sober
Children, Broadripple is burning
And the girls are getting sick
Off huffing glue up in the bathroom
While their boyfriends pick up chicks
There was love inside the basement
Where that woman used to lie
In a sleeping bag we shared upon
The floor almost every night
Oh, darling I'm drunk
And everything that I had loved has turned to stone
So pack your bags and come back home.
- "Broadripple Is Burning," Margot & The Nuclear So And So's
29.
Tony is completely and utterly trashed. There's no better way to describe the way he weaves through the party, stumbling into people and laughing to himself. He's a complete fucking mess, and it thrills him, to feel so free.
Sometimes it's only the times when he's like this—brain-blitzed, huge-pupiled—that he truly feels most at peace. He wakes up every morning after, puking into the toilet, phone pinging with notifications that hey, Tony, you were going nuts in that video! or hope Stark had fun embarrassing himself all over again!, but before everything else, before the huge crash-landing back down into reality, he can act without his usual set of boundaries.
It's not like he wants to be like his father, doing whatever the hell he wants with no morals and no restraint. At sixteen, he's already much more dependent on drugs and alcohol than he'd care to admit, and he's seen what drinking can do—the way it can flip someone inside-out to reveal their hidden monsters.
But then again, Rhodey's always told him he's a cuddly drunk, the big-action kind who would rather propose to or hug you than beat someone up. So maybe this—whatever it is that he's doing—isn't too bad.
Natasha sidles up beside him. Her pupils are blown, he can feel the body heat coming off her in waves, but she's surprisingly docile compared to the other partygoers. "You might want to sit down, Tony," she says gently, or that's what he thinks she says anyway, because in the next moment, she's guiding him over to the couch and sitting him down. Her hands are wrapped around his red-clad wrist—he's wearing a baggy Iron Man one-piece he'd found in one of Thor's cosplay boxes—and they're surprisingly gentle as she maneuvers him onto the cushions.
"'M okay," Tony slurs, giving her a lazy smile. He's always okay, and he wants to prove it, so he just spreads his arms wide. "Don' get too alarmed. This is jus'.... This is me without, you know. This is me without…. This is me." With a sudden pang, he realizes that none of his new friends have ever seen him like this before. But there's no time for regrets now.
Natasha's smile is kind. She smooths a hand over his head, and it feels oddly parental. "You don't need to explain yourself to me, kotenok."
Tony leans back on the couch, heaving a deep sigh. "You should go party. I don' need a babysitter."
"I know you don't," Natasha says. "I don't mind being here, I want to be here."
He frowns at her. She looks back at him, silent. "No, you don't. You don' even like me."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because…. Because…." Because my father paid you, he wants to say, but even his loose tongue can't spit the words out. "'Cause I know you don't."
Natasha opens her mouth, presumably to reassure him with some falsehoods, but before she can do that, Clint plops down onto the sofa cushion next to Tony. He has an honest-to-god quiver full of blunted arrows slung haphazardly across his back. "Hey, man," he drawls. "Whassup?"
Tony glances aside. "Hi, Clint."
Clint pats his knee and stretches languidly, his mouth wide in a dopey smile. "Bes' Friday night decision ever. Thor's parties fuuuck."
Natasha peers closely at him. "You're going to be puking later, you know. I told you you can't hold your drink."
"Shuddup," Clint protests half-heartedly. His head lolls so that he's facing Tony. "We should play a, a game or somethin'. A fun game."
Tony squints at him. "Okay."
"Like a, a, I dunno, got any suggestions?"
"There're games in the other room, think I saw Mario Kart Tour. Ev'ryone likes Mario Kart. Can't talk to you if you hate Mario Kart."
"I like Mario Kart." Clint smiles at him. "C'mon, Tones. We'll play together. Bonding activity."
Natasha rolls her eyes at them, but follows them off the couch into the room adjacent anyway. "I'm only coming to watch out for you both," she says from behind them.
"Sure, Nat." Clint lazily turns and cocks his head at her. "Not jus' because you enjoy our comp'ny or anything, no sirree."
