Steve could only stare uselessly, his eyes wide and pleading. "Tony…"
In response to his name, the man let out a shuddering breath, shoulders falling forward and entire frame trembling as he struggled to fill his lungs again. "Steve?" he bit back.
It was a single moment but it felt like forever, like someone was dragging out the hurt – and he would swear to anyone who listened that the next second really lasted hours. Steve would swear that the rolling pain in his stomach, the silence echoing around him, the agony lacing a single breath, that it all lasted centuries rather than minutes.
Feeling his heart break a little as brown eyes lifted, Steve tried to find the playful light that he'd been seeing all evening, tried to find some show that the man before him was still a friend. But he couldn't. The once warm shade was dead, and he was beginning to feel like a bug under a microscope; studied with nothing more than cold interest.
Nervously the blond tried again, placing the file down and reaching out for the shorter male. "Tony, I need you to listen to me," he instructed softly, tongue darting out wet his cracking lips. "You know – come on you know it wasn't really him."
"He killed my mum."
Steve flinched at the bland, almost disinterested tone, hand curling back to his side when wild eyes glared it down. Like an hour before, the billionaires anger seemed to manifest in the urge to move; his chest heaving with every breath and hands twitching like he wanted to throw something just to watch it shatter.
Tony was often moving somehow someway, be it his fingers drumming a beat onto his coffee cup or his knee bouncing under the table, so it wasn't like the notion was new, but it was wrong. The blond really couldn't name what was making his hackles rise, but there was something lacking with every shift of sinewy muscles. There was no grace, no movement simply because the man could move, but more because he had too.
Checking to make sure the mission report was safely out of reach, the soldier dove back in. "Tony, I know how this must feel, but I need you to understand that Bucky didn't know – "
The punch was quick, glancing across his cheek and sending him fumbling.
Admittedly, it was more the shock than the actual pain that sent him back against the headboard, the wood banging against the base of his skull and creating dancing lights in his vision. There had been strength behind the hit, and he could feel the sting on his skin that warned him there was blood, but if it had been anyone else to swing he wouldn't have moved more than an inch. If it had been anyone else, he never would've backed down and stayed down.
Probing the damaged flesh on his cheek, he let out a small distressed sound. He couldn't have cared less that he was punched – it came with the territory of being a superhero – but he cared that it had been the genius, his friend who'd lifted his hand.
Steve kept the tips of his fingers pressing against his skin, fighting the urge to appear as something other than a friend. He didn't know how the billionaire would react to an enemy right about now, and he didn't want too either. "This won't change anything," he murmured, hurrying to clear his throat when his voice gave out. "But you know that, don't you?"
Cold brown eyes were still boring into him, tearing up his insides. "I either punch you, or I go out and punch your dear assassin," Tony hissed, shifting until he was back on his feet. As he wandered almost aimlessly back, not letting the blond out of his sight, his lips lifted in a strained attempt at a smile. "I'm getting bored of this already. You know me, easily distracted and all that – say, how about we go for a few rounds? No suit and no shield, of course. Just you and me."
"This won't fix what – "
"And I really don't care," Tony cut in, voice deceptively calm and levelled. "I really don't care about fixing anything. I care about avenging it. Isn't that the mission? Isn't that why we fight?"
You know, Steve could've handled screaming, he could've handled another punch aimed his way or even tears, but this? This was bordering on something he didn't think he could handle. Whoever was standing before him, all flashing teeth and camera ready smiles, wasn't his friend.
Feeling something almost acidic settle in his chest, Steve frowned, again trying for a voice of reason. "Tony, revenge never takes you down a good path," he warned, moving to his feet and reaching out for a second time. If the man would just take his hand. "You know this won't end well. I'm not asking you to forgive and forget, I'm just asking you not to do anything rash."
"Now why, oh why, would I need to forgive?" Tony pondered mockingly, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the two hands held out towards him. "I mean, you said it wasn't really him, didn't you? If it wasn't him, there's nothing to forgive."
