#i really want to look into how this will effect medical equipment like pacemakers next

[tisfan]

Professional Interest

for @fangirlunderground / @fangirlangela who was my second place bidder for @fandomtrumpshate 

A/n -- All medical errors are my own. 

“Oi, Barnes!” Rumlow slapped his hand several times against the doorframe to Bucky’s office. Well, office was stretching it. Glorified closet, really. They’d somehow managed to squeeze a cubical into the space rather than putting up shelves or getting him a real desk. There were three chairs, his own and two for patients, doctors, or consultants.

Bucky held up one finger, then tapped a few more sentences out in his file. He hated losing his train of thought. Rumlow fidgeted impatiently. Waiting wasn’t his strong suit at all, and Bucky was tempted to keep procrastinating over the file, except that meant Rumlow would just stay there longer, and no one really wanted that. Bucky wasn’t even sure Rumlow enjoyed his own company. The man seemed always to be in someone else’s face, so it wasn’t entirely unlikely.

Bucky checked his notes, added one more thing to the file and saved it. “Yes?” He pushed back from his desk as far as the small office would allow so that he could see Rumlow without having to strain his neck.

“Got a case for ya,” Rumlow said. He tossed the manilla folder down onto Bucky’s desk. Neatly labeled with the various color-coded stickers identifying general patient information. The patient’s name, Stark, Anthony, leapt out at him.

“I thought you had the Stark case,” Bucky said, mildly. Big name case, that one. Rumlow was one of the practice’s best physical therapists, or so the rumor went. He’d worked with a number of big name football and baseball players over the years, getting accolades for bringing a star running back up to being able to play in the Superbowl, after an ACL tear had taken the guy out. He’d played the game; the team had even won. The fact that the guy would never play again, and could barely walk without pain, that was left out of the various glowing reports.

“Eh, he’s a whiner-baby,” Rumlow said. “Doesn’t like my methods.”

“You know I’m always happy to take on your problem children,” Bucky said. Over the last six months, Bucky had taken on more and more cases, but he’d recently finished off with the Storm case, and the Parker kid’s insurance had run out. Bucky was still keeping in touch with that kid by email and working him through some at-home exercises.

“He’s hardly a child,” Rumlow snorted. “Rich, spoiled bastard, but not a kid. Good luck getting him t’ do anything, and then, watch, he’ll complain and snivel when your results suck. And they will. He ain’t done a lick of work in his whole life.”

“I’m sure Mr. Stark and I can come to some sort of therapy program,” Bucky said. He flipped idly through the file. Yikes. He could see why Rumlow didn’t want this particular case.

On site therapy, partial paralysis, overall degenerative muscle damage. What the hell had happened to this guy? Bucky started digging through the case file. Doctor’s reports, surgeons files… by all reports, Stark had been driving while intoxicated, veered off the road, turned his car over several times, and, while badly injured, had remained stuck in the vehicle, unnoticed, for almost thirty-six hours.

Rumlow coughed, drawing Bucky’s attention. “What, are you still here?”

“Ha ha,” Rumlow snapped. “Me an’ Jack an’ the rest of the guys are gonna hit up Rusty Nail later tonight, want to join us for some beers?”

Bucky hesitated. Rumlow had asked him out a few times already, and Bucky had always politely turned him down, but if it was a group thing… he didn’t want to seem too anti-social. His mentor had gone out of her way to point out that maintaining good relationships with his fellows was very important. “Yeah, okay,” Bucky said. “I can’t stay out too late, though.” He turned, pointedly, back to the file and practically held his breath until Rumlow stopped darkening his doorway.

Bucky finished reading through the whole file; apparently Stark had been comatose for ninety-one days, and most of his physical therapy was for muscle degeneration, not atypical for someone bedridden for three months, and to regain stamina. And, additionally, to learn to deal with his pacemaker.

Bucky blew out a breath. Rumlow was a ruthless therapist. This guy had his world turned upside down and was probably learning everything all over again. Yeah, he could see where Rumlow’s tough love (which was more tough and less love than really, anyone should have to put up with, especially if Stark was footing the bills.) wasn’t appreciated.

Bucky tapped his fingers against his lip a moment, then picked up his phone and dialed the patient contact number.

“Stark Residence,” a crisp, professional voice said, “this is Mr. Jarvis speaking, how may I assist you?”

