Nearly fifty years of life, just over three decades of which being sexually active, and Tony still doesn’t see the move until Bucky’s face is close enough that he can feel his breath. His mind had momentarily blanked when he’s felt that gentle, warm hand on his jaw. It’s not his fault that so much of his thoughts had shifted so quickly to trying to figure out the questions bouncing off of his skull about its function. The act had short circuited his mind, and the jump start feels more like a time jump.

Despite his momentary surprise, Tony doesn’t pull back. There’s a twitch at the corner of his right eye which is mirrored at the same corner of his mouth. At least we’re on the same page, he thinks, no matter how much longer it had taken him to get to that page.

If Bucky had been anyone else to him, a fling perhaps, a one night stand, Tony might have pushed forward, settled a knee between Bucky’s on the other seat, and climbed into his lap. Bucky isn’t just anyone. He’s not here to pay a little attention to his hedonism.

To match the gentle touch (he’s going to need some time with that arm, Buck), Tony forges through the scant distance that remains between them to kiss the single most important person alive with a tenderness he doesn’t often show. It’s not really in him. Blunt sarcasm, tenacity, a devil may care attitude? Sure. But this requires kid gloves.

He can feel it in his teeth, and taste it through his finger tips. The jolt of the potential bond is proof that he’s been dismissing the ‘whole soulmate thing’ long enough.