#hacker tony

[starker-sorbet]

Cyberpunk au with hackers Peter and Tony infiltrating their latest target

[tonystarktogo]

In celebration of my birthday *yay, I’m getting old*, here’s the second part of An Unwise Murder (An Inconvenient Survival). It’s only half of the chapter, but once I’ve finished it (which will hopefully be tonight although no promises cause I’m spending a lot of time with my family today) I’ll post the full version on AO3 as well.

*

Part II

Tony pours himself a glass of lukewarm coca cola on autopilot. It tastes disgusting, but that doesn’t stop him from swallowing it all down in one go. He should probably put the glass down afterwards, except that’s easier said than done when his hands clutch the fragile cup so hard, his fingers ache. Still better than watching them shake and tremble though.

Maybe it’s a remnant of being raised as the heir of the leading company in one of the most cutthroat industries. Maybe it’s just a byproduct of being the son of Maria Carbonell. Either way, Tony has learned the value of good pokerface early in life. It’s going to take more than some stranger appearing out of nowhere with ominous declarations to shake his composure. Particularly considering Mystery Guy has the guts to introduce himself as James. 

James. Of all the fake names he could have picked, seriously. The least he could’ve done is put a bit of effort into the pretense. Tony wants to snort, make a stupid James Bond quip, except—

Steve is dead.

Tony doesn’t know what to do with that information. His mind is racing into five different directions at breakneck speed and simultaneously shies away from the terrible, inevitable conclusion that rests at the center of it all. The implications of what Wannabe-Bond [who, by the way, is glowering suspiciously at Tony from where he’s leaning against the wall on the other side of the kitchen, the best vantage point to keep an eye on all windows and the door, and is apparently incapable of understanding why Tony might need a goddamn minute] has oh so casually announced — and, more tellingly, what he hasn’t said — are staggering. 

"Want some?" Tony gestures jerkily towards the open bottle of coca cola. Never let it be said that his mother didn’t drill some basic manners into him, whether the situation calls for it or not.

00-Copy-Cat shakes his head, which suits Tony just fine. He’s not in the mood to share.

Officially, Tony barely knows Steve Rogers. [And fuck, it’s knew now, isn’t it, no, no, don’t think about it—] They ran into each other twice, once accidentally, once on purpose. Both times they spent more time arguing than agreeing on things. Both times left Tony feeling raw and tired, a little bit like he’d just barely escaped a violent death.

Officially. Such a nice, convenient, little word, isn’t it? The grounds you can cover with that kind of safety blanket are truly astonishing. 

Tony takes a sip from his drink, is reminded that the glass is already empty, and promptly grabs the whole bottle instead. Lukewarm cola is disgusting, but it’s still sugar and caffeine — the magical combination, in this case. Tony has no illusions about his odd visitor: He’s going to need all the energy he can get if he wants to make it through the next forty-eight hours intact. That he’s got what is quite possibly a real-life assassin watching over his shoulder, screaming murderous aggression from his every pore, is doing wonders for Tony’s ability to stay calm and focused.

Not.

Anyone asks about me, don’t trust them. Anyone searches for me, lie. Don’t say anything, don’t admit anything, don’t imply anything. If they don’t think you useless, they’ll convince themselves you’re a threat. Do you understand? Steve’s voice whispers into his ear, low and serious and so irritatingly commanding that Tony wants to turn around and punch him in his stupid, white teeth.

But since he’s currently in the company of a more volatile version of Steve — something Tony didn’t know was possible — who looks like he might eat aspiring serial killers for breakfast, that’s probably not his best idea.

“Alright,” Tony says eventually, mostly to himself. “Steve’s dead. Shit happens.” Move on and adapt, is what is father used to tell him. These circumstances probably aren’t what the old man had in mind, but Tony has underestimated Howard before. The man has his fingers in a lot of pies, some of which the general public doesn’t even know the existence of. If Tony was three years younger and two times more paranoid, he’d suspect this to be another attempt by dear old dad to show him "the error of his way". Although not even Howard Stark would kill off Steve Rogers just to prove a point.

Probably.

Tony turns around and looks Wannabe-Bond straight in the eyes. [He’s lied to Maria Stark’s face, okay. This is nothing.] They’re a very pretty shade of blue, there’s no denying that. That doesn’t change the fact that it would really suck if those eyes were the last thing Tony ever sees though. He’s too young to die. He’s got things to do, people to annoy. Not to mention Pepper would murder him if he got himself killed before the whole mess with his inheritance is sorted out.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here." As far as questions go, it’s an implied, roundabout way of asking. The kind that raises Tony’s hackles — as well as the spiteful child inside him — and makes him snipe back viciously in response. Despite that Tony can’t bring himself to ask the far more direct 'Why are you here?' out loud.

