#thehotmessnow

Bucky was wrist-deep in dough when Pepper Potts wandered into the Tower’s communal kitchen. Natasha was in a funk, and Bucky had hoped that making some pirozhki to have with dinner might help brighten her spirits.

She wasn’t sure what the cause was – fallout from the Avengers’ last assignment, the recent high-profile murder of an old colleague from their Soviet past, or maybe just plain bad memories – but Natasha had been tense and moody for a few days now, and so far nothing Bucky had tried had succeeded in lifting her spirits. But that didn’t mean Bucky was ready to give up; maybe comfort food would do the trick.

She gave Pepper a nod of acknowledgement as she passed by. That was about as much as they’d ever exchanged, apart from good morning or, on the rare occasions when Pepper joined them for dinner, a polite could you pass the potatoes, please?

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Pepper; it was just that she didn’t really know her. Bucky was still trying to find her feet here, after spending over a year on her own as a fugitive before Steve had tracked her down, and Pepper, for her part, didn’t seem inclined to socialize with most of the Tower’s residents. Probably she had her hands full, what with running Stark Industries.

Tony jerked awake with a gasp, his whole body flinching into dull, angry awareness. There was a frantic Irish girl yelling in his ear. It was really distracting. Really painful, actually. Of course, that could just be the bone-deep ache absolutely everywhere. Even his hair hurt. “Mute.” Immediately, blessed silence. His voice didn’t sound great, though. His throat felt raw. Like he’d been busy screaming. 

Well, that didn’t paint a very optimistic picture.

Neither did the fact that he couldn’t quite remember where he was or why he was there. The inside of his mouth was dust-dry, his eyes itched, and despite the suit’s air filtration system, he was pretty sure he smelled. He felt like he’d fallen asleep on the beach, at noon, in the middle of July. Or spent months dying by inches in the desert.

Bad thought. Terrible thought. Disregard that thought. Omit it. 

Groaning softly, Tony pushed himself to his knees, then staggered onto his feet. The suit, at least, was still responsive, even if there did seem to be a lot of really concerning energy damage to the plating, and most it was aimed center mass. “Unmute. Hey, Irish.” 

“Boss, I initiated the Lazarus Protocol! It’s been six hours, twenty-three minutes since initialization.” Then, hesitantly, “Did it work?”

Lazarus. Yeah, that wasn’t ominous or anything. 

“Must have.” Tony clenched and flexed his fingers. He certainly felt like he’d been through something potentially upsetting. Through something and right out the other side. Definitely upsetting. 

“I recommend we head home, Boss,” Irish girl said. “As per protocol, I’ve alerted Miss Potts and Medical is ready to receive you.” 

Home. Tony scanned his immediate surroundings. Or tried to. All he could really see was the triangular silhouette of treetops against a glittering night sky. Nothing to really say where he was. Could be upstate New York or fucking Europe. All he really knew was that he was standing in a small but deep crater, and under the heavy scent of salt and metal, everything smelled faintly of heat. And burning. 

Which seemed to be the wrong thing to think. 

His brain snagged hard on the word, the idea, the sensation, and everything unraveled like a knit sweater. His vision went spotty at the edges and closed in, his chest horrifically tight. He couldn’t breathe. 

Irish was yelling again, this time from very faraway. 

“Backseat Driver Protocol initializ—”

Tony woke up in a hospital bed that was far more comfortable than it had any right to be. Probably because this wasn’t a hospital. He could just see his company logo on a wall beyond all the glass and glitter of the room he was currently occupying. Only one problem with that, really: Tony couldn’t remember them having a Medical Division. 

This was new. 

“Boss, Miss Potts is on her way.”