Warning: Polyamory, Alternate Universe - Mob, Questionable Morals, Off-Screen Murder, Off-Screen Torture, Basically Bucky and Natasha being soft for Tony (and only Tony)
WinterIronWidow Mob AU. Need I say more? Enjoy!
Worth the blood we draw
They are hired to protect the Stark heir. A sensible precaution, what with all those rumours about a planned take-over floating around. Not that anyone knows anything of course. They get the first offer to kill him instead half an hour later.
Natasha hasn't made up her mind yet on which outcome she deems preferable by the time they are introduced to their precious charge. A barefooted Anthony Stark greets them with a frown and an odd metal arm by his side. "This is Dummy," he tells them matter-of-factly. "I built him and if I die, he'll be an orphan, so unless you're willing to adopt him in that case, you can walk right back out again."
She doesn't have to look at James to know that nothing will touch Anthony. They won't allow anything less.
"Tasha? Can I call you Tasha? Or do you prefer Nat? Maybe Natty, though that sounds more like Nutty and I think you'd probably hit me for that, am I right? What am I saying, of course I'm right, I'm a genius, it's sort of my thing, you know. Nicknames are too. My thing, I mean. I'm usually good with them but it's very hard to pick one for you, you know that? I bet you're doing it on purpose, aren't you-"
Tony is babbling. He knows he is. Knows he should stay calm and collected, like he's been taught to. And he would, really, he can when he wants to, and this is hardly the first time someone tried to kill him. But it's the first time Natasha—to whose intimidating glares he's only just gotten used to, damn it—has taken a bullet meant for him, and that's just. A lot to take in.
"Tony!" Natasha's voice is sharp and brittle, like broken glass that cuts through his chaotic thoughts in too many places at once for Tony to locate the pain it causes. "I'm fine. I'll live. You need to calm down."
Which is of course easier said than done because Tony's mind locks in onto that single word, instinctively shies away from it, yet unable to let it go at the same time, and. "Live? Of course you live, why wouldn't you live, what do you mean by that, I swear, if you die on me I'll call you Nutty for the rest of my life, don't you dare-"
"Tony!" Natasha snaps, face hard, "It's not safe! There's a hidden room behind the dresser in my bedroom. On my word you run!"
Tony doesn't. (Not until Bucky carries him off that is.)
He'll trace the line of her stitches later, a little shaky and a lot I'm so sorry. Swears that the next time either of them tells him to run he will. He's lying through his teeth and he's sure they know it too, but he's allowed to call Natasha Tasha all the same.
Bucky would never admit it out loud, but lately he has been wondering whether pulling a trigger is still as easy and natural as it used to be. It's silly because he knows love doesn't change who you are, certainly doesn't make you a better man, and yet. With how effortlessly Tony has wormed his way into Bucky's heart, has taken up residence and refuses to leave with all the stubbornness with how impossible the thought of losing killing him has become, Bucky has been worrying he is going soft after all. Worrying that, when the time comes—and it always comes—he will hesitate at a time he can't afford to.
Turns out his concern has been unwarranted, as Natasha would have no doubt told him had he ever mentioned it. Because killing for Tony is the easiest thing he's ever done.
"You're going out tonight?" Bucky yells from where he's standing in front of the kitchen sink, doing the dishes the old-fashioned way. Because when Tony decided that having a multi-functional dishwasher would be too cool not to immediately re-build his standard one, somehow the function 'dishwashing' hadn't really come up.
Not that it was Bucky's job to wash dishes in the first place, but even when you're working for Tony Stark there are only so many assassination attempts to foil. He likes keeping his hands busy during those times when there is nothing much to do, no threat to defend against, no attack to anticipate.
"No," Tony mumbles, probably too quiet even for Bucky's freakishly sharp hearing, and buries himself deeper underneath his blankets. He doesn't have the energy to be loud right now. He doesn't have the energy to do anything.
Tasha sends him a suspicious look from where she's lounging on her favourite armchair, a cosmopolitan issue in her lap that either holds amazing make-up tips or is used to cover an arms magazine—with Tasha it's always hard to tell.
Tony pulls one of the fluffy blankets higher around his shoulders until he can hide his face in the fabric without making it too oblivious that he is in fact hiding, determined to ignore her scrutiny. Tasha probably isn't fooled but maybe she'll let him pretend she is. She does that sometimes.