Tony settles on the couch, fingering his controller. Sure, he's way down deep in the bottle, but he's still good. Great, even. He fucking rocks at Mario Kart. He can kick everyone's asses, easily. Years of practice at acting sober in front of parents, teachers, neighbors has ensured that. He winks at Clint as the TV blinks on. "I've got this in the bag," he slurs.
"You can barely even sit up!" Clint exclaims, "look at you!", then giggles as he lists too far one way and topples into Natasha.
Tony realizes halfway into the first race that he does not actually "got this in the bag." He's normally pretty good at doing things while off his socks, if his numerous drunk-engineering successes are anything to go by, but Clint's making him laugh harder than he's ever laughed before and he can't remember a time where he felt this happy, this out-of-control in a good way.
"Stop," Clint says, batting at Tony's controller. "You're cheatin'! You can't be winning!"
"I'm not cheating!" Tony laughs all over himself, then gasps as Princess Peach goes careening off the road. "Clint!" He rolls off the couch and crawls over to the TV, yanking the wires to Clint's controller out of the dock and holding them up triumphantly.
Clint snorts. "You lost too!" he crows, pointing at the screen to where Tony's sent Princess Peach into a tree. "Rematch?"
"Ab-so-lute-ly," Tony says, plugging the controller back in and scrambling over to the couch. "This time, 'm gettin' Yoshi."
Natasha, whom he hadn't even noticed was missing, comes back with a bottled water in each hand. She proffers them to both boys, even as they look down at the waters and then up at her face in twin expressions of confusion and displeasure.
"Drink," she says, no-nonsense. "It'll help you sober up."
"Isn' the point of bein' drunk…to not be sober?" Clint asks, making a face.
Natasha rolls her eyes, turning to Tony. "Tony?"
In the face of Natasha's scarily stern expression, Tony feebly twists the cap off the bottle and takes a couple sips. His hands shake a little as the tension from competing against Clint dissipates.
"Clint?"
With a grumpy huff, Clint follows suit, uncapping his bottle and draining half of it in a few long swallows. "There," he says, sticking his tongue out at Natasha. "Happy?"
She's unimpressed but takes the waters back anyway, setting them both on the table side-by-side. Clint and Tony just glance at each other and turn back to the game again, the former snickering to himself and the latter holding back a grin.
At the other side of the house, Bucky feels electric.
Steve's not much of a partier, so he stands in the corner chatting with Carol Danvers and nursing a beer. Bucky catches Steve watching him and flaps a hand. I'm fine, he mouths. Good ol' Steve, always worrying.
Thor is jigging around with him, less dancing and more vibrating really fast. They're both rolling hard, but Thor is charged to the max, almost like he's filled to the core with lightning. Bucky throws his head back, feeling looser than he has in weeks, and just concentrates on the music—some bizarre but exhilarating mix of EDM, rap, and pop—and the way it seems to pulse inside him and around him, like tangible sound waves.
He hit his peak only minutes ago, and the way the music had changed is a feeling he never wants to let go of. As if suddenly all his senses had been dialed up to eleven. Everyone looks so pretty and glossy and picture-perfect, faces coated in sheens of sweat and teeth flashing white in the neon lights. They look as wide-eyed and crazed as he's sure he himself does, dancing, grinding, bodies bumping and pressing and moving against each other.
He spots a head full of red hair move by through the mass of people, and he blinks for a second, pausing to look more closely. It's Natasha, her green eyes scanning the crowd. In her hands are two water bottles.
He moves closer to her, thinks about asking her to dance with him and Thor, but by then she's already gone. Bucky follows her through the crowd, leaving Thor by himself to flail around wildly. The big guy will be fine.
He gets sidetracked momentarily and loses sight of Natasha again as a tall guy with nicely coiffed hair collides with him. "Sorry," Bucky says automatically, an apologetic grin slipping into place as he holds his hands out. "Um."
The guy turns, already spitting out a jagged, "Watch where you're going," when his eyebrows raise and recognition flashes in his eyes. "Barnes," he says with relish, his tone instantly less distant than before but no less cold.