Steve closed his eyes, hating the way they stung. "You're playing with my words, hearing what you want to hear and not – "
Tony let out a gusty sigh. "Okay, so here's the deal, little miss perfect. In about three seconds, I'm going to punch you again. We can either do that here and get blood on your sheets – lovely satin by the way, who brought those for you? – or we can go down to the communal gym, and you can act like it's a simple sparring session between friends. Might help ease your conscience a little," he rambled, brown eyes waiting for the solider when he finally managed to open his own.
The dark colour still had the spark of anger lingering in its depths, bright and alert, but it had simmered down some – no longer raging and instead precise and controlled. Steve wasn't sure if he preferred the wildfire from before, as unpredictable as it was, or if he liked the brunet knowing where to aim.
Seeing that he had the soldier's attention, Tony smiled, the curve to his lips brittle. "I just wanna spar, aren't you the one who's all about health and wellbeing, Rogers?"
The blond made a small sound, looking to the heavens for guidance. "There's nothing healthy about this," he whispered, watching the fire spark up for all of a second, eating at the mocking banter. "You're feeding something you'd be best ignoring."
"Ignori – " Tony choked on the word, unable to even finish pronouncing it as he stumbled back.
The look decorating handsome features almost made it seem like the soldier had swung back – and for a few seconds, Steve felt like he had, even going so far as to check his hands for blood – and the man's chest started heaving. Whatever careful control he had over his own emotions was slipping, his porcelain mask starting to crack and fray at the edges.
Now Steve could push. He could push and watch the genius snap. It would be spectacular, probably with lots of colourful words and flashing eyes – maybe an explosion, seeing as he knew the man as well as he did – but it would be messy.
Tony had to stay calm, or in the very least he had to stay rational.
And Steve needed control.
Fighting was very rarely rational, and ever rarer was it calm, but it was a field he knew he'd have control in whether he was winning every round or not. Adrenaline gave him a sense of calm he'd tried to replicate with meditation and various smelling incenses. It gave him a mind clearer than glass, and a focus sharper than any blade his enemy could use against him. It was how he functioned, how he'd won a war.
If he fought, he'd have control, but he wouldn't have calm.
But maybe calm isn't what Tony needs…
Steve glanced up, mind working. The shorter man was still trying to right his breathing, his collarbones becoming gaunt when he sucked in and then disappearing as he exhaled nosily, but he was distracted by the mission of fulling his lungs. But once he'd battled, and won, the distraction would be gone and he'd need something else to focus on. If Steve let him leave, he'd have no say over the next few hours of the genius's time, and no say over where he directed his anger.
A fight would give Tony something to hit, and it would stop him from leaving and finding the assassin running rings around his mind…
Also, the billionaire was almost at the door so he was really running outta options here.
Crossing the room in the space of a second, Steve slammed his hand against the doorframe, stopping the man from going any further. He heard the sharp inhale, could practically see the wheels in the brunet's head turning as he thought up something sarcastically insulting to say, and hurried to open his own mouth first. "So, we're going to the gym then?"
"The gym? Why the hell would I – " Tony again cut the words short, realisation flashing across his features before he looked away. There was a spark of something in his eyes, something different, but it was gone before the blond could pin it down. When the brown orbs looked up again, they were empty. "Right. The gym."
Steve gave a brisk nod back, standing to the side. "You wanted to spar," he reminded the other, trying for a smile of his own. Getting the man to follow him to the ring was one thing, convincing him of someone's innocence was another. "Health and wellbeing, right?"
"I actually wanted to punch you in your perfect teeth, but sure," Tony mocked, shoving both hands in his pockets. "Health and wellbeing," he muttered, putting some distance between them again, both physically and mentally, by walking away.
Steve could see the exact moment he was shut out. It was eerily similar to watching someone slam a door in his face and leave him out in the rain, sopping wet and miserable. Only something was telling him that the past twenty minutes had found him on the inside, warm and safe, while Tony was the one wandering away into the storm alone.
Humming under her breath, she checked again, running her fingers over the seams.
It was the right size, and the right style she liked to think, but the dark shade was where she was stuck. It hadn't taken her long to realise that short sleeves were out, seeing as they showed his arm, and he tended to lean towards loose collars – she didn't think he liked the feeling of something around his neck – but knowing what colour he liked? That was where she drew the line on knowing an assassin's wardrobe preferences.
