[Tony drops into the retro vinyl bar stool and rests one arm on the counter. He scrubs the other through his hair and holds it there for a second before lowering it again.
Aside from the jacket he pulled over his shoulders, it looks like he came straight from his workshop -- patches of pink chalkdust cling to his jeans and black undershirt, and there's a bit of grease on the edge of his jaw.
[ Oh, boy is right. Bucky's usual cocky demeanor immediately disappears, because this is not the time or place to be a complete ass. Maybe just a little ass. ]
Get my pal here a double shot of something dark. Good dark, not that "I've got to gag it down" dark.
[ As the bartender turns to the shelves, Bucky thinks about the man's question. There's only one right answer to that question, unfortunately. So he tries to cut the bitter taste with a little sugar: ]
No, I'm usually the disappointment. Surprising, I know... [ Then once the "joke" settles, he asks, ] What's up, Hollywood?
[Letting a kid half his age order a round is probably not the best way to deal with this particular crisis, but at the moment, Tony can't bring himself to give a damn.
So he lets Jersey put in the order, just before the kid answers... with a weird shift toward empathy. Like he's less stupid about reading the room than he'd like to let on.
Takes one to know one, Tony guesses. He's not sure if that's a good or bad thing right now -- probably bad, from the ugly laugh that boils up his throat in response to it.]
Know what that's like. [He turns to appraise Jersey. A ghost of a smirk tugs up the side of his mouth.] Lemme guess. Dad? It's always dads, right.
No -- no, god, no, [Tony full-body reels as he waves Jersey off.] That'd be. Ugh. Lord.
[A few scenarios zip through his head before he shoves them all out again. The bartender turns back toward them and slides some manner of dusky liquid toward him.]
No, my... the old man's dead. [Harder to say it loud now than it was an hour ago. Than it was two years ago. Every time -- like rock salt rubbed deep in the wound.
He takes the glass. Glances over at Jersey and gestures.] Since I was... about your age.
[ Buck hums sympathetically. It seems more appropriate than words, because what can he say? Gee, sorry? Yeah, that's not the way to go. ]
Mine died four years ago. Out of the blue—literally, actually. [ Ha, he can't help but laugh a little at his terrible pun. Even when talking death he can't stop a deep-rooted habit. ] He was an instructor for the airborne infantry division. He taught them how to jump...
[ And he stops there, taking a gulp of his Old Fashioned, because Tony's smart enough to put 2 and 2 together on how he ate it. ]
I'm... sorry. [Tony follows Jersey's movements as he takes a sip of his own drink. It's not like he's surprised the kid has a sad history, given his Great Depression origins and aggressively deflective personality, but... there it is, spelled out in block print. Like a basic chemistry equation: Disappointed dad plus sudden death equals...
Something broken.
Tony looks off, at a group of moonblessed laughing at the other side of the bar. He remembers late nights in the Avengers tower, back in the day, after some successful Hydra raid. Before things got...
No. They'd always been complicated, even back then -- he'd just been too stupid to know it. That's what had really kept Tony up at night, why he'd tossed and turned, and clenched his jaw so hard it ached. The piece of shit had known, all along. Through every laugh, every joke, every smile.
Every day. All along.]
My dad was murdered. [It comes out like a breath of air. Tony grits his teeth, and rubs his eyes.] My dad. And... my mom. They were murdered.
[He feels like a kid again, when he says it. My dad. My mom. She was taken from me, when I needed her. I didn't even know how badly.
The man who'd grown out of that tragedy, who'd emerged, twisted and damaged -- Tony thinks back on him like a stranger. So misshapen he needed to be torn to pieces before he could be made whole again.
[ If he had been drinking, Bucky would've probably sprayed it all over the counter. Or maybe choked. Either way, it would have been disastrous. Instead he swivels very dramatically in his chair to face Tony just so he can see the true weight of his equally dramatic expression. ]
And you haven't buried this guy six-feet under, why? [ Perhaps Tony isn't a fighter. Plus, he's old. Maybe his bones are too brittle for the work. ] Listen, if you need a ringer, I'm your man. In fact, where is he? Let's fix this little oversight...