It helps that he really, really doesn’t want to know.

Wannabe-Bond stares at Tony with a blank expression that gives nothing away. It’s creepy as fuck, Tony’s not gonna lie. Like staring at a lifelike puppet and half-expecting it to start moving any moment now, even though you know damn well it shouldn’t. 

Double-0-Leather takes a measured step towards him. Then another. “How much do you know about Steve?” he asks in that gravely voice that makes Tony want to lecture him on the dangers of smoking. Totally not helpful right now, but it’s always good to know that, despite all evidence to the contrary, Tony has been listening to Pepper’s lectures. 

Not that he actually lectures Mister Tall, Dark and Murderous. Tony has some sense of self-preservation, thank you very much.

“I know seven different Steves. You’re gonna have to be more specific."

Alright, maybe not that much. In all fairness though, everyone who knows Tony knows he doesn't handle fear well. He just doesn’t. His fight or flight response is broken beyond repair — or so Rhodey likes to mutter under his breath when he pretends to be the reasonable adult he definitely isn’t and Tony has done something Improbably Stupid™ again — and it’s moments like these when it shows.

To his surprise, Wannabe-Bond snorts. It might have been a trick of light, but Tony could’ve sworn he sees the beginnings of a grin there for a second. Huh. Are assassins allowed to have a sense of humor?

“Fun as this might be-” Wannabe-Bond takes a hold of both of Tony’s shoulders, looming straight into his face now, and, nope, Tony doesn’t like that at all, he’s fond of his personal space, okay, this totally isn’t cool because he’s made Steve a promise and Tony keeps his damn promises — no matter what stupid, self-righteous Steve might think — and Tony really isn’t sure how well he’s going to hold up under torture, that is so not his specialty.

“Are you even listening?” the Man in Black snaps suddenly, in the middle of what is undoubtedly a lengthy, well-delivered threat. It’s the impatience in his tone more than the words themselves that jerk Tony out of his internal rambling.

“Not really?” he blurts out, then immediately regrets it when Double-0-Lame-o’s expression darkens even more.

“Listen carefully!” the guy grinds out between his teeth with the barely restrained violence of a panther on the prowl. "I don’t have the time or patience to play nice right now. This isn’t the time for games. Because I’m not Steve and no one’s gonna look twice if some mouthy civvie disappears." Tony does not shrink into himself — he’s been trained better than that, and it’s not true anyways, Pepper and Rhodey would raise hell in the wake of his disappearance— but, damn it, he really, really wants to. 

“We’re compromised," Agent McGrizzly continues with glacial calm. "Someone from the inside betrayed Steve. And you’re going to find the rat. I don’t care how, you’re gonna get it done or I’m gonna use you as a demonstration for what will happen to them when I catch them, got it?”

Tony swallows. Wannabe-Bond hasn’t raised his voice even once. Has spoken barely louder than a heated whisper. Somehow that makes him all the more terrifying.

“And how exactly—” Tony croaks, immediately clears his throat and continues without pause, "How exactly am I supposed to do that?"

Because even when he ignores every command Steve has given him — and there’s a certain delight in that knowledge, not gonna lie — even if he believes this stranger with a handsome face and murder instead of tears in his eyes, even if he wanted to — which he doesn’t because Tony Stark doesn’t help people out of the goodness of his cold, black heart — that still leaves him with a grieving madman sprouting conspiracy theories and nothing else to go on.

Tony expects many things in response to his very legitimate question. The USB stick Suit-Without-The-Suit throws at his face isn’t among them. Luckily, he’s got fast reflexes. Evading DUM-E’s claws whenever he’s trying to help because he’s fallen in love with yet another car is one hell of a training exercise.

The stick is unremarkable in all the ways that matter. A black, plastic casing. Nothing to see there, it screams at anyone who might care to listen. Tony stares at the small, outdated piece of technology in the palm of his hand for a long moment. Then, slowly, like a cat stretching before its next nap, he smiles.

"You should’ve led with that."

Sleep is for the weak anyways.