Samara barely resisted the urge to bite her lip, knowing it would only irritate the wound there, as she looked over shoulder. Why was this so much harder than she remembered it being? A few days ago when she'd gone out, she hadn't seemed to put this much thought into it – just seen something, thought he'd like it and grabbed whatever had caught her eye.
But now she wasn't so sure.
What if he didn't like it? It was rather simple, but he wasn't an overly complicated person. He appreciated simplicity. But maybe there was chance it was too simple? And she'd already brought him shirts before...
"Damn it," she hissed, plucking the shirt from the hanger and storming towards the front of the store.
It had been almost an hour since she and the assassin had parted ways – apparently she wasn't made for stalking people? – and most of that time had been spent staring at different racks in hope. There had been some success; a warm hoody was slung over her arm complete with a decal of a certain someone's shield, but now, looking back on it – maybe he would think it was insensitive, instead of funny? Crap.
"Um, excuse me?" Samara smiled brightly, ducking her head to gather the saleswoman attention. "I'm sorry, but do you have a minute? I need a little help. I've been staring at this shirt for hours and can't decide if I like it or not."
The woman looked up, features distracted. "Oh yes, I'm so sorry, I was reading this," she apologized, spinning the magazine in her hands around. A perfectly lacquered nail tapped at the glossy pictures and articles, the female tutting in disapproval. "Can you believe all the crap that happened? Damn government can't even stop from betraying themselves."
"Oh, I heard that it was actually – holy shit, isn't that a right mess?" Samara gushed, reaching out to scoop up the magazine. The picture showed pure destruction, three burning hunks of metal collapsed on both water and land alike.
The saleswoman hummed in response. "That's an understatement, hon," she chuckled, holding her hand against her lips.
Studying the burning wreck, the doctor let out a small snicker of her own. "And they're the ones we're meant to look too?" she muttered, thumbing through the next few pages. "Look at this, it is gonna be a bitch to clean up, mind my language. Did anyone get hurt? Oh, please say no one died."
"You won't believe this but very few people actually got injured and – " the woman looked around, leaning closer like she was about to reveal a secret. "Apparently, Captain America was pulled from the river! He was in the best hospital in the city, but when the press went to interview him he was gone. People are saying that he went to Stark, you know, Ironman? Because he gave this huge press conference with that red headed assassin."
Samara felt her lips pop open, her own hand lifting to cover the display. "Holy hell," she announced dully, pushing the magazine away with another surprised snort. "Does anyone know who the red headed assassin is? All I ever hear is that, but never a name."
The woman shrugged, apparently remembering that she had a job to do. "I'm sure if you looked, you'd find it online. Everything's on there," she waved it away, reaching out to finger the edges of the shirt. "This is from the latest collection, right? I love it when these colours come in – the plum, burgundy, navy. All those royal shades you know?"
"Some men look damn edible in them," Samara admitted shyly, shifting the shirt about. "What do you think of this colour?"
"It's very rich looking," the woman mused, pursing pale lips. "Who's it for? Dark hair might suit plum better than a blonde." Posing the question, she looked up with a curious smile, finally actually seeming to notice the other person in her presence. The warm look seemed to drop rather suddenly. "Oh."
Samara frowned. "What is it? Do I have something on – " she cut her words short, finger tips brushing over the bruising. "Ah yeah, that. Looks nasty doesn't it? Worse than it is, I promise."
"We sell foundation, and concealers," the saleswoman offered shortly, adopting a strange look. "If you want to cover it up, I mean. It looks rather tender so maybe playing with it isn't the way to go. How did it happen?"
How did...
"Um, it was a car door?" Samara muttered, clearing her throat. "I went to open it; person in the car opened it first. Clean hit. Think I might've actually blacked out for a few seconds, but it doesn't need stitches so no worries," she smiled, wrinkling her nose and looking back to the shirt. "And he's dark haired, a brunet."
The woman didn't follow her prodding. "What caused the bruises though?"
