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Chapter Text

He wakes up and there's a shadow standing over him. Light glints off it at odd angles, spattering the walls, and it smells like cheap soap and city streets.

"Can I go back to bed?"

He doesn't go back to bed. He's tired and his eye stings and there are still coffee grounds in his sink, but he can't sleep knowing he's there. He wants to hate him. He wants to hate him and call him a monster and rip off the other arm so that they might be a matching pair, but he knows now how futile it is. It won't get Mom back. It won't hurt the people who truly wanted his parents dead that night.

So he sits up, stretches, and moves to the edge of the bed. "Can I help you with anything? Or would you like to continue your tour without a guide?"

Barnes doesn't say anything, he just offers out his flesh hand. He's still missing the one Tony ripped from its socket, but there's some sort of makeshift bandage there, now. It's pathetic and it's clearly not helping, but Barnes hasn't ripped it off. He assumes it belongs to Steve.

Tony shakes it. "Listen, I- I don't know how we are. I don't know how to feel about what you've done. One hand, you did it. Other hand, you were just their puppet, and fuck if I know how many more they have stored up somewhere, in some other abandoned Siberian shithole." He sighs. "So I'm just gonna pretend the elephant isn't in the room. What brings you here, Sargeant? I hope it's not the gourmet food, 'cause we're decidedly out. Or the pleasant room service, 'cause I'm not feeling that homely."

"Steve won't- he's got that look. Like someone socked him in the face. I can't have it like this."

"He's pulling the puppy eyes, now? Damn, and I thought his blows couldn't go any lower." Tony considers. "Why me? Why here? Aren't you two lovebirds supposed to be on the run anyway?"

"Can't run with him like this. Hide, sure, maybe. But you know it's not safe to hide anywhere anymore. They'll find you, they always do."

"Don't you know? Big Brother's watching me the closest, now. I signed the deal for it."

"They won't look at you. It's too obvious. Too risky for us. Besides, Zemo- he. He made Big Brother think me 'n' you weren't friends, and definitely not the kind that harbour each other, 'specially since we're all fugitives now. Plan's not perfect, but it isn't too shitty. Survived worse."

"You're a real glowing star of positivity, aren't you?"

"I'm a realist. If you want the idealist, talk to Steve."

"I would, but me and him aren't on speaking terms. Pretty sure we'd tear each other's throats out right now. At least, he'd tear out mine. God knows he came close enough."

"He's sorry about that. Real sorry. Stupid sorry, I mean. He won't shut up about it. Half the damn reason I came here, I just need him to stop."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, too. But that's not gonna solve much now. Damage is done."

"Steve forgives easier than me. And I'm not even mad. I hurt- no, executed your mom. I'd have gone farther than just an arm if you'd killed mine like that. It's not worth anything, but I'm sorry. Probably could'a fought harder. I didn't. Not at that point, anyway. Fifty years is a long time, and I'm not a man of Steve's calibre. I'm not strong enough to hold out that long."

"I'd know about that."

"You don't give up easy, Stark."

"Easier than you'd think."

"No. You came after us, even after you'd signed the deal. You looked hard enough to figure they'd been framing me."

Tony rubs a hand over his forehead. "I was wrong, when I signed. About you. About the accords. About this entire ordeal. This whole thing is one fucking hell of a shitstorm, and I just went with it. Hired a kid to do my dirty work."

"Me and Steve were kids back in the War. Not the first time it's been done. Not the last, either. A martyr complex will only make you more unbearable, Stark. No offence."

"Yeah, none taken."

"I just have this bad feeling. That it's only gonna get worse from here, and that we'll need all the help we can get. So, I'm getting it."

Tony stares. "I'll see what I can do."

Which isn't much. He has his hands tied behind his back, now. Hell, he even helped them do up the knot. But Barnes looks like a wet, bedraggled dog, and he's twitchy like one, too. Setting a mug down on the counter is enough to make him jump out of his seat. He's itching to leave. They're all itching to leave, feeling like ants are crawling on their skin. Not Lang's, but the government's. It's unsettling.

Barnes chugs the coffee Tony had made for himself earlier. He hasn't asked, of course, but at this point, there are worse things on this Earth. Worse men than ones who steal your coffee and go across half the goddamn planet to look out for their friends. "I can't stay here long," he says, chewing his lip like gum, fingers tapping against the wood of the table. He looks like he's going to be sick. Then again, Tony hasn't seen anyone who doesn't in months.

"Listen," Tony says. "Tell Cap I know places. I can get you places they won't think to look anywhere near."

"What about you?"

Tony reels. "'What about me?' Are you fucking serious?" He swallows. His throat clicks. "You're worse than Steve. What about me? I can't just drop everything and leave. I'm the face of the U.N. now. I've got diplomacy to be working on."

Barnes actually snorts, face contorting into a vicious sneer. "Shit like that ain't never been about diplomacy and you know it." It's thick Brooklyn, and Barnes looks surprised it's even come out of his mouth.

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Well," he says. "Can't fault you on that one. True. But Tony Stark's disappearance? That'll be news, and that's not my ego talking. Alright, it is, but there's a pinch of realism in there, too. Cross my heart."

"Who gives a flying-" Barnes sighs. "You want to kill me and Steve. Steve doesn't deserve it, but me- well, turnabout's fair play. But you're the head of the Avengers, who are scattered and on the run themselves, now. You're the only one left in this building, Stark, besides the government."

"So you do want me to drop everything and leave?"

"I want you to head the only team that can stand up to the bullies around here anymore. Steve and I can't do it alone now. Things got bigger and better while we were away. But there are-" Barnes pauses to count his fingers. "More than my one hand's worth of remarkable people willing to follow your lead. Why are you still here?"

"They'll think you kidnapped me."

"Let 'em."

"Now, I've always told the old man where to shove it, but this is a little excessive, and that's coming from me. They'll go after you."

"You said you got places."

"I didn't mean it like that. I meant go in and stay in. Grow a beard. Live low. I didn't mean 'go outside and beg them to send their best drones'."

"Not begging. They couldn't find me two years ago and they won't find me now."

Something in Tony's stomach twists. He's so unbelievably tired. He just wants to leave, throw it to the wind, send a 'fuck you' fruit basket to the government office. And here Barnes comes, strolling up and casually offering just that, dropping it on him like a tonne of bricks. "Why the fuck am I considering this?" he asks, more to himself.

"It'll be a statement. That we're not letting them go on stepping on us like dirt. I'm saying it's a fair point."

"And I'm saying it's a stupid one. Hell, it goes against everything I believe in, against actually picking up the pieces-"

"We're still picking up the pieces," Barnes says, slow. Then, firmer, "We're still picking up the pieces, Stark. I know why you backed it. Steve told me. You think it's gonna stop something worse. It's not." He shrugs. "Working with us could. Or it couldn't. Either one is better than sitting on your ass feeling sorry for yourself. No offence."

"The more you say these things the less I think you actually mean no offence."

"You're right. I probably don't. But only because nobody else can do it. Nobody else has as little to lose as I do. World already hates me. Doesn't matter I was framed, still a killer. There're tapes to prove it. You saw them yourself."

Tony tastes bile. "If you want your other arm, don't bring that up."

Barnes snarls. "I'm a shit person and I've done shit things. You better face it or you're gonna end up like them. Too blind to notice how corrupted the system's gotten while they've been scared shitless and twiddling the thumbs they have up their asses."

"You said you remembered it. All of it."

"Yeah. I did."

"Do me a favour. Tell me what she said? When she-"

"Nothing. She was too busy- her nails were in my hand. She was... a fierce woman. She was shaking but she wouldn't let go."

Tony blinks. "Damn straight."

"I wouldn't have. I tried not to. But they-"

"Brainwashed you? I got that part. Scary Soviet bunkers tend to drive the point home."

"Steve's wrong. It was me that did those things all those years. It's what I'm capable of. Always have been. But it's not what I wanted. None of it."

Tony says nothing. Then, "I'll go. One condition: we find everyone else. We need them."

"It's just me, Steve, and Sam. Don't know where Natasha is. Don't know where Lang is, or Maximoff, or the rest. Saw T'Challa in Siberia, but he didn't stay long."

"But we're going to find them if I agree to come on your little Jason Bourne-inspired roadtrip. That's the deal."

"Even the kid? The sticky one in ridiculous- was it leather?"

"I don't know. If he wants to. I'll keep an eye on him."

"If we keep a low profile. D'you know how to do that, Stark?"

"Hey! I take offence. There's nothing I don't know how to do."

Barnes doesn't laugh. He looks serious. Contemplative, even. "We'll see."

Chapter Text

Barnes wants them to leave immediately. He's even more antsy than before, and there's sweat trailing down him in rivulets. Tony insists that disappearing on such short notice will leave them alone and unprepared in a world that wants nothing more than to hunt them down like dogs. Of course, Barnes is too busy absorbing himself in his own paranoia to realise the importance of this, but Tony can manage. He always manages.

"Well. First thing's first, we need to get that fixed," Tony says, and points to the mess on the end of Barnes' shoulder. "I fucked up, but there's an upside. This happens on the regular, and I usually significantly improve the design."

Barnes looks up. "Are you talking about my arm?"

"You're very observant," Tony says. "You're not about to tell me you won't need it for the coming trip, are you? Because I will sue you."

"I was going to say it doesn't really matter-"

"Don't be an idiot, Barnes. You're standing next to a technological genius."

Barnes looks unimpressed. "And?"

"You can utilise my technological genius," Tony snaps. "What is wrong with you? You're supposed to be pleased to be taking advantage of this, you know."

"A lot." Barnes frowns. "I've never liked my arm."

"I can make you one you do like." Tony scrapes exhausted hands through gelled hair and over his face, and his fingers come back smelling like expensive cologne. "Stronger, more responsive. I take it the sensitivity on that thing was as abysmal as I'm imagining it was?"

"It told me when I was hurt, and nothing else. You have the tech to make it feel real again?" Barnes shakes his head. "Nevermind. Of course you do. I should be asking if you have the time, Stark. We need to get out of here before they catch on."

"I have the time. And if I didn't? I'd still fix you up. It's not just my responsibility, it's to my benefit. You'll have one more hand to punch people with, and I'm sure we'll have plenty of punching to do-"

"Only if you act even more obnoxiously and get us noticed." But Barnes is smiling slightly. "You'd really go to the effort?"

"Implying it's an effort. Hah! Clearly you know nothing about my passion for the sciences." Tony's own smile dies a little. "I owe you a new one, at the very least." Regardless, Tony ripped the last one off so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore. Its fingers had gripped at Mom's throat until the light had left her eyes. Tony can make a better one, one that won't be drowning in his blood, but the enemies'.

He wants to see Barnes' knuckles smash through the faces of the bastards responsible. Hell, he wants to see the suit's gauntlets gripping their own throats. Going that far would drag him down even further, but God, he wants to. With everything he has.

But he can't. So he'll make a new arm instead, so he doesn't have to think about it anymore.

"You should be able to benchpress a car one-handed after this," Tony says, absently. His arms are stained with oil and grease, his hands rough against the welding torch. DUM-E whines next to him, passing him tool after tool.

Barnes has settled in the corner of his workshop. There are dark, dark circles under his eyes, and five minutes ago, Tony heard his breathing go slow. He's barely asleep, God knows if any of them can manage that anymore, but still, it's rest. Rest they need to keep them on point, edging away from their soon-to-be search party.

For the first time, the Winter Soldier looks slightly human. He's wearing a beaten up hoodie and jeans, not the strange battle armour HYDRA had dressed him in. The darkness under his eyes is from overexhaustion and not camouflage paint. His mouth is slightly parted as he sleeps. Tony doesn't know where the mask guard went. Frankly, if Barnes needs one, he can make another. The uniform, too, in fact. Tony could make him an entirely new set, untouched by HYDRA or the Soviet Red Room, or whatever the hell else they dragged him into.

He shuffles through the blueprints in his mind, calculates the time down to the milisecond, and decides he can probably manage. Maybe Barnes will wake up to see it, maybe he won't. He's not due for a check-in with the U.N. for another thirty-six hours at least. He's done more with less. He built a mechsuit in a cave in Afghanistan with a battery for a heart; this is nothing.

"I'm working on your synthetic fingertips right now, y'know," Tony tells Barnes' sleeping form. He stirs a little, mumbles something that Tony's going to interpret as a thank you, and then goes right back to sleep. It says something that he'll sleep in Tony's presence. Something about trust that he's not so willing to acknowledge right now. "I feel like this is something you should be awake to see. This is your dominant arm, right?" Tony gives a raunchy wink that Barnes will never see.

It's elegant, if he does say so himself. Still striking silver, but streamlined, like a gorgeous supercar as opposed to a rumbling tank. Of course, it still is a rumbling tank, only with more patented, hard-fought Stark style. The star is splattered white and blue now, to match Cap's colours. Tony's not stupid enough to think this isn't flashy, but Barnes only ever wears longsleeves and gloves in public, anyway, so what does it matter? Tony likes flashy, and Barnes might appreciate the cheery tone.

The actual tech is some of his best. As much as it's ruined him over the years, Tony knows what it means to feel, and he knows what it means to go numb. Barnes' arm only brought him pain, before. Now Tony hopes he can pet fuzzy kittens or something and stop with the goddamn sad, rainy cloud act.

Barnes sleeps on. The welding torch singes his gloved fingers. "You better fucking enjoy these kittens," Tony says.

When Barnes wakes up, he's gasping. His eyes dart back and forth before coming to rest on Tony, who's putting the finishing touches on his new masterpiece. Barnes stops panting when he sees it, expression turning curious.

"It's pretty damn awesome," Tony informs him. "You should take it out for a test drive."

Barnes, for all his sour looks and skittishness, actually looks solemn. "Thank you, Stark. It looks... really nice, actually. I'm kinda surprised to find out you have any sense of taste."

"Fuck you," Tony says happily. "If you can't appreciate my garish and overenthusiastic design then you haven't lived. It's true art." He brushes a hand over the smooth metal. "Come on, try it on. Studied HYDRA's pretentious tech. It should click right in, no problem. Won't hurt, might tickle."

Barnes approaches swiftly, only gets hesitant once he reaches out to touch it. "Like a tailor shop," he mumbles, and Tony gently spins him to the side.

"Let me just..." He calls DUM-E over, to hold it steady, and with his usual precision, snaps it into place. "There."

Barnes flexes his arm, wiggles his fingers, and then, very carefully, uses them to brush away the hair falling into his face. He looks like he's seen the inside of a star. "That's..." He pauses. "That's fucking incredible."

It's not the response Tony was expecting, so the smile Barnes gets is genuine, not overpracticed. It's like watching a fish take to water after being beached; Barnes immediately grasps its movement pattern, the way the motors whir, the pliability of the joints. "My pleasure," Tony says, because it had been. Tech has driven him his entire life. Tech is his life, in fact. There's nothing he likes more than creating something from nothing, and here he's done just that.

Barnes grabs his shoulder. The metal is slightly cool, but it's fresh. In just moments, it will finish booting up and adjust to Barnes' internal body temperature, and start its new task in monitoring his vitals, his mood, his blood-sugar level, everything Tony could think of in the moment. "Stark." Tony raises an eyebrow. "Tony," Barnes corrects. "This means a lot. More than you think."

And the spark of wonder in Barnes' eyes makes him look slightly less dead inside. Suddenly, like Cap, it's Tony's mission to keep him that way. Alive, breathing, feeling. Not the empty shell that had ripped out his mother's throat and stolen her dying breath.

Chapter Text

Barnes treats the arm like it's a child, at first. He looks almost scared to use it, as if it will shatter like glass. Tony has more faith in his skills than that, of course. He'd be offended that Barnes believes this new tech is even breakable, but it's solely a ridiculous idea in his own mind, from the eyes of the creator who'd carefully structured every synthetic tendon, every artificial nerve.

Barnes seems to realise it won't break pretty early on. As soon as he's sure he can use it to actually benchpress cars, he demands they head out towards Steve, who's waiting in some shitty motel a day's drive from the facility. He also insists they take some shitty, backwater, twenty years out-of-date junkmobile, which sours Tony's mood.

It's battered and there are scratches all over, and the bumper is verging on collapse, the exhaust some sickly black colour, the licence plate on at an odd angle. It looks like the truck from Jeepers Creepers, only condensed into an even uglier sedan.

"Why?" Tony asks.

"Because we're being reasonable, Stark. Under the radar doesn't mean some fancy Rolls Royce-"

"They tend to be Lamborghinis nowadays," Tony corrects.

Barnes stares. "Even better."

It's gross. Everything about it is gross. And the worst part is that Tony's going to have to drive it. His hands will rest on that steering wheel, which would probably glow like a fucking firefly under a blacklight. "Where did you get it?"

Barnes goes a little shifty at this, and Tony waves a hand. "Oh, so you stole it. At least tell me no-one was using it. Not that they'd be missing much."

"It was in a junkyard," Barnes says. "They had a lot more of those back in the day. No fancy 'Donate Your Car to the Poor!' places to make yourself feel better about how much money you spent on organic soymilk today. People just left 'em, and if you got lucky, you might'a been able to fix one up yourself."

