#perhaps an old lullaby from Maria me thinks >:]

[blu-ish]

The chao dads ever tbh

[hermionegranger]

As the World Caves in: a Levi Ackerman/Narrator one shot

I was always afraid of dying alone.

Not death itself, no. More the solitude of it. In the Scout Regiment, it was a likely end. So, like my parents taught me, I would look upon the stars and I make a wish. I would picture that moment, bleeding out beyond the walls or falling from a titan's grasp, and wish there was someone with me. Someone to soothe me into oblivion. Perhaps it was out of fear, an optimistic ending I desperately clung to, or perhaps somehow deep down I knew, in the end, I would not be alone.

And, in the end, I wasn't.

Why someone who fears dying alone joined the Scout Regiment, I couldn't tell you. Wall Maria fell, my home was gone, and I was alone. The only purpose I could stumble upon was reclaiming any scrap of what I had lost, to salvage some sliver of my old life.

And now, here I lay, in the remnants of my hometown, surrounded by the living ruins of my memories: Shiganshina.

A fitting end, to be where it all began.

The city was quiet now, the Wall reclaimed, the dust and bones settled, and my vision blurry. I lay on my back, rocks digging into my shoulders, but it didn't matter. Only moments ago I had been flying, soaring across the rooftops. My favorite feeling. Or perhaps it was hours ago. How long had it been? That didn't matter either. It wouldn't be long now.

But I'm not afraid.

"No - no!"

The world is fuzzy, all soft edges, but his voice is clear and sharp. It cuts into my daze with striking precision. Another clean blow by Captain Levi Ackerman.

"Levi," I mumble, as I feel arms around my back lift me gently from the rubble.

"No, no, no," he whispers, surveying my broken body, desperate to fix something - anything. To stop whatever was bleeding, to mend whatever was cracked.

I force my eyes to focus on his face, to pull the edges of my vision back together. He is covered in blood - his own, I'm sure, but undoubtably mostly that of our foes. It cakes his face, frames his eyes, and drips from the bridge of his nose.

"Levi," I say again, a lullaby on my lips.

This time he hears me and meets my gaze. The tears brimming in his eyes are already tinged pink, mixing with blood. The sun is beginning to set behind him, a soft mix of orange and red. He looks like a painting.

"I've never seen you cry," are the first words I think to say.

"We can- we can stop the bleeding." He shakes his head, determined to contain his composure, to maintain control.

Levi Ackerman, always in control.

At least, that's what I thought when I first met him. He was the strongest of us. Steadfast. Unwavering. A born leader.

Since then I've learned his control is a facade: his control is the acceptance of having no control and making a choice and moving forward. That, to me, is what makes him the strongest of us.

"Do you remember what you said to me when we first met?" I say, tasting the metal tang of blood in my mouth. It's bubbling in my throat, burning.

He's holding my side now, trying to contain the bleeding. I lift my hand to his and feel the slick, warm liquid covering our skin. My blood. He weaves his fingers between mine. He understands. This moment isn't about saving me.

Levi pulls me closer, trying to make me more comfortable, but I don't feel much.

"I do," he says, pressing his cheek to my sweaty forehead. But he doesn't say anymore.

"You were angry," I murmur.

"Because you weren't trusting anyone - or me," he retorts, nearly sounding like his usual self.

"And you told me..."

He hesitates. "I told you... you weren't alone anymore."

"And I'm not." I bury my face into the crook of his neck. I won't let him see the few tears I muster, not now, not like this. I think back to the goodbyes we've said before. Between those stolen moments, hope had slipped in. It strung each word together, holding them taught. It filled the empty spaces of the things we couldn't say - or wouldn't - because there was a chance, just a chance, we would see each other again.

But hope had abandon us long ago, and I always knew we couldn't have the 'happily ever after' - just the ''till death do us part.'

As if he could hear my thoughts, he mumbles into my forehead, "not yet, not now. You're home, see? You're home."

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, but as I lay there, cradled just as I was when I came into this cruel world, only one memory replayed in my head.