A cool grey gaze meets Bucky's as he lifts his head. "Stone," he says slowly. Images flit through his mind in a frenzy, too fast to lock down—Stone harassing Bruce, Stone calling him a slur, Stone with his teeth bared and roving hands on top of Tony in the field—
"Fancy seeing you here." Stone's eyes drop to his prosthetic, which gleams even brighter than usual because of the strobe lights. "Ah, there's your new arm. I haven't had the chance to ask—how did you manage to afford that?"
Bucky's heart beats quick and hard in his chest, but he's calm as a cucumber, doesn't stutter. He crosses his arms. "Excuse me. I'm going to find my friends. Don't you have better places t' be?"
Stone smirks. "Oh yeah?" he says, purposely insolent. "Who?"
"I don't think you woulda heard of them," Bucky answers. "We don't tend t' associate with the likes of you."
"Ah, now," Stone says, "but that's not true, is it. I've noticed you and your... friends"— he spits out the word like it disgusts him to even say it—"are getting awfully close to Stark lately. I see you, Barnes. You and your group are just as greedy, and manipulative, as the rest of us."
Bucky stills. Everything in him quiets. In that moment, it's just him and Stone, enclosed in their own little bubble of privacy, separate from the rest of the world. "I think maybe you're just jealous that you don't have Tony all to yourself anymore. He's found people who'll treat him better than you, and you hate that."
Stone lets out a laugh. It's ugly and grates on Bucky's ears. "Please," he snorts. "All Stark's good for is a fun time and a quick fuck. Don't pretend to be so high and mighty, Barnes—you and your little friends are just indulging his behavior to get into his wallet or his pants."
Bucky just raises an eyebrow, even as the rage and protectiveness boil inside him. There's nothing more he'd like to do right now than pummel Stone into the ground—smash the guy's face in with his metal knuckles and beat him senseless—but he knows that brutalizing someone at a party where everyone's already revved up might not be the wisest idea.
"Don't fuck with me, Barnes," Stone continues. "I've got more power in my pinky finger than you'll ever have in your entire life. You can do whatever the fuck you want with Stark, but don't act like you're not just another uncultured freak."
Bucky almost wants to laugh. He wants to break Stone's finger in half and ask him if he feels like he's got so much power now, but instead, he just smiles and says winningly, "If you're done now, I still gotta go meet my friends. You might not understand that, considerin' your only method of socialization seems to be harassin' people at parties, but I don't really like the idea of standing here with you all night. You might wanna think about heading outside, though—all the stoners are out on the porch and some of 'em might even be high enough to willingly talk to you. Have a good night."
Stone seems shocked speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's. So many offended expressions cross his face that Bucky has to resist a snort. "This isn't over, you fucking low-class bastard," Stone hisses as Bucky steps neatly around him and back into the crowd. "This isn't over!"
Once he can no longer hear Stone's voice, Bucky breathes out a deep sigh of relief. His heart is juddering so hard in his chest from the combination of stress and drugs that he has to stop for a second against the wall and bend over.
After a moment, he straightens, checking behind him to make sure that Stone hasn't followed him or caught him in a moment of weakness, and begins to wander aimlessly through the house again, searching for Natasha.
He ends up finding her easily in one of the game rooms, her red hair like a beacon even despite the other people milling around inside. As he walks closer, he notes that she's perched on the arm of a couch and watching the TV screen intently. Two boys—one sandy haired, the other a dark brunet—sit side-by-side, leaning over in a way that suggests they're concentrating hard on the TV.
"Nat," he acknowledges as he sidles up beside her. Now that he's at the couch, he can see that the two boys he'd spotted are none other than Clint and Tony, fingers clenched around Wii controllers. They're both talking, except Clint's cussing loudly at the screen and Tony's mumbling swear words under his breath to himself.
"Bucky," Natasha says, her expression warm but completely devoid of surprise. It's almost eerie how she does that—always acts like she's been expecting him.
Bucky grins, maneuvering his hip around the end of the couch so that he can prop himself up on the empty space of armrest. "How come you're not playin'? Afraid of a little friendly competition?"
Natasha narrows her eyes at him. "I don't engage in silly activities. Besides," she continues, a small smirk making its way onto her face, "I doubt the boys will last another two minutes."