Samara frowned again, confusion littering the downturn of her lips. Wasn't it rather obvious? She'd been smashed in the face by a car door. It wasn't exactly going to cause a simple cut and then leave the rest of her face alone.
An amused look was shot her way, the woman tutting again. "Not on your lips, I mean your neck," she explained further, using her fingers to gesture to the open collar of her own shirt. Instantly she mimicked the action, pressing her palm against her throat. "They're quite faded, but they almost look like..."
Finger marks?
Samara offered up a million dollar smile. "Harder to explain," she murmured, chuckling lightly before looking to the shirt and forcing their attention back to it. "Too rich, you think? He's got quite a bronzed skin shade going on."
The saleswoman blinked over at her for a few seconds, something uncertain flickering across her features. "I get it," she allowed quietly, nodding. "Anyway, uh, eye colour?"
"Blue," Samara tried to grin back, but the air had lost the polite humour from before. Whatever the twist to her lips was, it definitely wasn't a smile. "Uh, like crystals, you know? So sometimes they look bright blue, but sometimes they also look grey or silver? I don't get it, but if the right light hits, it's like pow right in your face and wow, am I still talking?" she giggled awkwardly, clapping her hands on the counter and looking away.
The uncertain look melted into something she was almost tempted to call a connection. It was a girl thing. "Okay, is this guy nearby because I kinda need to see this," the woman drawled.
"He's somewhere, I lost him," Samara shrugged. "You know how guys get."
"Oh sweetie, I know. Hey, this shirt is a large," the older woman pointed out slowly, pursing her lips. "Big boy?"
"Well, the only thing big about him is his ego and – shit a brick!" Samara shrieked, hurrying to duck behind the counter and leaving her pride somewhere in the air above her head. The man, the same one she happened to be gossiping about, thankfully kept walking. "Oh speak of the devil, look, look over there! Hunk in the grey hoody."
The woman practically fell over in her hurry to turn. "Holy – wow, okay, big boy," she giggled. "Girl, where did you find that? I want one. No, scratch that, I want three."
Samara checked around before slowly straightening up, brushing away an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve. "Oh, no you really don't. One of him is hard enough to manage, seriously," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "And dude, I know. He's huge. I'm pretty sure he can crush a watermelon with his thighs of betrayal..."
Beside her, the lady behind the counter let out a snorting laugh. "I was looking at his shoulders," she admitted. "It's like he shoves padding up there? You've seen him without a shirt right? It's all genuine?"
"All genuine. I swear on my life," Samara grumbled, fighting the urge to bite her lip again.
Maybe she should've been a little annoyed that the woman was openly drooling over the man she was technically in a relationship with, but sharing was caring, and well, who was she to stop someone else's happiness? Bucky was a little too gorgeous for his own good. Maybe more than a little.
Maybe a lot.
"Hey, anyway back to the shirt and – and what? Do I actually have something on my face this time?" Samara finished hurriedly, wiping at the corners of her lips when she caught the look being sent her way.
The saleswoman faltered for a second, brow coming together before she smiled. "Why'd you hide just then? Didn't want him to see you?" she teased awkwardly, clapping her hands once before picking up the shirt. "And uh, no, but your lip is bleeding a little bit. Was it just this?"
Samara felt her own brow knit together, coming to hover above her eyes. "And this, thanks?" she murmured, passing the material slung over the crook of her elbow.
The woman was quiet, nodding and taking the hoody before scanning them both and spilling out what was owed. As she bagged the items however, her eyes drifted over to the tense form of the man currently searching for brown hair, throat shifting in a tight swallow. Whatever the reaction was meant to be, it made the doctor nervous.
Checking over her shoulder, Samara watched the man stop at a display. "Oh shit, I forgot about that," she hissed, dragging a hand through her hair. "He wanted... new gloves..."
Her voice died in her throat.
Bucky was removing the worn pair of leather gloves he'd donned that morning, metal fingers reaching out for a new one and shining distractedly bright in the stores cheap lighting. The silver disappeared into the black leather quickly, hand flexing and twisting like he was testing the limits of the material.
