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In Central Park, in the middle of New York City, scores of people had their own things to do on a sunny autumn afternoon. None of them paid more than passing attention to the man briskly walking in a ratty old MIT hoodie and cheap sunglasses that looked like they came from the nearest tourist trap. As it happened, they did. Tony Stark had passed a souvenir shop on the walk from the 57th Street subway station, and buying the tacky mirrored shades seemed like a good idea. A general attempt was being made to make him unrecognizable, after all, which wasn’t so hard, considering nobody was going to expect to see one of the richest men on the planet hoofing it around the walking paths anyway.
Tony was not by nature an outdoorsman. In Malibu, he had loved to surf, but that love, along with his general tolerance for bodies of water he could not completely control, had died in Afghanistan with his head held in a bucket of dirty water by a terrorist minion. Tony had survived their coercion, had built a miniaturized energy source to power a magnet to keep shrapnel from killing him, had held on until his bestie had found and rescued him. Even the reformed Merchant of Death could not last a lifetime with metal working its way toward his heart, though, so as soon as medical science had advanced enough to yank the stuff safely out, he had gotten that issue sorted out. (He had also, with the help of the assistant who was now technically his boss, sorted out the issue of who had gotten him kidnapped and nearly killed, but that was not a topic Tony liked to dwell on, especially not on a pleasant day in the Big Apple.)
Post-open heart surgery, Tony’s doctors had ordered him to start getting regular exercise and fresh air, as fresh as one could get in the city, at least. If he was honest, the atmosphere was probably cleaner inside Stark Tower, but Pepper insisted he needed to get out of the building. Tony adored her, and was also slightly terrified of her, so he was not inclined to argue. Besides, it was true he could use an occasional break, the better to approach his plate full of projects afresh. Between shutting down Stark Industries’ weapons program, building up all the other branches of the business, and fending off that guy Fury from the government who kept pestering him to consult on some special actions team, Tony had more than twenty-four hours of work in any given day. On top of all that, Rhodey had cheerfully gifted him with a bundle of non-combatant defense contracts, courtesy of an anonymous note from an employee of one of his competitors blowing the whistle on some very bad manufacturing practices.
As busy as he was, Tony could not fathom how he had time to be lonely, but dammit, he actually was sometimes. Nobody who expressed interest in him seemed to want him just for him. He had quit sleeping around, after returning from Afghanistan. He had his friends, of course, but Rhodey had a girl in California, and he wasn’t sure if Pepper had or even wanted anyone special in her life (and he did have enough self-preservation instinct not to ask). A part of him would be happy to hole up in the tower forever, but another part wanted, needed, to get out and be around people, so these little anonymous runs around town were immensely helpful. No, he was not the outdoorsy type, but there was more to see, even in a park in the middle of a bustling city, than one might imagine, and the whole operation had become an unexpected periodic pleasure.
The paved walkways wound back and forth through the park, and up and down gentle slopes. Here and there, little paths beaten into the earth by scores of inquisitive feet branched off the main route. Being nosy by nature, Tony enjoyed investigating those; picking his way through the rough, even just a few feet to a pleasant view of a stream or a new angle on a nearby building, had the air of the explorations he had never gotten to do as a child. Just before a small iron bridge crossed the stream, he veered off onto a barely-there hint of a trail, ducking tree branches and pausing to admire the unplanned artistry of a clump of mushrooms on a fallen log. The trail crossed a small clearing and went up a rise, and off to one side, buried under leaves, Tony spied what looked like a pile of trash. His newfound appreciation of nature was deeply offended by this, and he considered gathering it up en masse and finding the nearest dumpster to drop it in. On the other hand, there was no telling what might be stuck fast amid the mess: rotten food, animal remains, who knew what kinds of things he definitely did not want to put his hands on. With a barely suppressed shudder, he kicked some of the leaves aside, then paused, because what was revealed didn’t look like trash. It looked intentional, for lack of a better word. He nudged cautiously at the folded nylon, and heard the distinct rattle of metal, like a tiny version of the noise from the back of a restaurant—like utensils. Somebody’s living out here, he thought in surprise.