(tbc)

[tonystarktogo]

Finally, the second part of Part II: [Or read the whole chapter on AO3]

Most of Tony’s tech — the really good, impressive stuff that would be illegal to keep in your basement if anyone knew that Tony keeps it in his basement — is locked away in his workshop. A hidden room in the basement — because clichés have survived for a reason and Tony would build himself a laguna filled with flesh-eating piranha if he thought he could get away with it — that can only be accessed via a biometric scan, four separate passwords and a security question posed by JARVIS. [The answer to said question is irrelevant, considering acceptance depends on voice recognition, voice modulation and the fact that you have to sing your answer. Not that Tony is paranoid or anything but JARVIS.]

continues below the cut

But because Tony is a sensible person [and would rather carve out his own heart with a screwdriver than lead some unknown assassin with unclear motivations straight to his best, most precious inventions, his family] he’s stuck with the official computer in his office. It’s as up-to-date as can be, of course. Even has some nifty improvements and upgrades that probably violate some terms of agreement or another, but it’s still not the same thing. It can’t match JARVIS’ processing power, for one, and also, it doesn’t joke back. 

Tony has nothing if not high expectations when it comes to his tech.

The USB stick Agent-Definitely-Not-J has handed him is a bit of a nightmare — that’s the only bright side on this whole disaster of a night. Say what you want, but Tony delights in a challenge and the program on this USB stick presents him with one. There aren’t just multiple layers of encryption Tony has to crack, there’s also two separate failsafes in place that will wipe the information if triggered. It’s decent coding — again, Tony is a bit of a snob when it comes to these things — and makes good work of the onion concept. Tony could probably lose himself in this, play around a little with the code, see what else it can do, if he wasn’t hyper-aware of the armed asshole glowering at the screen over his shoulder.

Harry Tasker Version 2.0 doesn’t appear to be as fluent in coding as Tony is — few people are, and the guy wouldn’t be here in the first place if he didn’t need Tony’s help, that much is clear — but Tony suspects that he gets a lot more than he lets on. Not stupid, this guy. Not stupid at all.

It’s a shame his manners are a lost cause.

[There’s a gun aimed at the back of Tony’s head that he’s doing a marvelous job of pretending not to notice. Cleary, Red October has never learned how to play nice. Still, this isn’t the first time Tony’s been held at gunpoint. It’s not even the first time someone has been stupid enough to threaten Tony in his own home. And he would have retaliated already, except— 

If Steve’s really in trouble — is dead — then Tony needs to know. Getting the information home-delivered is a lot easier and less traceable than alternative methods he’d have to use. And besides just because you have a few aces up your sleeve doesn’t mean you shouldn’t play along when it suits you. Because contrary to what Mister Stane liked to accuse him of, Tony is anything but stupid. This James guy has shown up out of the blue, grief and fury at war in his eyes, but that doesn’t mean anything. That doesn’t mean James might not be the person that killed Steve — or is currently hunting him.]

“Who was Steve working for?” Tony asks eventually, leans back into his seat with a sigh and watches his latest program work its magic.

Wannabe-Bond has been careful not to let any names slip so far. On the one hand, that seems like a sensible precaution, if what Tony suspects turns out to be true. [There’s many ABC agencies civilians aren’t supposed to know more about than the occasional rumor or scandal. And then there’s SHIELD, the governments’ preferred way of keeping their hands squeaky clean and burying all their ugly secrets and inconvenient truths in the seedy underbelly of an organization that doesn’t even exists. Not that Tony would know anything about that one, of course.] On the other hand, the truth will likely come out anyway once Tony gets his hand on the data on this stick. And there’s no question that he will get the data— only how long it will take him and how hard he’ll have to work for it.

Tony can feel the Mission-Impossible-Character’s calculating stare on the back of his head, measuring him. He refuses to turn around and meet those cold eyes. It’s easier to keep his voice even when he doesn’t. 

“You don’t want to know.”

And well, that’s not exactly an answer that inspires confidence in you. It’s also a pathetic threat as far as those go. Tony narrows his eyes. If there’s one thing that ticks him off, it’s not being taken serious. So this is how you wanna play it, big boy? Fine. Let’s play.

Opening another three taps almost simultaneously, Tony starts typing again. Faster this time. He switches back and forth between the different programs — most of them trying to isolate the program on the USB stick, ensuring that it doesn’t do anything, attacking the outer layers of the encryption. One of them though is a tiny program Tony has designed to be compatible with every computer system he could think of — and all it really does is communicate with JARVIS. Because, as Tony likes to remind Rhodey regularly, what’s the point in building Skynet if you don’t have it on your side? For some reason, his bet friend doesn’t find that joke as funny as Tony. But then Rhodey knows him better than most people— knows what he can do.

"What’cha doin’?" Wannabe-Bond’s drawled question interrupts Tony’s internal ramblings. He does’t look interested in the answer though, isn’t even looking at the screen any longer. Though where he pulled the knife from that he’s flipping around with his left hand, Tony doesn’t want to know.

"What does it look like I’m doing?" 

