Chapter Text
It was almost blinding, the flashes. It felt like there were thousands of them, blinding him from every direction. Bucky would swear they surrounded him. It was at times like these he was surprised his PTSD doesn't decide to viciously strike, but then again, trauma was a vindictively unpredictable bitch that way. He arches his back, allowing his jaw to slack just enough for his lips to part ever so slightly. The key was for the expression to look effortless, and less like a fish out of water. Bucky had the look down in spades, or so he’d been told (though Natasha would argue that point at least once every other shoot.)
James Buchanan Barnes was known to be the perfect mix of ‘enticingly innocent’ and ‘criminally handsome,’ at least that's what photographers would tell him. But to Bucky, it was just a façade he’d learned to do his job well enough. Just another skill that was otherwise useless to him outside of photoshoots and work-related public events. The skills Bucky learned through his modelling, to him, were akin to knowing how to roll a quarter up and down one’s knuckles - a neat party trick, but virtually useless in day-to-day life.
He felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. His left clavicle groaned at him in annoyance that was slowly turning into a scream. He’d need a break soon, lest his expression of ‘fuck me’ soon morphed to one of ‘fuck off’ at those who viewed it.
“You’re doing great, Bucky,” the photographer, Jessica Jones, praises as she scrolls through the shots she’d taken. “Alright, let's take five, and then we’ll finish up.”
Thank fuck, is all Bucky can think as he sits up from his laid back position. His left shoulder ached from where he’d had to lean on it for certain photos. Rolling the artificial shoulder, Bucky hears a dull pop that makes him wince. The grafted skin over the metal plating throbs, but it’s a minor pain. More of an annoyance, really. Nothing to worry about, not yet anyway. Though after years of the same pain, you begin to grow used to it. At least that’s what he told himself, had to tell himself, really. Especially on nights when the pain brought him to tears.
Running a hand through his mane and undoubtedly ruining his ‘artfully mussed’ hair, Bucky sighs. He can already feel the makeup and hair artists giving him dirty looks for messing with their work, but he was too tired to care frankly. He grimaces at the amount of product he feels against the skin of his right palm. Photoshoots would quickly grow boring when done alone, they always did for Bucky. When done in groups he at least the other models - if they weren’t his bandmates, because that was always a fun time, for them at least - to keep him company. Then again, Bucky wasn’t really a model. Not professionally, anyway. Though his ‘alternative’ look (if that’s what you called having a metal arm) tended to type-cast him for certain gigs. Not that he minded too much, the extra cash always helped. Bucky Barnes was first and foremost a musician. At least, by way of side-gigs. Things like this were really just a happenstance of the job, but he didn’t mind the odd shoot here and there for an extra buck. And it helped promote a cause, raise money, or even just turned more ears to his band's music, he counted it as a win in his book.
Ever since his less-than-whole return from his final tour in Afghanistan, the young veteran and his friends turned to music as a means of therapy and escape. Their band named 'The Howling Commandos' after their platoon was comprised of the primary group he served with. They were just a group of broken misfits that liked their noise, but they were his. They'd started out as a ragtag group of strangers that quickly turned into his best friends. Their bonds cemented out on the frontlines. An unlikely family, for all intents and purposes. War was funny like that. Throw death at someone and watch their true colours shine through. It was a heartbreaking sight to behold, watching your best friends take a bullet for you and praying they’d make it through the night. Cursing them while thanking them, because they were a damn good human and believed you were worth saving even if it meant putting themselves on the line to do it.
It was hard to believe, even after so many years, that those days were over. Though, he knew, their patchwork family would never come to an end.
The brunet wanders over to the snack table and snatches up a complimentary cookie before meandering over to his agent, who speaks to him before he even comes to a halt. “This shouldn’t go one for much longer. Ms. Jones may be a bit of a perfectionist, but she doesn’t waste time,” Coulson reassures him, handing him his phone.
“Thanks, Phil.” Bucky smiles through a mouthful of chocolate chip goodness, “any other upcoming shoots? Events?”