"We'll take it back," he whispered into my hair as I laid on his shoulder. We sat on the edge of the wall, tempting fate as our legs dangled from the ledge, watching the sunset fall beyond the land that was once home to all of us behind Wall Maria.

At the time, I was too tired to argue. "You really think so?"

He pulled my chin up, and I met his eyes, steady as they looked into mine.

"We will," he said then. "I promise you, we will. If it kills me."

And in that moment I thought, no - if it kills me.

"It's not enough," he says now, pulling me tighter, as if he can hold me to this earth by sheer force of will. "It wasn't enough," he repeats, a whisper.

I pull back and look at him again, just as I did on the wall's ledge. My eyelids are heavy, my body weightless. I feel the beat of my heart like a ticking bomb, and the countdown draws to its close.

"It's enough," I argue with my last breaths. There's a shallowness in my lungs, the infinite abyss of air has dried up, and I'm digging for more, more. Just enough to say this last goodbye, the one I wouldn't let myself think before.

"It's enough." I swear I smile as my muscles fail me, "I'm with you, and I'm home. You brought me home."

I feel the last moment like it's all of them at once.

"I love you," I hear Levi say as I drown, his eyes the last light that shine through the soft darkness; a constellation that leads me home.

Stars.

"I love you, too" I wish.

[thepunisher]

A Bottle Marked ‘Poison’

Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes | E | 9428 words | 2/? | 

ao3 link 

Summary: The headstones are clean and well preserved and surrounded by fresh, colorful flowers when he reaches them. Not lilies, never lilies. But roses and sunflowers and violets. Someone has been taking care of them for years. (Not him. He can’t even take care of himself.) There’s names and dates and pictures. There’s quotes. Beloved mother. He has a split lip, his eye is a nasty shade of purple and he’s still nursing three bruised ribs. Somehow this hurts more. OR On the anniversary of their deaths, Tony visits his parents’ graves. He has an unexpected encounter. Things go downhill from there.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Longing

I take no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter have become suspicious strangers to me. I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings.

There is an empty place within me where my heart was once.  

George RR Martin, A Clash of Kings

He debates a long time on whether or not he should go. He doesn't want to, of course. Just the thought has him jittery, anxiety buzzing under his skin like electricity, leg bouncing up and down non-stop. And yet it's not like he really has a choice.

When the walls of the workshop start closing in on him, sight going fuzzy around the edges, the decision is made for him. He throws the screwdriver he was fidgeting with on the work table, metal hitting the surface with a clang he doesn't even register because he's already out of the door.

The Mansion is austere and sterile, ghosts haunting every square metre of it.

Tony hates it. He hates the smell of it, the silence, the absolute lack of indication that someone is actually living here. He hates every damn stupid knick knack littering every available surface so much sometimes it's hard not to shove them all on the floor and watch them break in a thousand little pieces.

He hates that two decades later he still can't find the courage to go past the doors of the master bedroom. Can only look at his mother's perfume sitting on her vanity from afar, bottle left opened, pearls scattered near her brush.

He couldn't really move in his old room, the one of his childhood, of his teenage years. The one with stupid posters of his stupid heroes on the walls and a closet stuffed full of useless trophies that never amounted to anything. Too many memories and too many disappointments there. He took for himself one of the guest rooms. He thinks it's somewhat fitting, considering he's a guest in his own home.

It's a house but it feels more like a golden prison and he's been sentenced for life.

(He committed too many crimes he needs to atone for, he deserves it.)

He could take up and leave of course, like he left the tower, like he left the ruins of Malibu, like he left the compound. Tony Stark is good at leaving broken things behind him.

But to go where? He started over many times before and always ended up empty handed anyway. Resilient, yes, but there's nowhere in the world where his demons wouldn't follow, so the Mansion is as good a place as any.

He's doing fine, really.

(His life is a long line of fine.)

Christmas, though. Christmas he doesn't know how to deal with, perhaps he never has, never learned how to.

It's never been his favorite holiday, not even when his parents were still alive. Other children would spend the night waiting for Santa, he would be waiting for Howard and Maria to come home from whatever gala or party or get away they'd gone to, Jarvis, and Ana before she passed, his only company.