The words come out too sharp, too harsh. A testament to his fraying nerves perhaps. Either way, Tony bites his lip, but refuses to take them back. He’s not a pushover, and it takes more than a home visit from an assassin to change that. Besides it’s not like spending time with Steve felt anything less than juggling flamethrowers while standing ankle-deep in gunpowder.

"Are you all bark or can you actually back that big mouth of yours up?" Killer-Cat asks. The fun part is that he doesn’t look angry, just curious. He’s still playing with that knife, twisting and spinning it around his fingers. There’s a not-quite-smile on his lips that looks out-of-place— or maybe out-of-practice. Tony wouldn’t know. He’s leaning against the wall next to Tony’s desk, all loose lines and relaxed muscles. It’s probably not a coincidence that he’s also blocking the door that way.

Not that Tony would use the door if he wanted to get away.

"Let’s hope you won’t have reason to find out," Tony snipes back, not once stopping to type. It’s one thing to play games with an isolated program — though that does require his attention, he doesn’t have JARVIS to secure it, has to do the legwork himself — it’s another to simultaneously coordinate a hack with his precious JARVIS without tipping the trigger-happy time bomb he calls his guest off.

On the bright side, it’s still a challenge. Tony loves challenges.

*

Gaining access to the data on the stick is a painfully slow-going process. It’s far from impossible — Tony doesn’t think the security measures were meant to keep anyone with decent programming abilities out, only to slow them down — but without JARVIS to take over the boring parts, the process drags on. It’s not that Tony can’t do it, but he’s forgotten how much he relies on JARVIS for the parts he doesn’t want to be bothered with.

Oh well, this is still preferable to introducing Double-0-Nothing to JARVIS. Tony would have to kill afterwards — and he doesn’t think the murder strut would suit him as well as his quiet companion.

To be honest, it’s the silence that’s bothering Tony more than the tedious coding or even the fact that he has a killer in his home. [Ha! Like that’s new.] Tony doesn’t do well with silence. There’s a reason the radio is always turned up when he’s working, rock music echoing from the walls, hard enough to envelop him in sound. And it’s not because he aims to be deaf at fifty, no matter how many pointed comments Pepper throws his way.

Still. Two bottles of coca cola — fresh out of the refrigerator this time — and fifteen variations of "Are you done yet?" later, Tony pulls up the files on the stick.

"Well…" he says slowly, not sure what exactly it is that he’s seeing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wannabe-Bond jerk around. The next moment, he’s leaning over Tony’s shoulder, his cheek almost brushing against Tony’s, gaze flickering over the different documents that Tony keeps on opening.

"Mission logs." The murmur is barely audible, but nonetheless distracts Tony from his internal musings of the pretentious secret agents’ smell — a little like dried sweat, a little like rain, a little something else entirely.

He’s right. But that isn’t everything. Oh no. Some of the documents have been scanned, others photographed. Some bear SHIELD’s insignia, some are signed by officials — some names Tony recognizes, most he doesn’t — some have no official capacity. Notes. Scribbles. Sketches. Pictures. Security footage.

Tony inwardly thanks the gods for his eidetic memory as he shifts through the stream of data. Someone would probably kick up a fuss about what is clearly sanctioned kill orders for a couple of high-up foreign politicians, but what really makes Tony twitchy is that none of it is blackened. The agents involved. The addresses of SHIELD’s offices. The handlers. The victims.

It’s all there, black on white. The sort of information a white hat hacker would sell his soul for — and so would a black or grey hat, now that he thinks about it.

"This makes no sense," Jamie McJameson says after they’ve scrolled through a dozen more reports — everything from a psychiatric evaluation of Barton, Clint after a level 7 mission in Luisiana of all places to an order for new pencils by Hill, Maria, personal assistant of Director Pierce.

Tony isn’t sure he agrees. It’s certainly nothing dramatic like he half-expected — evidence for a huge conspiracy that has been working towards turning the entire US into a totalitarian regime, for example — but. 

Information is a tricky business. It doesn’t always reveal its true value at first glance.

"That’s a lot of sensitive information," Tony states. Because Are you sure it isn’t worth killing someone? seems like an impolite thing to ask outright, considering the circumstances.

Wannabe-Bond shakes his head, too long hair flying everywhere. "It’s not enough."

"If you say so."

Maybe the case isn’t up to his usual escapades? Imagine spending your whole life living in an action thriller, only for your friend to get killed over a mundane robbery. That would drive Tony mad for sure.

Tony is about to suggest they run a couple analysis programs, see if something stands out or any information has been embedded in the data — the photos maybe, you never know — when he notices something odd in the meta data. 

"Wait." Tony narrows his eyes and leans closer towards the screen. "All these files are copies and they’ve all been created at the same time — two weeks ago, on Thursday."

