WinterIron one shots

Unnecassary gloom

Word count: 3400

Summery: both Tony and Bucky are left alone - and it's Christmas. While Bucky tries to reach out to the genius with cookies, he is reminded of his time at hydra , leading the genius straight to him - in a vulnerable position.

( I'm in Christmas-y mood. Just put my tree up ( yes in November! It's 2020!) and one of my decorations - filled with glitter - sheeted in my hand. Now I have glitter in my hair. Anyway - hope you enjoy it. Sorry for the long wait!)

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The snow is coming down in thick, heavy flakes, slowly but steadily covering the world outside in a soft coat of fluffy white. It's unusually, eerily quiet, no machines whirring in the background or bots clunking about, giving the night an almost ethereally peaceful touch.

Wrapped in the cosiest blanket he could find, Tony is curled up in one of the armchairs by the lazily crackling fireplace, staring out into the backyard and absently sipping his scotch, trying not to resent his friends for convincing him to come out here, and failing miserably. It would be easier, he thinks, if they were here with him at least, but he can't begrudge them the time with their loved ones, either.

The decorations Steve had insisted on putting up twinkle and gleam mockingly, as if their sole purpose is to remind Tony that the ones he cares about aren't here to enjoy the holidays with him. It's funny, really, in a way that's anything but; Tony had never been big on celebrating at all, not while his parents had still been around, and certainly not after, not until the others had started getting excited about the idea of spending Christmas together, as a team and family.

And now none of them are around. Well, almost no one is, anyway.

A door opens down the hall, followed by the tired groans of the old floorboards under nearly silent footsteps. Tony sighs, tipping back the last of his drink before reaching for the crystal bottle to refill his tumbler, and drown the sudden flush of uncomfortable guilt that comes with thinking about the other man in the mansion, even more lost and lonely than Tony.

Part of Tony wants to get up, trail the only other sounds of life into the kitchen, but he pushes that thought away before it can take root and grow. Bucky hasn't exactly been talkative, or even around much since everyone else left. He's reservedly friendly on the best of days, all hesitant smiles and shy conversation, as if he isn't sure how to fit into his own skin anymore, and without Sam and Steve here to coax him out of his shell he's even more withdrawn than normal.

Not that Tony blames him. He's pretty sure few other people would have come out of that same ordeal as stubbornly determined to find themselves again as Bucky has, and it would be a lie to say that Tony isn't impressed. And feeling more than a little inadequate.

His own captivity had lasted a laughable three months, but even close to a decade later he hasn't bounced back yet. It's pathetic, it really is, how he still wakes up sweat-soaked and screaming more often than not, frantically fumbling for the reactor and panicking all the more when he can't find it, even though it's been gone for over three years now.

And then there's Bucky, a couple months out of the hospital after over six decades of torture, brainwashing, and mind-wipes, and he's doing, well, not okay, but he's functioning. Recovering. Tony still hasn't figured out how to do that, and he's fairly sure he never will. But despite that, and much to Tony's own surprise, if he's being honest with himself, he doesn't resent Bucky one bit. There's no jealousy or envy, only a deep, humbling admiration for him and his unbelievable strength.

Which, Tony suspects, is why it has taken him so long to realise that he's fallen head over heels in love with the man; it's been hidden under something much more innocent, much less potentially team destroying. Tony sorely wishes it would've stayed there, buried deep and difficult to find, because now that he's aware of it, it's impossible to ignore.