Chapter Text
There is something exhilarating about fighting Iron Man, Winter has come to find. Of all the villains that Rogers makes them fight, it always comes back to Iron Man.
Rogers and Winter made him, after all.
Iron Man the villain, that is.
Iron Man the superhero was born long ago, but the villain? That was on Rogers. That was on Winter too, he supposed.
Being the reason that Tony Stark had gone off on a killing spree and turned to a life of villainy wasn’t what made fighting him so exhilarating though.
It was the chase, Winter thinks.
It was getting caught, getting found, and knowing that it was because Stark got bored and decided he wanted to toy with them that day.
That was the exhilarating part.
To Stark, it was a game. To Winter, to Rogers, to the rest of them—it was a fight for their lives.
Stark has been playing a deadly game of cat and mouse with Rogers and his lot of vigilante heroes ever since Stark made his first appearance six months after Siberia.
He’s been mocking them.
Slowly closing in. He’s also been breaking down Rogers’ resolve in a way Winter didn’t know was possible.
It started when Stark killed the secretary of State, Thaddeus Ross, and then broadcasted it across the globe with the message:
Steve, Spangles, Capsicle,
This is what a world without oversight looks like.
-You Know Who I Am.
The body was found an hour later with mistletoe shoved in his mouth.
After that, Stark went on in a similar fashion. The US was without a president or vice president for three weeks because of Stark. He always left messages for Rogers, and mistletoe at the crime scene. He was more a serial killer than a villain for the first few months.
He killed the supposedly already dead Director Fury, Sam’s old boss from the VA, the manager at the nursing home that Peggy Carter had spent her last years in. Anyone with a supervisory role that mattered even the slightest to Rogers and his vigilantes were turning up dead with mistletoe in their mouths and a message to Steve broadcasted all over the planet.
Understandably, people were starting to turn on Rogers.
Winter also thought it was worth noting that Stark Industries was doing great. He thought it might have something to do with the novelty of owning products made by the worlds most feared man alive, and knowing those devices would be worth even more once someone managed to take him down.
If that ever happened.
Winter’s not sure anyone could take Stark down. He knew he couldn’t. Knew Rogers couldn’t, knew Wilson, Romanoff, and Barton couldn’t.
Maximoff was gone.
They don’t know how. Just know that there was mistletoe left in her bed at their safehouse a year ago and no one’s seen her since.
That’s how Winter knows that Stark is just playing with them.
Stark likes to play. Like they are puppets on a string.
It’s okay though, because Winter likes to dance.
Stark is the only villain they fight that is a challenge, and even still—Winter knows that if Stark wanted him dead, he’d be dead.
That fact is highlighted pretty damn well on his current mission.
Rogers has them taking out a Hydra cell. Winter is not allowed to fight Hydra. Not after the last time when Winter had maybe killed someone.
Rogers went by a very strict ‘no killing’ policy, and Winter… wasn’t great at that. Especially when it came to Hydra.
So here he was, in a snipers perch, bored out of his mind and half listening to the team over the comms, half listening to music on his phone, half watching for Hydra agents making a break for it, half cleaning dirt out of his nails, and completely cursing out Rogers and his stupid morals when Iron Man lands almost silently on the rooftop behind him.
Winter’s lying prone when he hears the soft crunch of gravel behind him, and he’s rolling onto his back with his Glock trained on the newcomer in seconds.
Doesn’t much matter when he’s staring down the Iron Man gauntlet.
“Fuck,” he hisses. He’s been made.
“Is this the Arctic Monkeys?” Iron Man asks.
Winter knows Stark’s chatty, and he often has used that to delay his own death, so he falls back on that now.
“Yeah,” he mutters, “You a fan?”.
Iron Man shrugs. The new armour is sleek, it fits Stark like a second skin—nothing like the tin can he wore a year ago in Siberia. It allows for more fluid motions. Stark is expressive with his body.
“I like their sound,” he agrees.
Winter doesn’t have time to think of a response before the repulsor is charging up and he has half a second to roll out of the way and onto his feet.
“This doesn’t seem like a fair fight,” Stark muses, “Where’s the fam?”.
Winter gets a few shots off at the weaker point in the armour but it does little more than make Stark take a single step back.