His mother would always look apologetic whenever they got back. She would caress his hair and kiss his cheek and tuck him into bed, her voice soft while singing an italian lullaby.

Jarvis would try his best to make the house as festive as possible, and Christmas’ eves were always spent making cookies and reminiscing stories of aunt Peggy’s adventures, and Christmas mornings were always spent unwrapping a pile of presents that would never make up for the indifference.

The first few days of January he would always be shipped back to boarding school, his belly fuller and his gaze emptier, head filled with words of inadequacy and sweet nothings.

He found Jarvis’ Christmas decorations in a closet, stored with other junk, while setting up Friday’s eyes and ears. He thought for a long time whether or not to make an effort and put some around the house, stared for even longer at a Christmas ball he had made with mechanical parts when he was six. Howard had been pissed at the waste, but Jarvis had looked so proud he's displayed it right at the front of the tree, nevermind that it clashed with the rest of the golden and red ornaments.

He didn't throw everything away, but it was a close call.

(Perhaps he is nostalgic after all.)

Still, there was no reason to put them around. No reason for oversized bunnies, either. And so the house is quiet, no trees, no lights, no presents. No people to celebrate with.

He could go on another 72 hours tinkering binge, his go-to way of spending this time of the year, so many things to do after all, but Rhodey would probably come over just to kick his ass, and he can't have Rhodey worry over him. He deserves a break.

The invitation came over a week ago, by phone, mail and text. Rhodey really wants him to go and he won't accept a no for an answer. Tony can take a hint.

He's gotten into his head that he'll smooth down all the wrinkles on his own. He's putting a lot of effort into making this whole team thing work, and that's really the only reason why Tony is gonna show up at all.

He should take the car, rather than fly in, but really, as an escape vehicle, his suit is much faster than his Audi.

And Tony is pretty sure that he'll want to escape sooner rather than later.

The flight over goes by in a blur, one thought chasing after the other too fast for his mind to linger. He has no recollection of it whatsoever.

The sky is white and the atmosphere feels charged when he lands on the roof of the compound. It hasn't started snowing yet, but it's gonna happen any minute now. Everyone has been predicting a white Christmas.

The suit disassembles and reassembles behind him in a matter of seconds and a crisp cold engulfs him so suddenly he staggers. He should have taken a coat with him, but he wasn't exactly thinking properly, leaving in a hurry before he could change his mind. Again.

The insulation system he installed after he almost froze to death works so well he never even noticed the temperature while in the air, and yet now that he is, it's easy for his mind to travel thousands of miles. For a moment he loses focus of the structure, of the gardens, of the trees around him, of the Quinjet parked in the front courtyard, and the only thing he can hear is the sound of crunching metal, no white pavement, but frozen ground under his feet. His hand moves to his chest before he can even process it, and he finds himself exhaling slowly only when he feels the arc reactor humming under his fingers. Whole.

Rationality is the first thing to go out of the window when you panic, and they say that you should make an effort to bring it back, as it's your best tool to fight anxiety, that you should explain to your brain that there's no reason to be scared.

(Bullshit.)

It's hard to reason when reason also screams that this is a terrible idea, and he should not have come.

It's not too late to tuck in tail and leave, but he doesn't. He pats down his hair instead, thankful it's so short so it's probably not too messy, and hopes that there's no engine grease on his rumpled clothes.

The Iron Man follows him down inside the compound like a quiet shadow, before parking itself in a hidden niche.

There are a few people around the building, operatives who work for the Avengers and keep things in check, run lesser risk operations, keep the world spinning.

Tony waves at them whenever he crosses them in the hallways, Christmas trees and lights and decorations making the place look more alive than he's seen it in a very long time.

It's been almost a month since he last made an appearance. He's been upstate less and less since it got crowded again, any excuse good enough to stay as far away as he could.

(Sorry, super important SI meeting, Pepper would kill me if I missed it; oops, launch of a new product; you see, I have this thing, and it's much more convenient if I just stay over at the Mansion.)

