Conversation 2: Miscommunication

Steve Rogers, Tony Stark

"Why would you say that to him?"

There were flapping hands and the speaker's face was alternating between red and white; his eyes drew tight then loosened as did the lines along the corners of his mouth. One moment he was furious and then next the man looked exasperated before morphing in to something closely resembling pissed off. Tony was leaning against the counter of the all too fancy bar fixing himself a scotch as the blond flapped and waved his hands about. He understood that, really, being expressive with hands; it was something he did during presentations. It was something his mother had worked hard to break him of but it had never really gone away. When Tony got excited, good or bad, it showed. He didn't want to lose that.

"He doesn't need to constantly be reminded of what he was. It's hard enough for him to adjust to all of," Steve made a wild hand gesture to the tall glass windows, sleek modern furniture and then Tony himself, "this without you reminding him, Tony!"

If he were being honest, Tony couldn't remember exactly which part of what he might have potentially said would be upsetting the good Captain at the moment. He had gathered from the deluge of words that they were talking about Barnes and something Tony had said to Barnes at some point or another. The engineer busied himself with putting together his drink and then another for Steve while trying to remember. He and Barnes, no Bucky, did he like being called Bucky even? Had anyone actually asked what the man preferred to be called? The vague memory of Natasha having done exactly that presenting itself before being swiped left as he dismissed; yes, Barnes preferred Bucky.

Steve was still ranting; a quick glance up with just his eyes, not lifting his whole head, let him know this. He really could drone on sometimes and Tony wondered why he hadn't noticed that before. Or had he noticed it and dismissed it? The temptation to ask FRIDAY to start up a new file with observations of incidences when Steve had droned on was hard to resist but he did; barely. If only these people, his team, then team, a team, knew how often he filtered. He was aware that almost none of them thought his brain to mouth filter worked properly. Well, Rhodey did and maybe Bruce but the rest thought he wasn't prepossessed of a filter at all.

Oh. OH. The ranting had stopped now and Tony was pretty certain that Steve was waiting for a reply to a question that had been asked. Which question? What had he said? Why would he say it? The glass of scotch for Steve was set on the bar top with a gesture of hospitality that caused the recipient's eyes to narrow slightly in irritation. His glass was pressed to his lips as he waited to see if his brain would catch up, would filter whatever question Steve had asked so that he could answer it. No, really? Nothing was coming? Damn.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Cap," a faint grin tugged the corners of Tony's mouth before he continued, "he needed encouragement. I gave it."

Was that right? That seemed right and Tony's mind raced to see if he understood the cues on Steve's face; had he said the right thing? No, no the lines tightening about the man's eyes and the pursing of his lips said that the engineer had said exactly the wrong thing. Well, that wasn't unexpected, really. How many times had he said the wrong thing or thought he was saying the right thing only for the wrong thing to come out? Pepper had told him too many times that his filter worked but didn't work in the way that other people's filters worked.

"Tony..."

Oh, there it was, the baleful eyes and the resigned look of disappointment. Steve, no Cap, Captain Rogers, Mr Rogers; no, wait, not Mr Rogers because that guy wore a cardigan and talked to hand puppets. It was a good show though and he couldn't put it down. No, wait, Steve. Tony's mind snapped back to the disappointed look on Steve's face; there was always a disappointed look on Steve's face. And the fact that he looked resigned to be disappointed when it came to Tony was almost heart breaking, almost, if he'd had a heart to break. No, no heart here; two fingers tapped against the spot where the arc reactor used to sit unconsciously as though his body were trying to prove a point.

"You told him that you hated the cold and Winter reminded you how much you hated the cold; you basically told him you hated him."

Steve's arms had folded across his chest in that defensive way and he hadn't come forward to even take the scotch. That was okay; Tony took it back and drank it in one swallow, waste not want not, after all. Besides, he thought he needed it more than Steve right now. No, really, he didn't remember this conversation where he'd supposedly told Bucky that he hated him. Something something cold, something something winter, something something...oh! It wasn't hard to keep the dawning realization off of his face because he'd had practice at it hiding from the media. Still, there was a sudden pang in Tony's chest that his words had been taken the wrong way.

"Hold up, Cap," Tony held a hand up to stop him from going on, "did Barnes tell you that I said I hated him?"

