AN: Not much to say… a filler chapter, moving on to more exciting things next chapter! Little fluff toward the end… Enjoy!

"I lied to him."

Tony approached her, glass in hand. "You look like you could use a drink."

She smiled softly, sadly, and nodded. He handed her the drink and sat across from her at the table. She avoided looking at him; she looked anywhere but at him. They'd put Bucky in her room after she'd calmed him down enough (he hadn't enjoyed being strapped down). Once she'd been confident that he was mentally sound, she'd left him in her room, told him to clean himself up, and that she'd meet him soon. He'd noticed the look on her face, the dread, and had offered to come with her, but she'd turned him down.

"I lied to him," she said again, sweeping a lock of hair out of her face. Tony had given her a warm, damp towel to clean the crusted blood, whistling when he'd seen the nasty knot on her head.

"Hmm?" he asked, taking a sip of his drink. She pointed to her head.

"I told him you did it." He spluttered on his drink a little.

"Pardon?"

"If he knew he did it—I can't deal with that setback," she murmured, swirling her drink around in her glass. She took a gulp, grimacing at the string of it. "So don't tell him."

She could feel him staring at her and she finally looked at him. He didn't seem too interested; he was clearly thinking of something else. He watched her face, stared openly at the scars, his brown eyes darkening, and she knew he was remembering the day, just as she was. She scrubbed a hand over her face and took another gulp of the drink.

"I'm sorry," she finally mumbled. His eyes switched to hers. He said nothing. This, she thought, this was why she had never wanted to see him again. The news, his face on TV was more than enough. And now, sitting across from him… "We had a mission," she said, her voice hard, "One task. Get you from point A to point B safely. And we failed. Everything that happened to you—" her eyes landed on his chest, the spot where the little arc reactor glowed through his black shirt—"that's all on us. On me."

He grinned, but it wasn't his trademark smirk. It was tinged around the edges with sadness. He shook his head, rubbing his hand over the reactor absently. "Probably for the best," he said halfheartedly. "I was a real asshole before." He didn't try to tell her that it was okay, and she appreciated that. He eyed her, leaning closer. "By the way," he said, "why is it that I didn't know you survived? I specifically asked if there were any survivors."

"I wanted to forget about it. I wanted to forget it ever happened. If you knew—"

"You wouldn't have that prehistoric leg, for starters," he said, making a disgusted face. "I mean, I'd have funded you. What, don't tell me you're living off the GI bill, are you? You are. Pathetic—no offense. See, you could have gone to any college. Hell, I'd have given you a spot working here. Security, if absolutely nothing else, with the kickass leg I'd have built you. You'd have had it made."

She was shaking her head, and he suddenly looked angry. "The guilt," he began, but stopped abruptly. He took a drink and cleared his throat. "It was my weapons that did that to you," he said, and she shrugged one shoulder. "My weapons killed your friends."

"And now you're Iron Man," she said, and her voice was only slightly bitter. She was so tired. She finished off her drink and he looked impressed and refilled the glass. She put her forehead in her hands, her head spinning. "Talk about something else. What do you want?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, ticking off on his fingers, "well for starters, I'd like to know why the Winter Soldier has taken up residence in my tower. I'd like to know how you know Steve. I'd like to know what your role in all of this is, because it seems highly improbably that we'd meet again through Cap, of all people. I'd like to know if your boy is mentally stable, and—Oh, I want to take a scan of your leg."

"Excuse you?"

He waved her off. "You're getting another one." He took another drink. "I figure it'll help with the guilt."

She smiled a little. "Steve wanted to reintroduce us," she murmured, "said he'd call in a favor, maybe get me a new leg. I always denied him, mostly because I wanted to avoid you, but after today…"

Tony seemed to brighten at the idea of the project, but he squashed the enthusiasm quickly. "Get to explaining," he said, and she did. She told him everything she knew about why Sam had called her to help, explained how she knew Sam, explained what she was doing, told him all about Bucky while maintaining Bucky's privacy, and by the time it was done she'd finished off another two drinks. Her face felt warm and tingly, her lips buzzed—it had been a long time since she'd had a drink. She tried not to drink much, mainly because she'd become a borderline abuser after her tour in the Middle East, but this wouldn't hurt.

She was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Her entire body ached. She finally told Tony that she couldn't speak anymore; she needed to rest. It was barely noon; the attack had happened early. Besides, she didn't like being away from Bucky this long, anyway, and she told Tony as much. He stood and led her up into the elevator to her room—now their room.