That's the most Barnes has said to him in two years. Tony blinks. Maybe Barnes saw his artificial hand as the gesture of peace it was. Take the olive branch, use the olive branch, and all that. "So, just to be absolutely clear, nobody was using it?"

"I know what you're thinking," Barnes says. "Wasn't in the back parking lot of some Sally Rand-style-"

"Alright!" Tony holds up his hands. "Car's clean. Relatively. And I'm sure it still drives, right, Barnes?" There's a pause. "It does still drive, doesn't it? Jesus Christ save me, such technological horror has no place in my workshop, I won't fix it up-"

"It makes noises like a dying whale," says Barnes, "but it still runs."

"That's not very inconspicuous."

"It's better to hide in plain sight."

"So, can I take a nice Lamborghini, fill up a bottle of champagne-"

Barnes huffs, but Tony's watching, rapt, as he actually fights to keep a scowl on his face. "Not that plain."

Tony'd heard stories from Steve, about the war, about Steve 'n' Bucky, the inseparable team. Steve had seemed so happy, talking about the past, about how much of a prankster Barnes could be, always messing around with the Commandos, always filled with mischief, even through the horrors of war. Tony'd thought they'd beaten it out of him in whatever brainwashing shack they'd holed him up in.

Guess not. "C'mon, what's a little fun once in a while? At least let me spraypaint the thing. D'you see that? That colour is beyond brown now. It's not even a colour; it's transcended that. I mean, look at that monstrosity, it's like they dunked it in a sewer and then threw it into a mudpit. No mercy."

"You can stop fucking with me, Stark, and get off the goddamn eggshells. I won't break."

"No, you won't. I might, though. I've been assured I'm very breakable, in fact."

"You plan on parroting any Russian to me while we take the scenic route?"

"Not really on my schedule, no."

"Then we're good. I'm good. They don't have me unless they talk to me."

Tony shuffles. "Well, thank you, I'm incredibly relieved and completely reassured now. You've just taken all my worries away, truly."

"You put failsafes in this, right?" Barnes waves his arm like a flag. Tony makes a motion for him to stop misusing his precious tech. "I'm taking that as a yes. Then we'll be fine. Your suit can take my human arm, can't it?"

"They're both your human arms," Tony insists. "But yes. Failsafes. An abundance of failsafes. I know, doesn't really feel like a trusting atmosphere, not very good for nurturing friendship, but I'd really like to keep my face. And my limbs."

Barnes rolls his eyes. "There's only one limb you care about."

Tony rests a hand over his heart. Well, what's left of it. "It's like you've known me for years."

Barnes wants to drive. That's the first thing Tony realises. Barnes really wants to drive. And Tony, well, he doesn't quite trust him to, but of all the people to take the wheel, Barnes or Steve, or another one of the Avengers. He'd let them. They don't have it out for him like most of the people he knows have it out for him. Nat probably wants to kill him for being an idiot, but she always does. And there are classier ways than car crashes. Car crashes are for 90's Soviet Russia, people who don't want to get found until they're good and gone.

Barnes doesn't handle sitting in the passenger seat all that well. He keeps tapping his fingers against the window, and making huffing noises, like he's bored out of his mind. Tony knows better than anyone else it's better not to stay in your own mind too long after being thrown into this line of work. "Relax," Tony says. "You can drive when I get tired. Overexhaustion is just as dangerous as driving drunk. Haven't tried it myself, but it's what I've heard."

"Never driven drunk," Barnes replies, absently. "Been drunk. Like you've been drunk. Never driven. Figure, that's selfish, taking other people out like that. You wanna drown your sorrows, that's your business. Just don't bring anyone else into it."

"I've gotta say I agree with you there." Tony cocks his head. "You can be a pretty agreeable guy, y'know. Nice to see you're not ripping out the steering wheel in sheer, unfettered boredom, though."

"That was," Barnes starts, then he stops. "Don't know what that was. Worse than my usual bad ideas, for one."

"Caught up in the heat of the moment?"

"I thought, if you wanna take out a car, no better way than actually takin' out the car, if y'know what I mean."

"You're calculated, for a guy with a permanent bad hair day, and some messed up taste in eyeshadow."

This gets a laugh out of him, a loud kind of snort. Tony can easily see the smartass Steve had described in him now. It's better than before, that walking zombie. Took out all of SHIELD without even blinking. "Had to be, in the war. Someone had to look out for Steve's sorry ass."

"He was reckless? The guy with so many plans he's run out of letters in the alphabet? We got to Plan Z, once. No lie."

"He planned when he wanted to. If something bad happened, if he thought he could fix it, Plan Z flew out the goddamn window, he just ran in and threw his shield at everything he could get a good look at. Hell, even shit he barely saw he hit. Once took out every oil barrel in one of the factories we raided. Nothing could escape it."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"He's Steve, that's why. There's nothing that guy wouldn't do if he felt it was the right choice."

"So I've seen."

Barnes sighs. "This whole mess. 'S all my fault. You and Steve would still be on good terms. People wouldn't have died."

"It's not your fault," Tony says. "I wanted to blame you. Losing Mom was like nothing I can describe in words. I just wanted someone to pay. Still do. It's just not you." He shrugs. "You don't fight the puppet, you fight the puppetmaster, or else he'll always have new strings."

"No offence, but you could'a come to that conclusion before smashing my face in and ripping off my arm. I know what I did. Things like that have consequences. But I didn't choose to. I didn't single your mom out of a crowd and think, 'Hey, it'll be great if I ruined her life and the lives of her family. Real party.' It was awful. Makes me sick to think about. But I didn't want to. I didn't enjoy it."

"You had to."

"They'd have thrown me away if I malfunctioned. I never did because I forgot what it meant to hope. Didn't remember Steve, or anything I fought for. Everything just came up blank."

"Yeah. I've seen that, too."

"I'm sorry. I knew your parents, before... this. They were good people. I get the idea your dad had no idea how to parent, but he didn't realise what he was doing, I don't think. Back in the War, he'd do so much stupid shit, get himself in so much trouble, maybe even more than me. But the thing is, I always knew what I was in for, misbehaving and messing around like that. Your dad didn't even know why they'd get on his back so often."

"Sounds like a Stark thing to do."

"I guess so." Barnes frowns. "I liked them. I should've remembered. I should've wondered why Howard seemed to know me."

"Took them about fifty years to get you to that point."

"I used to think about anything and everything to get it to stop. The emptiness. My ma singing. Steve trying to copy her and sounding like a foghorn. The time we wasted all our money on candy and comic books and couldn't get home."

Tony sighs. "You did pretty fucking well, considering."

"Not really," Barnes says, and returns to staring out the window.

Tony starts humming. After a minute, he puts the radio on, starts humming along to all his favourites instead. It seems to help Barnes mellow out a little, start dozing. Hopefully he'll stay asleep until the next gas station, where they'll stock up and get something to eat, bring something back for Steve. Poor guy's probably going through a rough time, especially in a shitty motel. Tony could bring him some fruit or some shit, make him feel a little less like he's slowly dying and choking on mothballs and stale cigarettes.

When they do, in fact, finally pull in with the tank a thimbleful away from empty, Barnes is still asleep. He's snoring lightly, face pressed against the window, despite how cold it's become as the evening has progressed. He might even be drooling a little, completely out, eyelashes fluttering every so often against his cheeks as he dreams. He seems serene enough for Tony to fill the tank and grab a few twinkies, so Tony gets out, so close to tiptoeing he wonders what the other patrons think, and hooks up the car to swallow down another couple gallons.

He heads to the store with his eyes still on the rusted brown of the door, guarding Barnes, even though he's about as close to needing it as Tony is to quitting work in his lab. Or, well, whatever his lab is going to become now they're on the run. The only remnants of his incredibly expensive, decked out, gorgeous, beautiful workshop are the phone in his pocket (strictly tracker-free), the shield for Steve that he hadn't the heart to ditch, and the arm attached to Barnes' shoulder.

He tries to think about what flavour chips he wants, about the sketchy quality of the depressingly small fruit aisle, but instead he just keeps coming back to this entire mess. He's left everything behind so he can start on making it right. It's good to want to fix things, Tony's always fixed things, it's what he does when he's not breaking them like never before, but to go out so reckless, that's new. He doesn't do stupid and thoughtless on the job, not when other people's lives are at stake. Not when he's ruining someone other than himself. And yet he doesn't regret this at all.

Barnes went out of his way to seek him out, keeps falling asleep whenever their conversation lulls, even thanked him for replacing the arm he ripped out himself. And Steve wrote him a fucking letter. Steve apologised for what things had become, when Tony was the one to throw the first punch. Steve pulled the shield out of Tony's chest and dropped it. Tony giving it back isn't going to erase the fact that he demanded it in the first place.

He was never friends with his dad, but he knew what Howard had done for Project Rebirth. He'd respected what part his father had played in the War, as much as he hated how often Dad got stuck in the past, how often he compared Tony to Steve, the paragon of all things virtuous. Steve is a good guy. He's got nothing but the best interests of his loved ones in his heart and mind, but he's not infallible. Sometimes Captain America gets mad, makes mistakes, does things without thinking them through. Dad had always refused to acknowledge that. In his eyes, Steve was a god.

And sure, his devotion to the cause is frankly a divine gift, but Tony's spent nothing except an endless time in his shadow. Tony doesn't resent Steve for that. He can't even resent the idea of Steve. He just never feels enough.

He wonders if Barnes has ever felt the same.

They keep driving. Barnes keeps sleeping. Tony eats an apple that's too grainy and too bruised and tries to count the vitamins he's gaining as reward for sticking through. The road blurs, the sun sets. The light of the dashboard makes Barnes' arm glow.

Tony is falling asleep. So he pulls off the road at the nearest truckstop, comes to rest by a trailer only freshly painted in patches that clearly once housed some artsy teenager's graffiti. There, to the sight of worn and torn rigs, tired and hungry people who desperately need to pee, and the occasional bird, he closes his eyes and forgets for a while.

When he wakes up, he's in the passenger seat somehow, and the clock reads 5:41 AM. "Oh, you're back with the living, finally," says Barnes, who has one metal hand on the wheel and his other slowly winding down the window. "Sorry about the cold air, but it smells like cheap gas station food in here. It's only gotten worse the last seventy years. Would'a thought they'd focus a little more on their quality, but no, guess they weren't feelin' it all too much."

"They focused on the gas," Tony offers. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and squints outside. They're all but twenty miles from Steve's location now. That's what the signs say, at least. "You decided to drive?"

"Yeah, and before you say it, cars had been around for a while back when I was born, you ass. I know how they work."

"Hey!" Tony raises a hand. "Never said you couldn't."

"Thought it though."

"May have wondered. You didn't really have to drive so often back then, did you? With your kinda money, I mean."

"We had a car. Barely worked, was falling apart at the seams. Probably got made back in 1890."

"Classic relic, now."

Barnes laughs. "Worth more now than it was then, I can tell you that for sure."

The wind blows through their hair. Barnes' is messy and ruffled, getting caught in his mouth as he talks, skittering across his nose and the cleft in his chin. He looks ridiculous. Tony probably looks worse.

"Thanks, for taking over."

"No problem. You looked cute as a button, Stark, all curled up in that seat. Hated to move you, but luckily you're no better than a kitten. Right back at it as soon as I put you down."

"I hope you carried me in the most dignified fashion possible," Tony says, haughty.

Barnes grins. "Bridal style."

"Well, at least you were gentle."

That gets him a snort. "I know you gotta be pretty tired by now," he says. "We're almost back at Steve's motel, I swear."

"How is it in there?"

"Fuckin' awful."

Tony gives him a thumbs up and smiles down at the road. Mile markers flash across his vision every now and then, beside the wavering white boundary line separating them from the shoulder. There're a couple hundred cups and fast food bags littered alongside them. "Just how I like it," he replies, and leans his head against the cool glass.

He wakes up again and Barnes is pulling into the parking lot. It's dark, grungy, the clock reads 6:03. There are a few streetlamps, and the sparking neon sign that reads "CANCY", and through the dimness Tony can see the motel is painted ugly, seventies moss green. "This design is like needles in my eyes. Literal equivalent. I'm in physical pain."

"Blegh," says Barnes. "It's like someone drank too much pea soup and then threw up on it." Then, he grins, and through his smile, says, "Nobody would ever believe you could possibly set foot in it, Stark. This plan is foolproof."

"I'm coming out of this a changed man." Tony gets out the car and feigns swaying. "If I come out at all."

Barnes motions him forward, over the eroded tarmac, and clean through into the lobby. The carpeting on the floor is a smooth beige, but something sick in the pit of his stomach makes him think it was, once, at some point a very long time ago, white. There's an elderly lady attending the antique-looking check-in desk, fifties style horned glasses perched on her nose. She wears a necklace fastened with a gorgeous pearl rose, which seems Victorian-era. The lady herself is probably nonagenarian; Steve's age, Barnes' age. Still, she's bright-eyed and appears attentive, and that's reassuring. Someone out of their mind can't run a motel without the walls caving in.

Tony sinks deeper into his hoodie as Barnes approaches. The lady smiles. "Oh, nice to see you again, Mr. Buchanan. I hope you had a wonderful day out. And you've brought a friend?"

"Yes, ma'am. Do you have another room available?"

"I'm afraid it's just about falling to pieces, dear, and about a century away from your own room. Why don't we see if I can get another bed moved in, shall we?"

"It's alright," Tony assures. "I've got a sleeping bag." He doesn't, but some little old lady doesn't need to trouble herself with his issues. He's done enough of that in his life already -- throwing his problems onto someone else.

"Well, then, if you're sure, darling. Don't be afraid to call any time."

"Thanks so much," Tony says, and nods his head as Barnes heads towards the staircase.

Their feet creek against every step, and to break the rhythmic crunch, Tony eventually begins, "So, the sleeping situation. I can take the floor."

Barnes winces. "Stark. The vacancy sign's off now. They had two rooms available. The one that's about to crumble like a fucking cookie and the one me an' Steve have now."

"Why are you saying it like that? Don't tell me there are rats in the toilet, or God forbid, roaches, I swear to sweet baby Jesus, if there are roaches-"

"There's only one bed," Barnes finishes. "King size. Still. Only one bed. Steve shared one with me plenty when we were kids -- would'a got hypothermia or pneumonia or polio or something if we hadn't. But you probably had a whole floor to yourself when you were a kid, and I'm not figuring you sleep with other people much now." Barnes pauses. "Don't you goddamn start," he snaps, before Tony says a word. "You know exactly what the hell I meant."

"That's what you were worried about?" Tony huffs. "I'm definitely not the one in this room who's got issues with a little man-on-man action, in fact, I encourage it, so if you're about to get your fourties panties in a twist-"

"I couldn't care any less, which is not a bit. I was just warning you, in case you got your panties in a twist, Stark. Christ-"

"-Almighty," Tony continues. "Nobody here is gonna say 'no homo', you can settle down now, Mr. Ahead of Your Time."

"Are you shitting me?" Barnes asks. "I'm so ahead of my time I'm practically twenty-third century. I had a bionic implant before it was the new thing, y'know. Seventy years before."

"Well, good," Tony says, like a child. "Good. No problems here."

Barnes throws up his arms. "None at all, that's the whole fuckin' point, Stark-! I'm gonna tear out my hair by the time we get to Steve, I'm one hundred percent positive-"

Tony bursts out laughing, then tries to smother it in his sleeve. It's too early for the other patrons to be listening in on this shit. Still, better than loud, wild sex coming from the room next door.

Barnes knocks on Steve's door in morse code. For a good five whole fucking years. Tony practically reels when it finally spells out H-O-N-E-Y I-M H-O-M-E. He, gently, kicks Barnes in the shin. "Gotta make sure we're not HYDRA-sent spies," Barnes says.

"Fuck you," Tony replies. "You could've saved us twenty minutes just by saying an actual word. Any word."

"Voice modulators."

"I'm saying you could've had a better passcode! That was unnecessary and overcomplicated. Admit it, Barnes. Say you're sorry."

"'You're sorry,'" Barnes says.

That's when Steve opens the door. "Well, if I had any doubts before," he starts. He's smiling ear to ear, though, and has a warm mug of coffee in one hand. Tony wants to kiss his fucking boots. Caffeine. His sweet, beloved caffeine. "Come in, you guys. And, no, you can't have this. I made this one for myself, so no touching. There are two more on the counter by the TV."

"You are a saint. A gift from god."

"He is," Barnes confirms.

"Well, sometimes I wonder. I mean, I've got to have saint-like patience to put up with all of you, right?" Steve laughs. "Jokes aside, it's good to see you back in one piece, both of you. I'm glad to have you back, Tony. I'm sorry about how it ended, back in the warehouse."

Tony shakes his head. "I'm the one who should be apologising."

"Alright," says Barnes. "Now we've all kissed and made up, can we please go the fuck to sleep? I've been driving so long I can't feel my fingers."

"On your right hand," Tony says. "You better not be implying my tech would malfunction."

"Your tech?" Steve examines Barnes' arm, which he carefully holds out. After sufficient inspection, Steve glows like the sun. "You did this for him, Tony?"

"Made it stylish, sleek, and suave. Now, if he wasn't irresistible before-"

Steve hugs the two of them. "Fuck, I missed this."