“This is Dr. Barnes, with Lenox Hill Physical Therapy. I was wondering if Mr. Stark might have an hour or so in the next few days to discuss his treatment options?” Bucky still felt a little weird introducing himself as Doctor. Technically, the DPT he had, while not a traditional medical degree, did earn him the title, but he’d been right in the middle of some pretty vicious arguments with his relatives. Being one of several doctors in his family, including a neurosurgeon, and a plastic surgeon, Bucky had been called the gym teacher of doctors by his sister’s husband. It grated on him and had made holiday dinners a little less than fun.

“Allow me to confer with Miss Potts,” Mr. Jarvis said. “Should I return your call, or will you hold?”

“Let me give you my number,” Bucky suggested, and then did so, when Mr. Jarvis indicated he had a pen in hand.

“Miss Potts maintains Mr. Starks schedule,” Mr. Jarvis explained. “What would be the content of the discussion?”

“I understand Mr. Stark wants to do his physical therapy in his home,” Bucky said. “Which is fine, great, he’s payin’ the premium. But I’d like him to come down here, to get a baseline to work from and to set up his Perceived Exertion levels. Also, I’ll need a list of what equipment and the maintenance schedules, available at his in-house gym.”

“I can fax you that information, Doctor Barnes,” Jarvis said. “And I shall return your call as soon as may be, on Mr. Stark’s schedule. If you would be so kind, sir, there are some Non-disclosure agreements and a security check for everyone wishing entrance into Mr. Stark’s home who is not an invited social guest.”

Bucky’s eyebrow went up. “Sure, fax it over,” he said, and gave out that number, too.

(more under the cut)

“What do they do, hire you guys out of some sort of eugenics program?” Tony knew he was being testy, he was already exhausted and all he’d done was sit in the limo while Happy drove them down to Lenox Hill, and then struggled into the wheelchair. He was still sitting in the damn thing, and while it was the full package deal, because he was Tony Stark and he could afford a chair that cost more than most people’s cars, he still hated it.

Dr. Barnes raised an eyebrow at the remark. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re both stupidly good looking. You, and that other guy--”

“Dr. Rumlow,” Barnes said, ignoring the compliment, which was probably good, because it wasn’t entirely one. Tony wondered if the man could hear the rest of the question: how can you have a medical degree if you’re so hot? “He recommended to me that you might benefit from a different medical philosophy--”

“Nope,” Tony interrupted. “Let’s not play that game. Rumlow didn’t hand over my case because he thought he wasn’t capable. That would be stupid. I fired him.”

“Quite frankly, Mr. Stark,” Barnes said, “it’s of no interest to me how you came to be in my care. His methodology wasn’t working for you.”

“The guy’s like a gym teacher, yelling at the kid who’s got asthma about how he can’t run fast,” Tony said. “It’s a terrible way to treat children, and, quite frankly, it was insulting and demeaning.”

Dr. Barnes hummed thoughtfully at that, tapping the eraser end of his pencil on Tony’s file. “Not to speak ill of my colleague, but Brock, er, Dr. Rumlow, treats patients in much the same way that he treats people he wants to date.” He glanced at Tony through eyelashes that were ridiculously long. The man had the bluest eyes, too. “He negs.” Barnes added that, as if it needed to be explained. “The idea is that, by being insulting, he pushes a patient to do better, to prove themselves. More stick than carrot.”

“Does that actually work on anyone?” Tony demanded. He wanted to wave one hand around to emphasize his point, but he already knew that was exhausting. The whole thing was exhausting. Breathing was exhausting. Existing was exhausting. Adding in dealing with being screamed at like a private in the Marine corps -- which had the added effect of giving him panic attacks, since Howard had been the same way -- and he just hadn’t been able to cope with the physical therapy.

Going home from an appointment and sobbing himself sick, hearing Howard’s voice thundering in his ears, calling him worthless, pathetic, barely human… it wasn’t aiding his recovery at all, and his one attempt to discuss the matter like adults with Dr. Rumlow had gone. Poorly.

Barnes let out an involuntary chuckle, and that was wholly unfair, because he really was insanely attractive and smiling just made it worse, so much worse, and if this had been six months ago, Tony would be bending all his power, money, and charm into convincing Barnes to go home with him.

You are trying to convince him to go home with you, the little asshole part of his brain that never shut up pointed out.