When Tony crouched and carefully brushed away more leaves, he realized they had been deliberately massed up to cover what appeared to be a round pack made to hold a small collapsible tent. He lifted it slightly and spied a backpack beneath; a nudge produced a repeat of the metallic sound, confirming it was probably filled with camping gear. It was a shock, and a sad one, so as soon as he had confirmed his guess to his own satisfaction, he stopped poking around, and even scooped up the leaves he had dislodged and replaced them. If this was all some poor sap had, he was definitely not going to mess with it. Unbidden, his mind cast back to the months he had spent in captivity, and how jealously he and Yinsen had hoarded what few creature comforts they had, from the knotted bits of rope that made dish scrubbers to their cobbled-together makeshift backgammon set.
His knees creaking, Tony stood, made his way back to the main path, and finished his walk. He did not mention the campsite to any of the park cops he passed; if they did their jobs, they would find it, but he wasn’t going to help them hassle the person. Whoever they were was living rough in a city park, staring down the barrel of approaching winter, only because they had no place else to go. A few days later, the next time he went uptown for what Rhodey teasingly called his constitutional, Tony slipped back up the side trail, just to check. The tent and gear were still there, carefully concealed. Silently, he wished their owner well, and went on his way.
It became a regular thing, Tony peeking in, just to keep an eye on the gear. He wished he could think of another way to help, but if he left things, the mystery camper might reject it, or lose it, get it stolen, or flee. So, Tony just walked up and looked, moved leaves aside to be sure nothing was chewing on anything, then replaced the concealing foliage and left; until the day he noticed a large plastic bag, half hidden under the corner of a tarp. It contained several books with the white sticker at the tail of each spine that marked them as library books. He huffed a little laugh of pleasant surprise—whoever the camper was, they weren’t neglecting their mental life despite their circumstances. In fact, their tastes were similar, judging from the titles Tony saw, including one he had just finished reading himself.
As he finished his walk and hopped the subway back downtown, Tony’s mind kept going back to the stack of books, picturing someone secreted in their tiny tent, maybe reading by flashlight, and he wondered which ones they liked best, and why. Walking from the F line station at Rockefeller Plaza back to Stark Tower, he passed a junky little old stationery store, and impulsively ducked inside. Before his next walk, he scribbled a note in the all-weather notebook he had bought with the matching waterproof pen, and stuffed both in a zip bag. (He was all about the high-tech, true, but sometimes old-school was better suited for the situation.) This time, he waited to venture up the narrow footpath until no one was nearby, dug the small bag out of his hoodie pocket, and tucked it among the protective blanket of leaves, one corner barely visible so the camper would see it and hopefully not chuck it off into the wild by accident.
---
The first time someone had messed with his gear, Bucky Barnes had noticed it the instant he stepped off the main path to wend his way back up to his little camp. Nothing had been taken, so it wasn’t a common thief; and the whole thing hadn’t been dumped in the garbage, so it wasn’t police. He considered moving, but this site was perfect, sheltered under trees, elevated just a little so he could see anybody coming long before they saw him, but flat and good for sleeping, and with good drainage in case of rain. Dammit, he paid taxes in this city too, and he wasn’t bothering anybody with the twenty square feet or so of park land he was borrowing, so he felt entitled to stay right where he was. He did, however, take some steps to get ahead of any future marauders, keeping only the few dollars he needed on a daily basis on his person and putting the bulk of what he made from day to day in the small bank account he’d been able to hold on to after losing his apartment and steady job. He didn’t really have anything of importance that was too big to keep on him, except his rotating stack of library books, so he left them there with his tent, ground pad and backpack, buried under leaves and branches when he was off hustling up day work. Thieves weren’t likely to want to mess with hardback volumes, and if cops tossed his camp, they would at least (probably) recognize where the books came from and return them.
Bucky expected one outcome or the other, but not what he found a few weeks later: a new little plastic zip-bag. The green cover of the small notepad inside proclaimed it RITE IN THE RAIN, which was either a pun too cute by half or an indictment of just how bad American schools had gotten. When he flipped it open, another surprise greeted him—a neatly printed note.
Hi, I wasn’t being nosy. Ok, maybe I was. Sorry. I swear I did not root around in your stuff, as soon as I figured out it was actually somebody’s stuff. I noticed you’re reading Neptune’s Brood—I just finished it and it’s very good. Leave me a note & tell me what you think. Have you read the book before it, Saturn’s Children? It's a wild caper.
