Thanks to DippedInVinegar (I like your username!), Esha Napoleon, and TheGirlOfTooManyFandoms for reviewing the last chapter. I'm glad you liked it, and don't forget to keep reviewing!

A little something I forgot to mention last chapter: the story title comes from the song "Calls Me Home" by Shannon LaBrie – it's awesome, you should check it out.


Bucky's POV

Clint and Tony were arguing.

This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, though, because the two caustic, sarcastic men were known to butt heads, no matter how much Taylor played peacekeeper when things got rough.

Which brings me to the subject of their current argument: Iron Beta herself. Specifically, her sudden absence both in New York and here in Malibu, where they both had been sure she'd run.

The problem had started around yesterday afternoon: just after lunch, Clint had tried to track down his girlfriend in hopes of getting her to a) eat, b) sleep, c) talk to someone, or maybe d) all of the above. If he was lucky. The problem arose when not only could he not find her in the lab, but when Jarvis didn't report seeing her anywhere in the Tower.

And so the Avengers assembled and immediately started discussing possibilities. Could she have been kidnapped?

No, Natasha reasoned, she'd been on a hair trigger ever since we got back from…well. Anyone who even tried to touch her the wrong way would be without an important limb or two. Next.

Could she have been affected by magic?

Thor, our resident sorcery expert, said no, he hadn't found any traces of any magic whatsoever in the lab where she'd been working.

The next (and last) question had been the simplest one: could she have just…run away?

Yes, Clint and Tony had agreed, albeit for different reasons (Tony explained that she had some deep-rooted independence issues, Clint just shrugged and said he'd seen her do it before).

That begged a new question: where would she go? Tony said she'd go home, but that didn't narrow it down much: he owned, at last count, over 30 "homes" around the country. And if the Tower wasn't home, then where was?

Malibu, Tony had answered almost immediately.

And that made sense: the Malibu Mansion was to Taylor what Brooklyn had been to Steve and I; a place to be reminded of when things were simpler, better, and brighter, when you had more fun and less worries.

So we all boarded the Stark jet and set course to Malibu, California, and landed about three hours later.

It had been almost twelve hours since then, and Taylor was still nowhere to be found.

Hence our current situation: Clint and Tony arguing, Natasha and Bruce being the voices of reason, and Steve and I definitely not staring at each other across the room—

My thoughts are (thankfully) interrupted by my phone chirping in my pocket.

I dig it out, frowning as I read the scrolling message on the screen:

alert – cabinet lock has been disarmed – alert – cabinet lock has been disarmed…

My frown deepens as I check the time stamp on the message – fifteen minutes ago.

The Cabinet, as we were fond of calling it, was a padlocked, extremely secure safe in the kitchen, within which was a few bottles of an enhanced, extremely potent alcohol that was specifically designed to get gods and super soldiers drunk.

It had been securely locked away soon after completion, so as to keep the normal humans on the team safe. The only people with the codes to unlock that cabinet were Steve and I, and if we were both in here, then how did it get disarmed?

Wait. We had two top-notch hackers on the team. Computer masterminds. Duh. But one of them was still in the room, still arguing with Clint, and the other was MIA.

Or not. She was here, alright, and poking her nose into places where she knew it shouldn't be.

Damn her and her genetic alcoholism.

I stand up and slip out of the room, making sure to stay unseen as I make my way through the dark rooms of the mansion. "Jarvis, where is she?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Sergeant."

"Bull," I huff. "Jarvis, Emergency Override Code: Sergeant Snowflake, four-twenty-twenty-seven."

"Override code accepted: Sgt. James B. Barnes. How can I be of service?"

"Where is Taylor?" I ask again, knowing Jarvis couldn't refuse this time.

And he doesn't. "Miss Stark appears to be in the north sunroom, Sergeant. Please follow the lights, sir."

"Okay," I nod, watching the ceiling lights light up and then go to the left. I follow Jarvis' instruction for a few minutes before pushing open one last door and poking my head inside.

Taylor leaning against the outer glass wall, facing away from the door. The sad strings of a piano tune – Chopin, I thought – drifting from the many speakers in the room.

"Do you always listen to classical music when you're sad?" I ask, stepping into the room and shutting the door.

She shrugs and turns to face me, revealing a red plastic cup held tightly in her hands. "Only when I'm sad and trying to get drunk. Seems to be a family thing. Dad, he listens to Beethoven."

I nod and slowly approach her, checking for physical signs of intoxication and not really finding any – her cheeks were just dusted with pink, her pupils weren't truly dilated, and her eyes weren't glossy at all, only sharp and piercing.

"You know, you really shouldn't drink alone," I comment off-handedly, sinking into one of the overstuffed armchairs in the room.