“Well, I’m not dating him,” Barnes replied and Tony had to yank himself back to the conversation, because he’d sort of lost track of what they were talking about. “Despite repeated attempts on his part.”

“Imagine my relief,” Tony said.

“All that aside,” Barnes said, “let’s talk more about what you expect from physical therapy, and how I can best help you meet those goals.”

Tony hesitated, swallowed. If the man hadn’t had such kind eyes, an icy blue that should have been chilly, but weren’t, he might not have been able to admit it. He held out his hands, which trembled. “I can’t work,” he said. “Everything else, the not being able to walk, the exhaustion, the pain. All of that, I can take that. But I can’t hold a soldering iron like this. I… I can’t work, and when I can’t work, all I can do is think. And thinking. That kind of thinking? That’s very bad for me. Quite frankly, I’d rather be dead.”

And that was the goddamn truth. Tony would rather have just not woken up at all; and he knew it was going to be a long climb back, and he’d probably never make it, and everyone kept telling him how damn lucky he was, and it’s not like he had to work, he was Tony goddamn Stark, one of the richest men in the world, and why was he complaining?

Tony had started an enormous grant foundation with the goal of paying off people’s hospital bills when they couldn’t work from an accident just to shut that voice up in his head.

It didn’t work, but at least there were a lot of people out there who’d had that particular burden lifted off them. Not so much a win-win, but a win-status quo.

“All right, we can certainly work on that,” Barnes said. “I’m going to make a few suggestions, and then we’ll set up a meeting in your home, so we can get started. First, if you haven’t already been seeking therapy, please do so. Suicide ideation is dangerous, and can stand in the way of whole body healing. There’s a limit to what I can do for you, medically and physically, if you’re suffering from depression and hopelessness.”

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Barnes just held up one finger, and Tony waved, letting the doctor continue.

“Secondly, I’m going to ask you to track your caffeine intake. I don’t like to limit anyone’s liquid sleep, but over three hundred milligrams a day can lead to the shakes, and right now, I’d like to make sure that your tremors don’t have a different, underlying cause.”

Barnes reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a yellow squishy ball. “Third, this is a stress ball, I’m sure you’ve seen them. I’ll email you a set of exercises I want you to do, twice a day, separated by at least six hours, every day. Okay? Oh, and Mr. Stark?” He rolled the ball slowly across the table and Tony caught it without thinking about it.

Tony looked at the ball in his hand, then up at his physical therapist. “Yeah?”

“This is a team effort now. We’re a team. You have to pull your fair share of the load. I can help you,” Barnes said. “But you have to do your therapy. According to my directions. This won’t happen in a vacuum. I can’t -- much as I’d like to -- give you a pill and make it go away. It will be hard, it will probably be painful. Humiliating. Frustrating. I won’t baby you through it, but I won’t mock you, either. I believe you can make a very good recovery, if you’re willing to work with me.”

Tony rolled the ball in his hand, absently. On one side, in brilliant red letters, spelled out what he needed, right then. Hope.

“Yeah, we can work together, Dr. Barnes,” he said.

Bucky tried really hard not to gape at the house.

He knew Stark was one of the richest men in the world, but he’d been dealing with rich men since he started working at Lenox Hill. Actors and singers and sports stars, wealthy lawyers and politicians. Lenox Hill had that reputation, and Bucky didn’t let wealth overwhelm him.

Most of the time.

Stark Mansion was huge. The building took up pretty much the entire block and it had its own little yard around it, as well as a garden in the back. There was an actual, honest-to-God driveway and a multi car garage. When Bucky’s uber driver pulled up to the curb, the look he got was incredulous. You’re really going here, man? that look said.

Bucky had to stop and wonder that Rumlow’d actually given up this case so graciously. He’d been around, once, earlier in the week, to ask how the initial conversation had gone. Bucky, who’d managed to get out of two more group “dates” with the man, had cited patient confidentiality, and had said “It went as well as could be expected, really.”

He grabbed his kit from the backseat of the Uber and climbed out. He stood there on the sidewalk for a few minutes, looking up.

Finally, he approached the gate. There was a small booth there, with a press-panel button. No guard, but Bucky could see at least two motion capture cameras. He pressed the button. If the button triggered a bell or something, Bucky was way too far away from the door to hear it. He glanced up at the camera in the corner of the booth.

“Good afternoon,” a crisp, English accented voice said, the same one from the phone call, Bucky thought. “May I provide some assistance?”