So his visitor wasn’t police, or thieves, just somebody who wanted to talk about books? Bucky snorted, but after he set up camp, cleaned up and ate the sandwich he’d scavenged from the dumpster of the nearby deli, he settled in his tent and wrangled his bum arm to hold the notebook flat under its weight. He tapped the fancy waterproof pen left with the pad against his teeth briefly in thought, then began to write.
---
Tony tried not to get his hopes up a few days later when he made his way to the park, and strove not to run up the little path, but was surprised and delighted to find the notebook clearly had been moved and then replaced. Better still, when he pulled it out of the bag, he found an addition on the page after his own note. He stuffed the bag into his pocket (maybe Pepper was right that he should break down and buy a fanny pack), made his way back out to the walkway, and found a bench to land on so he could read the reply.
I’m about halfway thru the book. It’s pretty good, kind of twisted, lots of talk about money or what they use for money in space in the future. I’m waiting for some crazy twist in the plot though, just feels like it’s coming. Will look for the other book, thanks for saying. Any other books you suggest?
After sitting for a moment in thought, Tony listed several books he thought, based on the comments, his correspondent might appreciate. Feeling rather like a spy leaving messages tucked into a hole in a brick wall, he crept back to the camp and secreted the notebook roughly where he had found it. It was probably pathetic that a guy who could pay for all the company he wanted was as thrilled as Tony found himself by a note from a faceless stranger; but then, maybe that was the charm of it, that this person was interacting with him having no idea who he was.
---
Bucky decided he’d write back to the obviously well-read stranger as long as he kept getting replies—and book recs, good ones. For the next few weeks, the two exchanged notes, moving from just books to other topics. One afternoon Bucky was home earlier than usual; he had just unzipped his tent’s carry bag, but not yet pulled it out to pop it up for the night, when he heard footsteps on the path. The stealth skills that had never quite left his system when he had left the military came in handy, and he swung soundlessly into a spot in the undergrowth where he could see but not be seen.
A man appeared, carrying a small white bakery sack in one hand. He was smallish and slim, but solidly built; and despite the battered hoodie and horrible wraparound mirrored sunglasses he wore, he looked pretty attractive, to Bucky’s admittedly out of practice eyes. His head turned, glancing around with a caution Bucky thoroughly approved of, then darted across the clearing and straight up the hill, halting at the concealed stack of gear with a certainty that could only come from knowing what he was looking for. The man squatted, set the sack atop the folded tent, and rummaged among the brush until he pulled out the plastic bag with notebook and pen. “Hope this is okay, book buddy,” he mumbled as he began to write. “It’s not, like, charity, so don’t take it that way. Just…hm…I ordered something but they gave me this by mistake, I don’t do onions, I’d take it back but—ha—Pepper’s doing that keto bullshit, or whatever, so no carbs. Yeah, that’s the ticket…”
After a few more moments of scribbling, the visitor popped both pen and pad back into their bag and coaxed the white sack in beside them. Gingerly he felt around until he found the open zipper of the tent pack. “Lemme stuff this in here, and hopefully nothing other than the intended recipient’ll get their teeth into it,” he muttered while he tucked the closed bag securely among the folds, then stood up, dusted the knees of his worn sweatpants, and beat a retreat as cautious as his approach.
Bucky gave him plenty of time to clear before emerging from cover. He restrained himself from tearing into the bag until he had a roof over his head. The white sack contained a fresh onion bagel loaded with cream cheese, its smell making his mouth water. The notebook contained a version of the story Bucky had heard his caller rehearse. Hey buddy, hope your reading’s going well. No new books to rec this week, work’s been stacked. Wonder if you’d mind helping me out though. I stopped at Pret a Porter across from the park to grab one of their energy bagels, but they gave me this one by mistake. Then when I pointed it out, they gave me my original order and told me to keep this one. Which is fine, but I can’t eat both. I have a friend at work I usually give stuff like this to but she’s on this gluten free diet or something. Anyway, their bagels are really good, so I can’t bring myself to waste it. Hope you can find a good use.
Bucky wasn’t sure if the story was true, or if the guy just didn’t want him to feel bad about taking food from him. Didn’t matter, really; he was being kind, and the bagel looked amazing. He dug out his canteen and his current book, and enjoyed his unexpected afternoon snack.
