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Steve exhales and lowers his shield. “It’s good to see you, Tony.”
“You too, Cap. Hey, Manchurian Candidate, you’re killing me. There’s a truce here. You can drop it.”
Barnes’s eyes immediately go to Steve; Steve signals to lower the rifle, and he does.
A new voice echoes from somewhere deeper in the bunker: “You can lick my hairy asshole, Cyclops.”
Tony says, under his breath, “Rogers, you gonna tell them about the swear jar, or should I?”
Steve gives him a vaguely exasperated look, but there’s a tiny hint of a smile playing over his mouth.
Tony scans the room ahead. “I’ve got heat signatures.”
“How many?”
“Two abnormally hot. One… lukewarm.”
From the main room, two voices echo off the bare walls.
“If you just wanna stand there with your dick out, more power to ya, but—”
“Do I look like I could fit into his pants? There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell.”
“Suit yourself. Jesus, what is this shit? It’s ridiculous. He’s dressed like a pimp.”
“Stop. Listen.”
Silence, and then Barnes sighs and mutters, “I know who that is.” Louder, he calls, “It’s Barnes. Coming in, don’t shoot.”
Tony follows Barnes cautiously and blinks a few times. He’s not sure what he expected to find, but it definitely wasn’t this.
“This” being a seven-foot-tall man with white hair, one eye socket that’s shiny with freshly-healed scar tissue, and frankly intimidating musculature to match the frankly intimidating assault rifle he’s aiming in Tony’s direction. He’s completely nude, which is also pretty damn intimidating.
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be, the Tin Man?” comes another voice. This one is crouched over what appears to be Zemo’s body. He’s wearing a long fur-collared coat and nothing else as he continues to strip the corpse, working on the laces of his boots. He glances at Steve and does a double take.
“Huh,” Cyclops says, head tilted thoughtfully.
“I know you,” Pimp Coat says, tugging Zemo’s pants off matter-of-factly. “Captain goddamn America, in the flesh.” He sneers, voice dripping venom when he says, “Gee whizz, what a swell guy!” Then he rolls his eyes and continues emptying out Zemo’s pockets.
“What the fuck,” Steve says.
“Language,” Tony says automatically, but then he adds, “Seriously, though, what the fuck?”
“This stupid motherfucker tried to shoot me,” Cyclops says mildly, and points to his eye socket. “I didn’t appreciate the wakeup call.”
“Jesus,” Tony says.
“Deathstroke, Soldier Boy,” Barnes says, gesturing at Cyclops and Pimp Coat respectively. “Meet Tony Stark. And, uh. Steve Rogers.”
“Stark, huh?” Deathstroke says, low and growling. “Any relation to Howard?”
“That’s dear old dad,” Tony says.
“Your daddy was a piece of work,” Deathstroke says.
“Stark?” Soldier Boy says, frowning at a small tape he pulled out of Zemo’s pocket. “This must be for you.” He tosses it at Tony, who catches it. It does, in fact, say Stark on the label, and he starts looking around for something to play it with; Soldier Boy asks, “Is that one of those video cassette things? Little small, isn’t it?”
“Jesus, when was the last time they thawed you out?” Deathstroke drawls.
“Eighties?” Soldier Boy says dubiously, as he tries to button the pants. “Dunno, was too busy doing coke and eating pussy to watch any goddamn videos, dickcheese.”
There’s a clunky Soviet-era video monitor on one wall, and Tony fumbles his way through turning it on. As best he can tell, there’s only a minute or two of recorded footage; it’s grainy and grayscale.
“What is this?” he asks, eyes glued to the screen. “I know that road.”
He knows that goddamn car, too.
Brakes screech. Tony might puke.
He’s vaguely aware of Steve watching over his shoulder, and the oppressive silence that falls, broken only by the tinny recording of his mother’s screams. The Winter Soldier stalks toward the car.
Then Deathstroke shoots the video equipment; sparks fly and the screen goes black.
Tony saw enough, though.
He can feel the corrosive anger crowding his chest, clenching around his throat, vibrating up his spine, and with it comes the need to do something, to throw himself at the nearest impossible object and see how much damage he can do. It’s the same anger he’s been feeling all his life, in one form or another, and it’s never once ended well, and he knows this won’t either.
“Not great, as snuff films go,” Soldier Boy says.
Tony whirls on Steve and says, “Did you know?”
“Tony,” Steve says, stricken. “He was being controlled. By Hydra. They’re the ones you want.”
“Did you know ?”
“No offense, kid, but your dad was a goddamn jackass,” Deathstroke interjects. Tony turns on him, repulsor gauntlet raised. Deathstroke scoffs. “I got shot in the skull half an hour ago. You really think your cute little lasers are gonna be the thing that kills me?”
“Fuck you.” Tony shoots a beam at his dick.
Unfortunately, he dodges, glaring, and says, “You try that again, we are going to have issues .”
“He killed my mom,” Tony says, and tries to push past Steve.
“Oh, boo-fuckin’-hoo,” says Soldier Boy. “Are you seriously gonna cry about it? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, quit bein’ such a pussy.”
“Excuse me?” Tony says incredulously.
“Which part did you not understand?” Deathstroke asks. He and Steve are closing ranks, getting between Tony and Bucky, and Tony knows he can’t take the both of them, but god does he want to try.
“Want me to make him do the Macarena?” Soldier Boy says, holding up a little red book, and Tony stares at him, distracted into lowering the gauntlet. “Because I could. Could make him do just about anything.”
“Give me that,” Barnes says quietly. He has tears in his eyes, and he’s staring at the book the way — well, the way Tony was just staring at the tape, probably.
Fuck.
“Tell you what, we can make a trade,” Deathstroke says. “You give us a ride outta here, we’ll track down whoever ordered the hit and you can strangle ‘em with your own bare hands.”
“Speak for yourself, I’m goin’ directly to a bar and gettin’ plastered,” Soldier Boy says. “I’ll get a bottle and we can toast to our shitheel dads.”
The anger drains out of Tony as fast as it came. It leaves him wrung-out and shaky when it’s gone.
He’s so goddamn tired of being angry.
“I’ll throw in the Macarena for free,” Deathstroke says.
“Nobody’s doing any dancing until you put your dick away,” Tony tells him.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a pair of extra-large long johns in that robot getup?”
“Can’t help you there.” He sighs, and his shoulders would sag if he wasn’t in the suit. “Fine. First we get you some pants, then we get plastered, and then we get some revenge.”