“They’re little busy, sorry to disappoint,” he says.
Another repulsor blast has Winter jumping back and finding the edge of the building a lot closer than he’d like.
“Aw, Bucky-bear, you could never disappoint me,” he coos, “I just wanna make this last, and darling, you make that very difficult,” he leers, an obvious innuendo.
“Winter,” he finds himself correcting automatically. It’s ingrained in him now, with how often he has to correct Steven ‘sorry-it’s-just-I’ve-known-you-so-long’ Rogers in the run of a day.
“Winter,” Iron Man repeats, tasting it on his tongue.
Winter ducks down and around him before Stark can get another shot off, but he’s brought up short by the other edge of the building now, and Stark turns dizzyingly fast.
Winter can usually hold his own against Iron Man, but he wasn’t in a position when Stark arrived to be able to fight off an assailant as skilled as him. Winter was expecting stupid Hydra goons, not the villain of the goddamn century.
It doesn’t escape Winter’s notice that the soundtrack to their little skirmish is Dangerous Animals. Especially not when he’s dangling from his metal arm off the side of the building with a single foot still on the building ledge and Stark hums sweet and robotic, “When the acrobat fell off the beam, she broke everyone's hearts,” and kicks his foot out.
Dangling from his metal arm wrenches painfully at his shoulder and clavicle where it’s bolted to bone and he can’t help the noise he makes. He doesn’t much care, considering he’s about to either be repulsored in the face, or dropped to his death.
“Fuck,” Winter hisses.
“See, I just never last with you, Winter wonderland,” he purrs.
“Wanna give it another go? We can take it slow,” he hisses. He really hopes Stark drops him. He might be able the break the fall with his arm, but he can’t do much now with the way it’s pulling on his bones.
He doesn’t miss the nickname change, though.
He wishes it was that easy with the others.
“Let’s even this out a little, you look bored sitting pretty all on your lonesome up here anyway,” he says, and suddenly Winter isn’t dangling from his arm, but rather is being held by a metal arm around his waist and they’re both careening off the building.
Winter twists and struggles until, “You won’t survive that fall,” is whispered darkly into his ear.
Instead, Winter stays perfectly still until they’re close enough to the ground that he can survive being dropped, and by that point they’re crashing into the Hydra warehouse anyway, so Winter jams the barrel of his gun into the weak point around Starks waist and fires.
He’s dropped immediately, and he’s rolling to his feet in the midst of Steve’s fight in time to see Iron Man land roughly, gripping his side.
“Hey, nice shot, kid,” he says, and Winter see’s blood and for one heart stopping second thinks he maybe just took down Iron Man for real when the armour seems to glimmer, shivering around his body, but then Stark straightens like he wasn’t hurt at all, and he’s taking two large strides towards Winter and they’re trading blows like the usually do. Winter’s got room to maneuver now and he uses it.
Stark splits his attention between Winter and the Hydra agent’s that Rogers is refusing to kill.
Winter’s never been a challenge for Stark, but still—he feels weirdly proud that he caused some damage. He also felt weirdly terrified he might have killed Stark, but he tries not to think about that and focuses on the exhilaration of finally, finally, doing some damage to the seemingly untouchable man behind the armour.
That’s the thing about Winter. He knows he’s not quite right after Hydra, after getting his head fixed and his memories back.
He’s still not Bucky Barnes, the charming and moral side kick. He’s not the Winter Soldier either, mindless and murderous.
He likes to fight. He likes to fight Iron Man. Likes the challenge because at least going up against him, Winter doesn’t have to worry about his strength. He can fight hard and dirty like he wants to oh so badly and Steve won’t say shit because if Winter didn’t fight like this he’d be dead.
“Bucky! What are you doing here?” Rogers shouts.
Winter growls, “It wasn’t exactly my idea!” he shouts back.
Steve must say something over the comms, the comm that Winter knows is lying on the roof he was dragged off, because then Romanoff is there, and they’re both fighting off Iron Man, who is still killing off Hydra goons even with the two of them.
“Some warning would have been nice,” Romanoff grits.
Winter knows he fucked up with the communication unit. He doesn’t feel too bad about that, actually. Mostly, he feels bad that he completely forgot he might have needed to give the team a heads up that their worst nightmare showed up. Winter isn’t used to fighting on a team, that’s for sure.
