A/N: Apparently I have this knack for picking names for secondary characters that happen to be other people/things in real life. In my story The Second Trial, I named some characters Kaplan and Lewinski without realizing they were actual Marvel characters. And in this story, I've just realized that Captain Morgan is a type of rum. I didn't even realize that, I've never heard that name before. Whoops! I feel like this keeps happening to me…

There's a sleek black limousine waiting for us in the airplane hangar. Captain Morgan bids us farewell and heads back up into the plane. I find myself giving the plane a longing look before I head towards the limo; despite all my fears, it held up and didn't let me down. And it didn't try to kill me. That's more than I can say for a lot of humans in my life. I feel a comradeship with this plane. It and I, we're a team. I silently say goodbye to it, hoping I'll get to fly again sometime soon in the future, and head for the limo.

The chauffeur is no Captain Morgan. He's not friendly or chatty or inquisitive. In fact, his face looks like it's made out of stone. No smile, no expressions, nothing. All he does is silently grab our bags and throw them in the trunk. He doesn't attempt to speak to us and when Steve asks, just to confirm, "Headed to Stark Tower, right?" all the guy says in response is something like, "Hnnngh aurghh mrrrhh."

If you ever figure out what that means, let me know.

I look at Steve and he looks at me and we both shrug and slide into the limo. Bucky gets in from the other side so I'm in the middle. The seats are soft and leathery and smooth and the whole interior is black; glossy and shiny in some places, buttery soft leather in others, and soft suede and cloth in other parts. All in all, very nice. And there's AC too. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy the invention of the AC?

Steve doesn't look impressed or anything though I can't tell if that's because he really doesn't care about luxury cars—or if he's determined not to be impressed by anything that belongs to Stark. I glance at Bucky; he's staring out the window in a slightly absent-minded way. We could be sitting on a flying magic carpet and he probably wouldn't have noticed. Oh well, I guess it's up to me to appreciate the finer things in life…and appreciate them I do. I may never have been rich and I may have been homeless for a while but I have taste.

Or at least I think I do. God save the poor sucker who tries to tell me otherwise.

The limo pulls out of the private hangars and heads out onto to the open road. First the scenery seems to be pretty boring: fields and regular houses and shops and roads. But I can see the city in the distance, rising up taller and taller, and instead of driving past it, we head straight into the heart of the city. My heart starts pounding harder and harder the closer we get. Darn—I wish I were sitting by the window so I could properly see it all. I lean forward and stare as boldly as I want out the windows because they're tinted, so no one on the streets can see my huge googly eyes and open mouth. My eyes automatically flick upwards for a moment, to see how tall the sky scrapers are, and of course the car's roof is in the way—but all of a sudden I notice something: there's a rectangular panel set into the roof. There's a button next to it and I reach up and press it. The black panel slides back to reveal a window set into the roof, showing me the sky and letting in daylight. This is mind boggling enough but I press the button again and the glass slides back.

There's a hole in the roof of this car! There's a hole in the roof and fresh air is coming in and by George, I'm going to stand up and make the most of it. I shoot up like a rocket and stand on the seat, poking my torso out the roof and gazing around me in awe. The city rises up like a concrete and steel and glass jungle around me. I can hear the sounds of tons of traffic, people shouting, busy city life. Smell dust and pollution and something kind of nutty and strange. "This is SO COOL!" I yell, throwing my hands in the air like a showgirl jumping out of a birthday cake. I see some people on the streets crane their necks and stare at me as we slowly drive past (I see traffic hasn't improved in the last seventy or so years) but I don't care because I, Victoria "Fizzy" Marsden, am back in my home city and it's exciting and huge and I'm poking out of the roof of a car!

Suddenly the driver slams on the brakes because I slam forward and my midsection hits the edge of the roof window so hard I think I'm about to be cut in half. Before I can do more then gasp-groan in pain, someone grabs me around the waist and yanks me forcefully down into the seat. It's Steve, obviously. Bucky is still staring out the window, blissfully unaware of anything going on around him. Either that or he's hyperaware of everything going on around him and choosing to ignore it. Actually, considering he's a super-soldier, it's probably the latter.