Slowly, she took the bag the woman was still holding out. "Stark prototype," Samara whispered, feeling her cheeks ache as she offered up the brightest smile humanly possible. "He uh, lost his arm during his last tour in the military. Don't uh, don't, you know – don't bring it up," she hurried to add, catching blue eyes. Seeing her, the man started heading their way, long legs eating up the distance. "He's sensitive about it."
"What do you mean sensitive about – "
"Sammy," Bucky cut in, nodding once to the lady in greeting before holding out the gloves he'd tried. "Can you get this?"
The doctor nodded wildly, taking the leather from his hands and thrusting it out. "These too then," she announced a little too loudly, laughing afterwards in hopes of dispelling the awkward air. "You sure you want black? Brown might be a nice change of pace."
Bucky frowned at her, head tilting in his silent way of asking what the bloody hell she was doing this time. "I want black," he stated dryly. "When you're done I'll meet you by the car. Don't take too long."
Samara smiled. "Course, Buck."
With another polite nod – oh, she'd taught him so well – he moved towards the front of the store, back out the door he'd only just entered in. She watched him go with a nervous edge to her smile. Something had happened in the past hour. Something to do with the doctor in the programme they were here for, and something he wasn't happy about.
She sighed, swiping her card and typing in her pin. He'd tell her once she was in the car, once he thought no one would listen in and once he'd ran it through his mental will she scream and run away filter.
"Thanks," Samara said distractedly, taking the second offered bag. "Have a nice day, yeah?"
The woman stared at her for a few seconds, mouth moving soundlessly before she smiled. "Thank you," she replied quickly before sighing. "Hey, uh, everything okay? At home, I mean."
Everything okay at what now?
Samara looked up in confusion. "Home? Yeah, I mean, my coffee machine is missing but whatever," she gave a forced laugh, rolling her eyes like it was a shared inside joke. "Um, yeah, I'm gonna go because I'm really uncomfortable. You, have a nice day. Me, I'm going out the door."
Giving an aborted attempt at a wave, she tightened her grip on the bags and practically ran from the store. Bucky was waiting, and he didn't seem to be in a good mood. Which meant chocolate milk and pancakes for lunch. Healthy. Her diet was really going incredibly.
If she'd had the time to stay however, the time to maybe look past her own discomfort and look closer at the eyes watching her, she would've seen the woman struggle with a decision. She maybe would've smothered the slight prickling worry gnawing at the other woman's gut, maybe eased a panicked thought and nipped it in the bud before it grew further.
She maybe would've been able to stop the phone call.
There's no harm in this. He can't really do any damage, and I'll pull my punches. He needs this. Think of it as training.
Steve finished wrapping his hands, flexing his fingers almost idly as he watched the other man move from the corner of his eye. He didn't know what the billionaire was trying to achieve – stretching maybe? – but the smooth shift of muscles made one thing very clear to the soldier. He wouldn't get injured, not badly, but the next hour wasn't going to exactly tickle.
Cracking his neck, the brunet looked his way with a grim smile, own hands wrapped in plain tape and chest free of its usual obnoxiously printed shirt. "So..." Tony started, throat moving in a quick swallow. "I take it you didn't know then?"
"I didn't know what?" Steve wondered aloud, assuming a traditional boxing stance.
Tony sent him a hard, unforgiving look. "Don't bullshit me, Rogers," he demanded, slowly raising his own hands in a mockery of the soldier's position. "Did you know?"
Beginning to circle around the ring, Steve didn't bother to try for a smile this time around. "I knew that they were behind it," he admitted carefully, testing the other male by shifting forward suddenly. The genius danced back out of reach, hands clenching into proper fists. "But no, I didn't know Bucky was how they did it. Not until now. I found out seconds after you did."
Brown eyes narrowed dangerously. "You act like they used him," Tony grunted, one hand coming away to cautiously cut through the air between them. "Like he wasn't – wasn't home or something."
Steve leant back slightly at that, weighing up his options before shooting forward. His fist hit the other man's collarbone hard, and the wheezing breath made him wince in apology but he was already moving to land another. "He wasn't. It wasn't Bucky who killed your parents. It was the Winter Solider."