---
The weather was starting to turn, one evening a few weeks later, and Tony was moving with unusual haste up the park’s main walk. He wanted to keep to his self-appointed rounds, and check on his book buddy’s camp before he headed back home. His eyes kept straying to the darkening clouds overhead, instead of to his surroundings, which he blamed for why the two goons had gotten the drop on him.
One big balding guy in a tank top had strode briskly past, then spun on his heel and stopped, forcing Tony to halt in his tracks. As he started in on a typical New York rant, baldie advanced on him, broad and inexorable as the Death Star’s trash compactor walls. Tony snapped into full focus, and without taking another step back he could feel somebody else too close behind him. “Let’s dance,” he snapped, half turned and grabbed the arm reaching forward to grab him. With one quick jerk he pulled it up and back and twisted to get on the blind side of goon two, a fireplug of a guy with white-boy dreads.
Tony had time only to hope he remembered what the martial arts teacher in California had taught him, regret he hadn’t found a kung fu instructor in New York yet, and think Happy’s gonna kill me if I get myself killed after I told him I’d be fine; and then it was on. His thoughts narrowed to the next moment only. Keep your center, stay off the ground, throw one attacker in the way of the other, maintain balance, and for fucks sake don’t get hit in the chest. What’d ya know, sifu Oram was right, this style really is good for smaller guys to hold off big ones. “Haaaalp!” he kept yelling. “Police! Come make your donut money, guys! I’m being robbed here!”
“Shut up,” goon two retorted, just before Tony grabbed his arm again and this time managed to get him askew enough to knock him to the pavement with a grunt. Goon one took advantage of the distraction, though, and got his arms around Tony’s torso, grabbing his wrists and pulling them back as if to apply restraints. Tony struggled, still yelling. “Gotcha,” goon two mocked, sitting up and spitting out some blood. “Gettin’ sloppy, Stark, too much a creature of habit, we knew to lay for you on this path at this time. The man wants you alive and reasonably intact, or I’d—”
“Can it,” goon one cut him off. “Any luck, man’ll let us both take some of our own back outta his rich-boy hide while we got—”
A tank appeared out of the gathering dark. That was the only way Tony could describe the massive figure that burst into view, long dark hair flying and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen blazing in rage. One huge beefy hand grabbed goon two by the scruff of his neck like a misbehaving kitten, except anyone who would throw a kitten against a tree with that much force should be horsewhipped. Accompanied by the literal sound of wood, and maybe bones, cracking, goon two let out a groan and slid to the ground in a motionless heap.
Tony seized the moment, got one hand loose, and turned and played as dirty as the occasion called for; a good whack in the crotch sent goon one to his knees choking, just in time for the hard footfalls of running NYPD-issue shoes to reach Tony’s ears. He kicked the downed assailant in the face just for good measure, then jumped back and looked frantically around for his rescuer. All he caught was the crackle of brush and a shadow vanishing up a very familiar path, and he caught his breath as two park police arrived. He gave them his story while they cuffed the gasping perps. “Nice job on these two, Mr. Stark,” one praised him. “Remind us to spread the word never to piss you off at the police foundation gala.”
They all laughed, and the other officer glanced up. The sky had darkened more, and the wind whipped her ponytail. “Looks like it’s about to get messy,” she said. “We’d be happy to get you a ride home. Not with these clowns, though,” she added with a grimace in the general direction of goons one and two.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I, ah, dropped a book I had with me, I’m gonna go retrace my steps and try to find it. it was borrowed, and I really don’t want my friend to finish the job Thing One and Thing Two started if I can’t return it.” Goon two snarled, but Tony just blew him a kiss as he and his hapless pal were hauled away. He gave the cops a good couple of minutes to get out of sight and earshot, spending the time digging out his thankfully intact StarkPhone and tweeting: almost got abducted just now. Pay attn to ur surroundings, kids. Rescued by hobo jesus. Then he shoved it back in his pocket, squinted into the deepening gloom, and started up the side path. It was the first time he’d been out there this late, and the first time, when he stepped across the clearing and looked up the rise, that the little olive-drab tent was popped up in place. The faint glow of a light from inside illuminated the figure of his champion standing beside it. “Hey, Um, thanks a lot for your help back there. I, ah, appreciate it. You’re probably wondering how I knew to come back here, but the truth is—”
“I know,” the big guy replied. “I saw you here once. You’re my book buddy.” Tony stuttered, and then laughed, just as a huge raindrop smacked down onto his nose. “Whoops, here it comes. C’mon in here. Tent’s not big, but neither are you."