Apparently not this time.
"Hm," Tasha hums, turns a page and appears to lose herself in whatever she's reading again. Then, deceptively innocent: "Jon coming over then?"
Jon. Tony grimaces involuntary at the mention of his boyfriend ex-boyfriend and is immediately thankful for the soft fabric covering his face, covering the telling expression. Tasha probably knows already, or at least suspect something, because he's never heard her ask that question without a derisive sniff, a wordless condemnation of the man she's evaluated the moment Jon had first shown interest in Tony—and found lacking.
"No." Tony's fingers clench, hold on to the woollen fabric with renewed determination. Their weight is grounding him, the warmth and softness a comforting shell, and right now all he wants is for this cocoon to swallow him up, to keep the world away for a while. Keep him away from the world while he regains his bearings.
Of course Tasha doesn't allow that. Would never tolerate anything that shields him from her sight. (Would never tolerate anything that keeps him away from her.) It's her job after all, and in the four years they've known each other Tony has learned that it's also who she is. And so he's unsurprised when, after a moment of complete silence, a familiar weight sinks into the cushions besides him, manoeuvres and wiggles and pushes—gentle, always so damn gentle with him—until she is seated right next to him, his head resting on her thigh.
Clever fingers card through his hair, carefully untangle the unruly locks, prod and press against the sensitive skin on his nape, trail along the shape of his left ear. They make no move to push the blanket he's hiding beneath aside though, and Tony finds himself melting into Tasha's touch, ridiculously, unreasonably grateful for her silent support.
How she's indulging him, when really, he should just get himself together already. He doesn't understand why this is hitting him so hard, to be brutally honest. He and Jon were never going to last forever, Tony had known that from the start. The knowledge never bothered him either, and really, Jon was a bit of an asshole anyways. Tony didn't love him, isn't even sure if he liked him all that much but. They were still together for close to four months. Jon was interesting and constant, and while Tony had expected a breakup at some point, he hadn't seen the escalation coming at all.
And what an escalation it had been.
To be fair, Tony can't blame Jon for jumping to conclusions. He disappears at odd hours, gives evasive answers and doggy excuses when he turns up again. And well, there is no hiding that he lives with Tasha and Bucky, both unfairly attractive and free in their affectionate gestures like only people truly comfortable with each other are. It's no wonder Jon thought there was something going on between them.
And when he'd demanded answers, well, it wasn't like Tony could tell him oh, by the way, these are my bodyguards because, just in case you didn't know, I'm not just any Stark, I'm the only heir of the Stark, as in one of New York's most well-known families, and it's Tash's and Bucky's job to make sure I'll live to take over the empire. See, you've got nothing to be jealous about, they may be gorgeous but they're also together and only hang out with me all the time because they get paid for it, and I may have a little bit of a crush on them, but it's not like– Alright, maybe Jon wouldn't have been comforted even if Tony had trusted him enough to tell him the truth.
It's ironic, he muses with a twist of lips that might have blossomed into a smirk if he didn't feel so off-balance. Exhausted after a day that had been long even before he'd gotten into a screaming match that had ended with him storming out of Jon's apartment for the final time. Being accused of cheating always hurt, no matter how meaningless the relationship. This time it's worse though, because this time he can't help but wish it were true.
Which is stupid and pathetic, because Tasha and Bucky are so perfect, are in fact together and also very much not interested in him that way, it's almost physically painful.
"What's wrong?" Bucky asks, and geez, where did he come from? His voice is hushed, as though he isn't sure whether Tony is awake or not and doesn't want to disturb him. Tony's heart gives a little squeeze at that thought because for a man with a reputation of being born with ice in his veins and a frostbitten heart Bucky can be so considerate it hurts.
"Jon broke up with me," Tony manages to answer with surprisingly little inflection, though he supposes the way he is hiding under a mass of blankets is a strong hint on how he feels about this.
The hand on his head stills for only a second, a minute yet telling stutter Tony wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been as intently focused on the rhythmical motions as he was. He wants to comment on it, but—"Scoot over!"—then his legs are suddenly lifted, causing him to squeak in surprise. Tasha's steely grip on his shoulders keeps him safely in place though, through the shuffling as Bucky joins them on the couch, but before too long his legs are dropped again and Tony lies sprawled across both of their laps, a warm hand too large to belong to Tasha patting his knees absently.