Chapter Text

When Steve steps back, Tony sets down the backpack he'd brought along to hold the shield and pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. "Thing's heavy. Don't know how you manage to throw it around all the time."

Steve catches on within miliseconds. "My shield?" he asks, brightly. "Well, Captain America's shield. It's a symbol." He looks pensive, and Tony feels slightly horrified to have made Steve Rogers reconsider things so essential to his life.

"Your shield," Tony says. "I mean, you've bought it a million times over by now with just your service, so. I mean, it's yours. Forever."

Steve looks honoured to hear this, a little flushed, a little proud. Barnes -- James, Bucky, whomever he considers himself now -- claps him on the shoulder. Tony's not sure how the nickname would go over. Steve had been forced to accept 'Capsicle' and 'Spangles' and everything else under the sun. Barnes, however, doesn't have the same saintly patience.

Tony doesn't want to test it. He likes Barnes, as a person. His parents' deaths were only barely his doing. He pulled the trigger but HYDRA wracked the slide, gave him the clip, the skill to use it. Barnes was their doll. But Pinocchio's come to life now.

Or so he fucking hopes, because he's given up everything for this. It's been about thirty-six hours now. It's too late. The government knows, and now he's wanted just like the rest of them. None of them deserve it, they've done him a service just by agreeing to work at his side, but Tony thought having one pair of eyes on the inside might save them from certain death, should the U.N. decide it.

They'll probably decide it.

Barnes makes a noise like a kicked puppy. "Sleep. Please." Then, with all the finesse of a civilian and not a highly trained combatant, he drops himself like a stone onto the bed, straight in the middle, and kicks off his boots.

"You'll get mud on the bed," Steve says.

"Since when d'you give a shit?" Barnes replies.

"Tony gives a shit."

"I've lived a day with him, and already I've given up hope. Not even trying."

"That's the right attitude to have," Barnes says.

"One rule," Tony says. "Aside from our promise to find the other members of the team."

"Rules are for suckers," Barnes explains. "But I'll listen if it's reasonable enough. I'm at the level of tired where I can just about tolerate-"

"Call me Tony. Not Stark. Or Iron Man. Or Huge Asshole."

"Can't make any promises about that last one," Barnes says. "'S nice to work shit out, though. Call me Bucky. Don't do the 'James' thing, it's patronising. I mean, let's look at how Zemo pulled it off. Hint: he didn't."

Steve looks delighted. "Does this mean I can get off the offensive now? And the defensive? And everything in between? I've got a killer headache, and I really just need to knock out for the next seven days."

"Nobody plans on killing each other here, Steve," Tony says. "You can put away the shield now. I know you're just dying to wack me over the head with it, but no can do."

Steve laughs. "That smarts. I wouldn't go that low."

"He would," says Bucky.

Steve says nothing, only smiles, fond, eyes crinkling. Zemo hadn't won, he hadn't torn them apart -- not completely. Tony wouldn't let him, or anyone, not ever again. They had the world to save, they had people whose deaths needed to be put to meaning. They had a job to do, and now, after seeing everything turn to shit, now they had each other's backs.

Faint sirens wake him in the middle of the night. Or, well, early morning. They're too far away to be for them, but nonetheless, he feels instantly on the edge. Every noise is out to get them, every creek is another monster he's created. The ghosts of the people he's killed.

He turns his attention to his teammates instead. Bucky sleeps spread-eagled, arm stretched out over Tony's chest, fingers splayed against the faint light of the arc reactor. His other is in Steve's hair. Steve himself is curled on his side, snoring lightly into Bucky's shoulder. Neither of them seem bothered by the proximity. They're probably used to it. Tony hasn't slept so near people he can trust in years.

He doesn't mind, exactly. It's different, but he's always embraced different. He's always praised himself for his adaptability, his love of change, his perceived ability to move on. He'd never thought it'd go this far, that he'd be here, in this hotel room, garbage can full of orange peels from shitty gas station fruit that Captain-fucking-America thanked him for, sleeping next to his parents' murderer, and his parents' idol, all in one bed.

He's okay, though. This is okay. It's weird, a little Brokeback Mountain, but he's with a team that he can literally try to kill, and yet, somehow, by some miracle, still manage to keep their trust. You don't get that every day, Tony knows this. He's not stupid enough to be unappreciative. This is everything the Avengers fight for.

He wakes up properly to the smell of yoghurt, coffee, and cheap pastry. Motel breakfast food. There's a small slice of pie, though, on his bedside table, that smells like heaven and looks home-cooked, and he thinks, Oh, wow, the little old lady downstairs is getting paid big time. Hell, he'd thought she'd probably been terrified to see three guys in one room with one bed, that they were some strange traveling group orgy.

But now she's brought pie, apparently.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, wolfing down his food, while Steve twirls the wire attached to the room's ancient rotary phone. "Am I in heaven?" he asks.

"'M glad to see that you're registering how great we are. It only took you a few years." There are crumbs on Bucky's five o'clock shadow, and Steve throws a napkin at him, which he catches. "Welcome back from the dead, again."

"We have to get on the road soon," Steve says. "But I figured you'd want breakfast first."

Tony throws him a thumbs up. "You are a man after my own heart."

"Oh," Bucky says. "Nearly forgot to tell you. Steve keeps getting text messages in code. No idea what it's about."

Steve waves a hand. "I told you, I'll gladly bet you twenty bucks it's Nat."

"When you finally get 'round to deciphering it."

"She knows I'm here, right?" Tony asks. "Chuck it to me. I'll figure it out." Steve hands him the phone gently instead, which Tony can appreciate. "It's probably a meetup location, if we're lucky."

After much staring and frustrated grumbling, Tony cracks it. It is, in fact, a meetup location, only about two states away. Nat says she'll be waiting for a while, and she'll text them a new location if she has to move. So, the pressure is off, but it also means a couple boring days of non-stop driving.

He appreciates the company, but roadtrips are confining, and he gets stuck in his own head with no way out. In the Tower, he had a million distractions, a million things to do. In a small, beat-up junker, he has about two: sleep, and eat. Or take a piss on the side of the road, but he's not particularly fond of the wild side of life. Too much of it got shoved down his throat in Afghanistan.

Steve volunteers to drive first, of course. Says it's only fair, after all the effort he and Bucky put in. Tony wonders how he's even a human being, but says nothing.

It's very clear Bucky hasn't learned patience in seventy years. Tony had thought it'd be considerate to sit next to him in the backseat and converse like normal human beings, but he's rapidly realising they're not normal human beings, and they never will be. Bucky doesn't like being cramped, apparently, and Steve very politely moves the front seats up for him, so he can stretch his legs. Then he ends up stretching them on Tony.

"Please don't kick me in the balls," Tony says. "Your feet are dangerously close to my crotch, you know. I don't know if you've noticed."

"I'm not gonna kick you in the balls," Bucky says, dryly. "Sam didn't let me move last time. Because he's a prissy-"

Steve clears his throat. "Because we were in a car about the size of a jellybean, Buck. You'd have kneed him in the face, too."

"Where is he exactly?" Bucky asks, instead. "He was with us."

"He texted me. Already heading to the meetup locale with Nat."

Bucky sighs. "He's worried we're about to get caught, then."

"He's not really too far off in thinking that," Tony pipes up, helpfully. "I'm sure you two old men like to have your quiet time, but we young folk-" Bucky snorts loudly as he says young, mouths the words with airquotes, snickering the whole way through, and Tony scowls. "We young folk have places to go and people to see," he continues. "Before the government nails us. And they will, by the way. Nail us, I mean."

"So, the government's gonna fuck us over," Bucky says. "What's new?"

"I dunno, probably the fact that we're an actual threat, maybe?"

"He's right, Buck," Steve says. "We kicked their asses out there. Once bitten, twice shy. They're not gonna go easy on us this time." He pauses. "Not that they were really going all that easy on us last time, either."

"Alright. Alright, so we play it safe, tuck in our balls for half a second and slither into the next motel, but eventually we've gotta pick up one of the team. Until we have a whole goddamn truckload. And then we can't play it safe for shit and you all know it."

He's not wrong. They're going to have to work in small groups, three Avengers together in the same room is the max; they're pushing it. It's a miracle they haven't gotten caught already. "We'll need to coordinate, then. Work in factions."

"Factions?" Steve asks. He looks suspicious, and Jesus, no, Tony's not saying segregate them, but that's what it looks like. With how he's been behaving recently, that's a reasonable leap to make. But he wouldn't. He would never.

"No harder than playing a video game. We're making smaller balanced teams from the greater balanced team, here. Have one of us talented with offence, one with defence, one with tactical manouevres in each group, or something along those lines. You're good with teambuilding, Steve. More than I am, at least. Then, we split up and each go on our merry respective ways, and make sure to coordinate through secure, safe servers -- my own, private, the government has no fucking idea, trust me. Sound like a plan?"

"Sounds like a plan," says Bucky.

"Are the three of us going to be a subset?" Steve asks.

"Don't know about you, but I say we play well off each other. The more disagreements in approach, the more variation and compromise. That's important team shit, right?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "So, you're fine that we usually solve our problems by yelling at 'em? A lot? Until they go away or get worse?"

Tony holds up his hands. "As long as they get solved, man. Former, not the latter, by the way. Yell until they go away, not get worse. We know where that gets us already."

"So," Steve says.

"What he's saying, Steve, is that we're gonna be stuck in this car together for the foreseeable future."

Steve laughs. "Let's try not to kill each other."

"I can't promise I won't verbally slay you," Tony says. He frowns. "But I promise, we're not killing anyone. All of us, we're supposed to be part of the team. Not bickering back and forth over trivial bullshit like white suburban moms."

"And not-so-trivial bullshit," Bucky adds.

"Talking it out. If I hurt your feelings, make sure to use your 'I' words, kiddies. Tony, 'I' feel like you're being a huge ass right now. Etcetera."

"Oh, I'll have a lot to say if any of you are being huge asses, believe me," Steve says. "That goes for me, too. If I'm outta line, one of you has to get me on my feet again. Put the logical thinking cap back on. I'll do a lot if I believe something's right, but I can change my mind. If it's coming from people I respect... and care about."

He nods to himself, just a slight tilt, as if he's proud of that little peptalk. It's kinda adorable, but Tony doesn't say anything. "Then it's a deal. Pinky promise? Shake on it?"

"I'm gonna hit the hay. Shake my leg instead, Stark. It still counts."

Steve takes a hand off the wheel, keeps his eyes on the road, and shakes the hand Tony latches against his own. Then, after a firm, incredibly Steve Rogers All-American handshake, he sets it back to the dashboard. "I promise," he says. "And none of us can go back on our promises now, not after what happened."

"You're making this legally binding, Spangles?"

Steve shakes his head. "I'm saying I won't let you down."

"I should be saying that." Tony returns his eyes to the empty road. The sun is high in the sky. It's still hanging there because of what they did. The Earth is still spinning because he and a couple other stubborn people refuse to give up, and will gladly go down trying. He's fought to breathe this air and eat this cheap motel food. And yet he gets this terrible feeling he doesn't deserve any of it at all. "You won't let me down, either of you." Not any more than he already has.

Chapter Text

"Jesus Christ," says Tony. "You're an octopus, you know that? An actual-"

Bucky stretches, limbs crowding against the edges of the car, hand splayed out on the window. Tony feels a little pleased every time he looks at it. It's not that he doesn't have faith in his work, he has faith it'll work, he just never knows how. Good or bad, he couldn't guess for the fucking world. He usually has to wait it out.

"Any problems with the arm?" Tony asks, eventually, after Bucky blatantly does nothing to move from his horrible octopus position.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "You fucking with me right now? Steve, is he fucking with me?"

Steve snorts. "How should I know?"

"Yeah, but his ego is usually so big it's clearly overcompensating. Is he being humble? Admitting his tech might have errors?"

"I take offence to all of that," Tony says. "But really, I need to know if you're experiencing weird feedback loops, strange ticks, all sorts of shit. I need to get that fixed ASAP, and that's not just the inner perfectionist in me speaking. I made it to help you, not be a huge pain in the ass."

"Something with the Stark brand that's not a huge pain in the ass?" Bucky repeats, blankly.

Tony yawns, pleased. "You know where to shove it. Now, any issues or no? Are we good here?"

"Okay, you want your ego stroked. I get it. No issues, Tony. Jesus. It works like a charm. That what you wanna hear?"

It is. But Tony takes pride in finetuning all his work, and as much as Tony wants to scream at Bucky for all the things he's done, he knows Bucky didn't fucking choose. Least he can do is send him an apology giftbasket in the form of a fully functional arm. "How's the sensitivity?"

"It feels real," Bucky says.

"Good. That's good." Tony blinks. "You sure no problems-?" He makes a gesture like his arm's in a sling, feigns breaking it.

"It's not broken. It works good." Bucky turns to Steve. "It all comes clear. We're just here to reinforce his self-satisfaction."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"It was genuine curiosity," Tony says, petulant. "I've never properly tested a prosthesis of this level before. Seriously, this is top of the line, Barnes. Right at the top."

"You're saying it could malfunction?"

"I just want to make sure the user experience is at max capacity."

Bucky raises another eyebrow, joining the first on his forehead. "You care about how I feel?"

"Yeah," he replies, and settles back into his seat.

Bucky doesn't talk for a good few minutes after that. He stares, stunned, and then returns to gazing out the window, mouth curved into a subtle smile. He says thanks by poking Tony in the leg with his toes when he falls asleep.

Tony can't find it in himself to be bothered. This is a warning sign, he knows, but he can't find it in himself to be worried, either. Everything is too surreal.

Tony quickly learns Steve likes the radio on when he drives. And that he's not picky. If he can bob his head to it, if it has a beat, he'll listen. He's even entertained by the ads, and generally rapt whenever they flicker into a news station.

"You deserve quality media," Tony says, but Steve just shakes his head.

"That's manufactured. This is, too, but the small town ones, y'know? There's something sorta comforting about them. Reminds me what I fight for every day."

"Fair point," he concedes. It's all old news to him, of course. It's his business to know things ahead of time, to always stay one step ahead of the competitors. In everything. But whatever makes Steve happy.

They flip past a few signals filled with just empty static, or half-formed music that's just not quite there yet, until Steve just stops. He stares at the dashboard emptily, and this is when Tony zones in.

"-fourty-eight hours since the disappearance of Tony Stark, newly-appointed U.N. consultant. The rogue vigilante group comprised of former Avengers is likely suspected-"

"Well, they found out," Tony says. "There's a surprise."

"Former Avengers," Steve repeats, blankly.

"Don't let it get to you," Bucky says, fervent. "It's all a nice heaping load of bureaucratic bullshit anyway."

"We've always been soldiers, Buck. Officially sanctioned."

"And now we're unofficially sanctioned. But we're doing what's right. We're still protecting the little guy, ain't we? Unless there's something you haven't been telling me about your work here."

"Are we still protecting them? We're... not really much better than the terrorists we fight, if we see ourselves broken up so easily. I mean, really, how long did the peace last?"

"We had a good four years," Tony protests, weakly.

"It's not being unofficial that bothers me," Steve says. "And I still stand by what I said. Nobody can handle us better than we ourselves can. But even we seem to be doing a pretty shitty job."

"Better than the U.N."

"Not by much."

"Yeah, by much," Tony snaps. "You didn't send us to prison when we disagreed."

"No, I almost killed you. Much better."

"I almost killed you, too. It was pretty mutual back there."

"And now this half-baked plan of a teamup is pretty mutual, too," Bucky adds. "I've been sitting on my ass like a sore loser for two years. Should start getting up and fixing things, y'know. Making shit right, undoing the past seventy years. And you guys seem to be tagging along. Not too shabby for a first start, huh?"

"Could've gone better," Tony says.

"Could've gone worse," Bucky snaps back. There's a vein pulsing in his forehead. He's got this stubborn, hot-headed look like Steve gets when he's never gonna change his mind.

Tony holds up his hands. "Yeah, okay. It could've. Let's keep up this stellar track record then, why don't we?"

"It won't be easy, you're right," Steve says. "But I'm not falling to their level again. I can't and I won't."

Thing is, Steve always means what he says. So Tony shrugs and nods along. "This is a terrible idea, even for me, going in blind like this. But fuck it. Couldn't stand those U.N. bastards anyway."

"That's the spirit," Bucky says, snide.

They're starved by the next town. Steve keeps driving down these long, winding scenic routes marked with signs declaring what wonderful historical landmarks lie ahead, and so Tony hasn't seen proper civilisation in hours. It's good for their cover, it's not good for his stomach, or his bladder, or really anything else. He's hesitant to make the bridge from tree leaves to city lights, he knows there are probably CIA agents swarming every major and minor habitable place in the next few thousand miles, but they'll die here if they're not careful.

Besides, he'd be at more legal risk if he went and picked wild berries off the plantlife in beautiful, tangled groves around them. It's historical, and probably under more protection than they ever were. The thought startles a chuckle out of him.

"What're you laughin' at?" Bucky says, from under his baseball cap. It's shading his eyes, but Tony can feel his gaze anyway. Tony shrugs.

"There's so much food here and yet we can't get half of it. Also, I really have to pee."

"You could've said that earlier," Steve gripes, and points through the windowscreen and out to the nearest sign. The town is five miles away, but the population counter is in the tens of thousands. Above fifty, even. It's a huge risk.