It never felt like home. Not really. Not after they defeated Ultron, and he would stroll in sometimes, bringing tech as presents and basking in a camaraderie that always had him feeling like a guest in his own property. Definitely not after all that was left of the Avengers were him and Rhodey and Vision, and the silence would echo across the hallways.

(Home is where the heart is, and he doesn't have one.)

“I'm so glad you came, Tones,” says Rhodey the moment he enters the common dining area, and enveloping him in a hug.

Tony allows himself to soak in the moment and hugs him back so tightly his bruised ribs protest. He doesn't care.

Too soon he lets go, his eyes darting fast across the room, taking in the scene in a matter of seconds.

It seems like a century ago that they were all here discussing the Accords, the quiet before the storm, the beginning of the end. The place doesn't even look the same anymore. He tore it down and built it over after Wanda and Vision’s little accident, but every inch of it is burned into his retina like a scar and it's not gray marble he stands on, shiny and whole, but a gaping hole that reaches the foundations; it's not scattered people chatting and a table overfilled with food around him, but too many empty chairs.

(None of them look the same. They're all strangers under friendly disguises.)

He told everyone that the new look and the new furniture were necessary for structural reasons, but the truth is that it was too painful to walk past those rooms everyday and be constantly reminded of what had been and what no longer was.

(Some gaping holes you can't fill.)

“Oh, I wouldn't have missed it for the world, Rhode-Bear,” Tony replies nonchalant and he feels like snickering when Rhodey rolls his eyes in the exasperated way that is only reserved for him.

He looks good. Steadier than he was even the last time he saw him. He's standing on his own, one arm propped casually on a piece of furniture as an afterthought, as if he doesn't really need it.

Tony studies him like an hawk. Guilt clawing at his insides cause he should have made an effort, he should have come more often and not just to check on the braces. He shouldn't have stayed away so much just cause the prospect of facing the others feels like sandpaper across his skin.

He takes in Rhodey’s relaxed pose, his brown eyes free of the uneasiness Tony got so used to seeing after the fall and hated with every fibre of his being. His shoulders are not clenched in an effort to handle the pain, physical and not, he knows Rhodey felt for months.

Tony hopes the hand squeezing Rhodey’s shoulder, and his half but sincere smile can convey all the words he will never be able to tell him. All the love he will never be able to express.

“I was so sure I was going to have to come and drag you here,” Rhodey says, his tone only half joking, and Tony thinks of the half dozen messages of empty excuses he composed on his phone and deleted before he could send them. “I'm really happy you came, man.”

“Yeah, well…” He rubs behind his neck. “It's Christmas.”

“That, it is,” Rhodey says, before narrowing his eyes. “So would you mind telling me what happened to your face? What's with the black eye and the lip job, Tony. What the hell.”

“What, this?” Tony gestures towards the bruises. Shit. He should have put on concealer or something. “I was just sparring with Happy. I got a little distracted and he got carried away. That man has a surprisingly mean hook.”

Rhodey scoffs. ”Yeah, nice try. Too bad Happy is in California with Pepper right now. Has been for two weeks, in fact. Wanna try again?”

Tony winches. He wonders how long it would take to call his suit to him and run, and if that would be considered rude. Probably. Nevermind that Rhodey would just hop on the War Machine and follow him, and he would never hear the end of it.

“Uhm. Funny story,” Tony says, putting some distance between them, hand scratching his nose. “I ran into a door.”

He can see Carol chatting with Wanda, Sam and Vision from the corner of his eye. His heart speeds up a little. He knows that not all of them are going to be here, some of them are celebrating with their families and other people. Some of them moved on.

(He hasn't.)

He thinks he can spot Natasha and Peter behind the tree, but he's not sure. Rogers is nowhere in sight. Nor is his friend.

When he turns to face Rhodey again, he meets the most unimpressed stare. “And what? You didn't apologize so it hit you again?”

Tony giggles. God, he missed this. Missed him. He feels his shoulders sag a little in relief. This is familiar. He can do this.

