[ 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
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]