Stalking
Winter sort of had a dilemma.
December 16, 1996 . The Death of the Starks.
The Murder of the Starks.
Winter had orders. Like a robot, like a machine, like a dog trained as a pet, he had orders. Kill orders. HYDRA ordered him to kill the Starks.
The Starks.
He was deprogrammed. Those orders didn’t control him anymore. The words couldn’t override him, what he, what Barnes, wanted. No more. The combined force of Shuri and the doctors in Wakanda paired with the genius of Tony Stark and his invention BARF made certain of that.
And yet, therein lies the problem.
Because technically, he hadn’t completed his mission. Stark was still alive. Tony Stark was still alive.
The words were deprogrammed. He wasn’t shackled to HYDRA anymore.
And yet, that—traitorous, tiny, what should be insignificant—part in the deeply buried recesses of his brain that screamed for familiarity, for the comfort of the known, was screeching. Irritating the ever-loving shit out of Winter. That buzz, that annoyance, that tension, the “YOU FAILED, ASSET!” echoing in his mind. It didn’t help that the solution to his mental strife was just floors below him in a state-of-the-art lab, inventing ways to improve the world at ass o’clock in the morn’.
Of course, by now, he had learned killing was bad. It wasn’t even like he could justify it with “killing this man is a means to an end” because Tony Stark was so far from HYDRA scum or any other evil world-dominating organization that it hurt.
And yet that measly, loud, motherfucking nuisance of a brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up—
Winter couldn’t take it anymore.
So he devised a plan.
He would just watch Stark. Just observe! Perhaps he could convince his brain that he was just on edge about Stark’s, who had the best reason in all of the tower to kill Winter, threat level. Winter was living in a building with someone whose skill set he couldn’t place yet. He needed to gauge whether the man was a threat or not. When Stark was in the Ironman suit he was threatening, obviously, and hell the man even went toe to toe with him in only a gauntlet. But that was in a battle situation, that was totally different. In this civilian, cohabiting lifestyle, Winter was in the dark.
So he’d watch Stark. Just to see! To gauge if he was a threat. If he wasn’t, then obviously he didn’t need to be eliminated.
And if he was…
Future Winter would figure that out.
Here was the thing. Tony’s a disaster walking, this was a fact. Everyone knew that, but as of recently? He had an excuse. Living in the same building with the people who didn’t even blink twice before stabbing him in the back could do that to you!
Now, logically he knew these people weren’t cartoon caricatures of evil. They weren’t going around Hallmark high school movie-style “bullying” him, or “glaring daggers” at him with crossed arms, or anything equally juvenile like that. But he was uneasy around them, and they were too. He could see the way they eyed him, how conversations faltered near him. They rallied around each other, subtly, and it was clearly against him. Which they were allowed to do, of course! It made sense.
And maybe it hurt, maybe he felt a pang in his chest at the distance—metaphorical and physical—, maybe he felt choked up at the close proximity they had with each other (and not him), and maybe he kept his distance too—because his heart rate would spike as he panicked because they were too close, too close, get away.
It was all psychological. He knew that. They were pleasant to him, in casual conversation, but it was still there. And he wasn’t scared of them or anything, but he was...wary.
So Tony...avoided them.
He was coping! Sure the lack of sleep and fuel might get to him at times, but that was only every three weeks. And he was always battle-ready, so nothing there was detrimental at all, at least not to the others.
It was all good in the neighborhood.
Winter stared long and hard at this clearly sleep-deprived, hyper focused, bleary man. Stark worked with one hand on a hologram and the other curled around a wrench—not unlike a child craving comfort from a plushie—. His hair was astray, tanned skin grease-streaked, and eyes bloodshot, slowly falling shut before shaking back open.
Winter blinked.
And that little part of him settled.
Tony, on the other hand, wasn’t an idiot. He knew Barnes was stalking him. (Ok so maybe FRIDAY told him. So what? He was still aware of it.)
