Who: Bucky and Tony Where: Stark Tower What: Denial. Repression. Fixing things. (Namely arms.)
There was something wrong with Bucky’s arm.
To be fair, there had been something wrong with his arm ever since his battle with Captain America – Steve – on the helicarrier, but he’d been able to cobble together a patch job that had kept it usable, even if it wasn’t operating anywhere near peak performance. It wasn’t like he was using the arm much these days anyway. The guns and knives he kept strapped within easy reach were more than enough to scare off anyone who might come snooping around in the middle of the night, and if for some reason he couldn’t get to those, there were always the broken boards and shards of glass that seemed to litter New York’s abandoned warehouses.
Still, there was a big difference between a little bit broken and completely out of commission and right now, Bucky’s arm definitely fell into the latter category. The last time he’d tried to move it, it had made a horrific grinding noise and sent a white-hot bolt of pain up through his shoulder. There had been a trace of smoke that had escaped through two of the metal plates, and, well, there was just no way that was a good sign.
This kind of broken was beyond him, which meant if he wanted it to be usable again, he needed to get help. There was always Cap – Steve, of course, but Bucky had put off making contact with him for a reason, and the reason was that he wasn’t ready yet. He wasn’t anywhere close to the Bucky Barnes that Steve would be hoping for, even if he was far less of the Winter Soldier that he’d been when Steve had last encountered him.
There was no reason to think Steve would be able to do a damn thing about his arm anyway – it wasn’t like the guy had any experience dealing with this kind of tech.
Someone who did have that kind of experience, however, was Tony Stark, which was what had brought Bucky to one of the biggest eyesores in all of Manhattan, his shrewd gaze on the line of yellow-helmeted construction workers filing in and out of Stark Tower. There was every chance that Stark would refuse to help him, of course, but Bucky was out of options and willing to take the risk.
He spent twenty minutes watching the workers before he casually snagged a helmet and an orange vest someone had put aside, slipping them on as he attached himself to a group of men carrying a slab of expensive-looking marble inside. No one paid him a second glance – convenient, since they might have questioned the way his left arm hung stiffly at his side.
He’d picked a good group to latch onto, at least; they headed through one of the garages and went straight to a service elevator, which rose so quickly Bucky thought his stomach might have been left on the ground floor. Mere seconds later, the doors slid open to reveal what was obviously a living room of some sort, albeit one that could host dozens of guests at a time. This, clearly, was part of Stark’s personal quarters, so Bucky dropped back from the group, walking purposefully toward a set of stairs. If he could tuck himself away somewhere – and he had every confidence he could – he was sure to come across Stark sooner or later.
Sooner, he thought grimly, as his quick pace caused his arm to give a warning creak, would be better.