"What gives?" I complain to Steve, rubbing my stomach, wincing, and glaring at the partition that separates us from the driver. I feel like giving old Rock Face a piece of my mind—or my hands. Perhaps he needs his head banged on the steering wheel a few times to remind him on how to drive. Lesson number one: do not break unnecessarily hard and ruin the pleasure of the temperamental young woman with powers in the backseat. Just don't do it.

"It's illegal, Victoria," Steve says. "You can't stick your head—or any body part—out of the sunroof. We'll get pulled over and ticketed and I really don't want to get Stark's limo ticketed because he'll find some way to annoy me over it."

Oh. It's illegal. Not that I care very much about the law…but Steve obviously does. So that's the end of my sunroof fun. I enjoyed it while it lasted.

I still want to punish the driver, though. He could have warned me in a much more polite—and less painful—way. My stomach hurts like hell.

I don't poke my head out of the—what did Steve call it? A sunroof?—sunroof again but I keep it open so I can stare open-mouthed at the huge sky scrapers we drive past. The city has definitely grown to huge proportions in the past few decades and not only that but the buildings look different. There's less brick and more steel and glass. Everything is all modern. I see Stark Tower about ten minutes before we actually even reach it (seriously, NYC traffic sucks). It's tall with one slightly curving edge and very modern-looking and Steve's right: only the letter "A" is attached to the side.

Traffic is crowded so it takes us ages but we finally pull up in front of the building, at the main entrance. "Uh…" I look at Bucky, who's staring out the window and frozen like an ice sculpture. The look on his face is just as cold. "Steve…" I turn to Steve and urgently whisper, "Do we really have to go through the main entrance? Bucky might vomit—or kill someone—"

"Right," Steve says. He leans forward and taps on the partition. It slides down and he pokes his head through it, quietly saying something to the driver. They talk for a few moments while I lean forward and stare at Stark Tower's entrance. It's pretty busy, people in fancy suits and a lot of black clothing walking in and out of the multiple glass doors with fast strides and briefcases. They probably have meetings or mistresses to get to. I'm pretty sure that's all rich businesspeople do. Guards dressed in dark blue stand on either side of the entrance and I see four more slowly patrolling the area. How paranoid is Tony Stark? He's Iron Man. Why does he need guards?

Steve sits back in his seat and the car pulls away from the curb. "The driver agreed to take us to a private entrance after clearing it with Stark," Steve explains. We pull around down a smaller side street on the left side of the tower and then pull into a tall parking garage building right behind Stark Tower that's connected to it with some glass tunnels that I can see people walking through. I guess Stark owns this parking garage as well. The garage is full of cars. I know approximately goose egg about cars but I see a lot gleaming black and silver and pure white, lots of this one white-and-blue checkered symbol and one symbol that looks like the three spokes of a windmill, and I know those symbols mean the cars are expensive. Though I'm not exactly sure what the names of expensive cars are, these days… Panthers? BMX? Ferragamo? Something like that. I do know Rolls-Royce. Those I remember from my original days. But I don't see any of those here. Apparently the people who work here are rich but not that rich.

But we don't park near any of these cars. The garage leads up, winding in a circle, but we turn into a narrow little lane that's guarded with a steel gate and a guard in a glass box and we actually head down at a slope. It gets darker as we go down and natural light vanishes and soft white lights glow every few feet on either side of the underground road that leads in a winding circle. It's funny but the more we go underground, the more my heart begins to hammer and the sweatier I feel. My body betrays me and I let out a squeak because Steve says, "Victoria, are you okay?"

"Yeah," I say hoarsely. "Why?"

"Because you're cutting off the blood circulation in my arm."

I look down and realize I've been clenching Steve's arm so hard it's gone a little white and my nails have left sharp white crescent-shaped indents into his arm. I let go and he lets out a sigh of relief. "Sorry," I say, trying to make my voice sound normal. My breathing is a little funny and I feel like I'm one of those people who goes mad from eating too much sugary birthday cake and then inhales a helium balloon in an attempt to fly (true story, I saw it in a newspaper once, look it up. I think he exploded, very tragic). "I'm fine." I mean, I'm only having visions of the building collapsing on us and burying us alive, which might be one of my biggest fears: slowly dying, trapped in the darkness with no room to move, no room to breathe or scream. But otherwise, I'm just fine.

