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penistowerWhat hurts the most is not being trusted -- hushed words and secrets. After Ultron, he knows he has no right to expect to be in the loop, he gets that. But that doesn't mean he has to like it. That it magically stops being painful. It's how he locks himself in his workshop for days on end, much to the chagrin of one Pepper Potts; all until he finds him. The secret. The thing no one will talk about except in Steve's ear, away from Tony. It's deliberate and he hates it, and he's going to find out why.
Tireless, he pours over old documents and files SHIELD was supposed to strip his access to. Kind of hard to do anymore when they don't technically exist. The answer is here somewhere and he won't stop until he finds it. Or more appropriately, who.
It's like unwrapping a very disappointing present on Christmas morning; a feeling Tony is all too familiar with, but this one has a suckerpunch waiting for him behind the punchline. A betrayal wrapped in a betrayal, and he feels trapped by the knowledge. A part of him wishing he had never sought it out. But once he gets over the initial shock of it, he realizes how poetic it is, that everything has finally made it full circle. A man who his father searched the world over for one his son inevitably found, and Howard had been gunned down trying by none other than Steve's best friend.
It truly isn't the murder that hurts -- a tragedy that he had always been told was a car crash, nothing more. A headline that had made him drive at ten-and-two and buckle up even for the briefest trips; never letting anyone drive him anywhere but himself or Happy Hogan. All of this paranoia predicated on a lie, and yet. That bubble pops easily, as if it was something he'd known all along. And maybe it had been, on some level. At least since Obadiah Stane showed his true colors. Nothing Tony had ever been told his whole life turned out to be right at face value, so why would this be any different?
Bucky Barnes, a lost soul. A fallen soldier; and a hero. Stolen away the same way he had been, except he hadn't been left to his own devices long enough to break free. As much as his heart pains for his friend's silence, his empathy is more for another. For a man who was taken from himself and from his home, taken apart and put back together wrong. He of all people knows what that feels like. And yet Steve hadn't trusted him to be mature enough to handle it.
Perhaps more than Nat and Steve's silence, his own failure even hurts a little more, twisting the knife into his guts deeper as he stares into a safemode black-and-white screen at 3:23 am.
That's that for him. He sleeps a deeper sleep that night than he had in weeks, and he dreams. He dreams of that night, the way he had so many other nights, except this time the truth fills in. It isn't a car crash but a coverup, a dastardly deed done dirty in the shroud of darkness and kept from the light for 25 long years running. It doesn't wake him, the way the other night-terrors have. He sleeps and dreams through the whole story, and when he wakes he feels an inexplicable peace settle over his body. And he knows what he has to do.
Finding Bucky doesn't take nearly as long as finding out about him, and now he waits. He can only hope the other man will meet him, in a quiet cafe away from prying eyes as they'd mutually arranged. Public, but private. A safe, neutral meeting space. There was something to be said for those.
No matter how "discreet" he was trying to be, Tony still stands out like a sore thumb. He has on red-paned sunglasses and a leather jacket layered over a flannel and a Def Leppard t-shirt. His jeans probably cost more than this whole building. This is his roughing it, okay, and the bright smile he fixes on Bucky Barnes when he walks in is one that might otherwise be designated for a long lost friend, and not the man you found out murdered your parents the night before. What can he say? He's an enigma wrapped in a mystery.
Tireless, he pours over old documents and files SHIELD was supposed to strip his access to. Kind of hard to do anymore when they don't technically exist. The answer is here somewhere and he won't stop until he finds it. Or more appropriately, who.
It's like unwrapping a very disappointing present on Christmas morning; a feeling Tony is all too familiar with, but this one has a suckerpunch waiting for him behind the punchline. A betrayal wrapped in a betrayal, and he feels trapped by the knowledge. A part of him wishing he had never sought it out. But once he gets over the initial shock of it, he realizes how poetic it is, that everything has finally made it full circle. A man who his father searched the world over for one his son inevitably found, and Howard had been gunned down trying by none other than Steve's best friend.
It truly isn't the murder that hurts -- a tragedy that he had always been told was a car crash, nothing more. A headline that had made him drive at ten-and-two and buckle up even for the briefest trips; never letting anyone drive him anywhere but himself or Happy Hogan. All of this paranoia predicated on a lie, and yet. That bubble pops easily, as if it was something he'd known all along. And maybe it had been, on some level. At least since Obadiah Stane showed his true colors. Nothing Tony had ever been told his whole life turned out to be right at face value, so why would this be any different?