"I could pee on some of the unprotected land around here. You see any?"

"We just passed some," Bucky says, slow and wry. Tony frowns.

"How likely is it that we'll get intercepted by the CIA, the FBI, and all the other acronyms?"

"I mean, pretty likely," Steve says. "We could dumpster dive."

"Yeah, that'd work for the food. There'd still be agents everywhere, though."

"Leave it to me," says Bucky, a little smug. "I'm actually gifted with stealth, unlike some."

Tony glares. "I wear a big metal suit that flies."

"I'm usually wearing an armoured version of the American flag," Steve says.

"Exactly."

"I'll hack the CCTV, make sure you're backed up. If shit looks like it's about to hit the fan, I'll flicker the lights. If they're already in the place, I've been told I can do a pretty good PA voice. Cleanup on aisle six. And there will be an aisle six. Cheap grocery stores are ideal. Thrift stores for literally anything else. If I so much as catch you buying a spare pair of socks at Calvin Klein's, I will destroy you."

"I'm sure you will," Bucky says, placating. "So, spending our money wisely. Got it. Anything else, boss?"

"Give it five minutes before you go on your shopping spree, my young consumerist. I'm gonna casually stroll over to the nearest public restroom first."

"Patience. Roger that."

"And don't buy anything tacky. My ego won't be able to handle it."

From the bathroom stall, painted from head to toe with graffiti, little mini hearts, phone numbers, doodles of various dicks, he gets himself into the camera feed of every significant store within a mile radius. It's sufficiently mind-numbing. Everything dramatic consists of children throwing temper tantrums and old ladies running their carts into the soup section.

It's perfect, and he walks out a happy man with a plan. Which is better than his usual "lowkey (highkey) self-sacrificing man with some sort of passably plannish-type thing".

Steve and Bucky are in the car, still, thank god. Steve gazes blankly out the window, tapping ferociously against the car door, until he sees Tony. Then he perks up and waves. Bucky just shoots him a thumbs up and steps outside himself, where he stretches and yawns like a cat. "Permission to be dismissed from the Bridge, Captain?"

"Granted," Cap says, unthinking. Then he flushes. "I mean. Tony?"

"What're you looking at me for? You already gave our resident superspy permission."

"You could give me other things," Bucky says, like an afterthought. It's lewd, just Tony's style, and the guy doesn't even seem to realise he's done it. "Be back in five."

"You making multiple stops, Buck?"

"One for food. One for socks that aren't Calvin Klein's own."

"Sensible," Tony says. "Make sure to get me something sweet in the grocery store. Don't care what. Make it your soupe du jour. From Pop Rocks to Swedish Fish, they're all good."

Bucky stares. "Can you only work on a sugar high?"

"Usually caffeine high. But being jittery won't help with the whole stealth hacker thing."

"I'm leaving," Bucky says. "Enjoy fantasising about candy."

"Oh, I will."

As promised, Bucky heads into the store within a minute, looking sufficiently like a hassled, small-town boy on an errand for his mom.

It's probably not all that far off from the events that shaped him over seven decades ago.

He walks smoothly through each aisle, picking things up, examining them, clearly humming to himself thoughtfully. Only Tony can tell he's on alert, at perfect attention.

It isn't obvious at first, just a feeling under his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He's suddenly aware something's wrong, that his mind has traced out a pattern that doesn't quite camouflage with the rest of the scene. It takes him a moment, and then he sees it, as if it's been written out across the goddamn screen. This woman -- and Tony can't get a particularly good look at her face, but she seems the type -- has been deliberating over the same item for ten minutes. She holds herself like a soldier.

She could be off-duty, he hopes. Hell, she's probably just doing what I did. Celebrating the chance to choose what flavour syrup you want in the breakfast aisle, after so long without anything but rations.

But when Bucky walks past, stomping, wheeling his shopping cart with decidedly too much (vengeful) passion out of the candy aisle, she doesn't look. And Bucky's not the kind of guy you miss. You don't ignore him when he comes barreling through. Soldiers recognise him as a veteran immediately, and Tony knows this because he did, and he's barely a soldier. The rest find something about the way he acts just a little too déjà vu.

But this woman. She doesn't care, not a single bit, and Tony knows immediately she's one of them. He panics. Then he steadfastly ignores it, and that's not new, but the need to get James Buchanan Barnes an evacuation route ASAP is. Frankly, he shouldn't care. Steve's the one who's known Bucky his whole life, not Tony. But, through all the churning in his gut, the horror at the look on his mother's face, he's seen Captain America and the Winter Soldier and Stevie and Bucky and every other facet, and they were supposed to be his fucking friends before the U.N. came crashing down on them like an avalanche. He more than owes them this.

"Cleanup on aisle six," Tony says, hollow as the flute his mother insisted he learn to play when he was thirteen. She'd wanted him to find a group at school to coordinate with, in the hopes that he might find someone willing to put up with his shit for more than two seconds. Band practice didn't bring that, but Tony had always been suspiciously soft about being hassled to get up for it in the mornings. She's not here now, to see him do this. He's not sure he'd be able to handle knowing what she would think of him. Of any of his life's work. She'd always had patience for him, and for the strange misfits he found company in, and Tony thinks, maybe, just maybe, she might've understood what he's trying to do. Who and what he's trying to save here.

Bucky straightens, rigid, once he's out of human sight. He looks up at the nearest camera, and nods, just slightly. He takes a deep breath and heads towards the checkout lane, rifling through his wallet for the appropriate change. He looks perfectly casual, even smiles and says his thanks to the cashier, before walking out of the store as white as a sheet. Tony conveniently locks the doors behind him, just until he's out of shooting range, and makes a big show of apologising for "technical difficulty" on the store PA. Let the agent come after him. They'll slip away better once divided.

Strangely enough, the agent doesn't move an inch from the syrup shelf. Her face is visible now, and she knows it. But instead of doing the obvious, like flashing a badge or running at the speed of light towards the emergency exit, she just eyes the camera, slow, and then winks.

Tony reels, and sets a swift pace for the car Bucky's piling himself into, out of his hiding spot against the corner lamppost. "What the fuck?"

He throws himself through the door and motions for Steve to go. Steve does. "You okay back there?"

"I'm fine," Tony says. "Is Mr. Not-So-Sweet-Tooth feeling okay?"

"I'm not dead," Bucky replies, and he looks genuinely confused. "No offence, but I didn't think your distraction would work for a second. Why wasn't I followed?"

"I don't know. The agent didn't seem to give a shit. Hell, she seemed fine with it. Fuck, what the hell is that? AIM? HYDRA?"

"What did she look like?" Steve asks.

Tony shuts his eyes and watches his memories whirl by like a filmreel. "Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Medium build, not your height, seemed tall though, but maybe that's just me. Towering and scary. That one's probably also just me. Wore civilian clothing, but she didn't act like one. Too cautious, y'know?"

Bucky asks one word. "Jawline?"

Tony blinks. "Uh, she had one?"

Bucky leans closer towards Steve, tapping him on the shoulder with his metal forefingers. "Wanna bet it's Carter?"

Tony narrows his eyes. "Peggy's surviving relative?"

"That's the one," Bucky says, chorusing with Steve's, "You bet."

"She a friendly or not-so-friendly?"

Steve shakes his head, waving down Tony's concern. "She's on our side. No idea how she found us, though."

"She winked. At the camera. Someone on our side must've sent her to keep an eye on us."

"Make sure we stay outta trouble, you mean," Bucky says, dry. "You wanna bet that was Romanova?"

"Romanoff."

Bucky twitches. "That's what I said."

"It could be," Steve admits. "It's her style. Does she think we can't take care of ourselves?"

"No," Tony says. "We know her. She's the type who wants at least four people watching your back at any time and no less." He pauses. "That means she has some concern, though. If it's her, then she knows something. The U.N.'s gotta be cracking down."

"So." Bucky shifts nervously. "We lay lower."

"Lowest," Tony corrects. "You're gonna have to give us some proper schooling, superspy."

There's a moment of hesitation, before it's shaken off like water over duckfeathers. "You gotta look bored," Bucky starts. "Always look bored. Don't look like you don't wanna be there, or nervous, or even too excited. Just look like you're out on an errand, you're not mad, but you'd probably prefer to be home eating your leftovers and watching TV."

"You mean you want us to act like we have responsibilities?" Tony asks.

"Yeah, glad you're catching on."

Steve snorts. "That won't be hard. We have enough already."

"I object. I'm always shrugging off my responsibilities."

"You show up when the Avengers call."

"Adrenaline junkie."

"You make sure the civillians are taken care of."

"Gotta uphold my reputation as worldwide philanthropist."

Bucky stretches and yawns as the tension begins to ease. He looks comfortable again. "Y'know, I say we let our personal Tin Can do all the lying from now on. I bet he'll steal the show. Deal?"

"I'm not dumb enough to make bets with you," Steve says. He turns to Tony. "He's always right."

Bucky's beginning to doze again. "Whaddaya say? Blonde beefcake has brains."

Steve grins, and lets the road lull them back into a semblance of peace. "More than you."

Chapter Text

Bucky insists they pull into a dirty, abandoned lot in the middle of nowhere to sleep. Even motels are too highkey, even motels with hourly rates are too highkey, in fact. Security is that allseeing, and that's not a comforting thought.

It's dark and cold outside, Tony can tell from the frost on the windows, curling and trailing into sprinkled patches like icing sugar. He's had driving duty for the past three hours, and he's tired and numb, but he doesn't try to veto any of Bucky's ideas. He's got the superior knowledge. "Are we sure here is good?" Tony asks, instead. "It looks very sketchy. Way too B Horror Movie Set for me to be comfortable with."

"You're only comfortable staying in places with five pretty stars. You live in the lap of luxury."

"I'm capable of not doing that. I'm just worried for our safety."

"Three superheroes against a couple of ghosts isn't a fair fight," Bucky says. "For the ghosts, anyway."

"Don't get cocky. That's my schtick."

Bucky laughs. "I was cocky long before you were, Stark. Hell, I practically invented cocky."

He smirks. "That, I don't doubt."

Steve stretches. "I can confirm Bucky deserves a patent on being-" Tony watches as he grins, and winks, "-a cocky little shit." A pause. "Just like the rest of us."

Bucky crosses his arms. "Yeah, takes one to know one."

"So," Tony says, looking distastefully at the ugly carpet flooring, falling apart at the seams, stained and faded and brown. "How's this sleeping arrangement going to work? Do I have to take the floor? I don't want to know what it's touched." This car is old, about twenty years. It's had plenty of time to amass a collection of disgusting, flourishing, thriving bacteria, all in their little happy colonies.

"You told me," Steve says. "Lap of luxury."

Bucky smiles, slow and toothy. "Told you."

Steve looks immensely fond of the two of them then, dull moonlight making his hair shine bright and shimmering in the darkness of this dingy old junkpile they've come to call home. "I don't mind where we sleep, as long as we sleep," he says, and rests his head back against the seat, looking out into the stars. "It's beautiful out here. Wish more people could see it, y'know?"

"See and appreciate it. Yeah." Tony smiles, sad. "This is why I fight. This is what I fight for."

"'We,'" says Bucky. "That's a 'we', not an 'I'. There's no 'I' in team."

"There's an I in cocky little shit," Tony replies, diplomatically. "Two I's, in fact."

"Two. What a shocker. Impressive."

"Well," says Tony. "I'm waiting for you to ignore our personal space and head straight into unconsciousness, panda eyes."

"Fuck off, rustbucket," Bucky says, friendly.

True to his word, Bucky falls asleep almost instantly, as soon as he finishes securing the perimeter. Steve doesn't protest, unlike Tony. He'd complained the entire time that this was overdoing it, and that Tony's tech would monitor for external lifesigns. Bucky had ignored him, and then fallen asleep with his feet in Tony's face again. He can't bring himself to care much, staring up at the beige ceiling, waiting for the sense of unease to ebb away and allow him a few hours' rest. Steve seems to be doing the same, though there's an aura of peace around him now he's sure neither of his friends are dead.

Tony still remembers the look on his face back in the Battle of New York, peeling off the armour's faceplate, looking desperately for signs of life. There were classified pictures of Steve in the war -- taken during Bucky's capture and subsequent experimentation by HYDRA -- that Howard had let him see. The desperation was too familiar to be comfortable once it was aimed his way.

Here, they had made it. Barely. Tony had woken up after throwing himself through the wormhole, Bucky had lived his way through an entire century. Now they skirted death again, but with more finesse, and, in Bucky's case, less swing music.

"It's good to see you," Steve says, quiet. Bucky's snoring anyway, but they all still whisper. Steve looks like this, right here, is his whole world.

"It's good to be here," Tony promises. "I'm glad I can help put Humpty Dumpty back together again, y'know? Especially after I broke them."

"You didn't. We all did, and none of us did."

"Okay, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Very vague."

"I mean it, though. It's not your fault."

"Thank you, but I know it is. You don't have to coddle me, Cap."

"I'm not." Steve's looking off somewhere, eyes unfocused. Tony knows this has upset him as deeply as it had from waking from the ice. He has the same haunted look, the sense of impending doom. Likely slight paranoia. "We can't let this happen again. They're going to need us soon, and we can't come back to them in a state like this. They deserve better."

"I understand. We're going to find them, Steve. The rest of them."

Steve shakes his head. "I know we're going to find them, because we have to. It's the state we find them in that worries me the most, Tony. How much is gonna be left?"

"Better than nothing," Tony offers. "Far better than nothing, Steve. We're up shit creek, but we might just have a paddle."

The light is dull and ugly grey through rolling morning stormclouds. Tony blinks back the hollow light and peeks out the window, to the dew-covered bushes and trees, to the frost-spattered ground. There are icicles on the car already. Everything sparkles.

It's picturesque.

"Do you think we have time to let me draw this?" Steve asks.

Tony shrugs, and points to Bucky, who mumbles, "Laying low means moving slow. If we're in the right spot. We seem to be in the right spot. I hope." He yawns and rolls back over. "Call me if I'm hoping wrong."

Steve lights up, and pulls out a duffel bag to rifle through. Art supplies tumble and spill forth from every corner, dripping over its brim. It's very clearly an artists' toolcase, and one Steve treasures with all his heart.

"You brought that with you?" Tony asks.

"Always."

"You'd have gone to art school, right? If you hadn't enlisted."

Steve smiles. "That's right. I've loved art since as long as I can remember."

"Hell, finger paintings from when you were a baby are probably worth an arm and a leg now. I'm guessing you saw your art up in the museums already?"

"Feels weird," Steve says. "Like walking right back into my past. Half of them aren't even close to my best; it's a little embarrassing."

"They're amazing. Don't let your humility blind you, Steve, that's my life motto."

"I'd say you were pretty humble," Steve says, light. "Still, most of my best work is still with me. In those sketchbooks your family kept all those years. Thank you for that, by the way."

"Of course."

"I'm liking some of my newer stuff, too. I can be more experimental. My old art's become a window into how life was back then, but my new work, I can do anything. I mean, I could probably just throw paint at the page and turn it into something if I tried. Not my style, though."

"Everything you draw is always, I dunno, uniquely you. Through your eyes, very alive. It's almost frustrating how good you've made it. Here I am, with my technical drawings. Hang up some of my art, I'm sure schematics are very interesting."

Bucky shifts from sleep to mumble, "Make an Avengers art exhibit. Fundraiser. People will pay loads."

"Nat's drawing is more technical, too. Thor's is very classical. I get the sense he got taught that in school. Asgardian art class, I'd really pay to see that."

"Sounds like everyone else would, too. Shame we can't hold fundraisers anymore," Tony says, eyes tracing the lines Steve draws with smooth, practiced strokes. "Nobody wants to raise funds for international criminals."

"If even one person donated, that would be worth it to me. I'm down if you're down."

"Then can I submit my stick figures?" Bucky asks. "It counts, right?"

"Sure, Buck," Steve replies, dry. "It counts."

Steve spends a few hours just like that, staring out the window and into the trees, slowly painting a detailed, almost photographic landscape. Tony sees it move and breathe in front of him, and on the page below. It's amazing. It's soothing to watch, in fact. Steve's passion for art shows with every movement, and every added sketch.

He finds himself drifting off at some point, just being lulled by the rhythm of pens and pencils. It's true tranquility.

Then, Steve tells him the picture is finished, for now. He insists there's more to do, to touch up, but nothing major, and that they can finally get going. Bucky's still sleeping. Tony's still half-inside the same state of exhausted haze. "Are you sure? I mean, it's fantastic, as usual. But are you sure? We have time, Cap. Plenty of it, apparently."

"I almost like it just like this," Steve says, holding the end product up and away from his nose. "By memory, I could perfect a few details and colour properly. But it's looking pretty nice with this sorta wild sketch style."

"Is it safe to stay? Is it safe to leave?" Tony throws up his hands. "I don't even know what questions I'm supposed to be asking here."

Bucky snuffles from beside him. "'Many hours it been?"

"Two."

"Then, yeah, we should probably get moving, before someone realises we're here."

"Where the hell is here? There isn't a person around for miles. Place is literally a wasteland. Haven't seen a sign of civilisation since we got here."

"You know better than anyone they're always watching, pal."

