You and The Ex-Assasin
It started with bribery.
Tony Stark had tried being subtle. Well—as subtle as Tony Stark ever got. He showed up at the café, bought an extra pastry, and slid it across the table like it might be a peace offering.
"Apple turnover. Best in the city," he said. "Thought you'd appreciate it."
Harry eyed the pastry. Then him. Then took a slow sip of his coffee like the offering was suspect.
"I'm not a stray," Harry said dryly.
Tony grinned. "Could've fooled me. You bite like one."
The next day, it was a Stark-brand portable power bank with more processing capacity than most laptops. Sleek, matte black, and likely more expensive than Harry's rent.
He didn't touch it.
"Do I look like I carry tech accessories just waiting for a benefactor?"
"You look like you break into things for fun."
Harry shrugged. "Doesn't mean I need your toys."
By the third attempt—an invitation to tour the Tower's private lab—Harry didn't bother hiding the amusement in his expression.
"I'm not a scientist, you know," he said, hands wrapped around his usual cup. "I just like messing around with systems. You're throwing billion-dollar bait at a guy who does this for fun."
Tony sat back, studying him. "You're impossible."
"Accurate."
Still, he showed up at the Tower four days later.
Not because of the lab. Not because of the tech. And definitely not because of Tony.
Because Natasha sent a text.
No greeting. No punctuation. Just: You should come. There's coffee. And silence.
Harry didn't reply. But he went.
It wasn't what he expected. The Tower wasn't flashy on the inside, not in the way most things Tony Stark touched were. It was clean. Efficient. Spacious but not empty.
People greeted him like they'd been briefed. No questions. No strange looks. Just space. And that, more than anything, made him stay a little longer.
He didn't move in.
He didn't even stay the night.
But he kept coming back.
Enough that he had a badge. Enough that someone labeled a coffee mug with a sticky note: Chaos Goblin.
He suspected Clint.
Which led to this: standing at the edge of the Tower's combat gym, arms crossed, watching someone who didn't just move like a soldier—but like a shadow trained to bleed quietly.
Bucky Barnes.
He'd seen him in passing. Mostly quiet. Always watchful. There was something about him that reminded Harry of a drawn bow. Coiled tension. Lethal silence.
"Come to the gym," Natasha had said. "Barnes needs someone who doesn't flinch."
Harry didn't flinch. Not often. Not visibly.
He stepped into the room, the thud of his boots soft against the mat.
"You're the one Stark keeps bribing," Bucky said without looking up.
"And you're the one who broods in corners like it's a profession," Harry replied.
That earned a huff. Could've been a laugh. Or a warning.
They didn't shake hands. They didn't introduce themselves.
They just circled.
Harry didn't fight fair. He wasn't built for strength, but he was fast, unpredictable, slippery. He darted in and out of reach, testing, feinting, dodging.
Bucky moved with precision. No wasted motion. Every strike was calculated.
He caught Harry's wrist once.
Harry let him.
"Tricky," Bucky said.
"Old habit."
Later, they sat on the edge of the mat, breathing steady.
"Why'd you come?" Bucky asked.
Harry didn't answer right away. Then: "I don't like being asked the same question twice."
Bucky nodded.
They didn't say goodbye.
But Harry came back the next day.
And Bucky was already there.
Waiting.