Hey, kid-- [Tony reaches out to grasp Jersey's arm, broken from his reverie.] First off, I don't need your help. Second...
[He exhales and keeps his head dipped toward the ground. He lets go of Jersey's arm, then brings his hand back to his own face to scratch his cheek.]
...it's not that simple.
[Understatement of the year. Century? I already tried, Tony could say, in a cold hole, in cold blood. I saw the red on his hands and then I saw nothing else.
He brings his glass to his lips and knocks a good portion back, then drops it back down on the counter. His fingers fidget with the rim.]
You... [False start. Does he go there? He's angry and upset and prone to saying stupid things, to people who shouldn't know all the dirty laundry his team has hung out to dry.
But then... he's angry. And he doesn't know what he'll do otherwise.]
You know about Captain America. I told you I grew up getting lectured on him, and that's true, but...
[How does he even begin to explain all of this to some kid from the forties? Who, judging from what he said when they met, probably worships Cap like his dad did. Some weird satisfaction thrums through Tony, then, an ugly shard of schadenfreude. Someone else will know Steve for the human he is.]
He's alive, the year I come from. We were on a team. And now we aren't, because... you know. He found out his friend murdered my parents and I guess thought it'd be a hassle to tell me.
[He gets it out in one go. Succinct. After a pause, he swigs down the rest of the drink.]
[ The laugh that comes out of Bucky is so hollow. It's more like a wheeze from a punch to the gut. ]
You're an Avenger— [ But that's not the only revelation rearing its ugly head. ] Cheese on rice, you're Tony Stark. You're, you're that... [ He starts snapping his fingers trying to pull information from that weird day two years ago. ] the Iron Man jackass.
[ What's even crazier than this serendipitous reunion is that Stark doesn't seem to recognize him. There's no "Hey, you're that punk who blew up my helicarrier" snap back. ]
Holy shit. [ The kiddy language has fallen to the way side. He needs a little more gusto in his cursing than dumb euphemisms can provide. ] That's... a little hard to imagine. Ah—I mean, no offense, but all our friends'd be dead by then. So who... what friend could he still have?
[ No one really comes to mind, but if Stark is telling the truth, that would leave maybe Sergeant Fury. He always has "other agendas" that the Invaders and probably even his own Howling Commandos don't know about. ]
[The kid says his name, and Tony's head whips toward him. When he first got here, it'd been a shock to not get recognized at every street corner, so for it to be a novelty now is... even weirder. Either way, how the hell would a recruit in World War II know who he is, unless...
Unless Jersey heard about Iron Man from another Avenger. Thor? Or Cap. Probably Cap -- god, figures he'd hunt down all the local time-displaced soldiers and start a furry American Legion.]
Guilty as charged, [he mutters aloud, as his mind continues to race with the new piece of information. If the kid's already met Cap -- here, in Lunatia -- then that means the fallout from this conversation is going to be more complicated than the uncensored venting he planned for. Not that Steve would retaliate if Tony's viciousness got back to him, and that's the worst part. That through all this, even back in Siberia, he can still act... contrite. Good. Like he understands the weight of what he did, when he doesn't.
The kid swears, and then asks the obvious question. A raw laugh leaps up Tony's throat.]
One that meant more than the rest of us. [He slides the empty glass forward and motions for the bartender to refill it.] Some Howling Commando turned sleeper agent -- maybe you've heard of him. James Buchanan Barnes.
[ What in the world? It's like Stark collected all the right words, but didn't know the correct context to place them in the proper order. He wasn't part of Nick's team; they simply worked together. And he sure as hell is no sleeper agent! He'd be too old for that kind of work by that decade, anyway!
No, none of this makes sense. ]
That's... [ Buck stops to laugh a very pitiful laugh. A laugh to comfort himself and bring normalcy back to this conversation. ] That's not right. That's—No, sorry, pal, but that—that can't be how it happened. Barnes dies—died, he died at the end of the War.