When Iron Man gets away, another eight people on his kill count, Winter knows he’s in for it, so he tries to stave off the reprimand a little longer with the news about Stark’s suit—How Winter’s pretty sure it can heal him somehow.
“So you finally made the man of iron bleed?” Wilson says, clapping him on the back. It rattles him. Winter doesn’t like being touched, but he allows it, “Nice job, man,” he grins and they all share a laugh about how Stark will show up in a brand new set of armour next time to avoid getting shot again.
It’s nice for a moment but it doesn’t do much to distract Rogers from his disappointment in Winter.
“Bucky, what were you thinking, taking him on alone like that? Where is your comm?” he pitches his voice low, like this isn’t a very public dressing down, but everyone can obviously still hear him since he’s using his captain America voice and the comms are still on anyway.
“He got the jump on me on the roof, I lost it in the scuffle, sorry,” he mumbles.
“Why didn’t you have it in? You should have notified us the second he engaged,” Rogers says sternly.
Winter can’t help but flinch back at the tone—he often does. He’s expecting the pain, it just never comes.
Instead, Rogers gives him the horribly pitying look which is mirrored on Romanoff and Wilsons.
“Understood,” Winter grunts, and stalks off to retrieve his gear.
He doesn’t think much about how his phone isn’t playing music anymore, just snatches it up with his abandoned communication device and his sniper rifle and meets back up with the team. He doesn’t think about it at all until they’re back at the safehouse and he’s listening to music in his room.
The first song that plays is The Jeweller's Hand, which doesn’t immediately raise any alarms until it plays four more times and Winter opens the app to see that no, the song isn’t on repeat, but rather that song has been added six times to his playlist.
And now it's no ones fault but yours
At the foot of the house of cards
You thought you'd never get obsessed
You thought the wolves would be impressed
And you're a sinking stone
But you know what it's like to hold the jeweler's hand
That procession of pioneers all drowned.
Shit, shit, shit, he thinks. He left his phone on the roof earlier. Stark probably had enough time after his retreat and the team finishing calling in to the police to do any number of things to it.
If you've a lesson to teach me,
I'm listening, ready to learn.
There's no one here to police me,
I'm sinking in, until you return
It’s obviously Stark, he thinks, just based on that line alone. There’s no one here to police me. That’s his whole thing. Rogers didn’t want military oversight and Stark saw it as a necessary evil. There’s more to it than the one line, he’s sure. Stark is nothing is not dramatic.
He assumes at first that the song is meant for Rogers, but the more he listens to it, the less sure he is.
The inevitables gather to push you around.
Any old voice makes such a punishing sound.
He became laughter's assassin,
Shortly after he showed you what it was.
It might have been meant for Winter.
It was too close to home. It was too on the head.
Winter’s out and into the small sitting room of the safehouse where the others are gathered, “Check your gear for bugs,” he says immediately, dumping everything he had on the roof with him on the table.
They are all staring at the TV though, and Winter has a bad, bad feeling about it when he inches closer to see Stark’s latest worldwide message.
The text is over the image of one of Winter’s former handlers, who is covered in some kind of purple flower he doesn’t recognize.
I’m impressed.
It’s not addressed to anyone. Doesn’t have the three stupid nicknames that indicate this is meant for Rogers.
It doesn’t need to be addressed. Winter knows who it’s for.
You thought the wolves would be impressed.
“Check your gear for bugs, Romanoff,” he says again, turning his back on the TV.
His phones done for. The safehouse is done for. His communication unit is also likely tampered with.
“Do you know something we don’t?” Rogers asks.
Winter grunts, taking shuffling through the pockets of his gear. He nudges his phone towards him, “I don’t usually download the same song six times,” he says, “My phone, my comm, and my rifle were left on the roof. Phones been bugged. Likely he used my comm to listen in on our conversation while we were waiting for police,” he says.
“Shit,” Rogers curses, “We’re being tracked,” Rogers declares, “Pack up, five minutes,” he says to the room, “Buck—leave the comm unit and phone, check the rest and lets go,” he says and walks away.