We enter a private garage that's light with brilliant white lights that illuminate row upon row of gleaming, glossy, sleek luxury cars. They're parked diagonally and they shine like tempting bits of candy: pure white, candy apple red, midnight black, canary yellow, gleaming silver. I don't even know anything about cars but even I want these cars. I feel my mouth is watering.

"Victoria, you're drooling," Steve mutters into my ear, nudging me.

Okay, I guess I actually am drooling.

The driver pulls past all the cars and stops next to a sleek silver door set into the wall with buttons set into the wall next to it. An elevator. "This elevator leads straight up Mr. Stark's private apartments," he says. "I've been clearance to send you up there." His tone sounds cold disapproving, like he doesn't want to send us up there. He's also glaring at us. I wonder what his problem is.

We get out of the car and the driver aggressively jabs the UP button with a little too much force. It glows golden and the doors slide open. He steps in with us and pushes the buttons for the tenth floor or the ninetieth floor or something like that. I'm not paying attention; I'm too busy giving the guy my best Scary Cold Look. He could have easily told us which floor to go to and let us go alone—but no, he had to get in with us.

"What's the matter?" I ask loudly. He doesn't turn around to look at me, though I'm sure he knows I'm talking to him. "Don't trust us hooligans?"

"Victoria," Steve says sharply.

"No, I want to know what he thinks we're going to do," I say equally as sharply. A rush of anger surges through me. I am so sick of being pre-judged. "Does he think we're going to sneak off and, what? Loot the building? Does he think Captain America is going to rob Iron Man now? What would we even take? What destruction could we cause?"

"Well, your bag is floating," Bucky says in a sarcastic and dry voice from beside me.

I look down in surprise to see that my fists are clenched and bent at my elbows, almost as if I'm flexing, and my duffel bag is floating off the ground. "Oh. So it is," I say. The driver is staring at me with a stiff expression of shock, horror, and disgust. It's infuriating but I really need to calm down. So I take a deep breath and fold my arms. My bag drops to the ground just as we arrive at whatever floor we're at and the doors slide open. Thank God. If I had to spend even one second more on the elevator with that man…

I grab my bag and walk past ad him. As I do, I do that typical mean-jock thing where I roughly "accidentally" shoulder him really hard. Sorry, but I really can't stop myself. This guy has no reason to be giving any of us this attitude and we're guests of his employer. Doesn't he value his job? Doesn't he value his life?

The elevator doors slide shut, hiding his annoying glare from view. Good riddance. I glare at the elevator for one more second before turning around—

And—

I just—

WOW.

My breath is taken away. And I thought the jet was luxurious. Compared to this, the jet is nothing. This is just…

Again, I say it: wow.

We're in a room except it's not just a room—it's a huge room. It has tall ceilings—like two Steves standing on top of each other—and it's very long and wide with polished pale matte hardwood floors and pure white walls on our right side. On our left side, the entire wall is made up of gleaming glass from floor-to-ceiling and it shows the entirety of New York City rising around and below us. We must be on the top floor or close to it because we're near eye level with the tops of most of the sky scrapers around us, slightly above them even. The huge room doesn't have any walls separating any areas but it's clear from the furniture groupings that the room has individual areas. To our right are a cluster of low-slung pale gray sofas that look very geometric. A pale wood coffee table sits in the middle and a huge flat screen TV is set into the wall in front of the couches. A little ahead to the left, near the glass wall, is a huge dining table with chairs. At the very farthest end of the room, to the right side, is a kitchen built into the corner. If I squint, I think I can see a pool table at the far end on the left side, opposite of the kitchen table. What's this style of apartment called? I've been reading a lot of interior decorating magazines lately. I think it's called studio style…

But the thing is, it's not just that. It's not just the size or space or gleaming surfaces that make the room amazing. It's the little touches that jump out at me like one of those screaming clown videos that pop up on your computer screen and scare the bejeezus out of you (yep, you guessed it; I encountered my first one this past week and I screamed so loudly that both Steve and Bucky came crashing into the living room, thinking that HYDRA or the apocalypse had descended upon us) except obviously nicer and more welcome.

Actually, that was a really stupid analogy. Scratch the clown thing. They're just really nice surprises. That's all you need to know.