[ Ah, shit he done fucked up. He keeps talking in the hopes that Stark doesn't hone in on that. ]
You've got the wrong guy. He wouldn't do something like that, not against civilians. We don't kill civilians.
Tony's eyes snap from his glass back to Jersey. They follow him, razor-sharp, his gestures and halting words, his emphasis and tone. The bartender ambles over to pour them another round, but Tony's line of sight doesn't budge.]
There's a video. [He speaks before he thinks.] He ran their car off the road. He snapped his neck. Strangled her. Then he left.
[He inhales. The air of the bar is cool with the bite of A/C, fragrant with meat and grease from downstairs.]
He didn't die. And he killed civilians. Or... are you like Rogers, and refuse to believe that one of your band of heroes became a monster.
[It wasn't hard to piece together, once he put an iota of thought toward it. 1945. Bounced around a lot -- Europe, Pacific, wherever they needed him, with the brick of a man who made him feel invisible.
I'm not a monster![ The glass in his hand slams down on the bar counter, and for a split second the upper level of McDenny's grows quieter.
The bartender barks at Bucky, telling him to settle down before taking away his empty glass. It's a good call; he gets out of control when he's upset. ]
I'm a hero! Everything I do, I do for my country! Everything they ever asked of me, I did it! Everything. [ His father's gift of blinding rage is bubbling hot under his collar. It's been a godsend when he has to beat just one more Kraut, just one more psychotic bastard to a bloody pulp with nothing but his broken knuckles. In civilian life? It always gets him in trouble. ] And you don't know the half of it. You don't know anything about me, because that ain't my Steve, and that ain't me! That's not my future...
[ He hadn't even realized he had left his stool again. He was up beside Tony, chest rising and falling fast from the sudden rush of anger that's now slowly draining out. As it does—as all that hot white rage he surrounds himself with like armor, Buck feels small all over again. Back when he couldn't do nothing right as a kid. ]
[Each word slices through him like knives across his skin. Monster. Hero. Country.
Tony's known about the possibility of alternate universes from the beginning. Not just different realities, the way he's become used to here -- fantasy worlds, or Earth-based apocalypses and space exploration -- but little variations, tweaks in timelines, different versions of things he intimately knows. It was Cap (of course it was Cap), to whom he'd first thrown up the information, as a weapon against him. The Peter that Cap had spoken to couldn't be theirs, Tony had said at the time. Their Peter had died in his arms.
My Steve, the kid shouts, with his own face and voice, both of which Tony never knew before he came to this place. My future.
Tony's connected the dots, ticked off the boxes. He knows who he's looking at, and yet... he doesn't.]
Guess not. [Thoughts flit behind his eyes, reactions, possibilities. He could leave -- storm out of the place and crazy situation as furiously as he had after Rogers' unwelcome visit a mere hour ago. But to watch the kid blow up like the end of a slow fuse, to hear the bar quiet and feel his raw, ugly rage seep into every nook and cranny of the room around them -- there's no air left for his own.]
Hey. [His voice comes out quiet, but firm. He nods toward the stool beside him.] You want to sit down? If you get us kicked out, it's a mile to the next bar and I don't feel like walking.
["It wasn't him," Steve had pleaded, back then. Tony hadn't believed him -- still doesn't.
And yet the crease in the kid's brow is hard to look away from.]
Us? There's an 'us' after you raked my name through the mud?
[ In spite of his spitting words Buck does back sit down, but he looks no less pleased. His eyes are fixed to the counter, and it's a miracle the lacquered wood doesn't catch fire from the heat of his glare. ]
God, what is wrong with all of you? Bein' good 'cause you fight bad isn't supposed to be complicated.