"I'm sorry," Bucky says eventually.
Tony finally allows the blanket to slide off his face, just so that Bucky can see the disbelieving glare he is sending his way. Sorry my ass.
"That you're hurting," Bucky amends, appearing genuine but also utterly unrepentant. "Not sorry to see Jon gone though, you deserve better than that jackass."
"Yeah, well, it's not like people are lining up to date me, is it?" Tony snaps irritably. His glare is directed at the wall now, as he mentally runs over all the reasons why people don't want to go out with the son of a mob boss, and the reasons the people who are interested are usually after something other than his heart, oblivious to the momentarily look of guilt on Bucky's face before his expression smoothes out again.
"You'll-"
"Don't tell me I'll find someone eventually!" Tony cuts Natasha off sharply, a clear indicator of how upset he really is. "I'm already the guy who can't keep a partner because I'm too much of a slut to keep it in my pants and resist my hot room mates, apparently," he hisses, the words every bit as venomous as they had sounded when Jon had first thrown them at his head.
Natasha has gone completely still under him, her hand, still entangled in Tony's hair, frozen in place. A beat of silence passes before Bucky breaks it. "Did Jon tell you that?" The inquiry would be innocent enough, if not for the murderous edge sharpening his question into something different, something deadly.
"He's only saying what everyone else is thinking!" Tony wants to snap, but chokes on the words instead.
Squeezing his eyes shut—because the only thing worse than yelling would be if he started crying now, and frankly, he's not sure he could handle the humiliation—he desperately clings to the fragile remains of his self-control, gathers them up and pieces them together into a wearable mask with what little energy he has left.
The silence lasts a lot longer and is a lot more tense this time. Tasha has taken up petting his hair again, but otherwise his two shadows are quiet, motionless, as they wait for him to regain his composure. They don't leave like Tony has almost convinced himself they would, and it calms him down eventually, the steady presence of their warmth encircling him in its own kind of safety bubble.
"Let's watch a stupid movie," he manages eventually and can't help but giggle when Bucky scrambles to get one with the relieved air of a man who's just escaped a painful execution by a hairsbreadth.
"Let's," Tasha agrees with a smile so soft, it gentles her beauty—just another, devastating weapon in her arsenal—into something less sharp, less reminiscent of a blade ground to the point of drawing blood even when it isn't wielded with murderous intent and deadly skill. Or not less perhaps. More comparable with a sheathed sword, the blade as cutting as it has always been, but encased in a decorative case for the moment, to be drawn at a moment's notice.
No self-control in the world can Tony keep from smiling back.
Hours later, long after Tony has fallen asleep, a peaceful calmness evening his features, Natasha watches dispassionately as her partner skilfully extracts himself from under Tony's legs and, after carefully covering them with another blanket, turns to face her.
James' face is shadowed, only barely lit by the weak light of the running TV. It twisting his expression into the kind of ugly delight that reminds her of the monster lying in wait underneath the pretty facade, thirsting for the blood of those who had dared to upset their own. The thought sends a pleasant shiver down her spine and she smiles, the expression less attractive and far more genuine than usually.
"I'll be back in an hour," James states, crosses the room without a sound, every movement carefully controlled, the gait of a predator driven by the thrill of the hunt.
"Leave something for me to play with, darling," is her only answer, the words unsettlingly playful in the face of the lethal intent they contain.
The boyish grin James sends over his shoulder is in equal parts disturbing and heart-stoppingly beautiful. "Don't I always?" he murmurs and disappears before she has the chance to make up her mind on whether she wants to fuck him or join him after all.
Thorough it all, her hand in Tony's hair never falters in its tender ministrations.
His father's parties are the worst kind of parties. Manhattan's high society might disagree but Tony couldn't care less. His assessment is clearly the correct one, considering he's been attending them for far longer than he cares to remember. Horridly boring is what they really are, despite how many guests carry badly concealed guns on their person. The worst part by far though is that everyone knows exactly who Tony is. Who's son he is.