“Mr. Jarvis?” Bucky said. “This is Dr. Barnes, I’m here for Mr. Stark’s therapy appointment.”

“Oh, how remiss of me, Doctor,” Jarvis said. “Do step to the gate. In the future, Mr. Stark will send a car for you.”

“No need,” Bucky said. “I c’n--”

But he was talking to nothingness, as the gate was already sliding open. Bucky scurried over and through, and the gate swung the opposite direction as soon as he was inside the compound. The smell of hyacinth blossoms filled the air. There wasn’t much of a lawn, but what there was was exceptionally well landscaped, dotted with flowers and tasteful statuary. A small fountain adorned one side of the lawn, with a koi pond.

Bucky approached the door and Jarvis, he assumed, opened it for him. The butler was crisp and neat, with thinning white hair and a pair of spectacles folded neatly in his vest pocket. He took these out and peered at Bucky. “Dr. Barnes.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Bucky said.

“Indeed, sir,” Jarvis said. “Mr. Stark is on a conference call, he should be free shortly. In the meanwhile, allow me to take you to the gym, where you will be conducting Mr. Stark’s therapy session.”

Bucky allowed himself a quick smile. “Sure.”

The inside of the mansion was nothing like the outside. Stark had a more modern aesthetic than the building might have suggested. The outside was more a mix of neo-renaissance and an American Queen Anne style, the sort of thing that rich businessmen built during the roaring 20s to scream look at me. Inside was modern, clean lines and a lot of white and steel construction. Somehow, it reminded Bucky of an automobile showroom floor although he couldn’t have put his finger on exactly why.

The indoor gym was huge, almost the size of the one at Lenox Hill where they usually had six to ten patients on it at a time. Stationary bike, elliptical, a weight set, rowing machine, a glassed off room with a padded floor that Bucky assumed was for yoga, a sauna room, another glassed off room held a small swimming pool for laps.

“If this is inadequate to Mr. Stark’s needs, let me know what equipment you should like purchased,” Jarvis said.

Bucky blinked. “No, no, I think this’ll be fine. I got bands and a few other things in my bag.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to carry those around,” Jarvis said. “If you will provide a list--”

“Ah, there you are,” Stark said. He was still in the wheelchair, the engine buzzing like a sewing machine.

“Mr. Stark,” Bucky said. He resisted the urge to give a little bow; Stark’s house was like some medieval kingdom, or something.

“Just Tony’s fine,” Stark said, waving a hand. “All the formality exhausts me. You can call me Tony, and I’ll call you, James is it? Jim? Jimmy? Jamie?”

“Bucky, actually,” Bucky said.

“Bucky?” Tony’s eyebrow went up. “Did your mother hate you or something? Who names a child Bucky? That seems unusually cruel, like naming someone Richard and then calling them Dickie.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, really, it’s what I prefer. My dad’s name is also James, and I’m sick of it. My best childhood friend used to call me Bucky, and I just got used to it, I guess. If you don’t want to use that, Barnes is fine.” He really, really hated being called James, but he understood that other adults, often with too high an opinion of their own dignity, had trouble with what might be considered an awkward nickname. He didn’t tend to be friends with people who couldn’t bring themselves to call him Bucky, so it was good at sorting them out early.

“Bucky it is, then,” Tony said.

“All right, Tony,” Bucky returned. “Let’s get started. I want to test your grip strength, so--” he offered Tony his hand. “Squeeze my fingers, hard as you can, please.”

***

Tony was exhausted.

“Here, come on,” Bucky was saying -- and Tony was still having a hard time calling a grown-ass man Bucky -- sliding one arm around Tony’s waist. “I got you, let’s just have…”

Tony almost startled when his toes went into the water, then he pulled his brain out of the fog it was in. Right, right, Bucky wanted him to sit in the jacuzzi for about twenty minutes after the therapy session. He’d even remembered to put a bathing suit on under the gym clothes he’d word for the actual PT.

Bucky’d had to help him get out of sweatpants and a loose fitting tee, and he’d done so with a clinical, matter-of-fact efficiency that was nothing like what Tony was used to when a good looking man was taking his clothes off. Probably good; he was in no shape to do anything with his attraction to the man, and Bucky was his doctor.

They hadn’t really done much; Bucky had run through a few exercises, mostly isometric stretches -- pushing his hands together in a flat, prayer position and holding for ten seconds, then twenty seconds, then ten again. Squeezing a stupid ball. And then a different stupid ball. Stepping on a rubber band and then pulling it up as high as he could. Holding it.