“It was a very aggressive door. You wouldn't believe it. I'm thinking I'm gonna sue,” he says.

Rhodey pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, you show it who's the boss.”

“Exactly!”

“Tony,” Rhodey says, tone serious again. “I wanna know what's going on with you, okay? I wanna help. I'm here for you, you know. Whatever it is you're doing, you don't have to do it alone.”

It's hard to meet his eyes. God, he's such an asshole. He doesn't deserve Rhodey.

“I'm not doing anything, I promise,” he says, and it'd be convincing to anyone else but Rhodey knows him better. “Okay, okay. But it’s not like I started a fight club! I'm not doing anything dangerous. Better?”

“I'm more worried about you doing something stupid.”

Tony sneers. “Come on. When was the last time I did something stupid?”

“Oh, I don't know. What time is it?”

“Abuse!” Tony cries. “I will not stand by and be insulted. I'll have you know I made the list of the fifty most influential people on the planet for what? The eighth year in a row?” He polishes his nails on his shirt. “That's eight more times than you did, by the way. How is that for stupid?”

When he looks up, Rhodey is still staring unimpressively.

“You do know I'm the leader of this team right?”

Tony fakes a gasp, his hand moving in a clutching-pearls gesture. “What? When did that happen? I can't believe this!” He shakes his head, drops the pretense. “I was kinda there for it, you know? Wholeheartedly supported the idea, in fact, though I'm starting to regret it. You don't need to remind me every three seconds, I get it! You're the leader of the Avengers, sir, yes, sir. It's too bad your girlfriend outranks you, really...”

Rhodey sighs. “Yeah, you can drop the attitude, Mr Stank, cause I never will. I'm gonna find out what's going on, sooner or later.” He points his index at Tony.  “You know I will. And when I do, I will kick your sorry as--”

“Mr Stark! Mr Stark!” Peter calls from across the room, making them both turn. “Merry Christmas, Mr Stark!”

“Nice to see you again, Tony,” says Carol, beautiful in a dark blue oversized cardigan and jeans, as she and Peter make their way towards them and Tony is so grateful for the distraction he can't stop himself from sighing in relief.

“Hey there, kid,” he says, ruffling Peter's hair.  He's wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and a happy expression on his face, like a child in a candy store.

“Carol. Always a pleasure.” He smiles, kisses her cheek.

“So,” he rubs his hands together. “What have you been up to?”

“Not much,” Carol says, inching towards Rhodey and resting her hand on his shoulder. Tony can see Rhodey’s whole demeanor lighting up, like a sunflower basking in the sun. It puts the first real smile on Tony’s face. “Things have been blessedly quiet.”

“Don't jinx it,” says Rhodey, eyes soft.

“How about you, kid? Helped any old lady cross the street lately?” Tony asks Peter.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” Peter replies. “I don't just help old ladies,” he mumbles grudgingly, almost too low to hear.

“You're adorable,” says Tony. “Is that Green... Elf. Whatever. Is he been giving you any trouble?”

“You've been listening to my reports?” Peter asks in a happily surprised tone, eyes huge.

“Well, duh. When have I ever stopped?” He raises an eyebrow. “So? Do I need to be concerned?”

“Uh. No. No, Mr Stark,” says Peter fast. “I have everything under control! And it's Goblin. Green Goblin.”

“Pfff,” Tony waves his hand. “Goblin, Elf. Same difference. He still looks stupid. You listen to me, kid. Anything goes south, you call me, okay? I don't want you out there alone. Again.”

“Oh, please, Tony,” interrupts Rhodey. “Peter is much more responsible than you'll ever be. And he knows who to call when he's in trouble. Which is me. Am I right?” He gives Peter a meaningful look.

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir,” Peter blushes.

“See? Adorable,” Tony says. “Now leave him alone, I got him first. Go play mama hen with some other kid. This one is mine.”

Carol laughs at the two of them while Rhodey sputters and Peter gets more scarlet.

For a second Tony almost thinks that everything is going to be okay.