“Rhodey,” Tony drew out and smacked his lips. The motion made an image pop in his head, an image of a 70s high school girl twirling her finger around a telephone cord as she gossiped to her friend, and he almost giggled at the comparison. Especially considering the contrast in the subject matter.
He continued, casually, “I think Barnes is trying to kill me.”
“What?” Rhodey inhaled sharply, and said urgently, “What do you—”
“Well, I’m pretty sure. I mean, why else would you stalk another person if you weren’t planning to murder them?” He thought out loud, pointing a pen vaguely in the right direction and then the left as he spoke, “Though I assume there are many reasons but, really only that one makes sense.”
“Tones—”
“I think,” Tony interrupted, and tapped his pen against his forehead, “I’m gonna go talk to him.”
“Tony, don’t you dare—”
“Bye, Honeybear!”
So, in all his sleep-deprived glory, Tony left the safety of his One True Home™ (the workshop), ventured into the communal space willingly—what a development!—, and waltzed up to one(1) Bucky Barnes, who was sitting at the kitchen counter.
Maybe it wasn’t the smartest move, in hindsight, but his bleary brain went: “Barnes is following me? I should tell him! Good plan!”. Never mind that the man was a trained assassin, and assassins stalking you was never good. (He would know, he has had many over the years.)
But Tony had been in the workshop nonstop for at least a few days, and it was late enough to be considered early in the morning, so he leaned over the counter.
“So Barnes,” He drawled, lightly quirking his lips upwards, “You want to kill me?” And he thought he had the element of surprise, but Barnes didn’t even flinch.
“No,” Barnes—the asshole—was reading a book, not looking up. “No need. There’s no reason for you to be neutralized.”
“Excuse me?” And something, something, in Tony twitched. Obviously, it was good that the Winter Soldier wasn’t out to kill him in his sleep. However, Tony also was overwhelmingly, absolutely, utterly offended at the implication that he, Tony fucking Stark, was not a threat.
“Are you implying,” Tony’s eye twitched, just minutely, but he still felt it, “that I am not a threat?”
There must have been something in his tone because Barnes finally bestowed Tony with his gaze, looking up in a heavy, but steady, motion. The air was thick with tension and…
And, there was something, something, in the man’s posture. Something akin to… to smugness. But not quite, more settled.
Then, Barnes smirked, “I’m not implying it,” Barnes drawled, staring Tony directly in the eyes. There was challenge, a challenge in the fucker’s blue eyes, and Tony would not stand for it.
“I’m saying it right to your face, котенок.”
Tony stormed out of the kitchen.
When Tony came out of his rage, he was in front of a holoscreen, with a list of ways to kill— “ Neutralize,” Tony mocked—the Winter Soldier fifteen ways from Sunday floating in a shade of just off arc reactor blue.
When he pulled himself out of his funk and dragged his ass to the penthouse for some well-needed grooming, he strolled back into the kitchen to share these lovely methods with the Winter Soldier. This resulted in unofficial meetings —they were not “hangouts”, Barton—at ungodly times in the night/early morning over (what the team calls) Midnight Tea Time.
Tony’s eyes were closed, leaning into the warmth of his own palm that was holding his face up, elbow propped up on the kitchen counter. He hummed.
“I could reprogram your arm to betray and destroy you.” He said airly. Wistful without the feeling. No promise of intention, yet a distinct understanding was reached with every creative threat exchanged between the two.
Barnes clicked his tongue, “6/10.” At Tony’s pout, he looked over, and elaborated, “Points for creativity, however, there’s a distinct… lack of originality,” He waved a hand then gave Tony a sidelong glance, drawling, “You also failed to take into account that I only have one bionic arm.”
Tony hummed. The fucker had a point. “Ah, but! Because your shoulder socket connects to your nerves and your nerves are connected to your bionic arm, I could… use your arm to trigger,” He made a thinking noise as he trailed off, seesawing his head from side to side, “possibly a seizure or five?”
Barnes grinned wolfishly, placing a mug of steaming mocha in front of him, “Now we’re talking.”