“That’s very good, Tony,” Bucky had said. “Just a little-- can you reach as high as my hand?” Tony would have thought, before this happened, that he was immune to the sort of bully-voice that Rumlow had used. He wasn’t.

He was even less immune to Bucky’s warm encouragement.

Several times he’d had to blot his face with the towel, not because he was sweating -- although he was doing plenty of that, too -- but because he was leaking steadily around the eyes. It wasn’t quite sobbing, not that, but he couldn’t quite stop crying. It was horrible, and he was humiliated, a clench in his chest that wouldn’t ease.

But Bucky never seemed to notice. He was always looking at Tony’s hands, at his shoulders, at the reading of the equipment, and one time, at nothing at all.

He never mentioned it, either, except sometimes to ask about Tony’s level of pain, or if he needed a break for a few minutes.

Tony wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. For the first twenty minutes of their session, Tony had considered, outright, firing Bucky as well. Surely there had to be someone he could work with that didn’t make his throat tight, make him feel ashamed and small and weak and pathetic.

But as the session went on, and Bucky didn’t draw attention to Tony’s weakness, or scold him, or do anything aside from be warm and compassionate and encouraging, Tony just kept letting it go on.

And now they were at the end of the session and Bucky was helping him settle into the hot tub. He sat on the edge of the tub, seeming not to notice that the jets were splashing water droplets onto his training pants, that his tee shirt was stained in a vee from sweat, although what Bucky had to sweat about, Tony wasn’t quite sure, unless it was holding his lazy ass up.

“Did you wear a swimsuit under your sweats?” Tony asked, trying for a teasing, flirting tone. He wasn’t sure it was all that successful. “I mean, you get all the shit job here, you might as well hop in the pool.”

“I did,” Bucky said, giving him a quick grin. “And it’ll be easier to hold you up from in the pool, but I didn’t want to impose.”

Tony patted the surface of the water. “Nah, come on in, the water’s lovely.”

“Well, get your hands under it, and I’ll join you.” Bucky peeled out of his clothes with remarkable little hesitancy. And he might well have hesitated.

Bucky’s upper chest, back, and half of his left arm were covered in scar tissue, huge frankenstein stitch-scars and reddish tears. It looked as if someone had tried to tear the arm off entirely, and only just failed.

“Is that why you decided on physical therapy?” Tony asked. He might have been a little more discreet under different circumstances.

Bucky was just grinning and ducking his chin as he settled into the hot water. He pushed one long leg against Tony’s, which Tony thought was flirting at first, and then realized that Bucky was keeping him upright in the water with that simple brace. “It makes a good story, and gets some of my more problematic patients to do their exercises, but no. I was already more than halfway through my residency when this happened. I just happened to know a lot of people who were willing to help me get full range of motion back.”

“So, let’s hear this good story of yours.”

Bucky settled in, groaning. “This is a nice whirlpool,” he said. “So, I was taking some vacation, and driving down to see my little sister. She and her husband have a practice out of state. He’s an OBG and she’s in pediatrics. It works out well for them. I don’t own a car, but I used to have a motorcycle--”

“Oh, I think I see where this is going.”

“No, you don’t,” Bucky said. “Hush up.”

Tony laughed. There weren’t very many people who dared tell him to shut up, even when he deserved it.

“I stopped to get gas, and the entrance back to the interstate is really steep. 25mph and they ain’t even kidding. Which is cool, I’m not in a hurry, but there’s this big farm rig in front of me, towing a trailer. About halfway up the exit ramp, the trailer’s back door just opens up, and a freaking tractor falls out of the back end.”

“You got run over by a tractor, while riding a motorcycle?” That shouldn’t have been funny, it really shouldn’t have, but it was so absurd.

“Yeah, pretty much. Run over by a tractor that was just rolling backward down the interstate ramp,” Bucky said. “You know the most absurd part?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“The guy, he gets charged with Felony Littering,” Bucky said.

“That sounds like something out of a Monty Python skit,” Tony said. “What’s the jail sentence for felonious littering?”

“Five years and twenty-five thousand dollars,” Bucky said.

“Holy shit, that’s really a crime?”

“It is,” Bucky said. “For litter that’s over a thousand pounds.”