“It's good to see you, Tony,” says Rogers then, appearing behind Peter, and it's like someone poured frozen water over Tony’s head. “It's been a while.”

He's carrying two enormous plates, one in each hand. His hair is longer than the short, practical style Tony was used to see him sport, combed back, curling under his nape. There's an easy smile, almost shy, half hidden behind his beard. He's wearing a sweater almost as ugly as Peter's, with maroon reindeers with red noses.

Tony feels like his limbs have suddenly turned into lead, and they're too heavy for him to move. It takes a couple of seconds to put a smile back on his own face, and he's pretty sure it looks forced despite his best effort. “Cap,” he says, and it sounds strained even to his ears. He shoves one hand inside the pocket of his pants. “Well, you know how it is. Companies to run, millions to make, and all that.”

Everyone is quiet around them, almost like they're waiting for a bomb to go off.

(It already exploded. They're all wounded beyond saving.)

“Right,” says Rogers, and his face falls a little. “Yeah, you're busy, I know. It's just…” He juggles with the plates for a second before finding a balance. He eyes Tony’s bruises and Tony sees him hesitate, the words he means to say at the tip of his tongue. “Well, I'm glad you're here today,” he says, in the end. “I better put these down before I make a mess.” He smiles again, though it looks a little tighter, before heading towards the table.

There's a small awkward silence that no one is fast enough to fill.

That went well, Tony thinks, when he remembers to start breathing again.

He's still in a haze when he realises that Barnes is looming a few feet away from them, arms crossed over his chest. When he meets Tony's eyes, he nods. Tony blinks a couple of times before nodding back.

When he looks around he sees everyone exchange nervous glances. A couple of them sigh audibly.