This isn’t the first time they’ve been tracked and not noticed until they made it to the house. It’s the first time that it’s Winters fault though. The disappointed look of Captain America is being rivaled by the glare that Romanoff manages to scrounge up when she wants to look more than bored.
Still, even feeling as bad as he does… he takes a few seconds and leaves his own message for Stark.
He doesn’t know why he does it.
He doesn’t even know that Stark will see it… It’s little more than their regular banter, but still.
He downloads All My Own Stunts six more times and leaves the app open and the phone locked and on the table. Stark obviously had no problem unlocking it last time.
The team splits up to head for the next safehouse location. Winter knows that Stark could find them in minutes if he really wanted to, that no amount of splitting up and switching cars stops Stark from knowing their every move, yet if they resigned to that fate, the game would be over, and they’d all be dead.
He see’s the way regret weighs on Romanoff. How anger in wearing away at Barton. See’s how Wilson is juggling everyone trying to keep them afloat. The way Rogers is being eaten up by guilt. Every new person who turns up dead with a message to Rogers about how “this is what you wanted, yeah?” and how every bad guy Rogers wants in jail but that ends up with a repulsor blast to the brain adds another hundred tons of failed responsibility to the blond.
They can’t do this forever.
They will have to slow down one day.
Winter switches his stolen car for the fourth time, just so Rogers can’t say he’s not being smart enough and thinks back on that song.
He’s pissed about his phone, but again, it’s not the first time it’s been bugged or hacked or just broken some way or another. Still, he’s not happy about losing his music, especially with how that song is stuck in his head now.
Winter can’t seem to stop humming it quietly under his breath as he drives. Finds himself over-analysing every goddamn aspect of it and how it applies to his situation.
It’s no ones fault but yours, at the foot of the house of cards. Winter’s first real decision post-Hydra had been to follow orders from Rogers, and he had no one to blame but himself now that the safe shelter he thought he would find with him turned out to be nothing but the paper-thin walls of a damp little Brooklyn walk-up that the neighbours can hear them through.
You thought you’d never get obsessed, you thought the wolves would be impressed. He thought he could come back to Steve and not be drawn back to that need for his attention, for his approval, to impress him. He thought he was enough already, what with the way Rogers tore apart the world for him.
And you’re a sinking stone. He was falling back into the pattern. He was failing. He was obsessed with Steve’s approval.
But you know what it’s like to hold the jeweler’s hand. Winter knew. He knew from experience that Rogers would never be happy with him. He’d never stop trying to change and perfect him.
That procession of pioneers all drowned. Stark has been in this position too. He was never enough, either. In the end, it nearly killed him.
The inevitables gather to push you around. The team, Romanoff’s snide comment, the way they touch him and he can never get them to stop.
Any old voice makes such a punishing sound. A reference to the way Winter flinched at Steve’s tone?
He became laughter's assassin, shortly after he showed you what it was. The way Rogers can nurture camaraderie and joy and then deliver it a swift and immediate death with nothing but a look, or, in this case, a reprimand for a failure.
If you've a lesson to teach me, I'm listening, ready to learn. If Winter knows something more about how to impress Rogers, he should speak up. It’s a sarcastic line, he thinks.
There's no one here to police me. Self explanatory, but with the added depth that Stark no longer answers to Steve. He doesn’t have to worry about accidentally killing people, not like Winter does.
I'm sinking in, until you return. But Stark is still looking for Rogers’s attention. Just like Winter. But… Winter doesn’t fight Stark for approval. He fights for his life. Maybe together… they wouldn’t be sinking, drowning, looking for approval they both knew wasn’t coming?
Maybe Winter was over thinking it. He thought that might be it. Likely Stark was just trying to fuck with him. Making them scatter for a new safehouse when they’re all exhausted and pissy with each other. This was in no way a form of serious communication. This was a mere inconvenience. It didn’t mean anything.
Bucky finally makes it to the new safehouse. He’s the last to show, he knows, but he’s the one Stark’s mostly likely got his eye on right now, so the extra effort was necessary.
“Where the hell were you?” Barton demands anyway.
Rogers is standing with his arms crossed, the two of them like angry parents and the image is enough to make him want to laugh.
“Thought I had a tail,” he lies, “Was being paranoid, sorry,” he says.