"Maybe we should move him to Banner's floor," Tony mused. "Everything's a little sturdier."

She grimaced. He must have seen the damage. She apologized and he shrugged her off, and they stopped at her door. "He'll stay here, though. We'll share a room for now."

"Your funeral. I'll have Jarvis wake you every couple hours," he said, tapping his forehead to indicate her probable concussion. She nodded. "Do you want me to wait?"

"No," she said, "he's fine. I just—I just want to sleep."

He arched an eyebrow, shrugged, and pointed at her leg. "I'm scanning you tomorrow."

She stepped inside cautiously, her head still buzzing, her body warm, pliant, shaking. The room was dark, the blackout curtains drawn, but the bedside lamp was on, illuminating a figure stretched out on the bed. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, and Bucky turned to face her. He looked much cleaner, his hair damp. He was wearing the same red pants and snug, red STARK shirt she was. His eyes didn't move from her for a few moments, and she pushed away from the door and padded to the bed, climbing slowly up onto it. Her head swam, from alcohol and from the concussion. She groaned.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and she blinked her eyes open to look at him. She grinned a slow, tired grin.

"Oh, darling, I'm drunk," she mumbled, resting her face on her arm. "Don't look at me that way. I needed it." With a little tired moan, she buried her face in the black silk pillowcase. He chuckled a little. They both seemed to be winding down after a rather intense day, and she was so tired she could barely move.

"How'd it go with Stark?"

"Fine," she yawned. "He's building me a leg."

"How generous."

"Mm-hmm," she mumbled, blinking lazily and propping herself up on one arm. The muscles screamed in protest. "How are you doing?"

He avoided her gaze for a few moments before looking up at her. He shrugged, and she nodded in understanding. She rolled over, wincing, so that she was laying on her back beside him. The room was silent; neither of them spoke for a long time. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but she couldn't calm her mind. Visions swam behind her eyelids; blood and gore, death and loss. She sighed heavily, draping an arm over her eyes, trying to squeeze the visions out, and focused on the sound of his breathing.

She was very aware that she was lying on the side that his cybernetic arm was on, and it made her heart a little fluttery. She trued to ignore it, tried not to remember how strong it was, how deadly. Finally she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, her mind refusing to quiet.

"Are we okay?" she asked. He stared at the ceiling beside her. They didn't look at each other.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean after everything that happened today," she breathed. "After the things you saw me do, after what we did… does it change anything?"

He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, he spoke: "I think you were amazing today," he finally said. "I've never met anyone like you—man, woman, soldier, civilian—doesn't matter. You held me down and dug three bullets out of me. You had my back. If not for you—"

"You'd have been fine," she said softly.

"I'm glad you had my six," he said. "You were calm in the face of death, you were deadly, and you handled yourself well. So—no, it's not the same as it was before. It's different. It's better."

They lapsed into silence.

"I killed someone today."

Still lying on his back beside her, he turned his head to look at her and found that she was already watching him. This, the way he felt now, cold and hard—he knew it was the old him, back when he'd been fighting a war, back before he'd been captured. He held her eyes for a long time and saw his own emotions reflected there, and in that moment he realized that they weren't so different. He could see her going cold, pushing the emotions and the horror of what she'd done down.

He was suddenly very glad that Sam had chosen her. Because she understood. No other therapist or doctor, SHIELD or not, would have been able to look him in the eyes and tell him that they knew what it was like to blow someone's head off, to see that gore, and to have to get up the next morning and go on with your life. She'd seen horrible things. Horrible things had happened to her. She'd done some of those things herself. She was a stone cold killer, just as he was—just as he had always been, and that was a part of him that hadn't been created by Hydra. That part of him was the foundation.

She rolled over on her side, her eyes never leaving his, and curled up slightly, angled toward him now.

"What?" she finally rasped.

"You get it," he said softly, and she nodded.

"I get it," she murmured. And he knew that she did. As he maintained eye contact, he knew that she understood it all—the way seeing and doing the things they had seen and done hardened you, turned you cold; the way you were afraid of yourself after, afraid of what you were capable of; she understood the guilt that had to be pushed away, ignored; she understood that it was a part of them that they weren't proud of, but that existed anyway. He breathed out through his nose, finally breaking eye contact, looking up at the ceiling again.

"I am the Soldier," he said after a long while, and she turned to face him again.