“Hey, I resent that remark,” Tony retorted, but without heat, as he dived in. The tent was tiny, especially for two grown men, but secure and dry. Its tenant slid in and zipped the fly up to shut the rain out, then settled on a bedroll and stuck out his hand. “I’m Bucky,” he said. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”
Tony shook his hand. “I’m Tony,” he said, and did not offer more, waiting for the inevitable moment this lovely guy realized who he was—and he was lovely, in the soft glow of the little camping lantern. Oh no, hobo Jesus is hot. The moment didn’t come, though, so Tony made haste to fill the space and maybe stave it off for a few magical minutes. “So, what’re you reading this week? It’s been great having somebody to talk books with, none of my pals are really into the same genres I am. Of course, I talk so much as it is, they’re glad to only have to listen when it’s needed, I guess—”
Bucky (and what kind of name was that anyway?) stopped him with a laugh and an upraised hand, then pulled the new James Gunn novel from under his pack, and they were off to the races.
---
Working menial day jobs, Bucky didn’t get much chance to talk books either. Hell, he didn’t get much of a chance to talk period. But his book buddy was unhesitating, outgoing, and in general a fucking delight. He was also just as handsome up close, if not more, and smelled great. (Bucky resisted the urge to surreptitiously sniff his own pits, which were probably pretty pungent—he’d just gotten back from ten hours hauling buckets of recycled papers, and barely had time to pop his tent up, when he had heard a familiar voice yell for help.)
From books and weather, the conversation rolled on to backstories. Tony said he lived nearby, and worked as an engineer developing new products for some big industrial conglomerate. “So, and shut me up if this is too forward to ask,” he began, and then proceeded to roll right on, “how’d a guy with a clearly sharp brain end up out here? You’re not one of those couple dozen who listed Central Park as your home address on the census a few years ago, are you?”
“Ha, nope, I wasn’t even here in town then. Got mustered out of the army after this sucker got crushed in a vehicle accident.” He lifted his left shoulder and demonstrated the hand at the end hanging semi-limp. “It was working fairly well then, just not good enough for Uncle Sam to rely on me. Came here to meet up with an old boyfriend living in Brooklyn, went great for a while, until I hurt the arm again, lost most of the function I had left, and then lost my job. Boyfriend broke up with me to get back with his old girlfriend, so I lost my crib too. The VA wasn’t any help, so here I sit, working odd jobs to save enough money to go…someplace. I had this one pal from the Army, whose family’s in Louisiana. He always said their door was open to me, but I don’t really want to land on them and be a burden.”
Tony’s big dark eyes got even bigger. “That’s—appalling!! That a veteran’d have to do this for himself. I know I’ve heard of people who can help you out with injuries like that… what’re they called, occupational therapists?”
Bucky sighed and pulled a sad half-smile. “Yeah, but it takes forever to even get on the waiting list, let alone get off it and actually get services. I’ve taught myself how to work around the lack of grip in the hand, and my upper arm and shoulder are fine so that helps me get whatever jobs I can grab. Hours vary; may work on a construction site for a few weeks, that job’s over and I find a gig hauling trash, maybe working as a stagehand for a theater, whatever I can scare up.”
“Hm.” Tony sat quietly for a moment. “My company’s always hiring for all kinds of positions. I’ll check with the big boss if you want. What’re you good at, in particular?”
Bucky shrugged. “I dunno, shooting people?”
Tony snorted. “We already have a pretty competent head of security, not sure he needs a sniper on his team. You’ve got more going for you than just muscle though, I can tell from what you are reading, and the notes you left me. You’re living rough out here, but you’ve got a damned library card!”
“Books don’t take batteries,” Bucky returned. “Also I use their wifi, go there to charge my phone, etcetera.”
“You’ve got a cell phone?”
This time Bucky suppressed an audible groan. “Everybody says that. Has it ever occurred to you you gotta have a phone nowadays to do anything including find a job?”