“Yeah, well where was the paranoia when Stark got the drop on you?” Barton mutters under his breath. Both super soldiers can hear him obviously.
Barton stalks off, “Sorry about him, Bucky,” Steve says, gripping his shoulder. It hurts still, from dangling off the building.
“Winter,” he corrects.
Rogers smiles ruefully, “I’m getting better,” he assures without evidence.
“That message was for you, in case you haven’t figured that out,” Romanoff says when she comes downstairs, “You’re second on the right,” she adds with a nod the stairs.
He nods, “I figured, yeah,” he mumbles.
“The flowers are called Winter Heath,” she explains, “They grow in the snow,” she adds.
Winter’s heart is pounding for some reason. He doesn’t fully understand why that information get’s to him, but it very clearly does. He tells himself it’s because this is a serial killer and a literal super villain, and likely this means he’s going to die very soon, but something inside him is screaming, ‘maybe he thinks your special?’ and Winter knows it’s not true.
Yes, that was his ex-handler (one he really didn’t like), and yes, that was his favourite band, and the lyrics were very pointed, and yes, those flowers had his literal name in them… but this was Stark.
He killed the guys parents.
He’s very clearly Starks replacement in the life of Rogers.
Maybe that was it? Stark wanted Winter to feel special so he could take it all away too. That was a near constant in his life, at least.
You’ve done great work. You’ve shaped the century. Followed by, Wipe him. Start again.
I’m not going to fight you. I’m with you till the end of the line. Followed by, Bucky—James—Win—Bucky. Bucky. Your name is Bucky! I know you remember that!
I’m impressed. Followed by, You thought the wolves would be impressed.
Maybe Stark is the wolf here.
“Well,” Winter says, “I’ve lived a long life,” he says lightly.
Rogers glared at him, “Don’t joke,” he reprimands.
It wasn’t one.
“That’s a pretty pointed gesture, considering he uses a damn Christmas decoration to get Steve’s attention,” Sam points out.
“Mistletoe is a parasitic plant,” Romanoff states, “It’s a call out to the whole team—Stark thinks we took advantage of him, grew ourselves stronger off his hospitality,” she says so offhandedly, objectively even as it’s clear she doesn’t believe it to be true.
Winter thinks they should all believe it to be true. From what Winter can tell, that is exactly what they did. Then left him for dead.
The next mission, Bucky’s equipped with a new communication unit and Rogers watches him put it in and turn it on.
And they call Winter paranoid?
It’s not Hydra they’re fighting, it’s AIM and so Winter is allowed to fight, which is great, because if he was left baking on another rooftop, he might just hand himself over to Stark then and there.
Winter’s a little paranoid. He’s paranoid and he’s listening to the Arctic Monkeys a lot.
It’s a recipe for messing up his assignment again, but this time it’s not because someone gets the drop on him.
He just lets his mind wander a little and before he knows it, he’s relying on his gun more than he should and someone dies.
Sort of.
He’s a good shot. Arguably he is the best shot. So, he shoots the agent in a fleshy spot, nothing vital—he’ll live, and Winter moves on. He shoots people non-lethally all the time. There’s lots of places bullets can go that don’t upset Rogers.
However, when Winter knocks out the two other agents in the control room he’s taking over, he turns to find the guy has to audacity to be bleeding out.
“Shit,” he curses.
“Winter? Report,” Rogers calls over the comms.
“Control room secured,” he answers and mutes himself immediately after.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he curses, “Are you dying?” he demands from the pale and shaking man bleeding everywhere. He obviously is and Winter doesn’t wait for a response. “God fucking damnit, why?” he growls, “Why the fuck are you bleeding so damn much?”.
The bastard gathers the strength to cough out, “I’m hemophilic,” and Winter is so done with everything.
“Great, great, yeah, Rogers is going to buy that for sure,” he spits sarcastically, “Thanks, your mother fucking majesty,” he growls, and kicks the guy in frustration. He’ll die soon anyway. It’s not like it matters.
He is already on thin ice with the team right now, and he’s not sure what to do about that, but he does know that Roger’s can’t find out that Winter shot the fucking queen’s great-great grandson or whatever the hell this guy is.
So, he has to cover it up.
Looking around, he finds a vent.
That’ll work, he thinks and pops the screen from it. The guy is stick thin anyway. He’ll fit.