Bucky glances over. Clint and Tony haven't even noticed he's there, still furiously working the controls as they race each other onscreen. There are two red spots high on Clint's cheeks and his eyes are glassy. His face is pale, almost greenish, and his hair is damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead.
"How much did Clint drink?" he says, frowning. "He knows he can't hold his drink. He looks like he's about t' puke his guts out all over the carpet."
"I know," Natasha says, but she sounds unusually cheerful considering the situation. "I warned him beforehand, but Clint—"
"Is Clint," Bucky finishes, chuckling. He glances over to Tony next, examining the guy for any signs that he's just as wasted as Clint is. What he finds instead takes him by surprise.
Gone is the timid expression that he's come to define as part of Tony. Gone is the little furrow of worry between Tony's brows, as well as the nervous way he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Instead, he looks excited, bright, wide-awake—more "on" than Bucky's ever seen him. Bucky's now been a grateful witness to Tony's shier smiles, the ones that seem like Tony's opened up a piece of himself that not many other people are privy to; but this smile is uninhibited, big and happy and edging on impetuous.
"Fuck you, Stark!" Clint moans, tossing his controller to the floor as he puts his head in his hands. The words 'GAME OVER' appear onscreen, highlighting Tony's character as the winner. "There's noo way you just did that."
"I think I just did," Tony answers, the spark in his smile only growing. "I kicked your ass, Barton."
"Dammit," Clint mutters, slumping back against the couch cushions. He lazily rolls his head along the edge of the couch and sticks his tongue out at Tony. "We're gonna have a rematch. Later t'night. Or t'morrow."
"So I can beat you again," Tony agrees gleefully, leaning back and copying Clint's lax position.
Natasha checks her phone. "It's getting late. And I think you," this is aimed at Clint, "are going to have a very fun time at the toilet tonight."
"Stoppit, Tashaaa...."
Tony giggles, curling closer to Clint. His expression is oddly tender. Bucky has never pegged Tony as overly affectionate—attentive, maybe, or soft-hearted, but not affectionate—but he finds himself revising his assumptions as Clint casually curls an arm around Tony's shoulders and Tony tucks into his side like he belongs there.
"This gonna be a new thing from now on?" Clint asks, peering down at Tony's head. His voice is teasing but there's a gentle lilt to it, one that shows his question is genuine. "The hugging?"
Tony tenses a little but doesn't move away. "I like hugging," he mumbles softly. "Rhodey lets me hug him all the time. I don't just have sex, you know," he adds almost petulantly.
"I know," Clint reassures him easily, tossing a smug grin at Natasha and Bucky as if to say, Ha! He likes me best! "C'mere, Tony." He draws his arm closer and Tony curls up, leaning his head against Clint's chest.
An odd wash of protectiveness surges through Bucky's chest, even as he rolls his eyes back at the other boy. He vows in this instant, as he has countless other times throughout the years, to protect his friends at all costs. Fuck Stone, fuck Stone's friends, and fuck everyone who's ever hurt him, demeaned him, laughed at poor little Bucky Barnes with his missing arm. Yeah, so he's been through tough shit, but he's still here, he's still functioning, and he gets to do that with the best people he's ever known. He'd stick his neck out for any one of these people without even having to think about it, Tony included now, too.
"You're just happy you've found someone t' put up with your need for cuddling," he tells Clint.
"Hey," Clint says with a lopsided grin, not denying it. "I'll have you know that physical touch 's a love language."
Natasha texts Steve and Thor, telling them their group is heading back to the dorms to rest up. It's already the next day even though it'll be dark for the next several hours, and from the looks of it, Clint and Tony are going to pass out on the couch if they don't get back to their rooms soon. Steve replies in the affirmative, letting them know he's waiting by the front door and that Thor's planning to crash here overnight.
Clint loops his arm around Natasha, his elbow still hooked with Tony's, leaving Tony to lean on Bucky in what ends up being an unbalanced side-by-side congo line. Bucky can tell that Tony's trying his best to walk in a straight line, but every step is unsteady.
"How much did you drink?"