[ The energy around these Avengers has been so draining. He never thought he would miss Steve's maddening naivete. All those times he yelled at him or rolled his eyes for being too pure. But compared to this new beaten down man running rogue with a blacked out star? Yeah, he'll take his endearing ding dong now any day of the week. ]
We've met before, you know. Back home. I blew a hole through your "helicarrier." Once you told me your name, I knew who you were. [ He turns his attention back to Stark. ] Your eyes were blue, though... But you look at me like a total stranger. You all do.
Makes me feel like I'm crazy. Like maybe I made this whole world up and none of it actually happened. It's really starting to get old.
[Tony's not sure he's wrapped his head around it either, but at least the kid's sat down again. The bartender's body language relaxes and he makes eye contact with Tony -- "you taking care of this punk?" Tony gives a little shrug, which must be enough of an affirmative for the bartender to grumble something and walk over to another group of customers.
Tony looks back to the kid about the same time he continues talking.
Met before. Tony's body goes rigid, and he remains silent as he listens through the rest of the kid's explanation. As if accepting two simultaneous versions of another person isn't crazy enough, he's now being forced to face a much more existentially frightening thought.
Of course... he and this other Tony probably aren't really the same person. He's considered this before -- that the chances for one single individual to be born at all are tiny, infinitesimal. The chances for that same individual to be born to the same exact parents in an alternate universe, and carry the same exact genetic code, is... pretty much none at all. You've gotta consider the pure luck aspect in the aftermath of the birds and the bees -- millions of unique cells competing to fertilize an egg, and that's assuming other variations in the timeline haven't already obliterated your assumed variables from the get go -- that the parents aren't also completely different individuals, or that they've come together under the exact same circumstances, on the exact same date, and produced the exact same reproductive cells, and...
...Okay, that's. Way too much scientific consideration on the topic of his parents getting it on. God.
Either way, the kid proves Tony's hypothesis 100% true. He looks a little like Barnes, but he's definitely a different person, with a different voice, different mannerisms -- even a different history, if Tony remembers Interpol's briefs correctly. Genetically, he's probably more like Barnes' cousin -- depending on how far back their universe's timelines diverged, anyway. And as far as the Tony that the kid met...
Blue eyes. Tony's mom had blue eyes. The other him might be his brother, genetically speaking. Man. Wild.
Of course, there's also the question of how the hell a kid from World War II met him-but-not-really in the first place. Tony desperately wants to ask, but he also knows he needs to be delicate, with the kid's bowed head and mumbled words. With the way his own realizations and analysis have all but snuffed the fire in his own belly.]
Listen. [He continues to face the kid from his bar stool as he drums his fingers on the counter.] Alternate realities? They're complicated. The name I raked through the mud might be yours, but that's because you share it with someone else. And for all we know, the... other Barnes, [he tries, carefully,] is a completely different person from you, and has a completely different future. Case in point-- [he adds, and leans forward,] I own a hell of a lot of assets, but pretty sure none of them are helicarriers. Also, I've never worn blue contacts and I'm pretty sure I'd remember meeting a mouthy punk from Jersey, so. That guy you met isn't me either.
[He hopes that's a digestible enough version of his mental notes. After a second, he leans down and attempts to meet the kid's eyes.]
I don't think you're crazy. [Pause.] I do think we should keep drinking.
[ Bucky's jaw looks like it's worrying something between his teeth the way it twitches and shifts. It's the words that are giving him trouble; he can't seem to find the right order in his mouth, but Tony offers an easy way out.
Or, no. Perhaps that's harder. For him it would be, to bury the hatchet with someone he felt slighted him. He doesn't do that. He razes the other man to the ground until there's nothing left. Until Buck can feel like the stronger, better man and then salt the very earth before he leaves.
But then that doesn't happen with friends. Or a potential friend. Someone he felt a kinship with at the very least—someone quick-witted and a little immature. So, what tactic should he take with Stark? That's the dilemma. ]
........ Fine. Your turn to pay, though. [ And that's that. His brown eyes no longer hold their lively shine, but the fiery rage is gone at least. ] Guess it's for the best you aren't him. He had no sense of humor.