For instance, in a straight line leading straight from the elevator all the way down to the opposite wall is a foot-wide strip set into the hardwood floors that is illuminated on either side with glowing white lights and… I kneel down to inspect it and my mouth falls open. It's covered with glass and filled with glowing turquoise water, rainbow sea anemones and tiny fish and seahorses and starfish. Like a long, subtle aquarium that's…you know, set into the floor instead of into a big tank for everyone to enjoy. I hope the glass is heavy enough to hold our weights, though the water only looks about a foot deep anyway.

And the paintings hanging on the wall—they're bright and abstract but not in a stupid way. They look like splashes of watercolor paint, dripping, swirling, with hints and edges of silver and gold to them and they look almost fluid, that's how good they are—until I squint and realize with shocked delight that they are moving. They're not even paintings…they're like continuously moving graphic pictures that are made to look like paintings.

Wow.

Steve's eyebrows are raised and he looks impressed but a little skeptical as he looks around the enormous space, hands clasped behind his head, stretching. Bucky doesn't look impressed or awed in any way; he's merely looking around and absentmindedly rubbing his metal arm, brow furrowed as he takes in the bright, modern, minimalist room. The luxuries seem to have confounded him.

"Like what you see?" We turn to see Stark emerge from the elevator, arms thrown out wide, gesturing to the entire room. He steps forward and stops a foot in front of Steve. He's shorter than Steve but his gaze is steady and unflinching. He and Steve stare at each other tersely for a moment and then Stark holds out his hand. "Captain."

"Stark," Steve replies and shakes his hand stiffly. Their handshake lasts about .02 seconds—a brief jerk—and then they both immediately let go. Stark takes a step back and appraises Bucky and I while we both stare at him. He's only a few inches taller than me—I'm 5'6"—and he's not built like some kind of muscled-up wrestler like Steve and Bucky. You'd think this would make a man insecure but he seems to be leaking confidence and arrogance. He has tanned face that seems slightly weathered and line—though with age or exhaustion, I can't quite tell—and he has short dark hair, dark facial hair, and dark hazel eyes that seem to stare directly into your soul, as if they know all your embarrassing moments and that time you tripped and dropped a cake onto yourself at a birthday party. (Yes, that happened to me when I was nine.) He's wearing a loose-fitting navy blue shirt with long sleeves and black track pants and a black watch with a glowing red face on his wrist.

"Huh," he says, cocking his head and staring at me. "So you're Dizzy. You're smaller than I expected."

"So are you," I shoot at him.

"From the threats you were making on the phone, I thought you must be, like, six-feet-tall and 200 pounds to be that confident."

"Oh, I'm confident," I say.

"In what?" he asks mildly. "That you can scare a kitten?"

"No! That I can kick your—"

"RIGHT," Steve says loudly. "Right. Well. We're here now. This is…this is my friend, Bucky Barnes." He throws a furtive glance at Bucky.

Stark looks at Bucky with a small frown on his face. "Big guy. That's the metal arm, huh? Let me see." He walks toward Bucky and Bucky jerks back a step, a threatening and alarmed look on his face. Stark stops and cocks one eyebrow. "Easy. I'm just taking a look at it. I can't fix it if I don't look at it."

"Stark, I need to…I need to talk to you about something first," Steve says seriously. "Alone."

"I have a girlfriend," Stark says immediately. "I'm flattered, but—"

Steve sighs. "Now is not the time. There's something you need to know. And I need to tell you away from them." He nods to Bucky and I. My jaw drops but Steve studiously ignores my pointed gaze, looking away from me and clearing his throat. Stark looks a little confused, his eyes darting from Steve to me for a moment, and then he shrugs and says, "Whatever. Alright. Step right this way, Rogers. Want a drink?" He leads Steve all the way to the far end of the room, which is too far for me to hear anything they're saying.

What is he telling him? Why is he hiding it from me? What's going on? I hate being out of the loop. It makes me anxious. I thrive on knowledge, on knowing what's going on, on being aware of all situations around me. Smarty-pants, remember?

"He's familiar."