"If I didn't know better, I might even say you sound paranoid."

"I am paranoid," Bucky says. He waves a hand impatiently. "Let's get driving before we're executed."

"I'll sleep so much better tonight knowing that," Tony gripes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Steve smiles, eyes light and amused. "It's your turn to drive, Buck."

Bucky smacks his head against the back of the driver's seat. "Shit."

The steady vibrations of wheels against tarmac end up forcing him to sleep, after a while. He closes his eyes to the sunset and wakes to see it high in the sky. Bucky flicks down the sunshield immediately, complains about going blind on the road. "You're paying for the eye surgery, Tony."

Tony rests his eyes again. "Why me?"

"You're nearest. Nearest always gets the blame."

"That's not even slightly fair."

"I'm not fair," Bucky says, metal hand gliding over the dashboard, switching on the turn signal as he drifts between lanes. "I'm wasting your tech gripping a steering wheel. I could be lifting mountains. That's what you claim your tech can do, right? Make me at least a thousand times stronger?"

"At least." Tony shrugs. "I don't care what you use it for. Just use it."

"Thanks. Really, though. I haven't felt like this in seventy years."

"Any time. Nobody likes spending sleepless nights on tech like I do."

He dreams about a cool breeze, picnic blankets blowing over in the wind, ants in the grass, his mother's smile. When he looks down at his hands they're small and unscarred. Every time he tries to open his mouth, something snaps it shut. A stray leaf catches on his eyes, and when he looks back, his mother is gone. He's alone, and the blanket's about to be carried away with the company. When he looks up, he sees Bucky's face, covered with goggles and a mouth guard. It looks like a muzzle. Tony can't see the leash but he knows this is their dog.

When he wakes up, that same face is painted in a sarcastic smile, no longer smeared with blood.

Tony can't get back to sleep after that.

"I'm hungry," he announces.

"Pizza," Steve says, without looking up. "I vote for pizza."

Bucky sighs. "There's no helping it. He runs a tight ship here, a food dictatorship."

"Not fair."

"I'm not fair," Steve parrots.

Tony rolls his eyes. He doesn't care what they eat, as long as it is, in fact, actually edible. Food poisoning is not something he plans to experience on this trip, and god knows how many times he's felt it already. When he was younger, he traveled everywhere and anywhere. Contrary to popular belief, he ate everything and anything. He slept in the streets. Whatever he could do to forget for awhile, aside from the usual blackout alcoholic coma.

He's used to this. He's seen this. He can manage, but dumpster pizza is still not his ideal. Not dumpster-dived, that shit was perfectly fine under the right circumstances, but the gross backalley shit that sold for a quarter a slice. That was the worst, and he'd fallen for it one too many times.

He'll take whatever they can get.

"I don't really care. As long as it doesn't kill me. Unless you're all secretly after my inheritance -- in which case, ouch. I'm wounded."

Bucky actually snorts at this. "If Steve makes puppy eyes at you, you'll give him your whole damn inheritance anyway, you can cut out the whole dying part entirely."

"Still wounded. You are not helping unwound me."

"Not trying to. I just want some damn food, like we all do."

"So," Steve says. "Pizza?"

Bucky lays his accent on thick. "I oughtta smack your punk ass upside the head like your mama used to."

"She would never."

"Pizza it is, then."

The pizza place in the nearest town doesn't look all that bad, from what Yelp reviews tell him. Very Mom & Pop. Homely. Cozy. The whole shebang. The good ol' trustworthy all-American work-hard-and-honest-and-get-rewarded businesses Steve had a big soft spot for.

Yelp is satisfied, though, and that's good enough for anyone.

The town itself has this air of antiquity around it, which would be charming if Tony didn't fret for the state of their wifi connections. Of course, he does. There are enough jokes about flying through a million proxies and masking your IP to the moon and back and encrypting all your data and this and that, but Tony takes it seriously. He knows what happens if they get caught. It's maximum security prison again, getting hosed down in cold water and eating stale bread until your ribs start showing. He's not into that, he's not about that life. And there's a statement there, too, about Captain America and his freedom, and what a travesty it would be to lock him up, but Tony doesn't frankly think anyone particularly gives much of a shit anymore, after how badly the Avengers fucked themselves over. It's the full nine yards. Irreversible.

He's actually legitimately concerned about incoming citizen reports, in fact. If it comes down to it, Tony doesn't know who they're loyal to. They don't owe the Avengers shit, for one, but do they have enough sympathy to spare them their fate? Or will they rat them out to the Feds as soon as they get the chance? It's a 50/50 split, from all the data Tony's studied. Half of America supports them and half doesn't. Then there's the rest of the world. He doesn't like to think about those odds.

He has to, but it makes his face twist up into this ugly wince every time, like some exaggerated gargoyle.

They've ruined their chances at properly protecting this Earth ever again, and it makes him want to scream. Ultron wasn't even the first straw. From their inception they've been dragging down casualty after casualty, and it's a miracle they lasted this long. He firmly believes it's been for the greater good, but try telling that to the loved ones of the dead. Their dead.

There are days where he can't stand it. Where he just wants to throw everything he's worked for away, and go retire to the middle of nowhere to live out the rest of his days Obi-Wan Kenobi style.

There are also days, arguably even worse, even more unbearable, where he has a glimmer of hope that they might be able to fix things. Those days he usually ends in an alcoholic stupor, trying to forget.

It never works.

Bucky pokes him, shaking him out of his thoughts. "Hey, head-in-the-clouds! Earth to Stark. You want veggie or meat lover?"

"Can I make an innapropriate joke about loving meat?"

Steve snorts. "You're welcome to, but is that the answer to the question? Are you a broccoli guy or a pepperoni guy?"

"Can I be both? Half-and-half. Get all the toppings. Even anchovies. Feed me enough to live and I'll make some solid scientific breakthroughs."

"I thought you'd be picky," says Bucky, and Tony frowns.

"I'm kinda insulted by that, actually. I eat what DUM-E gives me, and sometimes I swear it's just motor oil. Don't you know? Gourmet and greasy both have their pros and cons. It's called living a balanced lifestyle."

"Because that's what balance in life is really about," Steve says dryly. "Pizza toppings."

Tony pouts. "Might as well be."

At this, Bucky shrugs. "Eh, he's right. Gotta give him points for that one. Fuck knows if any of us have ever experienced anything like balance in our whole damn lives, or if we ever will."

"Existential crises are my specialty. Credit where credit's due, thank you."

"We'll get both," Steve says, and gets out the car.

He comes back with two boxes stacked neatly in his hands, and taps gently on the window with an elbow. Bucky leans forward and reaches over to open the door and let Steve immediately pile inside. "I got it to-go," Steve says. "I figured laying low means not eating out."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, "are you demonstrating common sense? You?" Steve snorts, and Bucky finally relents, "Yeah, you're right. Better if we eat in here."

Steve's smirking, long and slow, but not cruel. Pleased. "Can I take a moment to bathe in my victory?"

"You sure can," Bucky replies, casual. "If you volunteer to drive first."

Steve makes a great show of contemplating this. "Y'know, I think it's worth the sacrifice. Hand me a slice of both, would you?"

Tony picks out the two biggest slices, resigning himself to his fate, and wags a finger like an old grandmother. "Don't steal our share."

Steve takes a large bite, but looks sufficiently ecstatic that Tony can't hold it against him. Yet. "I'm a growing boy, Tony."

He tries to focus on the taste of delicious tomato sauce, cheese, and extra toppings, but instead his mind wanders to Nat and Sam. They're so close to the rendezvous he can taste it, and his treacherous imagination is literally unable to stop him from imagining all the many ways this could go terribly wrong. They could be set up, they could be tailed, they could be simply the most unlucky people on Earth and get discovered regardless of Bucky's incessant paranoia.

"When we meet with Nat," Tony hedges, "you know we're gonna have to split up again right after, okay, Cap? I know, you know about the plans, you get it, nobody can be in one place too long in case it's the wrong one and the wrong time, but we can't even stop for coffee."

"Even if I had no idea about the danger we were in, Nat would remind me. I regret this, the fact that it has to be this way, but I understand. I do. I'm fine, if a little worried. I don't even need to ask if you know the expression 'divide and conquer.'"

"That's our secret," Tony says. "We're not going to be divided for a second. Let me work my technological magic, and we'll have a working, secure, proper comm system in no time."

Bucky looks sceptical, eyebrows furrowed, mouth pinched, nose wrinkled. It's a comically obvious expression, which Tony suspects he puts on for their own benefit, and not his. He's seen the Soldier in action. He knows that face can look as dead and as flat as plywood, even when faced with the most horrific things imaginable. It's one more thing that proves there's a man in there, with a mind of his own, thoughts of his own, plans of his own. Not the little Soviet drone anymore. "With what, parts of this car?" A pointed laugh. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of our phones, but okay, this junkyard? I could work with that, too. Won't like it, though. Expect complaints. Lots of them."

"Our phones are the biggest goddamn risk in here! You can't be sure they're not listening to us right now. We should just chuck 'em and be done with it, for once."

"I'm wounded. Ye of such little faith. I'm not saying everything I get my hands on is an impenetrable fortress by default, but- no, wait, I am saying that. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Let's give Tony a chance," Steve offers, and raises his hands as Bucky points an accusing finger his way.

"Sometimes, your goodie-two-shoes personality makes me want to explode. I'm with you, I always will be, but holy shit, you're too nice for your own good, I swear-"

"Oh, no, if Tony slips up and gets us thrown in prison, I'm dragging him down along with us. No doubt about it."

Bucky begins to smile. "I take it all back."

Tony licks pizza grease off his fingers before crossing his arms. "I resent the implication that Steve's the nice one. I'm clearly the sweetest person here."

"That's almost better than suggesting your tech is automatically perfect."

"As I said, ye of little faith."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, okay, and call me the Queen of England. I'll believe it when I can see it, pal."

Chapter Text

Bucky pokes Tony's thigh again by accident. "Next exit, we're merging onto a new route," he says. "Can't miss it."

"I probably could," Steve replies, casual, running a hand over the steering wheel as if to comfort it. It needs consolation from the life it's lived, and for being stuck with three assholes for its last days. "You know how I used to be bad with maps?"

"You still are."

Tony grins. Howard didn't teach him much of value, but he always, always told him to watch out, stay vigilant, and never miss an opportunity. Most of Tony's opportunities are sarcastic comments, but he'll take what he can get. "That's what GPS was invented for, old grandpas like you."

He can see Steve's fond glare through the car mirror. "I'm not that bad."

Bucky laughs. "He is, when it comes to stuff like this. In the field? Nah. Driving around? We'll end up in circles."

"We've got about a day left," Steve says. "From what the map says. And yes, I triple checked."

Tony sighs dramatically and stares longingly out the window. There's nothing to see but abandoned land, now they've gotten this far into nowhere. Civilisation is, to Bucky's great pleasure, practically non-existent in these parts. Only its remnants remain, broken down houses and patches of something that possibly could've been farmland, at one point or another. Tony suddenly knows how it feels to just up and leave like that. "So, one more shitty motel. And no homemade pie this time."

"The sketchier, the better," Bucky says, and hums. "But not too sketchy. Not too sketchy that others would notice us, or rat us out."

Tony snorts. "So, a run-down dump that doesn't give a shit what you do in their bedrooms, as long as there's no police investigation at the end of it."

"Yeah, sounds about right."

"Are you sure there actually are any? Who the fuck would volunteer to live here, let alone work here? Don't try to tell me it's good business. This is apocalypse-level deserted."

Bucky just smiles. "You mentioned something about B Horror Movie sets?"

"Fuck you, we are not- this isn't the Shining, panda eyes! I want to live!"

"Promise we won't split up."

Steve tries and fails to hide his smirk. "He's just egging you on, Tony. The more you feed him what he wants, the longer he's going to keep it up. Trust me, I spent my entire childhood with this guy."

"You're practically the leading source on James Buchanan Barnes information." Bucky shrugs. "I still think it's a pointless, stupid kinda attitude, though. There aren't going to be any scary twins, or seas of blood, or fucking tricycles."

"It's called caution. I'm not supposed to be the one giving the lectures on not throwing it to the wind here. You're the paranoid superspy of this group, not me." Tony raises his hands. "When we face down an axe murderer, I'm blaming you."

Bucky stares. "An axe is about the least threatening weapon I can imagine in my whole damn life. I have a metal arm. You have a metal suit. Steve has a shield made out of vibranium. I think we're set, pal. For good."

"When we run into a supervillain, I'm blaming you," Tony amends.

"Because that's likely in the middle of fucking- I dunno- the goddamn Shadow Realm."

Steve can't hold back his laughter any longer. "He watched a lot of TV while he let me have my- what did you call it?"

"Terrible Twos Tantrum. Sulky Sadsack Shitfest. Moping Moron Moment."

That gets the most caring annoyed glare Tony has ever seen. "All of the above."

They pass by at least ten motels -- which further proves Tony's ongoing hypothesis that they're secretly magic and appear anywhere and everywhere regardless of the habitability of the environment -- but Bucky doesn't like any of them. They give him a "bad vibe" or "way too good a vibe" and never anything inbetween. Tony's about to go mad with the whole thing, but questioning the spy when his entire life motto has been "flashy as hell without sacrificing functionality, but I give off the general aesthetic of an inventor who likes to compromise in this department" is a pretty stupid idea.

He's getting sick of motels, though. He's getting sick of feeling small and useless, hidden away in a corner for fear of the child's dream of the Big Bad, the ever-present, all-seeing monster. "After this, can I put in an order for a change of pace? Find a base?"

He sees Steve raise an eyebrow in the rearview mirror. It's their best method of communication these days, better than text, phone, or face-to-face had ever been. Tony's avoiding miscommunication more here than he ever has in a lifetime. He's not sure what that says about him, considering he orchestrated the team's entire environment, housing, and comm systems all by himself. Here, now, in Bucky's shitty car, they get along like they're not fugitives and murderers and traitors and victims of Cold War desperation. "Didn't Nat say she had-"

"She said temporary. I'm thinking... slightly less temporary? No, Barnes, not permanent, untwist those panties."

Bucky says dryly, "You know me like the back of your hand." Then, "Where?"

"Nat has the right idea, dragging us all the way over here in the Shadow Realm. I say we let her scout the team a couple very, very scattered bases in this world's parallel Shadow Realms. Sound like a plan? Or do we need to throw a vote? Because I can do that, too."

"I think we all agree," Steve says, diplomatically.

"Then, we're set. Find Nat and make her our official team navigator. Maybe send Wilson flying over a couple secluded wildernesses like these? He's the eyes and she's the neural net. Beginners' level bioscience puns." Tony winks. "I'm accessible. In every way."

"I'm just gonna forget you've said any of that and stick to the plan, before your jokes kill us first," Bucky says. "It's a deal. Shake on it?"

"What is it with you 40's upstanding citizens and your handshakes-"

Steve rolls his eyes, laughing. "Just shake his damn hand, Tony. And mine."

"All three at once," Bucky says, lazily, and throws out a hand in the middle of the car, in reach of all of them. Tony notices it's his prosthetic. He's using it with less hesitation. It's a step in the right direction.

Steve just continues on smiling. "Whatever you say."

They shake.

Bucky does eventually settle on a motel, which is legitimately a god-given miracle. It has no wi-fi, and the bathrooms are all shared stalls on the lobby floor. Part of Tony dies inside every time he thinks about the bacteria having a party on every micron of every surface.

Tony waves his hands when he hands them newly-patched phones, fresh off the rack of his insistent tinkering. "They're unhackable, and I don't mean that like they meant it when they said the Titanic was unsinkable. It's the real deal, fellas. Enjoy."

"My ma used to tell me stories about that damn ship when I was a kid. She always said she had a 'sinking feeling' about it." Bucky smiles to himself. "If you tell me that's a terrible pun I will break your wrist," he adds, staring directly at Tony, and not at Steve, who's actually the one who pokes the most fun on this team. "Your right wrist."

"I'm not sure whether to be warmed or absolutely horrified you'd use that as a threat," Tony tells him, casually. "Please don't. I'm sure your mother was a great person! An upstanding citizen, the model of goodness and-"

Bucky grins, an edge feral. "You've got the right idea."

"Besides, if my wrist broke, all my forms of stress relief would get thrown out the window. Primarily the drive to make your phones not suck, so consider that. I've also heard I'm insufferable when I'm under pressure."

"So, what you're saying is that you're always under pressure?" Steve asks. "I'm really sorry, Tony, that sounds like a bummer. Would you like us to help? Buck is real good at stress relief."

Bucky interupts Steve's joke to waggle his eyebrows obnoxiously. "Feel free to hit me up," he says, firing finger guns like the asshole Tony always knew he was.

"I did not mean it like that," Steve begins, going red, "I wouldn't know anything about-" Here, he pauses. "Your 'bedroom proclivities.'"

Bucky sighs and shakes his head. "Nah, look, you're not clutching your pearls hard enough. It isn't believable like that, Stevie, you gotta nail it in, line and sinker."

"Tony wouldn't believe it anyway."

"You tell us to stop swearing on comms," Tony points out, calmly. "I'd say it was reasonable."

"Yeah, but would I ever not tell Steve about how much I got laid? Really?"

