Third Fall's the Charm
Tony was right. Oh fuck, he was right. Oh shit fuck, he was right. He is flying away from the tower, a limp Bucky Barnes in his arms, face with unseeing eyes cradled against Tony’s metal chest to protect him against the wind. Rhodey and Hope are holding a fuming and cursing Captain America back, Tony is ignoring anything that is coming through his coms, anything but the body in his arms and the number on his heads up display.
The number that’s now a little over a mile. He’s been holding on to a struggling Bucky Barnes for a little less than a mile when suddenly the number ticked over the nightmare number and he went limp. Now Tony doesn’t know what to do. He was right. What the fuck does he do now?
The choice is made from him when after a few more minutes of flying over the outskirts of New York, the body in his grasp begins to stir. Tony flies lower then, to avoid being spotted and to avoid whatever is about to happen leading to their deaths.
“Good Morning, Sergeant,” Tony says, because somehow ‘Bucky’ feels wrong for what’s happening right now. The man in his grasp stirs, looks up, and Tony realises just how right he was. Never has he been more sure that whatever he was looking at before was not that Winter Soldier than now, when a pair of ice cold blue eyes glare up at him, empty of everything but intent. Tony swallows.
“Hello, Snowflake. I’m going to land and we can talk about this.” He moves to slow down, to fly lower, but the Winter Soldier moves faster, so much faster than an amputee of his bulk should be moving. Before he can flinch the Soldier has kneed him in his side, the metal of the suit creaking from the force of the blow. The other leg hooks around Tony’s waist, taking the weight off Tony’s arms, and before he can adjust to the new distribution of weight the Soldier’s arm is around Tony’s neck and they are crashing.
The impact drives all air from Tony’s lungs and he sees stars for a moment. The suit recovers faster than him, standing up and scanning it’s surroundings. Outskirts of New York, empty street. Building abandoned, in danger of collapsing. Two miles from the Tower. From Maximoff. No threats.
No threats.
“Fuck.” Tony spins around, the suit making his sluggish staggering something sure, two steps to scan the street and building ruins around him.
No threats.
No Winter Soldier.
Tony’s heart sinks. “Fuck.”