"Well I wasn't exactly expecting company," she snarks back. "But if you're going to stay, you might as well pour yourself a drink." She nods to the bottle on a small side table, next to a few more cups.

I get up and do just as I was instructed, finding that she was drinking a liquor that was meant to mimic whiskey, just with a much higher alcohol content.

I shrug and pour myself about half a cup, sipping it leisurely as I sit back down, quietly watching Taylor stand at the glass, watching the California landscape beneath us, waiting for her to say something.

She does. She sighs and asks, "How're things topside?"

I shrug, even though she can't see me, and rattle off a report. "Tony and Loverboy are arguing again, mainly because they don't know you're here. Natasha's acting as a mediator, Thor and Bruce have wandered off again, and Steve just seems…uncomfortable."

She mutters something under her breath before turning around to lean back against the floor-to-ceiling windows. "And you?"

"Me? I'm here, drinking, with you."

She gives me a 'no, duh' look. "I mean, how are you, Bucky?"

I consider this for a moment. "Okay, I guess. My…nightmare didn't get shown, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been."

She nods serenely and tosses the remainder of what's in her cup back like a shot, giving a humorless laugh. "I wish my nightmare hadn't been shown, or that it'd been different. Maybe then Dad wouldn't hate me."

"He doesn't hate you."

"Really?" she asks dubiously, walking over to refill her cup. "Then why haven't I seen his face since I was in that chair?"

"The entire team has been avoiding each other, not just you two," I point out, taking a swig of my drink. "It isn't you, trust me."

"Still," she pushes. "If I had had a different nightmare, things would be different. Maybe if it was Obie, that'd be better…"

"And then we'd all be unable to take our frustrations out on a dead man," I counter. "It wouldn't have been better. But we have no way of knowing, so don't beat yourself up about it."

"I could've done something," she insists, curling her hands around her cup as she begins to pace back and forth in front of me.

"Don't fool yourself," I snort, and she pauses to glare at me. "Really, Taylor. You can't change your innermost fears, nor anyone else's, so stop trying to play God."

"I'm not trying to play God!" she screams, finally exploding, and I take a moment to thank whomever designed this house that the walls were all soundproofed. "But don't tell me I was helpless. I could've convinced myself that he wasn't scary, that it didn't bother me, that-"

"You didn't know," I cut in. "You didn't know what your fear was, remember? Unless you have nightmares of Tony and Stane often…"

"I don't!"

"Then you couldn't have known. The Mandarin said he was going to pull out our deepest, darkest secrets. Yours was just so secret that you didn't know what it was."

"That's rich," she snorts into her cup, draining it once more. "Now I do know what it is…and so does everyone else."

"Everyone else knows everyone else's nightmares too," I remind her, and the alcohol must be getting to her, because she just frowns. "The main problem is that this team of misfits absolutely sucks at communicating. It's been days, and nobody's managed to talk to anyone else."

"We're stubborn bastards," Taylor muses. "And, y'know, Natasha. And me too."

I give a half-smile – yeah, someone was definitely getting whiskey-brain. It would definitely let her loosen up a bit, even if tomorrow morning – technically later today – would be absolute hell.

"Of course," I nod. "Now the hardest part is just getting over ourselves and getting over this. It isn't the end of the world, and we've survived three of those."

She laughs a bit too loudly, and comes over to sit in the armchair next to mine, still giggling slightly.

I watch her, amused, until her head starts to droop, her eyelids flagging.

I pull out my phone and open up my recent texts, typing out a message. Wanna come get your girl?

The response comes almost immediately: you found her? when? wtf barnes?!

Just hurry up, she's drunk and passing out.

There's no reply, so I just tuck my phone back in my pocket, half watching Taylor mutter about her father and Stane, probably just talking to herself.

A soft, barely-audible-unless-you're-a-super-soldier knock at the door pulls me out of the chair. I open the door to find one worried, slightly tired-looking archer leaning against the doorframe. "Move, please."

I graciously step aside, and he moves past me and to Taylor's side like they were opposing sides of a magnet. He doesn't even attempt conversation, just scooping her up into a bridal carry as she continues to babble.

"'lin?" she murmurs, eyes closed against his chest, and Clint hums in response. "'Kay. S'good. M'tired."

"Drinking will do that to you," he suggests, maneuvering his way over to the door. "Thanks, Buck."

"No problem," I grin shakily – the liquor was meant for super-soldiers, after all. "Don't let her throw up on you."

"Don' talk 'bout throwing up, please," Taylor requests quietly.

I give her a small smile, even though her eyes were closed, and wave Clint out the door.

They leave, and I'm left alone with a quiet room that smells like bitterness and whiskey, and a surprisingly heavy conversation floating in the air that I didn't think would fade right away.

I sigh one more time before heading for my own room – I needed my sleep tonight, because tomorrow morning was going to be hell on earth.