“Well, I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving,” proclaims Rhodey. “Let's get this party started.”

~~~~~~~

He doesn't think anyone notices when he slips out. Rhodey and Carol are sitting on the same sofa, almost no space between them and there's a smile on Rhodey’s face Tony hasn't seen in a very long time. A smile that he never thought he would see again. It hurts deep inside Tony's chest, almost like it's getting a little hard to breathe, and if he stumbles so hard he needs the wall to steady himself, he's already in the hallway and it's nobody's business.

When he makes it to the roof, it's to find it already covered in white, his shoes leaving prints behind. It's been snowing for hours now.

It's cold and not for the first time he regrets not having taken a coat with him. He's sure he must have one or ten in his apartment here at the compound, but he hasn't set foot in there in a while, and he doesn't really want to.

He reaches the railing and stops, rests both hands on the granite, and it's like whatever force was holding him upright is failing him. He closes his eyes and breathes in the quiet, lets the air, sharp and brisk, fill his lungs.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but he still feels emotionally drained. There's an undercurrent of distrust between them all that it seems they're all politely agreeing to ignore for the sake of making things work. He doesn't know if he should be grateful for that or not, but he sure is grateful for Clint’s absence. And for Peter and Carol’s presence.

He wouldn't have made it without them acting as a buffer. He felt his heart constrict in his chest each time Rogers attempted to start a conversation, his jaw hurts from biting his teeth down too hard.

Someday in the future, perhaps, when he'll have made peace with himself and they'll have made peace with each other, someday, he'll be ‘Steve’ again, and calling him ‘Cap’ will roll off Tony’s tongue without faltering first. Not today though. Today he's an empty vessel filled with brashness and good manners.

Today his wound is still festering.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, the grass that surrounds the building is slowly but steadily being covered by an inch of snow and it's sort of hypnotic to watch. The sky is whiter than ever, despite it being late afternoon and his breath is coming out in small puffs of smoke when he feels like he got himself under control.

He used to love snow, back when he was a kid. He was never allowed to go out and play with it, never really had anyone to play with either, that was a privilege that belonged to other kids, kids that were free. But he could watch. He'd see children throwing snowballs and building snowmen and he would long for that, his brain supplying faster trajectories and aerodynamic shapes.  

Those fantasies disappeared the older he got, but the longing never really did. The longing of belonging.

(He never truly belonged anywhere and anyone who ever belonged to him left him behind.)

Tony cups his palms to his mouth and blows on them, uselessly trying to warm them up a little, his fingers numb. He should go back inside. He doesn't want to.

“You're gonna catch a cold,” says a voice from somewhere to his right and he's not proud of the high pitched sound that comes out of his lips.

Instinct has him strucking his hands out in defense as he turns around looking for threats. He made the mistake of assuming he was safe.

“Jesus Christ,” he exhales when he spots Barnes. He's sitting on the floor leaning to the railing, head tilted back, elbows resting on his knees, eyes closed. There's snow on his hair, some strands are wet. The top of his black henley appears soaked.

“Nah, just me,” says Barnes cheekily.

How long has he been there?

He finds himself walking towards him and he stops when he's only a few feet away. A few seconds ago he was almost all the way across the terrace. He doesn't remember moving.

“I do have a heart condition, you know,” Tony says, and he drums his fingers over his chest, hearing the glass ticking. Something flashes behind his eyes and suddenly he's back in Siberia again, Barnes digging his metal digits into the arc reactor of the suit, the uni beam ripping his arm off in one clean shot. He shakes his head to clear it, stumbling back, he hits the concrete railing behind him, and he looks up, wary that Barnes might have noticed, but Barnes hasn't moved at all.

Barnes snorts and it takes him a second to remember that he said something to prompt that reaction.

Tony narrows his eyes, angry at his own stupidity. Angry that his heart is beating too fast. Embarrassed that he allowed himself to be vulnerable when he should have been the least. That past and present collide every time he forgets to breathe and he doesn't know how to stop one from pouring into the other.

(He doesn't know how to live.)

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” he says. “Or we gotta stop meeting period, really. I'm good with either.”

Barnes says nothing, but Tony could swear his lips are twitching a little. He was not joking, not really. It hurts to see him.

He spent almost the entire week thinking about their last encounter, musing over all the things he should have done differently, all the words he should have said instead. He doesn't want to acknowledge any of it.

He's stuck in a limbo. He wants to move on but he can't get past it. It's not fair.

(It's not fair to either of them.)

“Are you following me?” Tony asks, cause it can't really be another coincidence. Whatever deity who loves to play games with his life wouldn't be this cruel.

Barnes looks up at that, one eyebrow raised. Someone should have gotten him a razor for Christmas, his face seems to always be sporting some kind of permanent stubble. There's snowflakes on his lashes as well, his eyes are really blue. “I was here first, actually. Are you following me?”

It's Tony's turn to snort.

He's the last person he wants to be alone with. Well, perhaps Rogers takes that gold medal, but Barnes comes a close second.

(Untrue. It's himself he doesn't want to be alone with, but there's nothing he can do about that.)