Coulson's official job was as the Commandos’ manager, but he also liaised between them and SHIELD Security for freelance gigs. Just because the band was doing okay, didn’t mean it paid all - if any, sometimes - of their bills. Phil had…'discovered' Bucky and his friends. that was what they told people, anyway. The real story took longer to explain, though Bucky always thinks back on it fondly. If not while giggling hysterically. It had been a less than two years after they'd returned, and a few months in to their exploration of music as an outlet. Phil had just about busted down Clint’s garage door demanding they end their band practice, ranting over and over about "you do understand it's 3AM, right?!" Right before handing them his business card, and stomping back to his neighbouring house. They'd called him the next day, and he'd been far more pleasant. Though, getting proper sleep did tend to do that. Phil Coulson had been something of a Godsend to the group. Not only did he help with their attempts at a music career, but he went so far as to be there every step of the way as they re-acclimated to regular society and attain jobs to tied them over until their music would finally take off. If it did ever take off, anyway. Bucky would never really know what made Phil take them under his wings, but the man did with no hidden agenda or requests for payback. There had been a little strong-arming in the beginning, but it had been to their benefit. Bucky knew they’d never be able to pay him back for all he’d done for them, not really. And the kicker of it all? Bucky didn’t think Coulson would accept it even if they tried. People like him were rare in a world like theirs. Coulson had entangled himself in their little family somewhere along the way, and Bucky didn't think the man much minded that.
"Actually yes, for both," Coulson's eyes don't shift away from his phone, tapping at the screen for a moment before he continues, "there’s a request for you and Clint from Stark Industries. They’re releasing a new line of prosthetics and are looking for models to promote them, vets in particular, at the annual Maria Stark Foundation gala on December sixteenth. They were insistent on you knowing that, 'all models will receive free prosthetics from the new line, or new upgrades if they’re already equipped with Stark tech.”
To say Bucky’s interest was piqued was putting it mildly. He feels his shoulder twinge, sharply from where his current prosthetic pinches into his skin and muscle. It never ‘sat right’ no matter what the arm’s technicians said about ‘giving it time.’ It’s been years, how much more fucking ‘time’ does it need? He'd always ask, and then feel bad because it wasn't like it was their fault. While Hammer Tech wasn’t as top-tier as Stark tech - by a long shot, if he was being honest with himself - it was the only thing he could afford at the time. Bucky rolls the idea around in his mind, weighing the pros and cons of the proposition. Cons: working with Tony Stark was…less than favourable to Bucky. Already, he knew without a doubt Steve would take issue at the very mention of the man, and Bucky would likely be right there with him. Pros: he needed an upgrade on his arm, or at the very least a cleaning job as the arm was starting to act up more and more lately. Making simple tasks that much more irritating, if not outright difficult and painful to complete. The fact that it would be free made the offer all the more appealing.
“Clint already agreed," Coulson tacks on, maybe for Bucky's benefit or just as an aside. "The invitation says your welcome to bring friends to the opening, as well as to Mr. Stark’s workshop for moral and emotional support, therapy pets included.” For a moment, Bucky wonders which category he was putting Clint under in regards to Bucky's support, and can't help but chuckle. Knowing Coulson, it was probably the latter. Coulson silenlty watches Bucky for his response, face carefully blank. Coulson was nothing if not hard to read, but his patience was something Bucky always appreciated about the man. No matter how good - or bad - the opportunity was for his career, Coulson wouldn’t do anything without Bucky’s explicit permission. Coulson pushed them all for more, sure, but never farther than they agreed to.
“Sure,” the veteran nods after a moment while shoving the remainder of the cookie into his mouth, if for no reason than just to see Phil grimace. “Puf me ‘ow as one of ‘he mofels," Coulson says nothing, but Bucky relishes in the subtle if fond grossed-out expression on the man's face. Bucky watches the man work for a few silent seconds, trying not to choke on his snack while Coulson taps at his phone with dizzying efficiency.
“It’s set.” Coulson holds out his hand for a moment, palm up, “you have an appointment with Mr. Stark next Monday at noon for a consultation.” Bucky places his phone on the offered hand, wondering how the hell Phil manages to set up the appointment so fast. Sometimes Bucky seriously believed Coulson was some kind of cyborg, it really was the only explanation. Plus, if he was right Clint and Steve owed him a hundred bucks, each.
“Alright, I can get there on my own, can you just-”
“-this isn’t amateur hour, James.” Coulson cuts in with an eye roll that could rival Natasha’s. Bucky hated it when Coulson called him that, but it was expected given Bucky was pretty sure he’d accidentally flung some crumbs onto Phil’s impeccable suit while being gross. Coulson was a professional, but he could be just as childish as them when he wanted to be. “I already sent the location, directions and instructions to your email.”