Tony blinks up at him. "Not thaat much," he says, but the slur in his words speaks for itself. "I c'n handle myself."
"Of course you can," Bucky agrees amiably.
Tony frowns, as if he hadn't expected such easy consensus. "I drink a lot," he offers, finally. "So I'm used to it. Takin' care of myself, I mean."
Bucky shrugs. "Well, if you fall, I'm duty-bound t' catch you and bridal carry you all the way up to your dorm."
Clint, who's been listening in on their conversation, whines, "Aw, Bucky, how come you never offer to do that for me?"
Bucky glances over and sniffs. "Tony doesn't steal all the cookies from the cafeteria and stuff them in his sweatshirt when the lunch lady's not looking. And besides, he's pint-sized."
They've reached the door where Steve's waiting, but Tony doesn't seem to notice. He stumbles a bit as he twists out of Clint's grip and juts his chin up at Bucky, glaring. "'M not pint-sized!"
"You are," Bucky says. "Just a bit." His smile loses its teasing edge as he adds, "'S cute, though," so that Tony knows he doesn't mean to be cruel about it.
Tony harrumphs at him but curls an arm back around Bucky's, so all's forgiven. After a bit of fuss in which Clint tries to find his jacket in the mess of coat hooks lining the wall, Steve opens the door and they follow him out into the chilly January air.
It's not snowing right now, so they're free to tromp back to the dorms on foot. Even better, since they're all the same year, their dorm rooms are in the same direction as each other's.
As they walk back, Bucky notes that Tony's shivering a little bit in his costume, which is a red and gold thing he'd recognized earlier from old Stan Lee superhero comics. It makes him smile a little bit to realize he's chosen a character from the comics too—the Winter Soldier, a brainwashed assassin escaped from his captors to fight on the good side (Iron Man's side).
With his metal arm, he pulls Tony a bit closer to share body heat. If Tony notices, he doesn't comment, but his shivers quell a little bit.
As they reach the split between the boys' and girls' dorms, Natasha waves them a goodbye; and then it's just Steve, Clint, Bucky, and Tony treading their way back through the light snow covering the pathways.
"I'm so gonna be sick," Clint announces as their dorm buildings come into view. "I am going to hurl."
Steve pauses and looks over at Bucky with panic in his eyes as if Bucky knows what he's doing; he's barely sober either. "Uh, Clint? Like right now?"
"I dunno," Clint answers, dreamily, "but I can feel the puke just risin' up in me. Like the tide. In the ocean. Or an arrow, when it's released from a bowstring. Wheeeee."
From experience, Bucky knows that Clint waxes poetic when he's super drunk. It's sometimes a good thing, because he's still clear headed enough to speak; but it's also sometimes bad, because it means he's drunk enough to throw up all over the snow.
"Okay, we'd better hurry," Steve says. "Unless you'll throw up if we walk faster?"
Clint flaps a hand. He's pale, unsteady; but his eyes are bright and filled with mirth. "Eh. I can handle it."
They start trekking through the snow again, but Steve keeps a closer eye on Clint while Bucky checks on Tony. Tony hasn't said anything since they'd stopped, but he does now, in a hushed whisper: "Bucky? ...Are you sure you're okay with this?"
"Okay with what?" Bucky questions, glancing down at the head of dark hair tucked against his shoulder.
"Like...I dunno." He feels, more than sees, Tony shrug. "Clint said he liked hugging.... An' I know you're jus' trying to be nice, with the arm, but...I really can handle myself. You don't need to...do that."
Ah. So that's what all this is about. "I don't mind," Bucky says firmly. "I like it. You're not forcing me to do anything, and I certainly don't feel obligated t' do anything. I'm doin' it 'cause I want to."
"Right...," Tony murmurs agreeably, but it doesn't feel like an agreement. It sounds almost like he's trying to convince himself of the sentiment. "Because you want to."
There's something odd in the tone of Tony's voice, in the way he speaks, but Bucky doesn't push. He doesn't know what's going through the guy's head, but sometimes it's better just to leave things alone. If there's anything good to be said about him, it's that he's quite adept at skirting around things that other people don't want to talk about. Steve, he pushes and pushes until a good conversation comes out of it. Bucky doesn't do that. Not anymore.