"You raise a very good point."

"Swearing just isn't appropriate on a line any number of future members might have to review!" Steve protests. "I'm trying to respect other people's choices. Y'know, to be polite. I know neither of you have ever heard of it, but it does exist."

Bucky rolls over onto his pillow and yawns. "What're you talkin' to us for like you've heard of it and we haven't? You wouldn't know politeness if it hit you in the ass."

"I'm Captain America."

"On the newsreels. Tony, best impression of Stevie when trying to get ready for an urgent call, shoot."

"'Fuck, shit, goddammit, why won't this fucking suit fit?'" Tony says, droll. "'Oh, I'm sorry, Nat, ladies shouldn't have to hear this- holy shit, who manufactured this thing? It's like slipping into a rubber- No, Bucky, I was going to finish that sentence, you know damn well I was. Hear no evil, speak no evil, they said.'" He breathes. "Was that good enough?"

Bucky shoots him a thumbs up. "That was on your game and I'm proud of you. Keep it up, Tony, I'll make a little shit of you yet."

"I resent the implication that I'm not already a little shit."

Steve shrugs. "I can't even deny it. I've gotta hand it to you two, that was well-played. Now just wait 'till I get you back. You won't see it coming until it's too late."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "But now we know it's coming, so that defeats the whole purpose."

"You'll forget," Steve says, menacingly. "I can wait. Gotta have patience in this line of work, y'know."

"Oh, hey," Tony says, and whistles. "Look at the time. Those phones sure do look inviting, don't they? Can't you just feel the pristine, smooth-as-marble, state of the art touchscreen? Can you really wait to text Natasha pictures of your motel food? Because I don't think you can."

"Just you wait," Steve whispers, and Tony wishes he had a newspaper, or, better, some horrible porno mag to surreptitiously bury his nose in. Anything to scare Cap away.

They wake up, pack up (quickly in Tony's case, the entire place makes him shiver), and giddy up. The mud brown car is an actual relief after this traumatising experience, and honestly getting to Nat's and sleeping knowing she's watching will be a welcome change, and much preferred.

"Nat says she's got doughnuts," Steve says. "Courtesy of Sam, who apparently gets hangry, and I'm really not all that surprised."

"If they're stale when we get there, I'm going to kill one of you. Whoever drives slowest."

"Steve does," Bucky shouts, at the same time as Steve's, "That's definitely Buck."

"Fuck you," they both chorus, again.

Tony looks at them in sheer terror. "I'm glad telepathy is Professor Xavier's thing. You guys don't need any more coordination. We'd all die."

Steve and Bucky make the best effort they can at remaining uncannily coordinated for the rest of the ride. Tony wants to hate them but, goddammit, he can't. Nobody gives him a taste of his own medicine like they do.

When they pull into the lot outside Nat's warehouse, Bucky is nodding with great approval. "See, now this is the kind of hideaway that I live for, y'know? It's solid. Natalia sure knows how to pick a place."

Tony has noticed the slip-up a couple times now, Natalia instead of Natasha, and he knows from Steve that the Winter Soldier gave a younger Black Widow one shitshow of a time, but he's starting to suspect more. He's seen them use similar moves, all grace and perfect flow, unstoppable fighting instinct, superhuman reflexes. At first it was a coincidence, and statistically, it's pretty rare to go a day without at least a few, but now it's getting suspicious, not just natural odds anymore.

Tony says nothing. Instead, he continues straight on in, because upsetting their delicate balance now is beyond stupid, it's frankly suicide, and no word Tony's ever heard spoken has been something he couldn't just have found out himself, provided enough digging. Mark his words, someday soon he is going to pick apart whatever organisation of sick fucks did this to Bucky, and likely to Natasha, but not this day. Today he should let them rest. And fight over what flavour doughnuts they want.

"Maple and Strawberry are me and Stevie's," Bucky says. "I will fight you on it, physically, yeah, and I invite you all to come at me."

"Those aren't odds I like," Sam says. "I'm not picky, but I've always been a sucker for sugar-glazed, so if anyone wants to be kind and generous and pretty much superheroic, I'm right here."

"Welcome to our humble abode," Natasha offers, dry. "Take the chocolate and I'll take out your eye. With this knife." She holds up the plastic knife included with their insanely large order, and Tony backs off, hands raised.

"Chocolate, strawberry, maple, vanilla, sugar, boston cream, fucking orange, I'm good with any."

"That should be a flavour all on its own," Steve says, through a mouthful of maple. "'Fucking Orange, sanctioned and supported by Tony Stark, heart healthy'."

"Energy drink doughnuts," Tony starts. "Healthy energy drink doughnuts. Someone call up tech, because they're dropping everything and going straight into the food business. Stark Industries is now a bakery, end of conversation."

Bucky throws strawberry frosting at him. "Gatorade in a doughnut sounds horrifying."

"You know what Gatorade is, old man?"

"Give me a break, anyone who's lived knows Gatorade. We're almost athletes, it counts."

"Keep telling yourself that when you get kicked out of the Olympics," Steve says, kindly.

Tony laughs all the way into his orange cream, until half of it ends up on his nose and in his beard. "It's good to be home."

"I suppose I can refrain from working you all like dogs until later," Nat says. "Get some shut-eye, but then it's back to the comforting arms of superspying, counterintelligence, and soldiers moonlighting as data analysts."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, I can't wait."

Chapter Text

He probably could've waited. The night comes and goes too fast, which is a new thing for him. Surrounded by fugitives, he's never slept better. Theoretically, it makes no sense. In practice, this shit beats horse tranquilisers. He doesn't want it to stop, when the hard ground feels comfy and the sound of snoring is no longer grating.

But he's woken up by Bucky, scowling, saying, "Romanoff told me to wake you up. Is five in the morning too early? Because it feels like it."

"What the fuck do you mean five in the morning-" Tony gets out, before Steve comes strolling in, humming loudly. When he sees them, he stops.

"Rise and shine. Nat says we don't have long before 'the feds catch up to us and hose us down like fish.' Her words."

Bucky points a shining finger, and snaps, "You cannot be this cheery at five. I'm making a rule against it." He makes a threatening motion, something like beating Steve over the head with a steering wheel, crosses his arms, and waits.

Five seconds later, Steve says, "Someone has to be! The early bird gets-"

"Nope." Tony holds up a hand. "Nope, nope, no proverbs."

Bucky pulls out his patented finger guns. "Someone else to keep Steve out of his goody-two-shoes. I like you, Stark. I can appreciate you. Even though you're literally the dictionary definition of obnoxious. No, really, someone needs to change the dictionary entry to just your face."

"Fuck you, they need to change the entry for guyliner to yours."

Bucky huffs. "I prefer Tall, Dark, and Handsome."

"Shit," says Tony. "I can't call you short, you're tall like the rest of us. And you definitely pull off 'black is my favourite colour of all time.'"

"What about the last one?" Bucky asks, innocently.

"You could melt the room with one look," Tony deadpans.

Like an absolute ass, Bucky pouts (prettily), and blatantly checks them both out. Tony doesn't appreciate having someone else play his game, but Steve just goes red and starts stuttering. "Did that work?" Bucky's sweet smile goes sly.

"Fuck you," Tony says again, in a futile effort.

"I'll take that as a hell yes."

"Tall, Dark, and Snarky," Steve gets out, eventually. Everyone stares, and he lights up an even brighter red. "Like the trope. You know. The one on the website. Uh, y'know, the one with a bottomless pit of links that requires a downpayment of at least five hours. All about TV and... stuff." Still, they're quiet. "I use it to help me understand about seventy-five percent of pop culture this decade. It's funny, and pretty self-explanatory."

Tony side-eyes him. "Is it also comfy and easy to wear?"

"Oh!" Steve grins. "I got that one!"

"I'm so pleased I've dragged you down with me," Tony begins, sultry. "Come make obscure and/or annoying references with me."

"I'm sorry, Steve, Tony," Bucky says, "I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

From the doorway, Tony hears, "You three belong in elementary school." Nat stands, one hand on her hip, one eyebrow raised, amused like they're a park ride. "You ready to get started?"

"This is already the worst day," Tony replies. "Do we have to, Mom?"

"Yes, рыбонька, we have to."

"What'd you just call me?" Nat only smiles. He turns to Bucky, frantic. "What did she just call me? It's something terrible, isn't it? My ego will never be the same."

"I mean," Bucky starts, "literally? Fish. Y'know, like cute little fish, more minnow than pirahna. It's a petname. For, uh, a loved one, like a girlfriend."

"Why not boyfriend?" Tony isn't stupid. "You could've said boyfriend. Why not boyfriend?"

Bucky twitches, holding back a snort. "It's, well, it's-" He chokes, a little. "I mean, it's generally female, but I- don't let that stop you. Nat clearly hasn't."

"No, I haven't," says Nat. "Come on, little fish, we could use that big head of yours on something useful."

"Can't we talk about my big other things?"

Nat grins harder, in a terrifying kind of way which makes his throat go dry like a thoroughly squeezed sponge. "хуйня́. У тебя́ о́чень ма́ленький хуй. Translate that for him, James."

Bucky makes a valiant effort to remain unaffected, and fails more miserably than anyone Tony has ever seen. He bursts into laughter, face going red and blotchy, holding his head in his hands, gasping for breath. Steve and Tony watch in horror as Bucky acts like this is the funniest joke on the planet, and once finally finished, shakes his head furiously. "Oh, Jesus fuck, I can't. I can't tell you."

"Tell me," Steve offers, "and I can tell him nicely. Assuming it's rude. Which I definitely am, from that look."

"What look?" Bucky blinks. Then, he leans in and whispers something in Steve's ear that makes him turn purple.

"Oh, shit, I can't repeat that- Tony doesn't deserve-" Steve bites down an honest-to-god giggle. "I don't think he could handle it."

Bucky steps forward. "Okay, I'll do the honours. Tony, maybe you'll wanna sit down, 'cause she just called bullshit. And said you had a tiny di-"

Tony groans loudly. "Stop right there! I get it, no need to keep going. My fragile heart is broken. Thanks, Nat, you've shattered me."

"If your ego is that fragile..." she trails off.

"I hate all of you," Tony informs them, kindly, and goes to see if he can steal the last doughnut. Because they deserve what's coming.

Nat instructs them to work on hunting down the rest of the Avengers, in the short period of time they have before they're inevitably hunted down themselves.

Tony's used to tedious work, but Steve and Bucky, they've spent their lives working on the battlefield, in the heat of the moment. Not this, sitting around and waiting and clue-finding. Bucky likes nothing more than showing off how incredibly impatient he is on the inside, but the hard outer shell, the coating the Red Room stuck to him, that taught him how to wait, how to catch skittish prey. But Steve, his patience doesn't hold up when his team is in danger. His computing knowledge is better than most, Tony's made sure of that, but still, he looks like the era he's from has betrayed him, tapping away on the laptop, doing god knows what. "It's not working," Steve says, looking two seconds away from throwing the damn thing out the window.

Tony asks, "What's not working?"

"Hacking into the old SHIELD databases. Most of them were leaked, but I know Fury got paranoid. He always has been, but at the end, at the end it was real bad- it was like he locked everything."

"You're trying to hack," Tony says, slow, "into SHIELD's servers."

"I was getting somewhere, but you've only been teaching me since a few years ago- I dunno, I'm just hitting a rock."

Bucky looks impressed. "Here I was, going through hotel bookings, trying to use any aliases I could think of. I mean, the little guy, Ant-Man -- god, that is such a dumbass name, I can't even say it -- he's a thief. And the interdimensional robot is... himself. But Telekinesis? I mean, is she great at hiding? Either way, not as great as I am. Only the robot, maybe. Even then, he seems kind of innocent. He looks like his nose'd grow if he told a lie, y'know? Anyway, whatever, I'm coming up with fuckin' nothing at all, so. Someone's doing something right."

"How do you even know all this?" Tony's suspicious, for a moment, wondering who's been talking, but Bucky just shakes his head.

"I do research. My own research, you can stop pissing your million dollar boxers and relax. Nobody's spilled shit. Ain't a single fuck on your team who'd so much as give out their birthday to get a card."

"I didn't think it was one of the team," Tony protests. "Just somebody who heard something in the right place at the right time."

"So," Steve says, resting his chin in his hands, shoulders in tense knots. He looks like he's just had the most trying day of his life. "No luck."

"Nope."

"With anything?"

"Not with anything, no," he confirms. He cares about the team dearly, but he has faith his tech will hold out and reach them soon enough. JARVIS is off being transformed into the metaphysical consciousness of an interdimensional robot, but FRIDAY won't stop. Hell, if DUM-E could do something, tag a ride along, Tony knows he would. But Steve doesn't have anyone but them to back him up. His team. And half of them are in hiding.

"No leads?"

"There are leads," Natasha says, as if the idea of a cold case is simply unimaginable, scoffing and waving a dismissive hand. "We just have to look for them. That requires effort, boys, I'd recommend you gear up and prepare. James, I'll refer all my current intel to you. You know what to do with it."

Tony gives her a sour look. He may brag, but his competence isn't made-up. He may not be the most subtle of all men, but he can learn. He's not an old dog yet. "So do we!"

"Yes, you do, but not as quickly. I'm sorry, but we can't sacrifice time for pride here. You're good, but James and I have done this for a long, long time. Pretty sure we could do it blindfolded and handcuffed at this point." She winks. "In due time, I'll teach you the ways, my apprentices." Then, she laughs and goes back to her work.

Tony's eyes are stars when he looks at that woman, honestly. "That was cool," he says. "Those were some smooth moves, right there. Aerodynamic smooth. Knife through butter smooth."

"So, we do have leads," Bucky starts, a tiny bit confused, nose wrinkling. It's kinda cute. "And Natasha's giving them to us. Well, me. But basically us. And that means..." He hums, threading his fingers together, metal against flesh. He's still slightly wary to use the mechanical arm, but he's getting better at hiding the wince, the attempts to disguise his disgust as anything else. "You guys can take the flashy shit. Since you can't sneak, snoop, or spy worth a damn. No offence."

Tony snorts, unconvinced. "Wow, it's almost like you meant that."

"Oh, he does," Steve says. "He's always thought being blunt about the truth trumped covering it. He's still that way."

"You can take the boy out of Brooklyn," Bucky intones.

Steve lights up in that way Tony's come to recognise as fondly nostalgic, reminiscing without minding the pain of missing. "But you can't take Brooklyn out of the boy. Yeah. Tell me about it."

"I'm a child of the world," Tony offers. "Product of mass globalisation. It's very me, don't you think?"

"You're a mass of globalisation. You share yourself with everybody." Bucky snickers, but holds up his hands. "Actually, to be fair, if you didn't share, we'd all be in a worse off place. Less old flames -- sorry, one night stands -- returning in the form of angry journalists. But also less actually reliable technology. Fair trade-off."

"You really do have a thing for research, don't you? Lemme guess, is the Sexy Librarian your type?"

"Everyone's my type," Bucky says. "I don't judge books by their covers. It's the pages inside that I like, flicking back and forth 'cause I just can't get enough, running my fingers down their spine."

Bucky's expression nails it in, though, teasing and amused, just a hint of something less than innocent. He knows Bucky's attractive, of course, but this is some killer technique. Tony very much approves. "I applaud you for making books a sex thing."

"Don't make books a sex thing," Steve says, holding back a grin. "Or, if sex motivates you, make reading through hotel ledgers a sex thing. Don't ditch me here with all this. It deserves to be appreciated. Just us, alone, here with all these records..."

Nat peeks up, exasperated, but without any real edge. "Are you physically incapable of being serious for more than a minute? If so, I'm impressed. If having verbal intercourse gets the job done, then by all means. Continue."

"We will, then," Tony says, and sticks out his tongue.

For all their chatter, they do work. There are hours of silence, fingers tapping away on keys, Tony trying not to get anxious about what it means that no-one's so much as leaving a breadcrumb, and then there's a shout, from Nat, punching the air, messing her molten red hair over her face.

"You've got something," Tony says.

Nat clicks away, a fast rhythm like a drumbeat, because apparently she hums when she's accomplished something. "Weird sightings," she says. "Strange markings on the ground. I figure our resident thunder god has returned, and is wondering, 'Why all the radio silence?' So he's not being subtle. Who gets to break him the news?"

Bucky flinches a little at this, and Tony has this little niggling sense that Bucky blames himself for the Avengers doing... what they've always done, saving the world while falling apart. "The news that everything's been lost while he was away?" Lightly, melodically, he says, "That'll sure go down well."

"Thor's a big boy," Tony returns. It's important, suddenly, somehow, that Bucky not be withering away under guilt over something that was, ultimately, the fault of all of them. But mainly his own damn fault. Mainly his own, and here Bucky is, shouldering it like a guilty Catholic. "He's not stupid; he'll figure out what's going on. We should find him before he finds us, though. If the Bifrost makes its mark here... the locals are not laid-back enough to accept that someone decided to use henna on the ground."

"There aren't any locals for miles," Sam says. "I mean, they exist, but this is an abandoned storage warehouse. For, like, Sears. The only people coming here are kids with ghost stories, and they'd be getting what they came for. I'm just saying."