It’s the kind of odd JARVIS would’ve pointed out within moments of accessing the stick, but Tony tries not to think too hard about that. Steve would forgive him for not investigating his apparent death with his full capacity. Probably. It’s hard to say, Tony and Steve spent most of their time together arguing.

"Someone pulled all this data on the same day?" The furrow between Fake-James’ eyebrows deepens.

"Looks like it. And not just the same day, within the same three hours. I— Oh." Tony bites his bottom lip. 

"Oh?" There’s a dark undercurrent in Wannabe-Bond’s tone that one word that makes 'killer' sound real for the first time.

"It’s not all data, just the first part. There’s— bundles of it, I guess you could say." Tony murmurs, hands flying over the keyboard. "Around five gigabyte of it, dated from every Thursday of the last month." Tony skims a few more briefings, a budget plan, a handful of complaints for inappropriate workplace behavior. "These files were copied from internal SHIELD servers. Maybe it’s not the information itself that’s valuable at all. Maybe—"

"SHIELD’s been hacked," his murderous guest states with a sort of calm certainty that sends a reflexive shudder down Tony’s back. "Repeatedly. That means-" He abruptly cuts himself off, lips white from how tight he presses them together.

Whatever it is that has just occurred to him, he doesn’t share and he sure as hell doesn’t look happy. So he does what Tony always does when he’s nervous: He babbles.

"It looks like they were just randomly copying stuff. Might not have even been a person at all, maybe an algorithm. But that implies that they’ve been in the system for a while."

"Can you find out who it is? Backhack them?"

Tony tilts his head. Considers it. "It depends. But to even attempt that, I’d first have to hack SHIELD myself."

Wannabe-Bond — because Tony is getting tired of trying to come up with new nicknames and he’s fond of this one — raises an eyebrow. It looks unfairly cool. Tony may or may not want to kick him in his stupid face for it. "So?"

"So I’m not hacking an international secret agency with half a dozen secret prisons across the world from my home computer," Tony says slowly, and yep, that’s a sentence he’d never thought he would say out loud. [Okay, there was that one time when he was fifteen and drunk, but they’ve all unanimously agreed that that was Loki’s fault.]

Wannabe-Bond crosses his arms, handsome features turned to stone and looking about as yielding.

"Let’s find another computer then," he says like it’s really that simple, and oh, Tony can see how Steve and this guy must get along. They’ve got the same brand of insane stubbornness that makes Tony want to run around in a circle screaming or alternatively ram his head against a wall.

Fucking wonderful.

[tonystarktogo]

An Unwise Murder (An Inconvenient Survival)

Summary: “Someone within SHIELD sold out an Avenger. That was their first mistake.” When Avenger Steve Rogers is declared killed in action, everyone expects his best friend and fellow agent Bucky Barnes to go on a rampage. It’s the quirky mechanic with a sharp tongue and a secret talent for less-than-legal hacking that throws the whole agency for a loop. Featuring: A dead Steve (but when is Steve ever dead), a very pissed off, fucked-up secret agent Bucky (so basically your usual Bucky), and a very civilian Tony (who is exactly as harmless as you’d expect Tony Stark to be).

Read on AO3

Here is, as promised, the first part of the Double-0-Bucky/Hacker-Tony fic! To most of you, this part will probably be familiar already, but we have to start at the beginning *shrugs* and don’t worry, the next part will follow soon. Enjoy!

Part I 

Funerals aren’t meant to be a pleasant event, so Bucky doesn’t bother to put on a show.

His face could be carved in stone for all the emotion it conveys, and his muscles are tense, coiled, trembling faintly with the desire to grab his gun and pull the damn trigger.

Bucky isn’t sure if he’d stop shooting once he starts though. Not with how many tempting targets currently surround him. Not with how it would finally shut Pierce the fuck up. People tend to talk a lot less after you’ve emptied a magazine or two into them  — and Bucky has always been a man who appreciates silence.

Fuck, Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s here for. He doesn’t attend mandatory events. It simply isn’t done. The few weeks of the year that Bucky spends in his own country, he wastes drinking and sleeping around, often both at the same time. What’s to stop him from walking straight out of this impersonally sterile room filled with people he doesn’t trust, and go back to his favourite rundown bar to knock back vodka until he can’t feel the cold on his skin anymore?

Oh right. His best friend just got himself killed in action. The lucky bastard.

On a fucking nightmare of a mission in France of all places. If it had been Russia or Iran or North Korea or even just Sokovia (and really, it takes skill to be wanted by all four sides of the conflict), Bucky could have dealt with it.