That was the problem, right there; they hadn't understood one another. He was good at fixing things and maybe this was a thing that could be fixed. No, reverse, step back; he was good at fixing machines. This wasn't a machine, it was an interpersonal relationship and quite frankly, he was horrible at fixing those; sometimes, okay most of the time. The little voice in the back of Tony's head said that it wasn't entirely true but he still had that nagging feeling in his chest that maybe it was mostly true.

There was an exasperated sigh, maybe a head shake, before Steve answered. "Not in so many words. He just said you told him you hated the cold and that you thought that was why they called it Winter."

Right. So. He hadn't actually said that he hated Barnes. He hadn't actually hinted that he hated anyone. Tony tilted his head in that way that signaled to anyone who knew him that a thought had occurred. Another memory, another swipe to the left; put that one back where it belongs because it's not part of this conversation. Wait, was it? No, no, he was getting off track again. Right, again, he hadn't said he'd hated Barnes.

"Well, yeah. I don't like the cold; it gets in to your chest, in to your fingertips, makes them numb and hard to work with. Like I told him, takes hours to lose its hold when you get back inside to the warmth." Tony let one shoulder lift and fall at that. "And yeah, vast expanses of blinding white snow cause me...some discomfort." He hated them; he really, really hated them. "But none of that tracks back to me hating your best pal. Wait, no, what do you call him? Your doll, your dame?"

Alright, now he was just doing it to irritate Steve and by the eyebrow tick it was absolutely working. He poured another scotch, half thinking about just filling the glass, then sipped at it. There was no reason to hastily down this one. Tony was having far too much fun with this conversation to want to escape it. Scratch that; he was having fun with half of this conversation. The half that wasn't him being accused of telling the resident assas– no, wait that wouldn't work, they had two, three, resident assassins. Well, then, just being accused of telling someone he hated them.

"Wow. I think we need to register as a super secret spy agency. Do you know how many assassins we have in this building?" Tony's head was doing that tilt thing again which was uncomfortable to look at. "There are at least three assassins here. Four if Furiosa ever wanders in to the building."

Was Steve actually rubbing his forehead now? He'd gone from full on defensive crossed arms to one arm propped on the other while he rubbed at his forehead. Oh yeah, this was totally going in to fun territory now. That meant that the downhill was coming and it was definitely time to exit stage left before Steve popped something like that throbbing vein in his forehead. His glass emptied and both rinsed out, wiped out and set back on their tray before Tony started walking the length of the bar in the direction of the elevator.

"So you don't hate him?" The question was quiet; Steve sounded weary as he asked it.

Did he hate Barnes? There were lots of reasons to, honestly; his parents, Hydra, being Steve Roger's best friend back from the dead, that bullshit he pulled with switching the coffee in the kitchen to decaf a few weeks ago. Yes, that's right Barnes, I know it was you! But hate? Tony could hate; he'd hated before with an intensity that Steve would probably never understand. Captain Righteous had too many good bones in his body to really ever feel that sting of deep hate. No, that wasn't fair; Steve could probably hate, he just hadn't in a long time.

Tony didn't answer and he could hear the deep sigh of resignation from behind him. The elevator dinged before the doors opened and the engineer stepped in. His hand hovered over the button to his workshop floor but paused there, frozen a moment. Did he hate Barnes? There was that head tilt again before Tony looked up at Steve, framed by the high windows and the light among all of the modern furniture. It was disconcerting how out of place he looked. That thought sent a shiver through Tony.

"No," he allowed, finally, "I don't hate him. I don't even know him."

Whatever reply Steve had was cut off as the doors slid shut and Tony was lost to him. For his part, the man in the elevator leaned back against the wall, tucking his hands in to his jeans pockets. Hate was too exhausting and these days he really didn't have much time for it. Barnes, no Bucky-bear, he was damned well stuck with that name now. Bucky-bear was something new and shiny but Tony wasn't up to throwing himself in to that mystery to discover its secrets quite yet. It was more of an approach with caution. That didn't mean he wasn't observing, drawing his own conclusions.

The door to the elevator opened and Tony stepped out, crossing the hallway and through the glass door to his workshop as it slid open. "FRIDAY, complete blackout. No one gets in unless there's an alarm. Alert me for alarms; music volume five. Helllooo science..." His hands rubbed together as he moved toward the furthest workbench.

-End-