“I don’t know what’s weirder,” Tony said, “that there’s a name for it, or that it’s happened so often that there’s a name for it.”

“So, yeah, that’s the great story for where all my scars come from,” Bucky said. “Took five surgeries, and almost nine months of PT to get back to 90% usage. I still have some problems with the rotator cuff, and sometimes weakness, if I have to pick up heavy stuff. But I’m a living lesson. Physical therapy works.”

“Blah, blah, Florence Nightingale syndrome my ass, Peps,” Tony said. “Yada yada, bored now.”

“Don’t yada yada me, Tony,” Pepper said, crisply. “I make all your business appointments, and there’s a chapter of Red Hats who would love for you to come and speak at their annual installation ball. Some of them knew your mother.”

Tony shuddered. He hated that sort of thing; usually because there was no one entertaining to speak to at balls and banquets. Smart people stayed far, far away from those kinds of things, and were generally buried in their labs, rather than out pressing palms and talking about the weather. Bunch of Fox News watchers, too, Tony would bet. Well, no, probably not, because his mother had been as liberal as they got, even if she had to go behind Howard’s back to do it, and chances were even better that some of them would be very old lesbians, and that might be kinda fun, and… was Pepper still talking? Why did she do that?

“No, really -- and that’s a go on the Red Hat, thing, yeah, because you know I’m not ever going to stop, that just doesn’t seem like me at all,” Tony said. He was walking -- striding really, and didn’t that fucking feel fantastic, and Pepper was clattering along behind him in those ridiculous high heels of hers.

He shouldn’t complain about that, either, since he was currently wearing sneakers with lifts in them. Which had the benefit of making him taller, too, in addition to easing the pain in his right calf. He hadn’t quite believed Bucky when the man had suggested that Tony Stark try wearing a sensible heeled shoe, but it did make it so he could actually drive again without hurting himself.

So, heels. Whatever, he was Tony Stark, he didn’t need a reason to dress eccentrically. He did, however, make a mental note to look into getting some disguised heeled boots or dress shoes so that he wasn’t always wearing bright red tennis shoes with his suits. Matching was also a thing, and Albert Einstein was an idiot of the first water, sometimes.

“Look, I have no objections to you dating,” Pepper tried again, “but I don’t think asking out your physical therapist is a good plan.”

Tony stopped walking and Pepper plowed right into him. They spent a few minutes shuffling back and forth, trying not to collapse in a heap, and then, Tony actually looked at her. “Why not? Actual, solid reasons.”

“Okay, let’s start with the only one I think you’ll listen to,” Pepper said, “because I know you, and I know you don’t seem to think your mental health is worth considering. You will make him lose his license to practice medicine. Doctors are not allowed to date their patients, that’s AMA guidelines, Tony. The prior doctor/patient relationship may unduly influence the patient and that such a relationship is unethical if the doctor uses or exploits trust, knowledge, emotions or influence derived from the previous professional relationship. He could get investigated for sexual misconduct.”

“I don’t see how that works, if I’m the one asking him out,” Tony said. “Bucky’s been nothing but professional. More professional, I might add, than about 97.2% of all the other people I’ve ever dated. He’s good looking, he has a stable job, he’s funny, intelligent, compassionate. All the things you think I ought to want in a relationship, right?”

“I’m not criticizing him as a human being,” Pepper said. “I’m sure he’s perfectly wonderful. But you’re putting him in an uncomfortable position.”

Tony didn’t mention what sorts of positions he’d like to put Bucky in, because that was distinctly not professional. But part of what Tony liked about Bucky was Bucky’s confidence. He was happy with his job, he was sure of himself, and he took all of Tony’s bullshit in stride. Would he be the same person, if Tony came in and messed all that up for him, just like Tony tended to do? It wasn’t like Tony couldn’t just give him a new job, or money, or whatever, but Bucky was… well, Bucky was pretty awesome, and Tony was suddenly unsure if he should risk that. Not for Tony’s sake, heartbreak and all that other jazz, but because he didn’t want to hurt Bucky, not even by accident.

One year later  

“Boss,” Darcy stuck her head in the door, clinging to the door frame with her fingernails, showing off glitter polish. “You’ve got a… visitor?”

“You say that like you’re not certain,” Bucky said, raising his eyebrows. “Does this not-quite visitor have a name, or is he like a ghost or something?”

“No, it’s a real person, I just…” Darcy squeaked with excitement. “It’s Tony Stark.”