"You don't wanna make Thor do stealth, right?" Steve offers. "He's the only one left who hasn't... seen everything. But, as much as I sometimes hope he sees us 'Midgardians' as fighting trivial problems compared to his birth realm, he's not going to be surprised."

"That we fucked up monumentally, no," Tony starts, and feels a little sick, a little regretful about those doughnuts. "But I- I got you guys in a prison. That's different. Thor's had enough of that ballgame already."

"You're not advocating that we keep him in the dark, are you, Tony?" Nat's voice has gone low. "None of us were built for trust, but we're about to need it. And for that, we've supposed to have earnt it."

"No," Tony says, firmly, looking right at her. "No, no more secrets. When SHIELD fell, we all saw how dangerous that route could be. Honesty is the best policy -- yes, overdone -- but actually the pillar of this team. We'll tell Thor. I just don't know how he'll react."

"We know him," Steve says. "He couldn't bear that his shieldbrothers and shieldsisters were scattered and afraid. He'd push the recon op harder than any of us."

He would, he'd dedicate himself to it. With his brother, his family, everything, there was not a single way in hell Thor would do anything but scramble to get them back, beg to tear down everything in his way. "We're going to have to force him into stealth," Tony says, ill. "He'd want to make them hurt physically -- the government, probably me -- for what they've- we've done. But the way this cookie crumbles, we've gotta pick them out and shelter them away one-by-one. And one-by-one only. Or else we all get found. And we all go back."

"Giant superprisons are too Hollywood for me," Nat says. Then, "I don't... do. Prisons. Like that."

Bucky twitches. "I was shoved into cryo in a prison cell for seventy years."

"I got held prisoner by my own freezing ship in the arctic," Steve says. "So, no, none of us can do prisons. But Thor can do stealth."

"He's a big boy," Bucky parrots. "He's capable of stealth."

His skin is a little tight. "It's not his capability that's rustling my jimmies, Raccoon Boy. It's the toll it's gonna take on him, making him wait to save some of the only family he's got left."

"How are we going to call him without getting found out? Real fast," Sam says, and chews viciously on the end of his pencil. Tony hasn't even needed graphite for years, not 'till now, after he's left his lab. And, without JARVIS...

"Have him come to us," Steve says, then turns to Bucky, who's nodding, like he knows exactly what this means. "Right?"

Bucky plucks the pencil from Sam's hands. "That's for not moving your seat, Tweety." He steals the paper from under their nose and begins drawing. After a great deal of time, where Tony goes through thinking it's a beehive, then a Celtic knot, then a maze, it finally comes out looking at least half like the Bifrost. "Make a comment about my shit sketching and I'll kick your ass, Stark," he says. "Anyway, look, have Steve draw it somewhere if you want better. The point is, this is our key. We've got to, I dunno, summon him. Can we paint it on the ground? Does it work like that?"

"He's not a crossroads demon," Tony points out. "He's the only one who can make the Bifrost work."

"Aside from other Asgardians. Or talented interdimensional astrophysicists." Steve stops. "Buck, who are you planning on exploiting?"

"Originally, your artistic talent. Now? Hell if I know. Not a single Asgardian. Loki is a crossroads demon, I'm not getting into that galactic fuck-up. I'm figuring the latter. Astrophysicists. Know any who haven't completely lost their grip on reality?"

"I'm a semi-talented astrophysicist," Tony offers. "I'm not Foster, or Selvig, or Richards. But they're all otherwise occupied. Except Jane, possibly, but bringing her into this..."

"She's not part of this problem. She doesn't need to be," Steve finishes.

"Right. I'm. After Spencer, I can't- with more civilians. So, I'm all you've got. It's just me, your warm thoughts, and reverse-engineering the Bifrost."

"Or," Sam says. "I could just fly to his Last Known and sniff him out from there."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "And get yourself killed?"

"I did two tours, man. I'm not fast like our resident all-American beefcake, but I'm not gonna walk out the door and get myself shot, if that's what you're saying."

Steve flushes. "Hey, I'd probably walk out the door and get myself shot, actually, so. Is reverse-engineering the safest option?"

Tony shrugs. "It's not safe, but yeah, there's no safer. Unless one of you has Thor's phone number."

"He doesn't carry a phone," Nat replies, still engrossed in her laptop, fingers flying over the keys. Tony tries to take a peek, and finds himself face-to-face with a weather map. "Believe me, I've tried. He doesn't know Earth tech like we do, but he knows more than enough to say no to something with a GPS signal someone other than us can get their hands on." She shrugs, and says, "I don't blame him. I'm wondering... maybe we can track him through weather reports. We have his last known location, and we have Internet access. Cross-reference the data and follow the thunderstorms, and we'll find Thor."

"There are a metric shittonne of thunderstorms every day-"

Nat waves him off. "But like Thor's? Lightning with a mind of its own isn't really all that commonplace, Stark."

Sam snorts. "Or big guys with hammers."

"It's our safest bet," Steve says. "Next to the reverse-engineering, but that might take longer than we have. Do we know how long Thor's staying?"

"You saying he'd ditch?" Bucky asks, sceptical. "That's kinda gloomy for you."

"No, no, I'm saying he'll rip up the whole planet trying to find us. He'll get himself thrown in maximum security lockup. And I can't let them do that to him. I've seen enough of my friends in chains."

"Well then, boys," Nat says, and scoots back in her chair. "It looks like it's time to set ourselves up for some lucrative careers in meteorology."

Chapter Text

Their new-found careers in meteorology are not particularly lucrative.

It's not to say that no storms happen to be ravaging the Earth in this particular moment. It's more like the opposite. Everywhere is covered from head to toe in suspicious meteorological activity. Tony may spend most of his love of science devoting himself to the field of robotics, but he's not weather oblivious. He'd had to make sure the Iron Man armour could withstand tornadoes and hurricanes and tsunamis and every other major geological event he can imagine. In fact, he'd had to do that for each and every iteration he'd made, and he's going to have to continue doing it for the ones to come. From Mark I to Mark C.

Tony is, if anything, good at picking out data. He can sift from the crowd and pinpoint the exact. But Thor doesn't happen to be from their planet, has the technology to jump between dimensions seamlessly, and is on some sort of strange spiritual quest for his family. He doesn't want to be found, and that's very good reason to predict that he can't be. Not with Earth tech, anyway. And, though Thor has promised Loki's redemption is absolute, Tony doesn't want to go to him and ask for help unless circumstances are very, very dire.

Right now circumstances are just dire.

They have a few good guesses, but they're each thousands of miles apart, and that means stealing a Quinjet. Bucky lights up at this prospect, but Steve looks bewildered, and Nat gives him a scorching glare for even putting this idea into their heads.

"Look," Tony begs. "It's literally our best chance, aside from asking Loki, and nobody in their right mind-"

Bucky interrupts, "Which we aren't, just to add."

Tony continues, "Nobody in their right mind, or even in their wrong mind, wants to go to the Trickster God for help. If we give him a centimeter of trust, he'll steal a mile right from under our noses and we'll all be too busy running around like headless chickens to do a goddamn thing about it. So, I, for one, vote out of that scenario. Just a matter of personal taste, but I don't like getting swindled by a guy who still thinks slicking back his hair is cool."

"I also vote out," Steve says. "Unless it's absolutely necessary, we shouldn't go to Loki. He doesn't need to get involved."

"Playing devil's advocate, I did successfully outwit the self-proclaimed god of wit when we first met," Nat offers. But then, "It's a terrible idea and none of us should even think about it, but it doesn't have a one hundred percent failure rate."

"Just ninety-nine point nine," Tony says.

"It's better than nothing?" Steve starts up, and Bucky gently whacks him on the back of the head.

"We'll have more luck trying to steal a Quinjet in pink elephant costumes than we will trying to talk to that guy. Never met him. Never gonna, unless Hell actually goes and freezes itself over, and pigs sprout wings and start having fuckin' airshows."

"He could make pigs sprout wings," Nat says. "Just to get you to talk to him. So, I'd like to put myself firmly in the 'no, absolutely not' category for this."

"So, we're stealing a Quinjet."

Steve sighs. "How do the four of us plan on up and strolling in to a highly secure government HQ and strolling back out again with a fifty tonne plane in hand?"

"We're superpowered megageniuses," Tony tells him, casually. "We'll figure something out."

Nat frowns. "Oh, yes, I'm loving the 'waltz in with no plan and wing it' look on us. Seems safe."

"Cloaking?" Tony truthfully has very little idea whether their unusual gifts will manage to carry them through a sting of this scale. But sitting around coming up with probably terrible ideas is better than sitting around with their thumbs up their asses, crying because nobody's holding their hand and spoon-feeding them the resources they've become accustomed -- hell, entitled -- to anymore.

It wasn't until Afghanistan that Tony had ever experienced not having things just blindly handed to him on his every whim. He might count himself lucky that, at least, he got out alive -- and with a long-lasting mistrust of everyone around him, especially SHIELD, and especially all of SHIELD's half-baked successors. He's been self-sustaining. But he can admit it was easy to get cozy with federal coverage of all their dumbass decisions.

None of his intel is up-to-date, unless the government is so incredibly lazy it'll gladly let now-wanted criminals peruse its databases, but Tony would shed a tear if that was the case, both in horror at their sheer dumb luck, and the sheer stupidity. He's not sure which outcome would comfort him more, gain access to servers managed by clones of the guy he'd caught playing Galaga on the Helicarrier all those years ago, or come away with no useful information, no leads, and a resounding reassurance that people's minds aren't, in fact, made out of Cheeto dust.

Either way, they're fucked, and either way, they still have to steal a goddamn Quinjet.

It's the worst idea he's ever had, and he's had the Constitution and all its amendments' worth of bad ideas. He needs a new one.

Rhodey used to do that. Give him ideas. Actually good ones. Ones that recognised that Tony needed -- still very much needs -- an external filter for all the random nonsense that leaks out of him on a daily basis.

Fuck, he misses Rhodey so much he can taste it. But someone has to stay on the government's good side. Even if he is wearing stolen Iron Man armour.

"Well, ladies and gents," Bucky says. "It was nice being alive. See you all in hell after we get our own asses handed to us on a silver platter. I, for one, am gonna love it."

Tony pauses. Stolen Iron Man armour.

"Wait," Tony says. "Wait, I have a better idea. It's still stupid, but it's not that stupid. Okay, yes it is."

"Shoot," says Steve.

"What if I, using my sharp wit and excellent mind, managed to procure you all Iron Man suits of your own? I have a few prototypes I 'forgot' to mention to the government."

Steve sours. "So you admit you didn't trust them."

"I only trust my team," Tony replies. "Which is why I'm even considering this, by the way. I don't hand out my armour to just any old joe."

"Thank you," Steve tells him, begrudgingly. "How do you plan on getting hands on your old and, I assume, still very secured inventory? You know, the one that's possibly locked down even tighter than the government's holdings?"

"The magic of electrons," Tony says. "There's nothing I can't hack. Especially myself! Nobody knows me better than me -- okay, probably JARVIS, once, but now he has a Bedazzler and looks like a Christmas tree, and I volunteer no information to people with a terrible fashion sense."

Bucky snorts, and then looks remorseful at his own sense of humour. "How long will it take you, d'you think?"

"Ten cups of coffee and a few days of screaming at my past self for being competent."

"Days?" Steve repeats.

"Seconds for anyone else, but hey, I pride myself on my stamina." He winks. "Without JARVIS, it'll be admittedly much easier to hack into. But still not a walk in the park, so I expect you all to be accommodating, and not to heartlessly harass me."

Nat hums. "I make no promises."

"You're terrible and I hate you."

"I'll buy you a Starbucks."

"You're the best and I love you."

Tony immediately gets to screaming at his past self. Within the first five minutes, he realises he did -- in the least arrogant way he can put this -- a goddamn fantastic job of safeguarding his own designs. He drinks coffee like it's been pouring from the Fountain of Youth, suffers in the most loud and obnoxious way possible, and slowly makes progress. It helps that he remembers all this steps his mind had shuffled through to create the encryption algorithm now he doesn't have a drunken haze over the memory to muddle through. Reduced alcoholism has its benefits. Also, he has FRIDAY on his phone, and Steve pats him on the back when he complains. Bucky just laughs at him, but Steve is an angel. It soothes his fried nerves.

"I hate that this is giving you way more shit to brag about," Bucky tells him, on the third day. "How much did you underestimate yourself again?"

"By five hours, going on at least another five." Tony shrugs. "I can't help being the smartest guy ever with the best security in the world."

"Shut up," says Bucky. "Five hours?"

"Yes," Tony replies. "Possibly more than that. Scratch that, probably more than that, because we're talking about my suits here. You know what would happen if the wrong person got their greedy little hands on one of my suits, Jimmy?"

"Certain death."

"I love how that's not a question." Tony stops his work for a second to give Bucky a thumbs up. "I swear I will get us into these beautiful golden creations, but I have to cover my own tracks. I would say the sheer amount of people who want one of their own is astounding, but let's be real, this is my tech we're talking about here."

"I hate you."

"Darling," says Tony, fiddling with his own code. He's confident he can do this, only if it's because he'll go insane otherwise. Ten years ago, he was poking the olives in his martinis with cute mini umbrellas, blissfully unaware of any goings on in his company, about as far away from personal responsibility and maturity as physically possible. And now he's sitting in a shitty safehouse room with Captain America, two gorgeous and unfairly talented Russian assassins, and an unretired retired vet with goddamn bird wings, on the run from the government, trying to hack his own code so he can gain access to flying metal suits in order to find a god who will help them reclaim their lost honour as a group of washed up superhuman assholes who are struggling to self-police their mind-bending power and yet retain any semblance of freedom from the bias of outside, though far more impartial, sources. "You have no idea."

"We have some idea," Nat says. She's spent the last uncountable hours lying on the bed, legs crossed, with her phone in her hands, rapidly typing. Tony can honestly say he has absolutely zero idea what the fuck she does ninety percent of the time. He's not sure how many organs for presumable black market sale it would cost him to find out.

"I don't mean to rush you," Steve says. "What you're doing here, for us, for the team, it's admirable, Tony. I don't think I have the proper words to express my gratitude. But, uh, given our status as war criminals, I don't figure we have much time to hack." He coughs. "Or any time."

"No, you're right, Cap. Give me a neck massage and I might be able to lower it to four and a half hours." He's joking, of course, but it hasn't really registered to him yet that Steve thinks all his jokes have some grain of truth to them, and are therefore thinly-veiled complaints and requests. Mostly Tony doesn't even think about what he's saying.

Naturally, Steve walks over and All-American, Star-Spangled grips Tony's shoulders and tries his damn best to give a good, non-lethal massage for a guy who can lift a couple buses. "If you want."

"God, no! I mean, not that I don't love a good- oh my god, you take everything so literally, what I meant was-" And then Tony realises Steve is smiling smugly. "You bastard. I never want to see you again."

"Sure thing. What do you always say? That you could do this with your hands tied behind your back, blindfolded?"

"A neck rub would be good, though," Tony says. "Or an... anything else rub." He winks. "Any one of you are free to give Cap a hand, too, if it gets too much for him. Or even if it doesn't get too much."

"I'm gonna be sick," says Sam. "Be right back, expelling the contents of my stomach onto your armour."

Tony gasps. "Don't defile it with your regurgitated cheap coffee and day-old doughnuts!"

"Get back to work, gentlemen," Nat cuts in, amused. "I know you're used to having time to sexually ooze onto your teammates, Tony, but we're wanted men now. Time to get on your big boy pants."

Tony covers his mouth with his hands and cries, "'Ooze?' 'Ooze!?'"

But he does get back to work.

"I cracked it!" He throws his hands in the air in celebration and leaps to his feet. "Alright, we can leave now, my fellow miscreants. We can get this show on the road."

Bucky looks up. "'Grats. Where's the armour?"

"We can't just put it on here in the middle of- uh- the middle of-"

"Maine," offers Nat. "Have you not noticed the location of maybe one of our last remaining secure safehouses, Tony?"

"I haven't slept in seventy-eight hours. Right, Maine! Inhabited, populated Maine. We need the safety and relative cover of the- uh. Nearest mountain."

"Mount Katahdin," Nat volunteers. Superspy geniuses, very handy. "To clarify, this place is very uninhabited. A few log cabins. Tourist stuff. But not in this weather. The nearest town, Millinocket, is still miles off."

"I still want mountains," Tony huffs. "As soon as the armour touches down, someone will notice. And that someone who noticed will tell someone else, who will tell more someone elses, and so on. Eventually, one of those someone elses is going to be a very, very bad someone who has very, very bad things planned for us. So, we should be out of the safehouse and preferably somewhere secluded to get inside the suits. Somewhere like hiking up a mountain."

"Man, is this what you came up with in your seventy-eight hours?" Bucky quips. "A hike for justice?"

"Uh, yeah," says Tony. "And you need to get your ass on it ASAP. Choo, choo, the hike train's leaving."

"Sleep first," says Nat. "Get in some sleep before you decide to try and pilot a walking garishly-painted weapon of mass destruction out of this country and to Thor's location. Which I've been working on, while you boys were planning your hikes. He's in Sokovia, perhaps enjoying contemplating his terrible life choices."

Tony stops. "Sokovia?"

"He must have heard about the breakup of the team. And that a Sokovian national tried to have all of you killed, because of what we did to his family."