“Okay, no, it did not, my bad.” Tony rubbed his hand over his face, and looked actually embarrassed. “It just never occurred to me to think about all these little things that I’d take for granted, that you—you’re a hero, man and you’re having to do without. That’s shitty. I want to try to help, if you’ll let me. The company owns some apartment buildings; some of the units are held to rent to employees at cut rates, and the buildings need on-site maintenance staff. Is that something you think you could do?”
“Have done, the building maintenance part anyway, and I enjoy it actually. I like solving problems for people.”
“Okay, we can work with that.” Tony gave a firm nod. “They might even spot you rent as part of your salary. I’ll look into it and get back to you ASAP, if you’ll be around, that is.”
“Not like I got anyplace else to go,” Bucky kidded, “and besides, cell phone, remember?”
Tony pulled his phone out—one of those fancy Stark models, Bucky noted with a hint of jealousy—and put Bucky’s number into his contacts. The rain had finally stopped, and Bucky saw his new friend off regretfully. People talked a good game face to face, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath that anybody, even someone this friendly and funny (and handsome, let’s not forget that, shut up brain) would go out of his way to help a random homeless crip.
---
Tony left the park with damp feet and unquenchable resolve. His heart ached for the guy he had just met. It wasn’t just the oh no he’s hot factor, not even close. It was the shitty hand Bucky Barnes had been dealt, and his determination to make the best of it. it was the way he talked about the old man at his last job who he had helped carry groceries back to a cold-water walkup apartment, and the shy little white kitten that had appeared as they said good night for its apparent regular feeding. The guy could barely afford food for himself, and he couldn’t turn a damn stray cat away. No, Tony Stark was not the nicest guy in New York, but he was dead set to give his book buddy a hand up—not a handout, he clearly didn’t want that, but a chance to start a self-reliant new life.
By morning he and JARVIS had already pored over the listings of SI properties and settled on a complex in Queens that needed staffing up. With a quick heads-up email to Pepper (and blithe ignorance of her why are you getting personally involved in this? reply), Tony notified the property’s manager, gave her Bucky’s number to set up a meeting, and lined up an apartment for the new live-in maintenance (which said manager was thrilled about).
Barnes took the job, settled in (with the kitten), and from reports of both residents and fellow staff was great at the job, friendly, conscientious and capable. Tony was pleased, but still bothered. Bucky had mentioned other vets in a similar pickle to him. Tony did some research and was more horrified with every case he found. For fuck's sake, one medic had re-enlisted to escape being left homeless! This problem was big, big enough that even as wealthy as he was, he couldn’t fix it himself. He was only one person, and he couldn’t do what a whole-ass government ought to be doing.
He could do something, though. Fuming, Tony hatched a plan. He made some calls, bent Rhodey’s ear, called in some favors, and launched a fund to connect with homeless veterans and provide job training, physical and mental health care (which was a whole other kettle of fish, and something else one person, even a Tony Stark, couldn’t completely fix). It was set to start in the NYC area, but hopefully as a pilot program that could spread across the country and be supported and sponsored by other major companies (not out of the goodness of their hearts, Tony knew, but fuck ‘em, the good PR they’d get would more than make back what they spent. Enlightened self-interest was a thing, after all.)
He dropped by the apartments in Queens to check on Bucky and found him happily repairing a clothes washer. Tony’s fingers itched to get right in there with him, and he did not restrain himself. In no time they were handing each other tools and cracking jokes. It became a regular thing, Tony hopping the F train across the East River to spend a couple of hours talking books and bitching about some of the nerds in R&D.
If Bucky had been keeping score, Tony’s gripes were far outnumbered by his chatter about the crazy amazing projects he was working on. His job sounded great, and made Bucky occasionally wish he were an engineer too. He was quite content where he was though, nobody special, not getting shot at halfway around the world, or hiding from the law in a park. He was just Bucky the maintenance guy, generally liked and trusted: flirting simultaneously with Mrs. Ramirez and her grandson just for the amusement of watching her sputter; babysitting widowed May Parker’s nephew when she pulled a double shift at the hospital; swapping beers and war stories with several elder vets.
His favorite parts were Tony’s visits, though. The companionship, the getting hands dirty together (and trying not to imagine getting dirty in other venues with the guy…damn, that butt of his ought to have poetry written about it), and his yarns about what was going on in Manhattan at the main offices of his company (Stark Industries, Bucky had learned, and wow, who thought a kid from Indiana with a GED and a give-em-hell attitude could wind up working for a concern that big, even as one small cog?). Tony kept him so well stocked with gossip that he felt like he knew everybody there, from Bambi the secretary to the fearsome CEO Virginia Potts.