He felt the air around his face shift, the closed fist narrowly missing his chin as he darted back to avoid it. Tony didn't seem put out by the lack of an actual collision, his leg coming away in a very familiarly styled kick. As Steve stumbled back, a heel having connected with his stomach, he realised Natasha must have been teaching the man some of her tricks.
That's just great.
"You know," Tony breathed, barely giving the blond time to recover and ducking to deliver a sound punch to his ribs. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but last time I checked, your beloved Buckster was the Winter Soldier. Same person under the mask, Rogers."
Steve hissed as the air was forced from his lungs, grabbing the man's hand next time it swung his way. "Consider this me correcting you," he started, using the momentum to his advantage and flinging the brunet over his shoulder. Tony hit the ground hard, another gasp tearing past his lips. "When you go out as Ironman, is it you that kills the bad guys, or is it the suit?"
The billionaire rolled to avoid what would've been a kick to his sternum. "Pretty sure I'm the one calling the shots, not the suit," he chuckled mirthlessly, bursting back to his feet like he was spring loaded.
"Then think of it like this," Steve murmured, allowing the elbow to connect with his stomach, all so he could wrap both arms around the male from behind. "Bucky is – was – their suit. He wasn't calling the shots."
Tony struggled hard, the heel of his foot cracking against the nearest bone. "My suit isn't sentient. It's what I made it to be."
Steve let out a grunt when the man's furious wiggling landed an unintentional blow. "And he was what they made him to be," he argued further, straining to keep a hold of the man. "They took him out Tony, shoved someone else back in."
The genius didn't bother to give him an answer, he only struggled harder.
Tightening his hold, Steve prepped them both to fall; hooking his leg around the brunets and taking the full brunt of the drop with his back. "Fine then. Do you blame Clint? Do you blame him for what he did under the influence of the sceptre? Do you blame Selvig for letting the portal open?" he listed, grinding his teeth when the man seemed to fight harder at the words. "It wasn't their fault any more than it was his. You can't play favourites like that, Tony, you can't blame him without blaming them."
Tony let out a wordless scream before giving up, panting against the hold and falling limp. "I really hate you," he muttered thickly, tense and awkward but no longer fighting. "I hate you so much."
Steve pretended to believe the words, just like he pretended not to see the perfect crystalline tear rolling down a tanned cheek. "I know," he whispered back, slowly releasing the vice grip. "And I know it hurts, I really do, but I can't let you hurt him back."
The back of the billionaires head hit his chest. "If he's anything like you, he'll probably let me do it," he grumbled, tapping the broad arm wrapped around his torso. "It's no fun if I'm allowed to beat the shit outta him."
Helping the man roll to the side, Steve cracked a small smile and shook his head in reply.
"You think he remembers?" Tony posed the question so casually, eyes drilling holes in the ceiling and chest panting with the effort of catching his breath, that it was almost like he'd asked for something no more important than a weather update. "What he's done – what he did – do you think he remembers any of it?"
Steve winced. "If you were him, would you want too?"
Rolling his head to the side, the blond watch the other man blink in silence. There was that conflict on his features again, but the anger was long gone; burnt out and as tired as the rest of him. "Nah, nah I wouldn't," Tony admitted, frowning as he turned to face blue eyes. "Think your war buddy's still in there though?"
"Yeah, I know he is," the soldier mumbled, taking in a deep breath. "I don't think he'll ever be all there but I think Bucky is coming back. In pieces, you know?"
Tony made a small sound in his throat. "I still get one punch," he decided. "Minimum one."
Steve groaned. "Tony, man, come on."
"He killed my parents, letting me land one on him is the least he could do!"
It might have been the situation, or the words the other man had yelled, but the blond started laughing and once he did it was hard to stop. It was an honest to god, genuine laugh too – the type that made tears gather in the corners of his eyes, and his stomach ache. Through his own amusement, he noticed the brunet losing it too, mouth wide and hand slapping his legs.
Tony had a nice laugh...
"Whoo," the genius gushed, wiping his eyes. "That was good. Laughing 'bout homicide, good times. But seriously," he finished, quirking up a brow and grinning widely. "I get one punch. Suit optional. It really depends on how I'm feeling."