[ But maybe that was because Buck blew a hole through the helicarrier and freed every imprisoned Invader in just under 32 seconds. That'd sure take the wind out of your sails. ]
[Tony lets out a breath as the kid's body language unwinds -- not fully relaxed, maybe, but enough that he probably won't start smashing glasses against the bar counter, which is where they were at before.
Tony considers this for a second -- juxtaposes the angry hellion he just witnessed against the cold, robotic motions of the man in the German holding facility, on the airport tarmac, in the images of the horrible, grainy video he wishes he could wipe from his head. So completely different that Tony wonders if one could lead into the other -- if it's possible to harness anger and hurt, and freeze it in the shape of a weapon. Could you take a boy on fire and make him your winter soldier?
Tony motions the bartender over. He pauses, then refills their drinks when Tony swipes his wrist device over the payment sensor.
Tony picks up his tumbler and stares down at it for a second, watches the way the ice clinks against the glass.]
Yeah. [The side of his mouth twists into a half-smile, strained and distant.] I know the type.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
industries) wrote2019-05-15 09:19 pm
no subject
[Tony drops into the retro vinyl bar stool and rests one arm on the counter. He scrubs the other through his hair and holds it there for a second before lowering it again.
Aside from the jacket he pulled over his shoulders, it looks like he came straight from his workshop -- patches of pink chalkdust cling to his jeans and black undershirt, and there's a bit of grease on the edge of his jaw.
He turns toward the kid.]
You ever had someone disappoint you?
[Oh, boy.]
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Get my pal here a double shot of something dark. Good dark, not that "I've got to gag it down" dark.
[ As the bartender turns to the shelves, Bucky thinks about the man's question. There's only one right answer to that question, unfortunately. So he tries to cut the bitter taste with a little sugar: ]
No, I'm usually the disappointment. Surprising, I know... [ Then once the "joke" settles, he asks, ] What's up, Hollywood?
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So he lets Jersey put in the order, just before the kid answers... with a weird shift toward empathy. Like he's less stupid about reading the room than he'd like to let on.
Takes one to know one, Tony guesses. He's not sure if that's a good or bad thing right now -- probably bad, from the ugly laugh that boils up his throat in response to it.]
Know what that's like. [He turns to appraise Jersey. A ghost of a smirk tugs up the side of his mouth.] Lemme guess. Dad? It's always dads, right.
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[ The response response is cool and flippant, but the pause before it gives everything away. Tony's hit it right on the nail. ]
Is that what this is about? Your father? [ Then a terrifying thought. ] Holy cannoli, is your father here?!
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[A few scenarios zip through his head before he shoves them all out again. The bartender turns back toward them and slides some manner of dusky liquid toward him.]
No, my... the old man's dead. [Harder to say it loud now than it was an hour ago. Than it was two years ago. Every time -- like rock salt rubbed deep in the wound.
He takes the glass. Glances over at Jersey and gestures.] Since I was... about your age.
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Mine died four years ago. Out of the blue—literally, actually. [ Ha, he can't help but laugh a little at his terrible pun. Even when talking death he can't stop a deep-rooted habit. ] He was an instructor for the airborne infantry division. He taught them how to jump...
[ And he stops there, taking a gulp of his Old Fashioned, because Tony's smart enough to put 2 and 2 together on how he ate it. ]
no subject
Something broken.
Tony looks off, at a group of moonblessed laughing at the other side of the bar. He remembers late nights in the Avengers tower, back in the day, after some successful Hydra raid. Before things got...
No. They'd always been complicated, even back then -- he'd just been too stupid to know it. That's what had really kept Tony up at night, why he'd tossed and turned, and clenched his jaw so hard it ached. The piece of shit had known, all along. Through every laugh, every joke, every smile.
Every day. All along.]
My dad was murdered. [It comes out like a breath of air. Tony grits his teeth, and rubs his eyes.] My dad. And... my mom. They were murdered.
[He feels like a kid again, when he says it. My dad. My mom. She was taken from me, when I needed her. I didn't even know how badly.