But France? Bucky takes that as a personal offence.

Avengers don’t get killed in France. Avengers get killed the way they kill: brutal and messy, with no one left behind who’d bother to avenge them. Because justice is a fairy tale, and every act of peace is built on the actions of someone smart enough to wash the blood off their hands before they step in front of a camera.

At least the acknowledgements are short and free of false sentimentality. A whole lot of bullshit, sure, but it’s not like there is another choice. Not when the truth amounts to Steve Rogers died on a mission we weren’t authorised to give, in a country he wasn’t supposed to be in, over intel that we won’t admit exist.

Bucky doesn’t laugh. Barely huffs a a breath, but the people on both sides of him twitch tellingly.

Like all Avengers, Bucky has sought out the back of the room, where he can keep his back to the wall at all times, has a clear view on all available exists and a good excuse to keep an eye on the crowd of mourners.

The thought that one of them — multiple ones, possibly — are faking their sorrow makes Bucky clench his fingers against the urge to start an interrogation right now, Avenger style.

“Don’t kill anyone you might need to sign you off on field work again,” Barton mutters to his left, the words barely audible.

Bucky forces the tense muscles in his shoulders to relax, adopts an at-ease position that won’t fool the other Avengers, but at least won’t traumatise the attending techies and lawyers. The psych department always makes such a fuss when you break their precious, civilian employees.

There’s no point in fooling his colleagues though — if the Avengers can even be called that. It’s not like he meets them for brunch or goes out drinking with them in his downtime. They’re the elite of a internationally operating spy organisation for a reason, and it’s certainly not their ability to play well with others.

Just hours after having one of their own killed in a SHIELD-issued safehouse, all the Avengers are on edge. More so than usual. That the entire op smells like foul play all the way across the Atlantic does about as much to deescalate the situation as throwing a hand grenade into a room filled with weaponized uranium.

Someone inside SHIELD sold out an Avenger.

That was their first mistake. Their second was taking Steve out without killing Bucky as well.

There’s a shift in Bucky’s peripheral vision. Natasha Romanoff, codenamed Black Widow, looks as affected of recent events as she always does: not at all.

Is she the traitor? Bucky wonders as he tilts his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. The rivalry between Black Widow and Steve is no secret. It isn’t a friendly one either, not that any of the Avengers are the sort of person one might associate the word “friendly” with. She betrayed the Red Room at eighteen. What offer would it take for her to turn on a fellow agent? An Avenger at that? Is she tense because she expects me to do this country a favour by killing Pierce or is she afraid to be found out?

The service lasts barely twenty minutes — unsurprising, considering how much isn’t said, can’t be said, because living within the specter of the highest security clearance makes for a shoddy eulogy — but to Bucky it feels like forever.

It doesn’t help that half the people around him are waiting for him to fly off the handle in either grief or blind rage. Blind rage admittedly being the more likely outcome.

It doesn’t help that the other half undoubtedly suspects him to be the traitor — who better to kill Steve Rogers than his best friend, after all? Especially when Avengers so clearly don’t have best friends — though Bucky can’t fault them for the sensible assumption.

He’d suspect himself too. The black hole that is four years of being held as a POW on his résumé hasn’t left him with what one might call a solid standing within the agency. Or a stable life in general.

Bucky has simply been lucky that Avengers don’t have much use for stability as it is. (Also, Steve was planning a revolt, should they stop attempting to recover Bucky. Not that anyone likes to acknowledge that. Pierce’s secretary still pales every time she catches sight of one of them.)

He’s been lucky that he’s too useful to be killed.

That might change now — Steve Rogers’ death changes a lot of things — but if it comes to that, Bucky will make damn sure to take the traitor with him. Another outcome isn’t acceptable.

And Bucky is very, very good at getting what he wants.

But first, he needs to find someone clean — meaning unaffiliated with SHIELD in any way — who can take a look at the USB flash drive he’s found in one of his dead drops two days after Pierce declared Steve KIA.

Fuck, but the first thing Bucky is gonna do when he sees Steve again is punch him in the fucking face.

*

Tony has always had an interesting way of making friends.

For example, Tony meets his best friend Pepper during a hostage situation when he’s sixteen. He’s never before seen a girl throw high heels at a guy’s head with such a deadly accuracy. Suffice to say Tony likes her immediately — and promises to buy her all the shoes she needs to knock stupid people down, naturally.

They keep in touch afterwards, and it’s the start of something great.

He meets his brother in all but blood much the same way, only Tony barely remembers that one because those kidnappers were smart enough to drug him before trying anything funny. Luckily, Tony has Rhodey for the straight thinking part — or at least he does after that episode.

