They are the ugliest sweaters on earth. Lumpy, misshapen, inevitably in some horrible discount craft store yarn that looks like a dog chewed on it for hours. In the sweaters, Tony looks like a child (Bucky knits to Steve’s size because he’s embarrassed to ask for Tony’s measurements), and moreover, he looks like an angry child. His face just dares anyone to ask him why he’s wearing a puce monstrosity. But when he turns to look at Bucky, it’s only ever a warm sweet smile, so Bucky, bless his heart, is only encouraged to ever more hideous sweater heights.
They are the ugliest sweaters on earth. Lumpy, misshapen, inevitably in some horrible discount craft store yarn that looks like a dog chewed on it for hours. In the sweaters, Tony looks like a child (Bucky knits to Steve’s size because he’s embarrassed to ask for Tony’s measurements), and moreover, he looks like an angry child. His face just dares anyone to ask him why he’s wearing a puce monstrosity. But when he turns to look at Bucky, it’s only ever a warm sweet smile, so Bucky, bless his heart, is only encouraged to ever more hideous sweater heights.
Well, somebody’s gotta play with the bots, and Tony’s over there with magnifying goggles and a soldering iron, so Bucky might as well do it. Plus the bots are easy and broken like him. They don’t mind if he doesn’t talk much or if he suddenly goes still and vacant for long periods of time. They understand what defragmenting is. So of course Bucky plays with the bots. What he doesn’t expect is to look up from tossing a ball to Bucky only to find Tony right there staring down at him with an inscrutable look.
“You and I. We’re going out. To Italian. Right now. You hungry? I’m hungry. Starving. Let me buy you dinner. And then ice cream after. And then a walk in the park.”
“Tony, what–”
“Great, it’s decided. Get up. You wanna take the Tesla?”
“I don’t–”
“You’re right. The Audi is sexier.”
Bucky doesn’t quite know how to get past Tony’s rapid-fire speaking and interrupting, so he tries a one-word question: “Dinner?”
“Thought you’d never ask. Come on, Lover boy.”Aw, I do like those headcanons where Bucky picks up cooking as a way to cope. I especially think he’d be good at baking because sniper=precision + high-level math, so I think he’d have a really good, intuitive understanding of how to edit recipes and alter them to meet his needs. So I think not only would he make Tony some delicious Mom’s-recipe-pasta, but he’d top it off with some deliciously fancy Italian meringue or something similarly difficult and impressive.
(Don’t tell me meringue’s easy. I’ve fucked up meringue too often to find it easy. For me, meringue is hell.)
But here’s the thing: Tony pretends he’s very grumpy about it. He pouts and crosses his arms and bitches about the cold and complains that he’s got work to be doing, and even once Bucky gets him moving out on the ice, he’s still grumpy and whiney, but he’s moving his feet and going faster and faster, and there’s that little twinkle in his eye that says, “Yes. Thank you. This is what I needed.”
I do love this idea. I love the idea that for Pepper, Tony had already learned the intricacies of long-hair maintenance and he found it super soothing to just comb her hair and take care of it for her when she was stressed and tired after a long day, and now he can use those skills on Bucky, too. He can rake his nails through, wash it with warm water (he gets one of those nice hair salon sinks installed), comb it out and then gently and intricately braid it until Bucky’s satisfied. Bucky goes out on mission once with a decorative butterfly pin in his hair and the media has a heyday.
“He…he can’t be older than sixteen.”
“Well, you could ask him.”
“What the fuck, Nat, I’m not asking him. That’s fucking jailbait waiting to happen.”
“Well, then avert your eyes. That dude over there in purple is pretty–”
“But like shouldn’t we do something? Call the cops or–”
“Barnes, I will break your pinky finger if you ruin this night for me.”
“Why, what are you… Oh. Oh, you want to… With the guy in purple?”
“Maybe.”
“Jesus, Nat, you should give these guys warning. They deserve to make their last wishes known.”
“I’m sure he’ll survive.”
“…”
“…”
“But like, he’s gotta be sixteen. He’s seriously just–”
“He is eighteen, thank you very much, and he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“I…I…uh…”
“So you paying for a lap dance or what?”