The man who'd grown out of that tragedy, who'd emerged, twisted and damaged -- Tony thinks back on him like a stranger. So misshapen he needed to be torn to pieces before he could be made whole again.
His expression darkens.]
The guy who did it. He's here.
no subject
And you haven't buried this guy six-feet under, why? [ Perhaps Tony isn't a fighter. Plus, he's old. Maybe his bones are too brittle for the work. ] Listen, if you need a ringer, I'm your man. In fact, where is he? Let's fix this little oversight...
[ He's comin' off the stool!! ]
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[He exhales and keeps his head dipped toward the ground. He lets go of Jersey's arm, then brings his hand back to his own face to scratch his cheek.]
...it's not that simple.
[Understatement of the year. Century? I already tried, Tony could say, in a cold hole, in cold blood. I saw the red on his hands and then I saw nothing else.
He brings his glass to his lips and knocks a good portion back, then drops it back down on the counter. His fingers fidget with the rim.]
You... [False start. Does he go there? He's angry and upset and prone to saying stupid things, to people who shouldn't know all the dirty laundry his team has hung out to dry.
But then... he's angry. And he doesn't know what he'll do otherwise.]
You know about Captain America. I told you I grew up getting lectured on him, and that's true, but...
[How does he even begin to explain all of this to some kid from the forties? Who, judging from what he said when they met, probably worships Cap like his dad did. Some weird satisfaction thrums through Tony, then, an ugly shard of schadenfreude. Someone else will know Steve for the human he is.]
He's alive, the year I come from. We were on a team. And now we aren't, because... you know. He found out his friend murdered my parents and I guess thought it'd be a hassle to tell me.
[He gets it out in one go. Succinct. After a pause, he swigs down the rest of the drink.]
no subject
You're an Avenger— [ But that's not the only revelation rearing its ugly head. ] Cheese on rice, you're Tony Stark. You're, you're that... [ He starts snapping his fingers trying to pull information from that weird day two years ago. ] the Iron Man jackass.
[ What's even crazier than this serendipitous reunion is that Stark doesn't seem to recognize him. There's no "Hey, you're that punk who blew up my helicarrier" snap back. ]
Holy shit. [ The kiddy language has fallen to the way side. He needs a little more gusto in his cursing than dumb euphemisms can provide. ] That's... a little hard to imagine. Ah—I mean, no offense, but all our friends'd be dead by then. So who... what friend could he still have?
[ No one really comes to mind, but if Stark is telling the truth, that would leave maybe Sergeant Fury. He always has "other agendas" that the Invaders and probably even his own Howling Commandos don't know about. ]
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Unless Jersey heard about Iron Man from another Avenger. Thor? Or Cap. Probably Cap -- god, figures he'd hunt down all the local time-displaced soldiers and start a furry American Legion.]
Guilty as charged, [he mutters aloud, as his mind continues to race with the new piece of information. If the kid's already met Cap -- here, in Lunatia -- then that means the fallout from this conversation is going to be more complicated than the uncensored venting he planned for. Not that Steve would retaliate if Tony's viciousness got back to him, and that's the worst part. That through all this, even back in Siberia, he can still act... contrite. Good. Like he understands the weight of what he did, when he doesn't.
The kid swears, and then asks the obvious question. A raw laugh leaps up Tony's throat.]
One that meant more than the rest of us. [He slides the empty glass forward and motions for the bartender to refill it.] Some Howling Commando turned sleeper agent -- maybe you've heard of him. James Buchanan Barnes.
[His mouth splits into an uneven, ugly smile.]
Steve calls him "Bucky."
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No, none of this makes sense. ]
That's... [ Buck stops to laugh a very pitiful laugh. A laugh to comfort himself and bring normalcy back to this conversation. ] That's not right. That's—No, sorry, pal, but that—that can't be how it happened. Barnes dies—died, he died at the end of the War.