On another, memorable occasion, Tony befriended one of his kidnappers.

In his defence: they were some pretty alright people, for being criminals holding him for ransom. No unnecessary threats or bodily harm, and they actually gave him drug-free food too. Also, you have no idea how mind-numbingly boring being kidnapped is. Well, not the getting kidnapped part but the staying-kidnapped-whilst-your-kidnappers-fail-to-get-their-money part.

Sadly, some people still believe that Stark Industries will pay for the disowned heir Tony Stark’s safe return. And usually they don’t react too well to being proven wrong. That time being one of those rare exceptions. In no small part thanks to a certain member of the crew whose identity Tony will protect until the day he dies. Or something.

Never mind.

The point is, Tony is used to meeting cool people under very hazardous, extraordinary circumstances.

Which is why — as he will later explain to a very exasperated Rhodey and an even more distrustful Pepper — when Tony locks up his garage at 7.40 pm after a long day of changing oils and busted tires, only to suddenly find himself face to face with a hooded stranger — after he’s already locked the doors, though he won’t share that part with his friends — he doesn’t panic.

He greets the guy — there’s a twenty percent chance Tony knows him, okay, hiding their faces as they track him down isn’t exactly a rarity — like a civilised person instead.

“Hi there,” Tony says with his best customer smile. “How may I help you?”

The guy — who definitely has more upper body strength than Tony, not that he notices or anything — doesn’t so much as twitch. He just stands there, body turned towards Tony, face shadowed by his hood. Tony really should have switched out the broken light bulb ages ago, maybe then he wouldn’t have to squint at his visitor like a sceptical squirrel, trying to make out the guy’s features.

“Anthony Stark?” the guy asks after a moment, voice low and rumbling, like gathering clouds on the far end of the horizon, as a violent storm approaches.

It’s that specific, unfairly nice sound that decides it: Tony definitely doesn’t know this guy. There’s no way he would have forgotten a voice like that.

Tony lets his smile brighten a little because if he’s about to be kidnapped — is it that time of the month already? Tony wouldn’t know, his last calendar sorta had a small accident involving a fire and DUM-E using up all the fire extinguisher on Tony rather than the actual fire. It was a pretty sweet, protective gesture, actually. Tony may or may not have teared up, just a little, but that didn’t change that half his equipment had to be replaced — then he’d like to start their working relationship on a good note. The kidnapping attempts tend to have less violent endings that way.

Additionally, Tony really doesn’t want to start a fight in his garage. This is his work place — which is basically holy, ask anyone. His cars are in here. They are not acceptable collateral damage, no matter what Pepper says.

“Do you know a Steve Rogers?” is mystery guy’s next question.

Which is a damn shame because it takes all of Tony’s not inconsiderable self-control to not tense at that particular inquiry. Steve Rogers.

God fucking damn it.

Tony forces the memories, the reflexive questions — a bloodied, broken body, screams of pain, narrowed, blue eyes glaring at him even as strong hands push him out of the line of fire — down immediately, takes care to keep his expression calm and clueless instead. He’s got lots of practice doing that. It’s just like being confronted with an obnoxious reporter who won’t stop bothering him with stupid questions about why he denies his father’s legacy. Bloodthirsty reporters, bloodthirsty assassins, it’s really just more of the same.

Tony has been handling shit like this since he was nine. If mystery guy expects him to trip up and give up even a single piece of information the easy way, he’s got another thing coming. Tony Stark doesn’t do easy.

Especially not when it concerns people he almost considers tolerable. Those gems are hard enough to find as it is — well, among the boring, totally legal working crowd at least — Tony will protect them with all he has. Not that he wouldn’t do the same for people he doesn’t like, he just wouldn’t be as happy about it.

Mystery guy is in for a surprise.

“Rogers?” Tony furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “That doesn’t ring a bell.” Close enough to the truth to count.

Then, the grin slides completely off Tony’s face and his eyes narrow in open suspicion. “Not that it matters. I don’t make a habit of handing out contact information to strangers who can’t be bothered to introduce themselves. Client privileges, I’m sure you understand.”

And yeah, some sarcasm may slip into those words, but can you blame Tony? He’s been working for almost ten hours in that special place reserved in hell for customer service, and, frankly, Tony is done with the world for the day. That he’s most likely dealing with what’s either a very diligent mercenary or a very strange kidnapper does little to lighten his mood.

Both options are far less appealing than mystery guy’s sexy voice initially indicated. Tony feels a little cheated.

“Oh, I understand,” mystery guy murmurs ominously.

When Tony squints, he can literally see the shadows behind the guy blacken. On an unrelated note, he really needs to stop binge-watching those horror flicks. Clearly it’s messing with his mind.