One bit Tony had oddly not passed along was one Bucky had to learn from his manager, the huge initiative for homeless vets that Mr. Stark was starting. He couldn’t imagine his presence here had anything to do with that—he wasn’t about to flatter himself that far—but then again. Tony had said on their very first meeting, that rainy night in Central Park, that he would talk to the ‘big boss’ about hiring Bucky, so maybe he had put a bug in the ear of someone with power. It was great to hear, no matter the source, and Bucky wished his brothers and sisters in arms the best, as well as the enigmatic Mr. Stark. (He might have secretly also started making a list of suggestions he would offer, if anyone asked him. Which, nobody was going to, but still, he believed in being prepared.)
He was most emphatically not prepared for what happened a week or two later. Tony had just left and Bucky was debating which task on his daily to-do list to tackle next when he heard a ruckus from the direction of the parking lot. He poked his head out the door of the vacant second-floor unit he was cleaning and spied a scuffle just below between two men, one large and one smaller—one very familiar smaller one.
“Got a girlfriend here?” the big man mocked while trying to pin Tony against the low walk that ran along A building’s front walk. “Or hell, maybe a boyfriend, who the fuck knows. You're too regular again, makes it too easy to track you. You may have screwed them, Mr. Tony Stark, but now you’re the one gonna get screwed the way you and your buddy Rhodes screwed Bruno over.”
Bucky’s brain may have exploded, just a little, at that moment. An engine revved, and a black SUV wheeled around the far end of B building; it braked at the end of the A walk, and a second man jumped out from behind the wheel to help his pal drag his struggling prey toward it. There was no time to run downstairs; by then, Tony was going to be shoved in the back seat and they’d peel out. Bucky took one deep breath and ran at the upstairs rail, vaulting it and dropping ten feet to the ground with a thankfully neat landing. Old habits did indeed die hard.
The driver saw him first and ran toward him. Bucky dropped him cold with one right fist without breaking stride, but that gave the original attacker enough of a heads up to spin to face Bucky’s way, put Tony between them, and put a big ka-bar knife to Tony’s neck. Tony froze; his martial arts skills were great, what Bucky had seen of them anyway, but his captor’s size and stance had his arms pinned to his sides and his legs crushed together, so he wasn’t going to be able to initiate anything, and an attempt would just get his throat slit. Bucky thought fast, searching for some way to distract his opponent.
“MISTER Stark?” he yelled at Tony. “What the fuck?? Am I your pet project, MISTER lets-be-nice-to-the-poor-vets Stark?” He stormed forward; the punk with the knife yelped, but Bucky forced himself not to even glance his way, keeping his whole focus on Tony, who stiffened.
“What the fuck me? What the fuck you?” Tony countered. “Something needed to be done to help your pals. I’m doing what I can partly because you brought it to my attention, and yeah, partly because I hate what you went through. I can’t fix it all, but I can do what I can do! And don’t act all surprised, you knew who I was, you heard the cops when they took my statement at the park!”
“I beat feet before they got there!” Bucky reminded him, and shifted his weight forward a hair while he let his scowl deepen. “I didn’t hear a thing. And you keep talking about your ‘job’ like you’re another working stiff—”
“R&D is my job!”
“You talked about your boss!”
“Pepper is my boss. Yeah, my name is on the building, but she makes the decisions, thank fuck. How often do you think I get to get out of that sheet-glass cage and just be some approximation of a normal person? I like hanging with you for that! I thought you liked, well, me.”
That sank in, and despite his genuine annoyance, Bucky couldn’t miss the way Tony’s shoulders slumped. (He also noted how the change in posture forced his captor to alter his grip, and thoroughly approved of the tactic.) “Okay, okay, yeah, I like you, you’re a good guy. Doesn’t matter what your last name is. You’re my friend.”
“Same here.” Tony’s voice dropped, which gave Bucky an excuse to lean in a little closer. “And I’d like for you to remain so if not more—"
He cut himself off mid-phrase. “More what?” Bucky asked. Tony shook his head. “C’mon, come clean with me.”