They finally reach the row of dormitories. They're big brick buildings, four of them with three stories each. Steve and Bucky room together, but Clint and Tony are both located in the other buildings.
"We'll walk you to your rooms," Steve offers, glancing at both boys. "Bucky, you have Tony?"
Bucky nods.
"Don' need walking," Tony protests haughtily with Clint chiming in his agreement. "'M fine. You both can take Clint."
Steve shakes his head firmly. "No. It's the buddy system. No one goes home drunk and alone."
Tony sighs but doesn't protest further, still latched onto Bucky's elbow. "Fine. But I don' need it. I'm fine. Dandy. Swell."
Steve departs with Clint after a promise to meet Bucky back in the lobby of their dorm building. Tony stumbles a little in the snow as he leads Bucky back to his own building, but stays silent.
"It's pretty late, huh?" Bucky comments. "Dark out. Easier to see the stars out here." He feels electric under the night sky, in the cool open air.
Tony shoots him a quick look, then follows Bucky's gaze upward. "You're right," he admits. "Although it's never dark enough, not around campus. Too many lights."
He fumbles with his keycard, cold fingers trying to swipe it through the security panel on the door. Gently, Bucky reaches over and stills Tony's hands with his own. He nimbly swipes the card through and hands it back.
"...Thanks," Tony mutters. He still seems a little preoccupied, distant like he'd been when he asked Bucky about hugging, but he warms up a bit when they step through and into the building. "I've, I've got it from here, Bucky, really. Thank you for walking me t' my dorm."
Bucky just gives him a half smile. Tony's voice is still slurring, no matter how hard he tries to control it. In fact, he'd sound almost normal if it weren't for the fact that Bucky's adept at flagging down details. "No can do, I already promised Steve I'd walk you to your door."
"Right. You promised." The distant edge is back in Tony's voice, but for the life of him, Bucky can't tell why.
They take the stairs up in silence. The quiet is more companionable than awkward, perhaps because neither of them are completely sober anyway, and only stops when they've reached the door. Tony reaches back into his pocket for his keycard and his eyes dart to Bucky's, back to its familiar brand of hesitation. "Thank you." He offers a tiny smile. "Tonight was nice. Was fun. Tell Clint 'm down to rematch him in Mario Kart, if he's still willing to get his ass kicked again."
"Tell him yourself," Bucky says teasingly, without heat. "See you Monday. Or tomorrow. You really never know, with our group."
Tony's eyebrows lift a little. He's strangely harder to read when he's drunk, or maybe it's just Bucky who can't read him.
"Y'know," Tony says suddenly. His hand's still drawn halfway out of his pocket, his card held loosely between two fingers. "If you ever need...sorry, not need, I get a little ahead of myself, I'm drunk, it's not on purpose, I swear—" He pauses and takes a breath. "If you want money, or you wanna go out shopping with Steve, or the group wants something, 've got you covered."
Bucky's head jerks up in surprise. Is that what Tony had been thinking about on the way here—that they all wanted money? Maybe they hadn't been clear enough on how wrong they'd realized they'd been about who Tony Stark was, and how much they'd grown to like the real Tony—not the persona. "Doll, we wanna spend time with you 'cause we like you. All the stuff we did to you before—we didn't know you. We took our anger out on you, and I'll never stop bein' sorry for that. We're not spendin' time with you just 'cause, well, just 'cause you're rich." He tilts his head and looks straight into Tony's eyes. "Don't you think we woulda been nice to you all along if all we wanted was money? Half the kids at SHIELD are wealthy, Tony. You can find rich students anywhere. If we just wanted a wallet, we could've picked anyone. It didn't have to be you," he adds gently.
"Yeah," Tony says. His face is lowered, hidden in shadow. He fidgets. "Just."
Bucky waits patiently. Just around the hallway, there's the distant sound of a urinal flushing.
"Just, I know that...." Tony starts, then stops abruptly. "Never mind, I...."