I look over in surprise to see Bucky standing there, arms held stiffly at his sides, staring at Steve and Stark's backs—which are turned to us as they talk, staring out one glass wall—with an expression of confused wondering. He looks like he's thinking very hard about why Stark looks familiar. I have to admit, I have no idea why Stark would seem familiar to him. He wasn't born when Bucky was the old Bucky Barnes. And I highly doubt he met him as the Winter Soldier because the Winter Soldier killed everyone he met.

The Winter Soldier…killed…everyone he met…

Somehow the combination of those words makes me pause. Something is…trying to reach me from my subconscious. The Winter Soldier killed everyone he met…but why should that have any connection to Tony Stark? Tony Stark is alive. Stark…is alive. So why am I pausing? Something doesn't feel right.

The Winter Soldier…killed…everyone he met…Stark…

Suddenly something comes back to me in bits and pieces.

Wheaton, New Jersey.

The flash drive.

Natasha using the flash drive—

Zola. Arnim Zola. Zola talking and telling us all of HYDRA's plans and every crime HYDRA had committed, showing us flickers on his screen—

My breathing becomes rapid. I didn't realize it at the time but he showed us a photo of Bucky. I remember seeing a black and white photo of a man with long hair, black goggles, and a metal arm holding a sniper rifle flicker on the screen so quickly I barely had time to digest what it was—but the photo came right before flickering photos of old newspaper headlines about people dying. As Zola talked about all the people HYDRA had assassinated.

Newspaper headlines—

HOWARD AND MARIA STARK DIE IN CAR CRASH.

Oh my—

Oh god. I stare at Bucky in horror and he looks at me back, obviously not understanding my look. "What?" he growls. I can't speak because I know it wasn't his fault—but it's still going to affect us. I wordlessly shake my head and he roughly grabs my shoulders and shakes me. My teeth smack together as he snarls, "What is it, Victoria?"

BANG! Followed right after by the sound of something shattering. We both look up to see Stark bent over the pool table, his fist clenched on the table. Shards of some glass thing surround him on the table and on the floor and I see Steve standing behind him, immobile. He looks up and sees Bucky gripping my shoulders and leaning over me as if he's going to rip my head off and calls, "What's going on? You two okay?"

Bucky lets go off my shoulders and they sing in sweet relief as blood starts flowing in them again. Seriously, his hands could quite literally double as tourniquets. "We're fine!" I call. "Come on," I hiss to Bucky. "We need to go over there and fix this."

"Fix what?" he demands.

This time I lean forward and grip his shoulders (after standing up on my tip toes) and give him a hard stare so he knows I mean business and I'm not joking around. "The Winter Soldier killed Howard and Maria Stark. Care to guess whose parents they were?"

Bucky's face blanches.

"Exactly," I say. I grab his normal arm and tug him to where Steve and Stark are and Bucky, in all his shock, allows me to tow him like a small child. I don't know if approaching Stark is a good idea but I know we have to find a way to fix this. I feel really horrible inside, which is saying a lot, since I don't feel bad about much. But springing his parents' killer on him? That's not cool and I'm really surprised Steve would allow this to happen. I give Steve an angry look and he ignores me. His love for Bucky is overshadowing his common sense, the absolute idiot. And that's not even mentioning manners!

Manners: A Short Guide by Victoria "Fizzy" Marsden.

1. It is usually not polite to bring the person who murdered someone's parents to said person's place of residence.

2. Even if the murderer didn't choose to kill them and was brainwashed.

3. Seriously, Steve, what were you thinking? Moron.

Stark has been bent over the table this whole time, unmoving, his face hidden from us but now I hear his voice, low and muffled because he's speaking to the pool table: "Get out."

Oh god. Not a good sign. I know he has every right to say this—and Steve really should apologize and maybe buy him some flowers or something to make up for it—but we can't just leave after coming all this way. I mean, our flight was only an hour but you get what I mean.

"Listen, Stark—" I start in a what I think is a soft and soothing tone.

"GET OUT." He snaps upright and Steve immediately takes a step forward as if to hold him back, but honestly, what is Stark going to do? He's not Iron Man right now.

As if he can hear my thoughts, Tony holds up his arms and yells, "JARVIS! MARK 42! RIGHT NOW!"

"Stark," Steve says sharply. And then— "Victoria, watch out!"