[ Ah, shit he done fucked up. He keeps talking in the hopes that Stark doesn't hone in on that. ]
You've got the wrong guy. He wouldn't do something like that, not against civilians. We don't kill civilians.
no subject
Tony's eyes snap from his glass back to Jersey. They follow him, razor-sharp, his gestures and halting words, his emphasis and tone. The bartender ambles over to pour them another round, but Tony's line of sight doesn't budge.]
There's a video. [He speaks before he thinks.] He ran their car off the road. He snapped his neck. Strangled her. Then he left.
[He inhales. The air of the bar is cool with the bite of A/C, fragrant with meat and grease from downstairs.]
He didn't die. And he killed civilians. Or... are you like Rogers, and refuse to believe that one of your band of heroes became a monster.
[It wasn't hard to piece together, once he put an iota of thought toward it. 1945. Bounced around a lot -- Europe, Pacific, wherever they needed him, with the brick of a man who made him feel invisible.
He's from Jersey.]
no subject
The bartender barks at Bucky, telling him to settle down before taking away his empty glass. It's a good call; he gets out of control when he's upset. ]
I'm a hero! Everything I do, I do for my country! Everything they ever asked of me, I did it! Everything. [ His father's gift of blinding rage is bubbling hot under his collar. It's been a godsend when he has to beat just one more Kraut, just one more psychotic bastard to a bloody pulp with nothing but his broken knuckles. In civilian life? It always gets him in trouble. ] And you don't know the half of it. You don't know anything about me, because that ain't my Steve, and that ain't me! That's not my future...
[ He hadn't even realized he had left his stool again. He was up beside Tony, chest rising and falling fast from the sudden rush of anger that's now slowly draining out. As it does—as all that hot white rage he surrounds himself with like armor, Buck feels small all over again. Back when he couldn't do nothing right as a kid. ]
no subject
Tony's known about the possibility of alternate universes from the beginning. Not just different realities, the way he's become used to here -- fantasy worlds, or Earth-based apocalypses and space exploration -- but little variations, tweaks in timelines, different versions of things he intimately knows. It was Cap (of course it was Cap), to whom he'd first thrown up the information, as a weapon against him. The Peter that Cap had spoken to couldn't be theirs, Tony had said at the time. Their Peter had died in his arms.
My Steve, the kid shouts, with his own face and voice, both of which Tony never knew before he came to this place. My future.
Tony's connected the dots, ticked off the boxes. He knows who he's looking at, and yet... he doesn't.]
Guess not. [Thoughts flit behind his eyes, reactions, possibilities. He could leave -- storm out of the place and crazy situation as furiously as he had after Rogers' unwelcome visit a mere hour ago. But to watch the kid blow up like the end of a slow fuse, to hear the bar quiet and feel his raw, ugly rage seep into every nook and cranny of the room around them -- there's no air left for his own.]
Hey. [His voice comes out quiet, but firm. He nods toward the stool beside him.] You want to sit down? If you get us kicked out, it's a mile to the next bar and I don't feel like walking.
["It wasn't him," Steve had pleaded, back then. Tony hadn't believed him -- still doesn't.
And yet the crease in the kid's brow is hard to look away from.]
fuu icons expired
[ In spite of his spitting words Buck does back sit down, but he looks no less pleased. His eyes are fixed to the counter, and it's a miracle the lacquered wood doesn't catch fire from the heat of his glare. ]
God, what is wrong with all of you? Bein' good 'cause you fight bad isn't supposed to be complicated.
[ The energy around these Avengers has been so draining. He never thought he would miss Steve's maddening naivete. All those times he yelled at him or rolled his eyes for being too pure. But compared to this new beaten down man running rogue with a blacked out star? Yeah, he'll take his endearing ding dong now any day of the week. ]
We've met before, you know. Back home. I blew a hole through your "helicarrier." Once you told me your name, I knew who you were. [ He turns his attention back to Stark. ] Your eyes were blue, though... But you look at me like a total stranger. You all do.