Yup, cyborg, seriously no doubt about it.
Then again, who was Bucky to talk? He was technically part machine himself, just less efficient than Coulson - much to his chagrin and irritation.
Bucky chats with Coulson for a few more minutes about what he meeting with Stark will entail, only turning on his heels and heading back to set when Jess announces it’s time to get back to work.
“You’re the best, Phil!” Bucky announces loud enough to turn a few heads, firing off finger-pistols at his cyborg-manager. Grinning broadly when he sees the corner of Coulson’s lip twitch, it was close enough to a grin that Bucky counted it as a win.
He lets the hair and makeup teams fuss over him until their satisfied, before heading back to where he'd been before and sets himself up into his instructed positions. A chart-topping pop song plays faintly in the background. It's loud enough for Bucky to immerse himself its beats, but not so loud he couldn’t hear Jessica’s directions. A good enough distraction, but not one that fully silences his thoughts. So Bucky lets his wandering mind meander, moving on autopilot, and wonders if his new prosthesis will be as uncomfortable as the one currently hanging heavily off his shoulder. He silently hopes not, but knows he’d take whatever he could get. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. However, somehow his bigger worry is if he’ll be able to put up with Stark long enough to even get the upgrade. You’ll have to, Barnes, you can’t keep going with this hunk of scrap metal for much longer, he reasons with himself and as if on cue feels a sharp pain ripple across his chest as if to reaffirm the need. Bucky only just managed to bite back a curse, and knows his thoughts, for once, are right.
Tony waltzes out of the board meeting with as much gusto as is expected of him. Humming and nodding where needed, while listening as Pepper rambles on about her bubbling ideas for the re-establishment of the Stark Expo. An infant of a concept, but if anyone can make an idea come to life within a year of its conception it was Virginia Potts. Pepper Potts was as beautiful as she was doggedly persistent. Almost ruthless in her determination, and wasn’t that just one of the many reasons to adore her? Because Tony knew it was most certainly one of his. The truth was, Tony didn’t even need to be involved. This was Pepper’s project more than it was his. Much like the Queen, Tony knew he was just the figurehead of Stark Industries but didn't have a qualm about it. Without Pepper, he knew it would fall apart within a matter of hours. But unlike him, many of the men he worked with weren't ready for a woman like Pepper in power. Though he planned to force their hand, and soon. However, just before they’re able to reach Tony’s office, a wave of dizziness washes over him. Almost powerful enough to make his steps falter noticeably. Pepper tear him a new one if she thought he was drunk so early in the day. Well, to be fair it wouldn’t be the first time, but he really was trying not to worry her more than necessary. Really.
“I gotta take a whizz,” turning on his heels towards the nearest restroom, “meet me in the office in ten, I have something I need to go over with you.”
Tony swears he hears her eyes roll, and can’t help but grin when she calls out, “I swear if it’s another scandal I’m throwing you out the window, Anthony!”
“You love me too much!” Tony throws over his shoulder with a grin, knowing his lack of denial or confirmation will grate on her nerves until he’s back to soothe her ruffled feathers. Fuck, he’ll miss their banter.
Tony pushes into the tower’s lavatory, and a quick scan of the room tells him he’s alone. Locking the door to keep it that way, he leans against it with a heaving sigh. A fumbling hand reaches into his grey slacks’ pockets and produces the device he’d been looking for; his Blood Toxicity Meter. A little creation he’d made once the fucked up Etch A Sketch started appearing on his skin. The twisted sister of a blood-sugar meter of his own making. Speaking of, I wonder how Snider’s doing these days, Stark thinks in passing as he presses his thumb against he device is reader. Hissing when he feels the painful prick jab into the pad of his thum, and jams the digit into his mouth while the machine processes the blood drawn. It takes about two seconds before the red lettering reads BLOOD TOXICITY 19%. He’s running out of time. Slowly, but it was happening. He has time until he needs to change out the core, the dizziness earlier just a warning. For the time being, he'd need to get his blood sugar up if he wanted to stay on his feet. Easy enough. Pushing off the bathroom’s door, the inventor unlocks it and heads back towards his office. Catching the tail-end of a tender conversation as he enters. Pepper’s blue eyes snap over to Tony before muttering a quick goodbye and ending the call, leaving Tony to grin like a child in on a secret.
Making his way over to his office’s mini-fridge, the engineer raises a brow at his best friend, “how’s Happy?”