"We, as individual people, didn't kill them," Steve says. "None of us personally went to his house and murdered them while they slept, like he seems to think." Steve's eyes have gone dull and haunted. "They died in the fallout of this team, our team, cleaning up our own messes, but those messes came about because we are doing necessary work in legitimately protecting and ensuring the safety of this planet and its dimension in spacetime." He sits down onto the bed, rigid posture crumpling. "Every day I face the ghosts of the lives lost in these incidents. It tears me apart. But if we did what Zemo wanted? If we stepped down in shame, or in coffins? This planet would be destroyed. We have aliens on our backs. Magical gems that warp the nature of reality as we know it. Without us, humankind could rip this universe to shreds. And if any of the science I've picked up from your conversations is right, we could damage the very fabric of space. What would happen to Thor's dimensions? What about the theory of parallel worlds? Selvig loves that."

There are times Tony regrets ever having underestimated Steve's intelligence. But he's had a few years to adjust, and he's always trying, always learning new things, always passively absorbing information like background radiation. Of course he would know, of course he would put his superhuman brain to good use. That's who he is. "No, you're right," Tony says. "You're damn right. But this whole- this. Everything I tried was so that we could minimise those inevitable casualties. To do all we can to prevent situations like Zemo's, like Sharpe's, from ever happening again."

"But you were too hasty, Tony. We've got to find a way to regulate ourselves that won't sacrifice the essential human rights of the members of our team, and our duty to protect this planet. The ideology, the checks and balances from which these regulations are predicated must be soundly thought-out, or we'll risk our power being dropped into the hands of those who want to use us. Or round us up into camps." Steve pleads, "I don't want us to go unchecked. Every day my own power scares me, but it must be used. That's my duty and responsibility as someone who's been granted this immense gift. That's the duty of all of us, as superhumans, and as human beings."

"That's why we stuck with Steve," Sam offers. "Not just him dropping words like predicated into his sentences, though that was majorly cool, but because he knows how to run this team. And we know that we have a duty to not be huge fuckups, excuse my French."

"Especially with people like me around," says Bucky, raising a despondent, unmoving metal hand. "I have the potential to save as many as I've killed. But I've killed. And I'm barely functioning enough to save."

"But you're not a lost cause," Steve says, firmly. "He's not a lost cause, Tony."

Tony says, "I know. It hurts, to forgive, to remember. Mom and Dad's deaths weigh on me. But I know," and nods.

"And that's why we've got to keep going. And keep each other in check." Steve finishes his speech with a deep exhale. "And to keep going, you need to sleep. And then we can set out to find Thor."

"Sir, yes, sir."

Chapter Text

Tony dreams of his mother.

Unlike dear old Dad, his mother had always made an effort to be present in his life, in her own strange way. It wasn't the way the child Tony Stark had needed, but it was an effort. And he can still see her so clearly -- warm eyes, soft hair Tony once loved to pull at as a small boy, always wearing the same distant expression on her face. The smell of her expensive perfume, and the way it clung to Tony's clothes for hours after. She was kind to him.

But she was dead inside. It's a relatable feeling.

Tony had never thought to ask her why she married his father. Howard was bright like a star once, or so he hears. That's what Jarvis, the first Jarvis, used to tell him -- that his father was once a beacon of hope to many people, especially the ones who went to bed and woke up with the image of Steve Rogers, alone in a plane on a course for the arctic ocean, in their eyes. But maybe it was his father's lack of success, or his old age, or his excessive drinking, because all that supposed light had faded by the time of Tony's birth.

Maria is exhausted in every memory Tony has left. Exhausted, drained, empty. And his father, cold, disappointed. For all appearances, intents, and purposes, Tony hates them. Pities his mother and despises his father. At the same time, they had been everything to him, once.

It's that feeling -- that cherished feeling that, despite their madness, his parents still loved him -- that tears him apart. He sees Bucky, his cautious smile, his cutting humour, his unwavering dedication to his friends, and he knows why Steve would give anything to keep him safe. And yet -- and yet, still HYDRA had systematically destroyed almost everything that had made him human. It took seventy years and his past beating him over the head with a shield to even rekindle a single ember of the man that was once James Buchanan Barnes.

And Bucky knows it. That he shares his body with the monster they made. Steve knows it, too, and Tony, and Nat, and Sam. And, apparently, so did Zemo.

Longing. Rusted. Seventeen.

Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign.

Homecoming. One. Freight Car.

That had been why Tony signed the Accords. Without their minds, they're living weapons. Bucky is only one man. The Avengers are an entire organisation.

He can still see his mother's face, bloodied and beaten. He can still hear his father's tinny, shaking voice.

"Not my wife. Please, no."

"Sergeant Barnes?"

"Howard? Howard!"

Shrapnel in his chest cavity hadn't felt like watching that video had. Flying into a wormhole hadn't left him with such dread. Watching his own creation transform into an abomination hadn't been as horrifying. Only a few opening grainy milliseconds on an empty road at night were enough for him to know exactly what he was going to be forced to watch.

He had felt his throat close and stick like he'd swallowed glue. Except, he was the only Stark left who would ever be able to catch his breath again.

Tony opens his eyes to the face of his mother's murderer and screams.

"I'm too old to be given heart problems," Bucky says, grabbing and hauling Tony up by the shoulder as he attempts not to fall out of the bed.

"Nightmares," Tony clarifies.

Bucky huffs. "Thanks. The ladies told me I was quite the catch. I guess they meant the goods and services."

Tony's too shaken to spend time considering just exactly what Bucky means by 'goods and services.' Instead, he holds two fingers to his pulse and counts the beats. "I was-" He clears his throat. "The video."

Bucky tilts his head, but the dark look in his eyes lets Tony know he's perfectly aware of what video is in question. He patiently waits as Tony's heartbeat settles back into something vaguely acceptable, then says, "Sorry doesn't cut it. But, y'know. It's there."

"I do know. The lights were on," Tony says, inhaling and exhaling slowly, "but nobody was home. Catch my drift?"

"You could'a caught it before you lasered my arm off." Bucky shrugs. "No offense."

"It's still-" He squints. "Say a few magic words and your little house could empty out again in seconds. That's also a drift I've been catching."

"You still want the Feds running the team, don't you?"

Tony scowls in disgust. "Not the government. They showed their true colours -- I'm thinking something like puke green and beige. Maybe add in a little mauve, a little taupe. Incompetence Indigo."

"But someone."

"You took out not one, not two, not three, not four, but five would-be Avengers and the niece of the former SHIELD founder after Zemo pissed all over your deprogramming." Tony stares blankly down at his hands. "That's six against one. Funny odds, huh? You'd think we might have a chance." Bucky looks so innocent here, wrapped in a 100% cotton shirt and ripped jeans. He could be a farmboy. "You wiped the floor with us. Three meta humans, a war vet, a secret agent, and a genius in a suit of armour. You wanna maybe talk about that?"

"There's not much to talk about."

"Not much to talk about," Tony repeats incredulously.

Bucky sniffs. "You think a board of directors is gonna stop the Winter Soldier? Zemo was smart, but he wasn't one of a kind. Giving me a glorified nanny isn't going to magically erase all HYDRA's records, Stark. Everything Zemo found can be found again. And there's no shortage of people with grudges against the Soldier. Look at you."

"I haven't sent you on a fucking murderous rampage," Tony spits.

"You tried to feed me a missile."

He roars, "You killed my mom!"

"Yeah," says Bucky. Then, "You can't send me to daycare, rustbucket."

"What do you recommend I do? Sit with my thumbs up my ass and leave the team unchecked?"

"The team checks itself," Bucky says. "It definitely wasn't your fucking pencil-pushing supervisor kissing asses in his two dollar suit who got me safely contained in the end." He shakes his head. "Steve's wrong. He thinks I can stroll around like there's no tomorrow and everything will be just fine and dandy. Well, that's a dipshit plan if I ever heard one. But you're wrong, too. There's only one way to kill the Winter Soldier, and that's to kill the Winter Soldier. Whaddaya know? Who could'a guessed?"

"Shut up," Tony snaps. "Nobody's killing you."

"It's the best choice."

"I said shut your fucking mouth, Barnes. Thank you."

Bucky raises his hands in surrender.

"I wasn't born with this considerable intellect so I could let it go to waste," Tony snarls. "I'll figure something out. In the mean time, you know exactly where to shove your martyr complex, sunshine."

Tony doesn't get back to sleep after that. It's been easier for him recently, easier than it's ever been, but now every time he tries to close his eyes he sees Bucky with a gun to his head and wants to be sick. Tony can't let him do it. Half the time he wants to throw Bucky out the car window, and the other half he spends terrified that the government will take him away. If they put the fucking Avengers into a high security prison-cum-bunker deep in the ocean, god knows what they'd do to the world's most successful assassin.

Tony's not even sure if his relationship with Steve is as complicated. Cap is so perfect Tony's eyes burn to look at him, but most of their interactions consist of yelling, glaring, or beating each other senseless. He's never been sure if it's supposed to say something about his character, that the most flawless human being alive thinks he's a piece of shit. Tony uses obnoxiousness as a defence mechanism, but he's no longer sure where the mask ends and the man beneath begins.

Bucky doesn't want to yell at him, or punch him in his perfect beard. If anything, Tony's not really sure what Bucky wants. Maybe nothing, after all his years of being conditioned to not have feelings or desires outside of those of his masters'. With Steve, it's at least clear. Do this, Tony. Do that, Tony. Stop acting like such an immeasurably huge asshole, Tony. For Christ's fucking sake, stop antagonising the goddamn team, Tony. Steve's never subtle. But Bucky, on the other hand. For all he knows, Bucky could want him to tapdance naked and sing today's top hits.

For all their sakes, he very much hopes not.

Despite feeling lost and confused, Tony knows for certain he can't let Bucky die. Even if he still wanted to crush the man like a can of soda, Steve lives and breathes him like a lifeline. The difference between pre-Bucky and post-Bucky Steve is night and day. Tony hadn't known it was missing, but he'd watched as part of Cap's soul returned with the knowledge that James Buchanan Barnes was alive and as well as one could be, after falling off a fucking train and getting kidnapped, brainwashed, and held hostage by power-hungry, sociopathic maniacs for seventy years. It's a sharp contrast.

Whatever his feelings, Steve and Bucky are a package deal. They've raised each other out of the mud. From history books to comic books, the two are joined at the hip.

Tony kind of wants to kill them both. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, he's thrown away everything to save them. Fucking unbelievably perfect people and their unbelievably perfect, magical, equal parts charming and nauseating lifelong bond. You really do catch more flies with honey.

"Oh," Steve says, walking in all wholesome and American and Tony hates him. "You're already awake! I was just coming to wake you up. Nat says it's time to go."

Time for the shit to hit the fan. Tony sighs. "You're not afraid of heights, are you?"

Natasha drives their shitty car through the mountainside, looking for the perfect pickup location. This is the last time they'll need the old hunk of junk, and Tony might even be a little sad. Despite looking like it's seen a nuclear winter, it's carried five muscle-heavy Avengers for hundreds of miles without fail. It's amazing luck. Or maybe it's just that Starks carry with them a magical restorative energy for all mechanical objects, and this car has been reaping the benefits.

Steve and Bucky have their faces pressed to the car windows, foggy with their breath. They look like children at the window seat of an airplane. "Don't strain yourselves," Tony says.

"Haven't had a chance to really see things before now," Bucky clarifies.

"I'm an artist," says Steve. Fair enough.

Sometimes he thinks about all this and it's as good as art, that their situations are so unbelievable that they may as well just be fiction. It's hard to see the beauty in this. He can sculpt it, inject it into everything he engineers, but at the end of the day, he's still an ex-weapons manufacturer who makes all the wrong choices for all the right reasons. Who's sitting in the car with his parents' murderer and can't do a thing to make it right, because half the people behind his father's broken skull and his mother's crushed windpipe are long dead, and what's next to him is at best the empty shell of what once had been the smoking gun, and at worst, still not the hand that shot it.

It is beautiful, though. The trees and the flowers, the idyllic way the pollen floats like fairydust in the air. He fights to protect this, even if it's not worked out like he's wanted. Even if people still die on his watch.

Tony stares emptily at the passing scenery until he finds the perfect spot. There's a little trail winding its way up the mountain, and Tony can't decide if anyone but the local deer has set foot on it for years. It's just the kind of seclusion he's looking for, and chances are it'll spit them out into a clearing that's high up enough to make landing and takeoff easier.

Getting into the armour is like trying on a second skin, and this certainly isn't the first time flying Iron Man has marked a huge changing point in his life, but he can't help but feel sick, shaky with nerves. Like the whole world's narrowing down to just this moment. No going back.

Of course, there was no going back when he decided to fix James Buchanan Barnes a whole new arm and throw everything he'd worked so hard for -- fought for -- out the window. But Tony's convinced he was under the influence of something then, so it doesn't count.

He isn't under the influence of anything but caffeine right now, so he has no real excuse. Not that he has a substantial excuse for any of this other than, 'I lost my mind a bit. Sorry.' A hold line won't keep Ross forever, and even forever isn't enough time for Tony to formulate any kind of explanation. It felt right, and Tony's often wrong. It's been a chance to clean up his record, realign his moral compass, let him sleep at night.

That won't fly with Ross, but Tony doesn't feel like he particularly gives a shit what Ross thinks right now. He put the Avengers in a high security prison. Even when Tony's beating them bloody, they're still his family, and nobody touches his family, not without paying for it.

"FRIDAY is installed on all versions of my suits," he says, conversationally, "so you won't have to worry about knowing how to pilot them. FRIDAY will guide you. That said, they're still my babies, so treat them well. You break it, you buy it. I have faith in Wilson, but the rest of you... absolutely zero experience. Zip. Zilch."

"I learn fast," says Nat.

"The basic interface isn't complicated, but they were designed for precision, so they register slight movement by default. I can put the training wheels on, but that's no excuse to flail around like idiots and hope that gets you somewhere. Please. I cherish these things."

Bucky huffs. "Who's gonna flail around like an idiot?"

"Training wheels," Steve says, sounding vaguely horrified.

"You'd be surprised by the number of times I've had to put someone who doesn't know a thing about the suit, well, in the suit. That kind of thing necessitates a training wheels protocol."

"Should any of us ask why that is?" Nat says.

"Will we even think of you as competent once we've been told?" Bucky crosses his arms.

"Nope," says Tony, and keeps walking.

Usually, he designs the suits for stealth, but these, in his very limited choice, are only prototypes. None of them have been recoloured from their default gunmetal grey, or modified for any specific purpose. He has suits for speed, agility, tanking ability. Hell, he has a suit specifically for style. But on these, there are no other extra features, only basic integration with FRIDAY, and to some extent, Extremis. Still, they function as intended; they're reinforced suits of armour, and they're Tony's tried and tested ideas. He vaguely remembers commissioning some of them for stress testing, in fact.

He feels like this whole situation with the borrowing effective WMDs should have him worried. Panicking out of his damn mind. But for all the teasing, Tony realises he trusts every single one of these people implicitly, despite practically all of them having tried to kill him at least once. He's not sure what that says about his life, but at the same time, he can't think of anyone he'd rather hand the suits over to. Anyone who doesn't already have one, that is.

There's probably something to be said about the chance of dying steadily increasing the more deadly people you surround yourself with, but Tony doubts they'd have reason to try again. Steve is too shaken, Sam seems patient enough not to murder the criminally annoying, Nat is actually willing to tolerate him nowadays, and Tony will punch anyone who tries spouting Bucky's trigger phrase straight in the mouth.

It's strange to think, still, even after so many years, but he was probably far less safe with Obadiah Stane.

Tony watches the leaves around them rustle and sway with the barely noticeable force from the touchdown. To anyone else, to anyone who doesn't live and breathe this exact scenario constantly, the gentle motion can be dismissed as wind, or an animal, but Tony's trained himself to recognise every little detail about the suits, regardless of what use the information might have in the long term. And knowing the subtle tells of impending arrival has always been incredibly useful.

Slowly, they lower onto the grass, all five, lined up neatly in a row like soldiers. Really, Tony is the only one here who isn't. "They're all the same, but I'm sure you'll all be picking favourites anyway." He sweeps out a hand dramatically. "Probably the most you'll ever see all in one place, so drink up."

"I take the one on the left this time," Sam says, and inexplicably, Steve snorts. Tony has no idea.

"I'll get the right, then," says Nat.

"I'll take whichever one's last," Bucky offers, but Steve's face scrunches up in displeasure.

"That's what I was gonna say."

"Officially," Tony starts, "that's actually what I was about to say. Anyone have any three-sided coins lying around?"

"Whatever." Bucky shrugs. "I'll take the one next to Natasha."

"And I'll take the one next to that, because I'm very much not in the mood to have a staring contest with Captain America. I can't out-Boy Scout the original thing."

Steve looks inordinately happy with this, despite insisting at every given opportunity that he's not some pure, incorruptible innocent who has a (familiar-feeling) martyr complex the size of the sun. To be very fair, Tony never thought pure.

Steve and Tony share a look, almost as if Steve can read his mind. "Captain America never settles for anything less than victory," Steve says, by way of explanation, and steps into the suit.

Tony joins him. It feels like coming home.