Makes me feel like I'm crazy. Like maybe I made this whole world up and none of it actually happened. It's really starting to get old.
no subject
Tony looks back to the kid about the same time he continues talking.
Met before. Tony's body goes rigid, and he remains silent as he listens through the rest of the kid's explanation. As if accepting two simultaneous versions of another person isn't crazy enough, he's now being forced to face a much more existentially frightening thought.
Of course... he and this other Tony probably aren't really the same person. He's considered this before -- that the chances for one single individual to be born at all are tiny, infinitesimal. The chances for that same individual to be born to the same exact parents in an alternate universe, and carry the same exact genetic code, is... pretty much none at all. You've gotta consider the pure luck aspect in the aftermath of the birds and the bees -- millions of unique cells competing to fertilize an egg, and that's assuming other variations in the timeline haven't already obliterated your assumed variables from the get go -- that the parents aren't also completely different individuals, or that they've come together under the exact same circumstances, on the exact same date, and produced the exact same reproductive cells, and...
...Okay, that's. Way too much scientific consideration on the topic of his parents getting it on. God.
Either way, the kid proves Tony's hypothesis 100% true. He looks a little like Barnes, but he's definitely a different person, with a different voice, different mannerisms -- even a different history, if Tony remembers Interpol's briefs correctly. Genetically, he's probably more like Barnes' cousin -- depending on how far back their universe's timelines diverged, anyway. And as far as the Tony that the kid met...
Blue eyes. Tony's mom had blue eyes. The other him might be his brother, genetically speaking. Man. Wild.
Of course, there's also the question of how the hell a kid from World War II met him-but-not-really in the first place. Tony desperately wants to ask, but he also knows he needs to be delicate, with the kid's bowed head and mumbled words. With the way his own realizations and analysis have all but snuffed the fire in his own belly.]
Listen. [He continues to face the kid from his bar stool as he drums his fingers on the counter.] Alternate realities? They're complicated. The name I raked through the mud might be yours, but that's because you share it with someone else. And for all we know, the... other Barnes, [he tries, carefully,] is a completely different person from you, and has a completely different future. Case in point-- [he adds, and leans forward,] I own a hell of a lot of assets, but pretty sure none of them are helicarriers. Also, I've never worn blue contacts and I'm pretty sure I'd remember meeting a mouthy punk from Jersey, so. That guy you met isn't me either.
[He hopes that's a digestible enough version of his mental notes. After a second, he leans down and attempts to meet the kid's eyes.]
I don't think you're crazy. [Pause.] I do think we should keep drinking.
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Or, no. Perhaps that's harder. For him it would be, to bury the hatchet with someone he felt slighted him. He doesn't do that. He razes the other man to the ground until there's nothing left. Until Buck can feel like the stronger, better man and then salt the very earth before he leaves.
But then that doesn't happen with friends. Or a potential friend. Someone he felt a kinship with at the very least—someone quick-witted and a little immature. So, what tactic should he take with Stark? That's the dilemma. ]
........ Fine. Your turn to pay, though. [ And that's that. His brown eyes no longer hold their lively shine, but the fiery rage is gone at least. ] Guess it's for the best you aren't him. He had no sense of humor.
[ But maybe that was because Buck blew a hole through the helicarrier and freed every imprisoned Invader in just under 32 seconds. That'd sure take the wind out of your sails. ]
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Tony considers this for a second -- juxtaposes the angry hellion he just witnessed against the cold, robotic motions of the man in the German holding facility, on the airport tarmac, in the images of the horrible, grainy video he wishes he could wipe from his head. So completely different that Tony wonders if one could lead into the other -- if it's possible to harness anger and hurt, and freeze it in the shape of a weapon. Could you take a boy on fire and make him your winter soldier?
Tony motions the bartender over. He pauses, then refills their drinks when Tony swipes his wrist device over the payment sensor.
Tony picks up his tumbler and stares down at it for a second, watches the way the ice clinks against the glass.]
Yeah. [The side of his mouth twists into a half-smile, strained and distant.] I know the type.
[They drink.]