“He’s fine, can we get back to work now?” The brunet will forever be thankful for Pepper’s fair skin. Selfishly drinking in the adorable way she flushes at the implications of his question, despite rolling her eyes. Cracking open a can of Dr. Pepper for himself - it wasn’t intentional, but Pepper’s fond glare at the can just makes Tony's smile widen - before snatching up the bottle of champagne he’d loaded into it the night before.
“Actually,” Tony starts, moving to sit across from Pepper, “we’re done working today, now we’re celebrating.”
“What do you mean ‘done?’ Tony, you can’t think about drinking now, it’s 10 in the morning! We have to get started on the preparations for the Foundation’s gala-”
“-Pepper you’re officially running the company now-”
“-that’s what I’m trying to do, Tony. We've only just begun planning for the Expo, and we’re barely making it on time for the reveal of Stark Prosthetics and-”
“-Pepper you’re not listening to me, I’m asking you to run the company-”
“-Tony that’s what I’m trying to do! You still have so many of the models to see and the full layout for the Expo-”
“-Virginia Potts I’m trying to ask you to be CEO!”
“-isn’t even complete…yet…have you been drinking?” Tony can’t help it, he laughs. It's a bodily thing but tamps it down enough to make his words as clear as possible.
“No, but we’re about to.” Moving to grab two flutes for the champagne, the brunet continues, “I mean it’s been coming for a while now, let's be honest here. It’s what you basically do, so why not make it official so you have the paycheck and title to match?”
Pepper stares at Tony, slightly dumbfounded if he says so himself. Tony’s inner child punches the air at finally being able to leave his Ms. Potts speechless. Filling both flutes, he waltzes over to the redhead and hands one to Pepper who takes the delicate glass in a daze. Staring at Tony with far too many emotions in her bright eyes for him to decipher, but he dismisses them all and smiles.
Lifting his glass, Tony proclaims, “I hear by officially announce that, one Virginia Potts, is now the Chairman and CEO of Stark Industries, effective immediately.”
“Tony are you-”
“Sure?” He cuts in, guessing her question. Sipping on the bubbly drink he chases it down with Dr. Pepper - Tony was a connoisseur that way - as he nods. “I’ve been sure for about a year now, just needed the time to get things in order, so that you,” he pauses, moving back to his desk to switch out his flute for a contract and pen, before returning to - a still gaping, I shouldn't feel as giddy over that as I do right now - Pepper, “only had to sign on the dotted line…and thumb the thumbprint thingy, but that sounded less charming.”
Pepper’s mouth works, but her words don't. For a moment, anyway. When they finally begin to form, her words are soft as a wet laugh escapes her, “Tony, I don’t…I don’t know what to think-”
“Don’t think, just sign,” he chuckles softly, handing her the pen and watches her scrawl out her name onto the eggshell-coloured paper. Her delicate thumbprint neatly printed onto the paper moments later. “Congratulations Miss CEO,” Tony grins, switching out the contract for his glass of champagne once more, and toasts it against Pepper’s, “the company is lucky to have you.”
Pepper laughs, and he drinks in the sight of her elation. She nearly chokes Tony when she wraps her spindly arms around him, but the brunet revels in the feeling and hugs her back just as tightly.
“And because I’m the most awesome person in the world, I gave Happy the rest of the day off,” Tony informs her as he pulls back, grinning at Pepper - more so when she flushes just that much more. “Go celebrate, Lord knows you deserve it.”
“Tony I- are you sure?”
“Yes,” he waves off her question was a smile, kissing her cheek, “now get, shoo. Shoo!”
Pepper hugs him again, somehow tighter this time and Tony represses the urge to flinch away at the way it makes his chest ache. Pepper was damn well worth a little pain. Stark watches fondly as Pepper sets off, phone already in-hand as she leaves the office. Hears her spouting off the news to Happy. The man had been doing his best to keep quiet about Pepper's surprise, likely as excited as she was to finally have it out in the open. Tony sits back on his office couch, sipping at his champagne as he watches Pepper’s petite form disappear around a corner. Yeah…she’ll be okay, the tightness in his chest eases with that knowledge, if only slightly. Pepper deserved this, there was never a question in Tony’s mind about it. He trusted her with his legacy and knew she’d go forward to honour it while building one of her own. Least to say, it was the right step forward to fixing his mistakes. The first of many, before he was buried six feet under.