Steve shook his head, still chuckling. "Fine, but only one," he warned, prodding the man's shoulders before grunting painfully. "Laughing hurts more than it should. Think you broke something when you elbowed me."
Tony sent him an odd look. "Shit. I broke Captain America?"
The blond snorted. "You do know what this means, don't you?" he drawled, moving to unwind the tape from his hands and flop out more comfortably on the floor. "You have to take on the responsibility of the shield and Sam is going to kill you."
"The shield isn't a responsibility, it's a frisbee," Tony corrected, lips parting in a short yawn. "Sammy will forgive me."
Steve let out another snort, almost bursting into laughter again at the words. "Sammy? Don't let him hear you call him that. You'd never escape with all four limbs intact."
Tony made another sound, something quieter. "Sammy..." he muttered, closing his eyes.
Shaking his head, Steve looked back towards the ceiling, throwing the tape to the side and flinging out his arms with abandon. The fight hadn't been altogether that exhausting, it only lasted five minutes after all, but the emotions behind it had been. He hadn't been awake all that long, the day barely started, but he was about ready to crash again.
"Sam. Sam. Sam," Tony continued. "Sammy..."
"He can't hear you," Steve grumbled, peeking one eye open to watch the man. "Save it for when he can."
Tony's head turned his way, brown eyes not showing so much as a flicker of the previous exhaustion. "If you touch Sam again Stark. That's what he said to me – that's what Bucky said, right?"
"Yeah, that and something vaguely insulting about your father," Steve reminded him, narrowing his eyes at the calculating look decorating the brunet's features. "Okay, so that's the face you get when you've worked something out. Mind sharing?"
"Sam," Tony started. "Sam could be short for something."
Steve rolled his eyes but straightened up, pinning the man with an interested but impatient look. "That's why we've got Jarvis looking for other possibilities as well. Samuel, uh, Samantha too I guess, and uh..."
"Samara?"
Steve tensed.
"As in, Samara Masons?" Tony continued, shit eating grin growing steadily on his lips. "As in, the hot single doctor that was in our blind spot? The same one that even our dear Widow said was acting a little strangely?
The blond felt his eyes close. "Damn," he cursed. "Why didn't we – "
"Sir?" Jarvis interrupted. "I believe there's something you're going to want to hear."
Tony shot to his feet, already moving to exit the boxing ring, one hand held behind him to help the blond. "What is it Jarv?" he demanded, ripping the bindings from his hands. "We're a little busy here."
"A call just came in through the emergency channels. A woman wanted to report a possible domestic violence case."
The genius pulled a face, wildly waving for the soldier to follow him as he ran from the room. It was hard to keep up, but the blond managed, almost having to break into a sprint to stay at his side. "And what does that have to do with anything?"
"It was claimed that the victim was a female, late twenties with a 'busted face' and bruising on her neck. She was reported to be with a large male, with brown chin length hair and a 'Stark prototype' replacing his left hand. One the victim claimed he's lost during his time serving the army. The woman also claimed that the victim referred to him as; 'Buck.'"
Both the men stopped, slowing their fast paced walk and staring at each other pointlessly. "Stark prototype? Clever cover," Tony muttered. "And bruising on her neck? Explains that scarf Natasha wouldn't shut up about."
Steve shook his head. "But..." he sighed, running a hand down his face. "Bucky wouldn't hurt her."
"You said so yourself, Cap. You didn't think he was all there," Tony gave a pained smile, hand coming up to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. "He's still collecting the pieces, remember? Maybe Bucky wasn't the one who hurt her. Maybe it was the Soldier?"
Meeting warm brown eyes for a few seconds helped more than he cared to admit. "Okay. Okay yeah," Steve straightened up, clenching his fists. "We taking the jet then? Or do you expect me to cling to your suit?"
Okay, so am I the only one who follows like, fan accounts on Instagram? I feel like I am. I'll be scrolling down my feed, and it'll be recipe, recipe, Bucky, fitness inspiration, Sebby Stan, food, Bucky, more food, more Sebby.
I'm not the only one right?
Taila xx