Bucky slams into me and we both hit the ground hard just as a huge piece of metal rockets through the air where we'd been standing a second before. Bucky pins me down for a moment and all I can feel is him on top of me. He's heavy as hell. His hair is suffocating me. And then I slam my knee upwards and spit his hair out of my mouth and growl, "Get off!"

He rolls off and I stagger to my feet in time to see the final pieces fly out of the wall and attach themselves to Stark's armor. The whole process has literally only taken about fifteen seconds and then he's Iron Man. Bucky gets to his feet and Iron Man takes a step toward us, gleaming golden and red with glowing white eyes. He holds on palm out toward us and it glows pure white. The move kind of reminds me of what I do with my hands to blast someone backwards. Except I use my powers and I think Iron Man uses lasers or bullets or something equally as fatal. I'm a human. He can blast a hole right through me. And even though I'm standing in the face of danger, I can't help but marvel at his suit. It's really cool and beautiful.

"Out of the way, kid," he says. "You're not the one I want."

Bucky roughly grabs me and throws me aside and I slam into the wall so hard my ears ring. Pain runs down my back and left arm. I blink the blurriness out of my vision at the same time that Bucky snarls, "You want me, right? So come on," and Steve shouts, "Back off, Stark!" and holds up his shield in an offensive stance, slowly approaching from behind Bucky. I guess he ran to go get his shield while Stark was suiting up.

"Are you guys seriously going to do this?" I demand. "You're the Avengers! You can't fight each other!"

"He killed my parents," Stark says in his strange, computerized Iron Man voice. "So I'm going to avenge them. It's in the job description."

"He didn't know what he was doing," Steve snarls, getting even closer. "I told you that! What's wrong with you? You're a worse man than I thought if you're going to punish a man for something he had no choice in!"

"Would you be saying the same thing if he killed your beloved Victoria here?" Iron Man demands, pointing to me with his right hand. I frantically look between them and I can see the barely-concealed anger on Steve's face. It's clear that he's going to fight Stark and it's clear that Stark isn't going to stop until he kills Bucky.

"That's irrelevant! What about Barton?" Steve demands in a cold voice. "Did you kill him for what Loki made him do?"

"Barton was brainwashed," Iron Man says coldly—if a robot's voice can sound cold.

"And Bucky wasn't?" Steve growls. "HYDRA took away his memories! They took away his humanity!"

"You want to kill me?" Bucky snaps. "Go ahead."

I have to do something. This is madness. Lucky thing I have a lot of emotions right now because I'm going to need them. I hold both of my hands out, palms facing forward, and brace my knees.

"Bucky, shut up!" Steve says angrily. "Why should you die over this? We're all killers. We don't get to decide who lives and dies!"

"UH, seeing as this is my property, I think I do, gramps," Stark snaps.

"You little—"

I shove my hands forward as hard as I can and a small scream tears out of me as Bucky is blasted backwards, flipping over the small sofa to his right and hitting the floor with a thud. Before anyone can react, I spin in a circle with the momentum of my movement and throw my hands to the left as hard as I possibly can. It's amazing but I manage to catch Iron Man off guard and he slams backwards and to the left, hitting the corner of the glass wall so hard the wall seems to vibrate (though I don't think glass vibrates) and losing his footing, slipping down the wall a bit.

I take a step back, lowering my hands, breathing heavily as Stark gets back to his feet at the same time as Bucky. They both stand in their respective corners and glares are flying everywhere. Well, I can't tell exactly who Iron Man is glaring at because he doesn't have pupils (imagine Iron Man with pupils…terrifying) but I can tell he's glaring at someone. You can just feel it. Bucky is glaring at Iron Man with rage and Steve is alternating between glares at Iron Man, concerned looks at Bucky, and exasperated looks at me.

"What," says Iron Man, his face mask opening to reveal Stark's human face, "the hell was that?"

"Victoria, you didn't have to do that," Steve says through tight teeth.

"Yes, I did," I snap. "You idiots were about to kill each other. Honestly. Men. You're all fools. Steve, you should have known better than to do this. I get that you wanted to help Bucky—but you should have told Stark all this on the phone before we got here. You don't just spring knowledge like that on people. You just don't. It's…it's…"

"It's what?" Steve demands.