He came to the roof to regroup, to get himself together. He should have gone to his workshop, in hindsight that was clearly a much smarter idea. Less risk of running into people he'd rather avoid there. But he did actually need some air, and the workshop is filled with half abandoned projects he's been putting off for too long. He doesn't need a reminder of all the things he's yet to do. Of all he should come back to.

The wind is whipping Barnes’ hair around his face, and Tony registers for the first time that Barnes is not wearing a coat either.

“What's with you and your aversion for jackets?” he asks, remembering he was wearing just a hoodie back at the cemetery as well. “You know, those things you use when it's cold? Ever heard of them?” He shivers, rubbing his hands together to no avail. The temperature doesn't seem to be affecting Barnes at all, despite the fact that he must have sat there under the snow for far longer than Tony figures.

“You mean those heavy things that keep you warm? Pretty sure we had those last century too,” Barnes replies, tone dry. Asshole thinks he's funny, wonderful.

“Guess it's one of the perks of being a super soldier,” Tony mutters.

Barnes shrugs.

Tony turns to face the garden again, leaning forwards, elbows resting on the railing. He spots Peter throwing a snowball to Sam before taking cover behind a tree, Wanda using her powers to hit Vision with much more snow than is usually polite. Vision doesn't seem too upset as it goes right through him. “That's cheating!” Wanda screams, laughter in her voice.

“I don't mind the cold,” Barnes says, voice so soft, Tony almost misses it. “Reminds me of cryo. Cryo meant peace for me.” He lets out a long exhale. “There were no missions in cryo.”

Tony doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

He wonders if Barnes has any other reason for disclosing such truths other than to unsettle him. If he's even aware that he's doing it. That he's baring himself to a stranger. A stranger who tried to kill him.

When he angles his face to see him, he finds that Barnes hasn't moved, head still tilted back, eyes still closed. Hair and shirt wetter.

“Why didn't you stay in cryo then?” he asks, not sure why. “In Wakanda, I mean.”

“That… that wasn't really my decision.”

“Steve,” Tony says, cause it's not really a question. He already knows the answer.

“I guess the world needed me.” Barnes shrugs again. “Well, they needed my... talents.”

Tony is quiet for a while. He thinks back at the battle with Thanos, at the world disintegrating under their feet. At the certainty that they wouldn't have made it. That he'd disappointed them all cause he hadn't tried hard enough, he hadn't planned ahead enough, despite knowing what was coming. Despite having felt it in his bones.

“What about now?” he says eventually. Thinking that if it was him, if he had a way to turn it all off to find even some semblance of serenity, he would go on his knees and beg for it.

Barnes brow furrows. “Why don't I go back to cryo?”

“Yeah.”

It's a while before Barnes replies. He turns his head away when he does, gaze distant. “I thought about it. I think about it a lot actually. It's not like the world really needs me anymore. No one really needs me.”

Tony makes a sound at that. “Pretty sure your buddy would disagree.”

Barnes shakes his head, wet strands falling in front of his eyes. “Stevie doesn't understand. He's still waiting for his best friend and that man is dead. He’s been dead for a very long time.”

“Why don't you then?”

Barnes’ lips twist in a parody of a smile. “Guess that would make a lot of people happy, wouldn't it?”

Tony stays quiet. He thinks about it. Would it?

Not having to see him would certainly be easier for him, but it wouldn't change much of anything at all. His parents would still be dead. Steve would still have lied.

Barnes looks at his hands. “I've… I've killed a lot of people. I don't even know how many. I've been Hydra’s puppet for a very long time. Nothing will ever take that back. There's no undoing the things I've done.”

When he meets Tony’s eyes, there's no hiding the depth of his sorrow.

(It's like looking in a mirror.)

“I can't go to sleep. I don't think I… I can't go to sleep.”

I don't think I deserve it , Tony thinks. That's what he meant to say, he doesn't know how but he's sure of it.

Tony opens his mouth to say something. He doesn't know what yet, but he feels like he has to say something.

“There you are, Buck! I've been looking all over for you,” comes from behind them, and Tony jerks upright as if burned. When he turns around he finds Rogers standing at the door.

The moment Rogers spots him, Tony can see his friendly expression turn into one of confusion, then concern, eyes darting from Tony to Barnes before settling on Tony.

“Hey, Tony,” he says, tentative. “I thought you already left.”

He turns to Barnes, gaze assessing. “Everything alright?” he asks, and it's stupid but the two words hurt Tony more than they have any right to, more than he expects them to, despite the fact that he knew they were coming.

Rogers doesn't trust them to be alone together. It's fair. But it's a reminder that something between the two of them is fundamentally broken.

Some broken things you can fix, assembling the pieces if you can find them all, and gluing them back together. Some will still work, as good as new, but they will always carry the cracks like scars. In some, the water will find a way to filter through those cracks, and they'll be whole, but not whole .

Which ones will they be?

(The glue is still drying for them. Soon they'll know.)

“As a matter of fact, I was just leaving,” Tony says, and a handful of seconds later the suit flies to him and he's encased in its shell. Safe again.

“Well, this was nice,” he says, already hovering a few feet off the floor. Barnes and Rogers are both looking at him. Barnes’ hands are closed into fists, Rogers mouth is hanging open. “Let's never do it again.”

He waves once, before lifting off. He doesn't wait for a reply. If it comes, he doesn't hear it. He's already gone.