Bucky Barnes, a lost soul. A fallen soldier; and a hero. Stolen away the same way he had been, except he hadn't been left to his own devices long enough to break free. As much as his heart pains for his friend's silence, his empathy is more for another. For a man who was taken from himself and from his home, taken apart and put back together wrong. He of all people knows what that feels like. And yet Steve hadn't trusted him to be mature enough to handle it.
Perhaps more than Nat and Steve's silence, his own failure even hurts a little more, twisting the knife into his guts deeper as he stares into a safemode black-and-white screen at 3:23 am.
That's that for him. He sleeps a deeper sleep that night than he had in weeks, and he dreams. He dreams of that night, the way he had so many other nights, except this time the truth fills in. It isn't a car crash but a coverup, a dastardly deed done dirty in the shroud of darkness and kept from the light for 25 long years running. It doesn't wake him, the way the other night-terrors have. He sleeps and dreams through the whole story, and when he wakes he feels an inexplicable peace settle over his body. And he knows what he has to do.
Finding Bucky doesn't take nearly as long as finding out about him, and now he waits. He can only hope the other man will meet him, in a quiet cafe away from prying eyes as they'd mutually arranged. Public, but private. A safe, neutral meeting space. There was something to be said for those.
No matter how "discreet" he was trying to be, Tony still stands out like a sore thumb. He has on red-paned sunglasses and a leather jacket layered over a flannel and a Def Leppard t-shirt. His jeans probably cost more than this whole building. This is his roughing it, okay, and the bright smile he fixes on Bucky Barnes when he walks in is one that might otherwise be designated for a long lost friend, and not the man you found out murdered your parents the night before. What can he say? He's an enigma wrapped in a mystery.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-08 06:28 am (UTC)Much of what he recalls is still a haze, the whirlwind from the last several days being filled with relearning what it means to be human in a different time while also piecing together the messy fragments that have been pulled apart, disassociated, and buried. But Stark he knows. Just like Steve. Different, but similar, an ally and friend. Stark he remembers, pleading, bleeding. He calls him, knows him too. And the Soldier kills him. Again. Again. Again.
He barely slept the night before. He isn’t even sure he cares, the suffering just another deserved punishment for the reality he lives now, existing as if he never committed a crime. The fact casts a shadow across the rest of the day, perhaps forewarning for when the chimes came. The messages still sit in the burner he’s acquired, an unknown number routed from an extraneous source that still received what he’d sent back while they made arrangements. Though the Soldier isn’t anything close to an engineer, he can still understand what this means.
Even having agreed to meeting, he’s wary. He killed the man’s parents. He killed a friend. The ache drenches and consumes like a dark fire, self-loathing the ash in its wake. And even in wariness comes the hope, the wonder: should this be the end, even in the presence of others, it would be quite fitting, wouldn’t it? Not with regard to fulfilling his atonement as his death alone could never suffice but at the least being brought to justice properly and well.
(A dark road. A look. A gasp. A secret well kept but better uncovered.)
At noon, he acquires some new clothing, a window cleaner’s uniform and gloves. “James” it says on his lapel, the matching cap only serving to better make the disguise even as the owner likely wonders why anyone would break into his locker and take his clothing.
Flashy is what he expects, and when flashy meets his eyes he fights to keep from rolling them beneath the sunglasses he’s also borrowed before casually sliding them off and tucking them away into the breast pocket. His smile is just as bright, as familiar as it is false, and he saunters over. The chair scrapes noisily against the ground as he moves to take a seat.
“Hey.” The greeting drips with honey, and the Soldier fades away as Bucky takes the wheel. “Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”
no subject
Date: 2018-01-08 07:02 am (UTC)"How's the future treating you?" A loaded question, Tony knows. But he does specializing in dealing those, so it really shouldn't come as a surprise.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-31 09:58 pm (UTC)“Y’know, I was really hoping there’d be flying cars by now.” Deflection, even as a tangent harkening back to something that cuts close for the both of them. There’s hope in there somewhere, the guy he had been that had believed in so much even as the world had fallen apart around him. They guy he pretends to be now.
“Glad the Reds didn’t win. Glad my sisters made it out okay, lived good lives without any trouble.” He trails off, eyes wandering a bit as he weighs his next words carefully. “A lotta things went wrong, getting all of us to where we are today. But I’m glad for the chance to be here too.” Conscious. Aware. Alive, for now, but everything that could possibly follow almost seems like a footnote. His story could end here, but it was worth the journey to make it.
His eyes find Tony’s again. Words were never enough to begin with.