"It's shitty, Steve," I finish. Steve looks taken back by my language. Good—he should. I don't swear often (contrary to my rough image) but the fact that I am—and at him, no less—should tell him what I think of his bad behavior.

"And you!" I whirl on Stark who's eyebrows raise. "You know damn well that Bucky didn't know what he was doing. He was kidnapped. Mutilated. Tortured. Brainwashed. Memory-wiped. Every bad thing HYDRA could do to him, they did. Guess what? The same thing happened to me. I'm from the 1940s—I was Steve and Bucky's friend. I was kidnapped by HYDRA and…they held me for a long time. I escaped four years ago."

"What the hell?" Stark repeats. "How many senior citizens do we have in this penthouse?"

"Three," I snap. "I lived through what HYDRA did to me—freezing me…torturing me…putting me through obstacle courses…" Without even realizing it, I'm rubbing my upper left arm where I have a long scar from a deep stab wound I once got. "And I'm telling you: as bad as the things were that HYDRA did to me…it was ten thousand times worse for Bucky. So yes, he killed your parents and yes, that freaking sucks, and yeah, Steve did wrong by spring it on you like that—but what are you going to do now? Cry like a baby? Smash your toys? Take it out on the guy who never chose for any of this to happen?" I take a deep breath and look at Bucky so he knows I'm speaking to him as much as I'm speaking to Stark. He needs to know I believe in him.

That I forgive him for the sins I know he won't forgive himself for.

"Bucky Barnes may have been a lot of things before he became the Winter Soldier," I say, "but he wasn't a soulless murderer. He has parts of the Winter Soldier in him now—you never get rid of that crap. I'm never getting rid of Fizzy. You said you have experience with PTSD," I say to Stark. "I'm sure you've got your…stuff you can't get rid of. But that doesn't mean you're a bad person." I pause for a moment. "Okay, maybe you might be a bad person, I really don't know you well enough to make that judgment call—but you're not a killer. And neither is Bucky. Or Steve."

I don't mention my name. Because I am a killer.

Bucky was brainwashed.

Steve had no choice—and he did it to save the world.

Same goes for Stark, no matter how arrogant and cocky he is.

I had no excuse to kill…no excuse except saving my own skin and reputation like a coward. I'm the only one here with real blood on my selfish hands. If anyone deserves to hate themselves—to go to jail—to be hurt for their crimes—it's me. I close my eyes for a moment and see Will. And the other nameless people I've hurt. Then I open my eyes and take another deep breath. "This wasn't supposed to be some stupid motivational speech. That's Steve's job. He's the motivational speech giver. I could care less what you do with your lives or if you hate yourself or whatever. But I'm not gonna let you guys kill each other over the small stuff."

I cross my arms and glare at each and every last one of them. "Sam said things were getting weird out in the world. Can't we wait to kill each other at least until it's over the big stuff? The stuff that matters?"

"That," says Stark, "was the dumbest speech I have ever heard."

I roll my eyes.

"But you have a point," he admits. "Hate to say it, I really do—because I can tell you're going to be annoying about it—but you have a point. When did teenagers get so wise? I spent my teenage years boozing and partying."

"I'm twenty," I say.

"Whatever." He turns to Bucky and folds his arms. "Listen, Barnes. I'm not saying I'm okay with…your hands being the ones that killed my parents. But Dizzy's got a point. I can see that you didn't have a choice. Maybe you didn't even know what you were doing. So I'll help you out. But I'm not going to be your best friend."

"I didn't want you to be," Bucky says tightly. "But…" He exhales through his nose deeply, as if it pains him to say this. "Fine. Thanks."

"And as for you…" Stark turns to Steve.

"Victoria's right," Steve says abruptly, a funny look on his face as if he's had some sort of epiphany. I hope the epiphany was: Wow, Victoria's always right. From now on, I'll should listen to her no matter what. "In my hurry to help Bucky, I didn't think. I'm not good friends with you but doing what I did was unacceptable. I should have told you before we came. I just didn't want you to say… Never mind." He shakes his head. "I was wrong. I'm sorry," he says simply. For Steve, it's that easy. Apologizing to the highest of the high, or the lowest of the low—if he's in the wrong, he can do it.