On the plus side, it makes for a lot of flirting and everyone turning a blind eye on his antics, because most people prefer to be on the good side of the Stark family. At least there would be a lot of flirting, if not for the way Bucky keeps glowering at everyone who dares to so much as look into his direction.
Not that Tasha is any better. She's just less direct threat and more painful insults, delivered with the worlds' most saccharine smile. It's not a completely turn-around, they have always been protective of him. But ever since Tony's last failure of a boyfriend his shadows have gotten a lot more—intense.
It leaves Tony floundering a bit, because he doesn't quite now what to do with this. Struggles to decide whether he likes it or not, and ends up not commenting on it at all.
He's spared the tiresome bragging of his father's smarmy business colleagues at least, which is a definite plus. As is Bucky's hand on the small of his back, guiding him towards the car after the party has finally ended, the touch warm and steady and safe.
It's not something that Bucky can easily put a finger on, his fixation on Tony. The only one who could perhaps understand is Natasha, and they've never had conversations like this with each other. They've never needed to.
Some of it, he knows, is in the way Tony cares. Some of it is in the way he smiles a thousand different smiles, each one with it's own meaning. Some of it is the way Tony welcomes them into his life as though they belong there, have always belonged there.
Some of it, more than he would probably like to admit, is in the way Tony doesn't blink, doesn't look away, doesn't flinch, doesn't show any fear at all the first time Bucky shoots a man in front of him, yet buries a dead bird he's found outside in their tiny backyard the very next day.
Some of it doesn't make much sense, Bucky has to admit and pulls Tony closer into his side. But a lot of it does.
Twenty-nine hours. That's how long Bucky has been missing by the time Tony finally takes control of the very last system that dares to stand in his way, tears through security measures like acid corroding flesh while Tasha shoots, throws knives breaks necks and bones, a whirlwind of utter destruction leaving nothing but blood splatters and broken bodies in its wake.
He doesn't care who's behind the abduction or why.
(He will, later. Will burn the organisation to the ground, with his shadows right by his side, but not now.)
They find Bucky in a tiny cell, body tortured and maimed but alive. Tony doesn't throw up, despite the blood, the mangled skin, the missing arm.
(He will, later. Will revolutionise the field of prothesis as well, driven by a single-minded desire to fix. But not now.)
He kisses Bucky instead, sloppy and tearful and with an unsettling smile that refuses to die, now that they've got him back. Now that they haven't lost him, have something to hold on to, something to hope for. Is (attacked) kissed by Natasha later, in the hospital, still riding high on adrenaline and the secure knowledge that Bucky will be taken care of.
It's only ten long hours of sleep later, when he sinks into the visitor's chair on Bucky's bedside and takes his shadow's hand into his own, that what he's done truly sinks in. Tony's head snaps up then, wide eyes finding Tasha's amused ones, before he slowly sinks back into the chair with a shrug.
"No panic attack this time?" Tasha teases him, bumps their shoulders together with the kind of gentle affection she hasn't stopped treating him with in all the time they've spent together.
"Later." Tony twists in his chair until he can lean his head against her shoulder. "I'm gonna need another kiss from Bucky, preferably one while he isn't bleeding out, before I can properly judge this new development. I'll have ample time to freak out once I have all the information."
Tasha sneaks an arm around his shoulder so slowly, he almost doesn't notice. Or maybe he's still more exhausted from the stress of the last few days than he would like to admit.
"That's gonna be tricky," she muses, a joke and a warning at the same time "Bleeding out is pretty much what we do."
Tony squeezes Bucky's hand, a little tighter than he probably should, because the words hit a little too close to an almost happened for his comfort. "No, it's not," he counters, sinks a little more into the one-armed hug Tasha is offering him. "Drawing blood is what you do. And that I can live with."
They are quiet after that, though his words seem to fill the air between them well enough, as though the confession hidden in their meaning has somehow caused them to stick around long after they've been spoken.
Eventually: "You sh'ld pr'b'bly rem'mb'r that next time I'll spill blood on th' carp't," Bucky slurs.
Tasha snorts, but helps her partner take a few sips from a cup of water with the patience of a seasoned nurse all the same.
Tony giggles helplessly, and thinks with a smudge of disbelieving hysteria that there is no place he would rather be right now than here. With his shadows.
The take-over fails. Their assignment ends.
They stay.
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