"I promise," Bucky says softly, but no less firmly, "that we aren't here for the money. None of us. Not for the fame, or anything else. Just you. We like you."
Tony blows out a frustrated breath. "I know," he says unconvincingly. "I just. I'm sorry, 'm just drunk, I get really stupid and emotional when I drink, it's like, a thing."
Despite himself, Bucky chuckles. "That's not stupid," he says. "Did you see Clint, just now? It's normal. We were at a party. Everybody's like that sometimes."
Tony sticks his tongue in his cheek. "Yeah," he says softly. "I just, I know, about the money. And if anything's been real...I'd like to know."
"The money?"
Tony nods, more fervently now. "I shouldn't have brought it up," he mutters, "but I couldn't help it. I can pay you though, myself, with my own money. Or, or, if there's anything you need—I'll pay for it. Just...I have to know." His expression turns hopeful. "Is it something bad? Is it medical bills, or a family business, or—?"
"Tony," Bucky interrupts in fond exasperation. "Whatever's goin' on inside that head of yours, I promise you it's not what you're thinkin'. Me and Steve and Nat and the rest of us, we like how things are right now. If you'll let us, we'd like to keep bein' your friends, or tryin' to be, anyhow."
Tony's gaze turns fragile. "You like how things are going?"
Bucky nods firmly. "Yes," he emphasizes. "We don't need anythin' from you. We'd just like to spend time with you. That's all."
"Oh." Tony looks away. "So...no medical bills, or anything. It's just money to you."
Bucky frowns a little at the odd phrasing, but ignores it. "Well, yeah," he says. "We split the bills at restaurants, and we cover for each other whenever we need to, but that's about it. Friendship comes for free." He smiles slightly, thinking about the summer jobs he and Steve had worked together in the past. The way they'd pooled together their savings last summer and gone to the theme park for a whole day with the rest of their group. "I've got all the money I need."
"Oh. Okay." There's still a hint of something frail on Tony's face, but at least now Bucky knows that he's not the one who put it there.
Tony slips his card into the panel on the door and it unlocks with the blink of a green light and a click. He half-turns in the doorway, and offers a small smile. "G'night, Bucky."
Bucky lightly raps the door with a knuckle. "Night, Tony. Steve might be by tomorrow though, just to let you know. He likes to drop off what he calls 'hangover packages' sometimes."
Tony chuffs out an adorable little laugh, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Good to know."
The door clicks shut gently, and Bucky waits for a second to make sure Tony will be alright before he leaves. He heads down the hallway opposite the bathrooms, where the stairwells are, and removes his own keycard from his wallet before departing.
In the other hallway, leaning casually with a shoulder up against the wall, is Tiberius Stone, his mouth twisted in a thoughtful frown and his head cocked. As soon as the door to the stairwell shuts, he turns the corner and stops in front of Tony Stark's closed door.
His eyes, which are grey as stone and cold as ice, eye it calculatingly. He hears a clunk deep inside the room, and a sound that could've been Stark swearing, and then silence.
He lifts his hand to the door and traces the gilded numbers there briefly. 3000. He's been in that room plenty of times now; has seen Stark drunk, has seen Stark naked, has fucked Stark, even. Has watched him come apart on the small dorm bed, writhing and breathless and begging for it.
Thinking about how easily manipulated the guy's always been, even since they were kids, Ty can spare a little bit of sympathy for Stark. He's pathetic with the way he drools after Barnes' and the others' company, sure, but at least he's being more cautious now. What with finally realizing that people only want him for his cock or his money.
Ty admits that he's a little possessive. He craves control, blame his cold psychopath of a dad, but where Stark's weakened at the hands of his own father, he's grown impenetrably strong. So seeing Stark leaving the circle he belongs to, the circle of rich and cold and angry offspring of powerful, powerful men, grates at Ty's nerves.
He'll take deep, deep pleasure in the way Stark's face will fall when he realizes what his new band of buddies are using him for. And he'll be there when Stark comes scrambling back to his old friends, desperate for attention, attention that only Ty will give.
He hums as he heads past Stark's door and to his room at the end of the hall. Manipulation takes time. After all, between the both of them, he was always the best at it.