Oh.

Bucky absently straighten out his desk, moved his name plate a little, all those fidgety little things he did when he was nervous. “Uh, show him in.”

Working with Tony had done wonders for his career. He’d boosted the profit margin for Lenox Hill, and gotten him enough patients through recommendations that he was able to break with Lenox earlier than he’d anticipated and open his own practice.

The paint still smelled fresh in his office, that was how new it was.

The Tony that slipped into his office, followed by Darcy who was mouthing “Look at this GUY” and pointing and making all sorts of gestures behind Tony’s back, was not the neat and tidy, dressed in a suit Tony that Bucky’d seen on television recently, but the one in comfy pants, a hoodie, and wearing a heavy metal tee.

“Tony,” Bucky said, getting up and offering his hand. “It’s very good to see you again, won’t you come in, have a seat. Darce?”

“Coffee, right, got it,” Darcy said, doing the two thumbs up to finger guns thing. Bucky almost rolled his eyes; he should never have mentioned to his receptionist-slash-assistant-slash-insurance claims-slash-confidante that he thought Tony Stark deserved to be higher on the list of most eligible bachelors. Like, number one, really, because there wasn’t anyone better looking in the world. “You take it black, right?”

Oh, god. Bucky rubbed his chin with one hand. He knew Darcy did research, she told him all sorts of interesting little tidbits about Tony Stark, some stuff that Bucky knew from working with the man, and other stuff that Bucky did not know (although now he did.) but he wasn’t expecting her to show off that she knew it. That was just weird and stalkery, and the fact that Bucky had not only let her do it, but actively encouraged it? Yeah, Bucky was not coming across great right now.

“Thank you, yes,” Tony said.

“So, what brings you out my way?” Bucky asked.

“You do, actually,” Tony said. “Congrats on the new digs, this is really a nice place. I took a bit of a tour, hope you don’t mind.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said. “It’s small, but I think we can make a good go of it.” They were, actually, booked up solid for a while, with a few holes for interesting or emergency cases.

“Sorry that I dropped contact after the endorsement thing,” Tony said. “I--”

“No, no, perfectly fine,” Bucky said, and it was, even if he’d missed Tony. Tony’d done one press conference, dragged Bucky up to show him off, and then vanished. The endorsement had done a lot of good for Bucky, though. “You have other, better things to do. That’s the whole idea, is to get you back to self-sufficiency, and --”

“It wasn’t that,” Tony said. “It was brought to my attention that… well, that the AMA has a lot of say about doctors getting involved with patients. And I knew if I, you know, emailed you or something, that I probably wouldn’t be able to… anyway, it’s been a year. We severed our doctor/patient relationship. You’re doing well, and I don’t think anyone can complain now.”

“What are you talking about?” But there was a hot little spike in Bucky’s guts that knew. Knew, mind you.

“I was hoping you might be free to join me for a date,” Tony said.

“What sort of date?”

Tony peered at him over the rims of his probably expensive sunglasses. “It’s me, darling,” Tony said. “Whatever sort of date you want. If you have a passport, then Paris for breakfast?”

“How about just a coffee and a danish?” Bucky suggested. He was grinning really hard, though. So hard his cheeks ached. “There’s a nice place just down the street.”

“Plebe,” Tony accused, fondly. “Dream bigger, Buckaroo. Whatever you want--

“I want a coffee, and a danish,” Bucky said. “Let’s worry about Paris after a few dates. Pretty sure it’ll still be there.”

“Yeah, okay, gonna hold you to that,” Tony said. “Coffee and danish now. Paris this weekend.”

“This weekend is out, I have an appointment-- famous basketball player, need to get him back into shape. His coach wants him for the playoffs. I’d like the man to not end up with a colossal addiction to painkillers and benched for the rest of his life,” Bucky said. Tony almost looked disappointed. “But, hey, I’m free in the evenings, and… two more weeks, and I was already going to take some vacation. Road trip to see my sister.”

“I will come with you and make sure you’re not run over by any marauding tractors,” Tony offered. “I have some really nice cars, I think you’d enjoy it.”

“It’s a date, then.”

Tony put his hand on Bucky’s elbow to lead him out of the office. Bucky checked, Tony’s hands were steady, fingers had a good grip. They were beautiful hands. Bucky was looking forward to getting acquainted with them… on a less professional standing.