off,” Tony says, gesturing to the uniform. He needs to assess the gravity of the situation.

Barnes opens one eye, looks at Tony up and down. “I usually require a little more romancing than this, before putting out.”

Tony blinks stupidly a couple of times, caught off guard, brain stuttering. He swallows. It's probably the blood loss, he figures. He clears his throat. “Yeah, well,” he says, lamely, but Barnes is already freeing himself from the safety belts and he's unfastening his tac vest.

He barely flinches when he lifts his arms over his head to take the black thermal off, but he doesn't make a sound even though he must be in incredible pain.

“I'll be fine,” he repeats as Tony takes in the state of his abdomen, where four tiny holes mar his skin, rivulets of blood flowing slowly, soaking the top of his pants, though not as copiously as he would have imagined. “I've had worse. I'll take care of it myself once we land.”

“How would you like ‘moron died of shock’ on your gravestone?” Tony asks. “You started healing around the bullets already,” he adds, inspecting the wounds, trying really hard not to pay attention to anything else, definitely not eyeing the angry looking scarring on his left shoulder, where the vibranium arm meets his flesh. “We need to take them out.”

His fingers hover lightly over Barnes stomach without him even noticing. Barnes’ muscles contract when he goes to touch it and Tony halts himself mid motion, hurriedly withdrawing his hand. When he looks up, Barnes has an expression he can't read on his face.

Tony clears his throat again.

“I'm gonna get the first aid kit,” he says, and gets away as fast as he can, his heart skipping a beat inside his chest.

He doesn't know what's wrong with him.

(Too many things to choose from.)

It's been a long day, he tells himself.

(The sun is just rising.)

He comes back with the medical box and sets himself comfortably, pushing his seat next to Barnes’. He cleans his hands as best as he can with the hand sanitizer before putting on sterile gloves. He disinfects a pair of surgical tweezers before pouring antiseptic over Barnes’ middle. Barnes goes rigid under him, abs tensing, but once again, he makes no sound.

Tony doesn't like it. He wants to shake him, he wants to tell him to scream, to show some emotion, to react. That he's allowed to.

It's not his place though, so he says nothing.

“My hands are not very steady,” is the only warning he gives before he starts working.

One bullet is easy enough to extract, and within a few minutes, he places it into a container near the kit, where it hits the bottom with a clicking sound.

“I wasn't trying to kill you,” Barnes says, some time later, when Tony is struggling to grab the second bullet.

Tony stops what he's doing and looks at Barnes, confused. Was he so concentrated on his task that he missed the conversation?

“In Siberia,” Barnes clarifies. “I was just trying to stop you from doing something you would regret.”

He makes a sound, shakes his head. He doesn't look at Tony. “No, that's not entirely true. I was also trying not to die. I guess my sense of self preservation is something I can't turn off.”

Tony says nothing.

After a long moment he goes back to the bullet.

“Not so sure I would have regretted it,” he hears himself say, not taking his eyes off that strip of skin.

There's a fragile thing between them, a truce that feels like a glass bubble, and he knows that it would break if he were to look him in the eyes.

“I'm the killer, not you.”

Tony snorts. “Hate to break this to you, but I'm pretty sure my body count is a tad bigger than even yours.”

He drops the second bullet with the first. Dive in for the third one.

“I was a sniper. Before Hydra. I was a sniper in the army,” Barnes says adamantly. Like it's important for him to prove that he has always been a monster.

Take a number, Tony thinks.

“And I was a weapon manufacturer,” he says, a bit more forcefully than he intends, voice dripping venom.

“And how many of those weapons did you fire?” comes softly, almost gently.

Tony doesn't reply, because that never mattered. Anything he ever created is his responsibility. Has always been. He wasted decades drinking and partying, trying to fill a black hole that just kept on sucking the life out of him, uncaring of the world, of his work, of his legacy. And that legacy had only brought death, with his name stamped on, while he was too busy trying to have a good time to notice.

Tony clears his throat a third time.

“I think this is beyond my medical knowledge.”

The two remaining bullets are lodged too deep inside and he doesn't want to risk doing more damage by probing blindly. The wounds are clear, no ragged edges, no broken parts. He doesn't like leaving him with a job half done, but he'd rather not turn something seemingly easily fixed into a mess.

At least they don't seem to have hit any major organ. Even the bleeding has stopped.

He cleans the wounds as best as he can and covers them with gauze.

“You're gonna need someone more qualified to take a look,” he says.

Barnes shrugs, turns away.

The moment is over.

“Friday, call Dr Cho.”

“Calling,” Friday says, and the dial tone fills the cabin.

“Hello?” comes sleepily from the other end.

“Helen, hey,” Tony says, getting up, putting some distance between him and Barnes, tone jovial. “I'm gonna need a favor.”

#winteriron #buckytony #tonybucky #starkbucks #bucky x tony #mcu #winteriron fic #fic**#my fic**

4 notes · View notes