He has a second to think that if Rogers finds out about this part, he’s in even deeper shit, but he dismissed the thought right away in favour of dragging the guy over. He’s not dead yet, surprisingly. He will be soon though.
“Get in the vent,” he growls, and the man’s lost too much blood to really put up much argument when Winter kicks at him until he’s out of sight.
Winter shoots the dying man in the head and closes the vent.
Then he takes a breath, “Winter, you are incredible,” he praises himself, sarcastic, muttering as he drags the unconscious agents around to hide the blood smears. “Great thinking on your feet, Winter,” he mumbles, “You’re a valuable god damn asset, is what you are, hiding a fucking dead guy in a vent,” he grunts, kicking one of the unconscious bodies, “Fucking, worlds greatest assassin—best damn sniper of the fuckin’ century,” he belittles. “Fuckin’ Rogers and his fuckin’ high an’ mighty, righteous, holier than fuckin’ Christ himself—”
“Winter, report!” Rogers shouts over the comms.
Groaning, he unmutes himself, “Getting the drive now,” he says, “Rendezvous two minutes,” he grumbles.
Winter isn’t expecting his plan to work. He’s expecting that it’ll be on the news the next morning that Captain America killed another baddie and the whole team will turn accusatory eyes on him.
Instead, the next morning brings news that Iron Man has blown up the office building, and that it’s believed the attack was motivated as evidence tampering.
Winter doesn’t know what to think. He settles on the attack being a complete coincidence that has nothing to do with the man Winter accidentally killed.
There was all but one casualty in Iron Man’s most recent attack, and the fact that Winter knew there was actually zero was going to be just one more secret he takes with him to the grave.
Winter kept a lot of secrets these days, now that Hydra wasn’t keeping them for him.
Still, Romanoff deems it worth celebrating. They cleared the office building of AIM agents and civilians before Stark had a chance to kill anyone (mostly) and that usually means they go out for a drink. It’s a new safehouse, a new neighbourhood in New York, they haven’t found a new place to go.
Rogers never tags along, he’s too recognizable. Wilson frowns at Winter every time he’s the first out the door and never the one to offer to stay behind with him.
Winter used to. He used to stay behind with Rogers every time, and they’d listen to old music that gave Winter headaches because even with his memories fixed, some things just hurt. Rogers would frown at him, disappointment climbing his features as pain pinched at Winters.
Whatever kind of bar they end up at, twenty minutes in and some guy buys Winter a drink. It’s a surprise to the table, even more to when Winter accepts it. He wasn’t going to turn down a drink, and besides, the guy didn’t even deliver it himself. He stayed at his own table with his own friends. They looked the business sort.
Winter nods his thanks across the bar and even gives a rare smile to the guy.
“My, Winter,” Romanoff teases, “what would Steve have to say?” she jokes.
“Nothing. He’d just frown,” he says, “Maybe cross his arms,” Winter goes on, deadpan, “Definitely would cross his arms if I went over to say thanks,” he adds.
Wilson frowns at him and Romanoff smirks, “I asked Steve, about the two of you,” she says, “he’s never really given a straight answer, but then again, he didn’t really have to,” she goes on.
He interrupts her, “We were fucking,” he agrees, “He and Stark too, by the sounds of it,” and when he adds that, Wilson chokes on his drink, “Captain America has a type,” Winter finishes his drink and stands.
He might go thank that guy anyway.
He’s tall, thin, dark hair that’s greying at the temples. Reminds Winter of Stark, from what he’s seen in the news, but this guy doesn’t have the tan or the muscle definition. His eyes are light blue too, and Winter’s pretty sure Stark’s are brown.
He thinks about it hard, and promptly realizes that no, that’s a bad idea. He looks too much like Stark and Winter’s already walking a fine line when it comes to Iron Man and he doesn’t need to make his feelings any more confusing.
He goes to the bathroom instead, takes a piss, pretends he’s not disappointed when the guy doesn’t follow him in (but he didn’t really look like the bathroom blowjob type), and comes back to gather Wilson and Romanoff.
It’s Tuesday and the bar is getting busy already, so they should be making themselves scarce now anyway.
He’d love to see this place on a Saturday, he thinks distantly.