"What?"

"I'm him. He's me. Everything that he is—it wasn't created from nothing. It's all me, just enhanced. The killer? That's me. They didn't start from scratch—they started with me. I realized that today."

She was quiet for a moment and he turned to face her and found her watching him again. Her green eyes were dark. "Maybe he is you," she finally said. "The dark parts of you, the parts that scare you, the parts you want to hide. The demons." He nodded. "But those are also the strongest parts of you. To be ashamed of those parts, or be frightened of those parts gives them power. You are so amazing, Bucky Barnes, and so strong. Don't be afraid of yourself."

He looked away from her, staring straight up again.

"Hey," she said gently, blinking up at him, "get some sleep." Her voice was mumbley and sleepy. He nodded and made to get up, but she grabbed the cybernetic arm. "Stay," she murmured, her eyes half-closed.

He didn't trust himself. After what he'd already done to her—and he knew she had lied, and he meant to bring it up, but they were both just so tired—he didn't trust himself not to wake up from a nightmare and kill her.

"I shouldn't—" he started, but she laced her fingers with his. He could have separated them if he wanted to, but he just sat there, halfway out of bed, Mo having attached herself to his hand.

"It's okay," she breathed. "I don't want to be alone. Neither do you."

She was right. He hesitated, then nodded, although her eyes were closed. Allowing her to maintain her grip on his hand, he settled back down beside her. She smiled a little, triumphantly, and slid her other arm through his so that it was wrapped around the cybernetic one, her other hand still laced with his cool steel fingers. He turned his head to look at her again, aware that she was trying to make it clear that she trusted him. He just hoped that her faith wasn't misplaced.

He thought while she slept, listening to her steady breathing. He hadn't realized until he'd seen her in action that she was a warrior, just as he was. There were parts of her that were cold, like he was. She was a killer, like he was. And he understood why she'd never gone into detail, why she'd never discussed this side of herself openly; she wasn't proud of her dark side, and he wasn't proud of his. But he knew that, after today, after seeing each other kill, after being smeared with each other's blood, that he would never see her the same way again.

He turned to watch her face for a moment. Now that he knew it was there, now that he had seen it himself, he wondered how he'd ever missed it. It had been so obvious; the lithe way she moved at night, the slope to her shoulders, the grim look on her face, her understanding of his emotions and what he was going through. He felt a prickle of guilt for all the times he had spit that she didn't understand, and now he realized it wasn't quite as true as he thought.

He hadn't been lying when he'd said she was amazing. She had only one real eye and one real leg. He knew others would have given up, and although she'd clearly spent much of her day crying and scared, she'd pushed all of that to the side to help him. He decided, right then, more than ever before, that he would do anything that it took to be worthy of this woman's faith. She'd made it through the fight—the fight that he had brought to her—with only a few bruised ribs and a cut on her face. He'd been the one to do more damage. As he looked at her, he could see the fingerprint bruises around her neck, and he felt ashamed.

As though sensing his unease, she stirred and blinked her eyes open. "Stop staring," she mumbled. "It's creepy." And she was asleep again within moments. He chuckled as she curled a little more tightly against his arm, which in itself amazed him.

He sighed and relaxed, but he found it oddly difficult to sleep beside her for a number of reasons. For one, the most logical, he was simply afraid of slipping into a nightmare and hurting her. But then there was the issue that she'd curled around his arm like a kitten, and he'd never had anyone touch the arm in such a way, and it had him wide awake, nervous and amazed. From what he remembered of his old life, he hadn't spent many nights sharing a bed with a woman and simply slept—he had considered himself fairly experienced, a bit of a ladies' man according to Steve, and yet here he was, entirely at ease and innocent beside Sergeant Moriah Fox, Combat Medic for the United States Military. He'd seen her take a number of lives today. She'd straddled him, smudged with his blood, and had dug bullets out of his body while a battle went on downstairs, and she hadn't once lost her cool.

Amazing.

And here she was, sleeping beside him, cuddling the arm that had threatened to kill her, because she was afraid to be alone. More afraid of being alone than she was afraid of him.

He shook his head a little. No, he thought, after today, things definitely weren't the same. Not after surviving what they'd survived. Not after he'd nearly killed her. Not after this.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax. His body wasn't as exhausted as hers, he was sure, be the energy that had been sapped during the flashback was taking its toll, as was the blood loss, and he felt himself drifting off to sleep.