Not that this keeps Tony from bristling at Mystery Guy’s threatening tone — if anything, it has Tony reflexively square his shoulders because he does not fold.

Mystery guy snorts, and Tony has the fleeting impression that the stranger has the gall to be amused by him. He kind of wants to deck the guy just for that.

“I can see why he liked you.”

Something in those words freezes Tony into place long before his brain has puzzled through their meaning. By the time his mind catches up to the past tense that refers to a person it should absolutely not refer to, mystery guy has already taken a few steps towards the only functioning light bulb in Tony’s garage and slips his hoodie back.

The bleak light reveals a pale, handsome face with a strong jaw and icy, blue eyes. Absently, Tony approves of the way the hoodie has messed up Mystery Guy’s wild hair into something untameable and unfairly attractive, but it’s kind of hard to melt into a puddle of appreciative goo when you’ve just learned of the death of a friend.

Or well, acquaintance maybe. Rhodey always reminds Tony that he can’t just go around, adopting friends left and right just because he wants to. And with Steve it’s hard to say. The guy is almost impossible to read.

Still, it’s Steve they’re talking about. And whatever mess he’s gotten himself involved in, Tony doesn’t doubt for a moment that Steve thought he was doing it for the right reasons. He’s annoyingly self-righteous like that. It sucks even more when you listen to him rant and realize he’s got a point, not that Tony will ever admit such a thing to his face.

Which will be hard to do if Steve is actually—

Tony presses his lips together and defiantly stares up at Mystery Guy. Who is, in fact, taller than him. There really is no justice in the world.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?” is what Tony settles on to summarize the maelstrom of confusing emotions wrecking chaos inside him.

The man takes a threatening step closer. Of course, it’s not that hard to come across as threatening when you’re half a head taller and made of muscles and steel. Still. The guy could at least try to keep his looming on the downlow.

Not that Tony does him the courtesy of giving up an inch. This is his garage, damn it. No one makes Tony feel afraid in his own home.

Mystery Guy growls and there is a lethal coldness in his eyes that Tony doesn’t think a human should be able to portray.

“I was Steve’s best friend. And you’re going to find the people who killed him so that I can return the favor.”

Thoughts? 

[tonystarktogo]

What about WinterIronWidow Spy AU though?

Tagging @dreamcatchersdaughter because I blame you for my obsession with this pairing.

Imagine: James Barnes is the best agent MI6 has to offer. Natasha Romanov is either a spy for another government or is involved with the Villain™ in some way. Maybe they meet by honest coincidence, maybe it starts out as a mission, but we all know where this is gonna lead: they fall in love. Which is unfortunate because they can’t be seen with each other, ever.

So they meet up at a tiny coffee shop with barely any costumers, and even so they are too careful to sit with each other. They stay across the room instead and pass coded messages back and forth with the help of a flirty waiter named Tony whom they’ve told some sob story about forbidden love and so on. Tony has the time of his life helping them cover their tracks, so it’s hard to feel bad about the lie.

It all goes pretty well for a forbidden love sob story. Until, inevitably, some of their enemies manage to track Natasha/Bucky to the café. It’s only three hours later when Bucky gets the first message, threatening to send him his pretty bird back in small pieces. Bucky, predictably, goes off the grid, determined to find whoever took Natasha and end them. Violently.

Only Natasha wasn’t taken. Tony was.

Natasha meanwhile finds herself in the awkward position of being Tony’s guard, while they all wait for Bucky’s supposed predictable rescue attempt. She expects Tony to blow her cover the second he first lays eyes on her. She also expects Bucky to have the common sense not to follow an obvious bait.

True to form neither of her expectations are met.

Tony, who’s apparently far too clever for his own good, plays the intimidated but putting on a brave face regardless boyfriend beautifully. Bucky, who’s apparently far too stupid to be left on his own, is dragged in a couple of hours later.

It goes about as well as you’d expect it to go. (’Give me back my fucking waiter!’? Really, Bucky?)

At least his fighting skill is as spectacular as it is rumoured to be, and when Natasha turns on her fellow evil-doers the surprise effect gives Tony the chance he has apparently been waiting for.

How exactly he manages to blow the entire compound up without killing them all, Natasha will never understand. But the way he smiles at them excitedly when they’ve finally freed themselves off the wreckage makes something in her stomach curl in curious interest--and from the way Bucky is watching him intently, she dare say she isn’t the only one.

Needless to say watching Tony hack various secret services in search for more detail on the man pulling the strings behind his kidnapping, doesn’t make them want him--ahem, want to bring him home safely, of course--any less.