“You didn’t know who I was, so you also don’t have any way of knowing that I, ah, well, I don’t limit myself romantically.”
“Speak English, Tony,” Bucky said patiently.
“I like guys too,” Tony blurted, “and I like you a lot, and I’d love to go out with you.”
The man with the knife actually let out an irritated huff. “Are you two clowns havin’ a fuckin’ lovers quarrel out here and ignorin’ the obvious situation?”
This time they both ignored him. “If you’re okay with a fella who’s got a bum limb,” Bucky replied, then made a great show of picking his left arm up by the forearm with his good right hand, then letting it hang limp and seemingly useless. The ploy, as he intended, both covered him moving a bit closer, and scored with his adversary, who shifted to what he now assumed was Bucky's bad side. Bucky smothered a small smirk.
Tony laughed. “I’ve seen you work, Buckster, nothing bum about you. So, yeah, let’s plan something. Nothing fancy, I can afford fancy but that doesn’t mean I necessarily like it. Simple is good.”
“Simple is good,” Bucky agreed.
By now, the would-be abductor was looking from Bucky to Tony and back, thoroughly gobsmacked. “Okay, first of all, nobody’s plannin’ a fuckin’ date here, because this asshole’s got an appointment with a very important client of mi—”
Without missing a beat, Bucky engaged all the force of his decidedly unimpaired left shoulder and bicep, and sucker punched the jerk in the face. He went limp and fell like a downed tree. Tony twisted free and kicked the knife away, then staggered a little, and Bucky caught him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine, fine,” Tony panted, but Bucky could feel him shudder, and pulled him into a steadying embrace.
“Nice playing along with the distraction tactic,” Bucky said approvingly.
“I meant every word,” Tony whispered back. Bucky’s heart leaped, but he reined his emotions in while he dug a couple of extension cords out of his jacket pockets. While Tony called 911, Bucky dragged their prizes to the nearest light pole and tied them securely in place.
“So who are these mooks that keep jumping you?” Bucky asked and sat down on the curb, close enough to keep an eye on things but not too close. “What do they want, and how can we make them stop interrupting us when we both got better things to do?”
“I didn’t know until this moron,” Tony prodded knife guy with the toe of his work boot, “mentioned ‘Bruno’. Bruno Horgan was a government defense contractor; that is, he was, until inspectors found him using substandard materials. My best friend Jim Rhodes is with the Air Force; he got an anonymous insider statement that set up the find, and then he put in a good word for the contracts to be awarded to Stark Industries, which they did since they already knew our work in other arenas. From the sound of it, maybe Bruno thought he could use me to get Rhodey to say the whistleblower was fake, even though it wouldn’t have worked.”
“Because this guy Rhodes wouldn’t have cared what happened to you?”
“Oh hell no.” Tony flopped down on the curb beside him. “I flatter myself by thinking he’d care, we’re like brothers, we go way back. What would more likely happen is, he’d do something crazy to try to rescue me, and he is a certified badass so whatever he planned would work. Nabbing me to force his hand was one incredibly stupid idea, which makes sense considering this Bruno seems pretty stupid.”
“Stupid but still could’ve gotten you killed,” Bucky grumbled. “Not good. Maybe I ought to be your bodyguard instead of doing maintenance.”
“I’d let you guard my body,” Tony joked, though the jesting tone vanished when Bucky gave him a suddenly smoldering look. “For what it’s worth, I did mean everything I said. I’ve been feeling pretty adrift lately, I’ve got a few good friends, but…”
“No special somebody?”
“Nope. Thinking that might be you. At least, I’d like to give it a try, if you would. If it doesn’t scare you. I’m kind of a magnet for trouble. You’d think I was some kind of comic book superhero.”
“Doesn’t bother me any,” Bucky confessed.
“Just one thing,” Tony said, in a tone that abruptly carried a note of pleading. “Don’t call me MISTER Stark. That was my old man. I hate it. I have to be Mr. Stark for the rest of the world, but I need to just be Tony sometimes…like with you.”
Bucky nodded, then nudged Tony with his shoulder. “So, I’m a cheap date. You hungry? Let’s get these jokers out of the way, and go get pancakes.”
Tony cocked his head. “Huh. Yeah, pancakes.” They laughed quietly together in the dusk in the parking lot as they waited.