"Huh," says Stark. "Well, no one can doubt the sincerity shining on your Boy Scout face, Cap."

"Okay," I say before anyone gets into another fight. "Are we through? Is this macho battle over?"

"It's over," says Stark, cool as a cucumber. He seems to switch between moods as easily as kicking off a pair of shoes and slipping on a new pair. "JARVIS," he says and then his suit begins to disassemble on his body. I watch, fascinated, as the suit unscrews itself and pieces fly back into their places in hidden panels that have opened up in the wall. One piece wobbles in the air for a moment before hitting the ground with a dull thunk. Stark stares at it for a moment before muttering, "Gotta work on some stuff, it's a prototype."

"How does that work?" I ask. "How do you make them fly?"

"How do you make them fly?" he counters.

"Magic." At least...I think it's magic. I'm not really sure where my powers came from.

"Magnetics," he replies. Seeing my look of confusion, he says, "You don't know what magnets are?"

"I do, but—" I wave my hands helplessly and say, "I don't get how they connect to this…"

"These pieces of armor all have a special type of magnet lining them," he says, "and each piece has a slightly different type of magnet. I've been experimenting with things I probably shouldn't be."

"As usual," Steve mutters.

"And as you can see, it doesn't always work out." Stark kicks the piece of armor laying on the floor and it slides across the hardwood floor, leaving a scratch. I wince. "So the panels in the wall are outfitted with the proper counterpart magnets to ensure every piece of the suit goes back in the right place."

We all look at the panel. The pieces are definitely not arranged in proper suit formation. In fact, they're stuck to the panel in a weird clump that's preventing the panel doors from sliding shut on them. The slim panels keep hitting the pieces and shuddering, sliding back with a hiss and trying again and again and again.

"Yeah, I need to work on that," Stark says. "Ever since I destroyed…" He rubs the back of his neck. "Never mind. JARVIS, cancel out the panel doors."

"Yes, Mr. Stark," comes a calm and slightly robotic voice from…from, well, nowhere. I crane my neck in alarm to see who it is speaking but I can't see anyone. "Who's JARVIS?" I ask. "Where's he speaking from? I thought JARVIS was, like, your battle cry or something."

"My battle cry?" Stark stares at me and then sighs. "No. JARVIS is my AI." And with that wonderful and totally informative and not confusing at all explanation, he walks away into the gleaming kitchen that looks like it's never been used by anyone before.

"His AI?" I ask Steve and Steve shrugs.

"Artificial Intelligence," Stark calls back from where he's pouring some amber-colored liquid into a small square glass. He looks up. "Drink? I smashed my last one. Anyone else?"

"I'll take one," I say, grinning at Steve.

"She will not," Steve says firmly. "She's underage."

"Come on, Rogers, let her live a little," Stark says.

"No," Steve says even more firmly.

Stark sighs. "Fine. What about you? And you, eh, killer?" he asks Bucky. There's a dark twist to his mouth as he smiles crookedly at Bucky and I can recognize what he's doing. He's trying to use humor—even if it's dark, slightly aggressive humor—to try and feel better about the shock he's just received: that the dark-haired dude with the metal arm in his house is the reason his parents are dead.

Well, whatever floats his boat.

"We can't get drunk," Steve responds when Bucky's silent. "The super-soldier serum—he got it too. Alcohol has no effect on us."

"I was asking you if you wanted a drink, not if you wanted to get drunk." Stark knocks back his drink in one long gulp and slams the glass down on the counter. "But you're right. Why drink if not to get drunk?" He makes as if to pour himself another drink and stares at the bottle for a moment, emotions undetectable, and then he puts the bottle back.

"So," Stark says, strolling back out to where we're standing, empty glass in his hand. My back is hurting more than ever from: A) Bucky throwing me into the wall at Steve's apartment, B) Bucky tackling me to the floor, and C) Bucky throwing me into the glass wall here at Stark's penthouse.

Does anyone else see a pattern here? Because I'm seeing a pattern here.

"How do you like the Avengers Tower?" Stark flings his arms out wide to gesture to the room and the glass accidentally flies out of his hand and hits the wall, exploding into a hundred shards. "Ta da," Stark adds in a quiet, grim voice as we all stand there in strange silence.