.

By Any Other Name

.

"Tony."

"No."

"Tony."

"No."

"Sixty-eight percent."

Tony paused on one of the buttons of his shirt, staring down at his chest. Dark veins spread out from the arc reactor, his paling skin only serving to highlight the blue-green lines.

"You can't keep doing this."

"Watch me," Tony mumbled as he finished buttoning his shirt, a quiet sense of relief washing over him as the evidence of his ailment was fully covered.

Bruce's voice was grave as he said, "This is not a game, Tony. This will kill you."

"So you keep saying. How are the tests going?"

"They're not conclusive enough," Bruce shook his head. "I don't know if it would heal you, or just make everything worse."

"Worse than dying?"

"Tony."

"Fine," he waved him off. "But I'm not going to stop using the suit. I'm dying anyway; what's a few weeks difference?"

"You would be lucky if it stays weeks at this rate." Bruce crossed his arms with a deeply disappointed look. Tony was quite used to those. "Have you even looked at the stuff they sent over from your father's work? I know he was looking into creating new elements—"

"Was—failed." He turned back to the design blueprints projected around him. "Continue on mission" meant there was still an outpost to rebuild and thus work to be done. "He never succeeded. Not sure what more they'd have to offer me than anything else."

Bruce sighed. "It's still worth consideration; maybe there's something there that he missed. You have to at least try—"

"Do you think I haven't been trying?" he cut in, agitation pulling at his skin like thorns. "Do you think I haven't run through a thousand different solutions, all of which wouldn't work? What a genius Tony Stark is, everyone! He built an arc reactor to keep himself alive, but oh, wait, no, turns out it's actually killing him and he can't even figure out how to fix it. Real impressive—"

"Tony, stop it."

"But thank you, Bruce. I'm happy to have someone remind me that I'm failing spectacularly—"

"Stop it!"

Tony snapped his mouth shut, but it was more in surprise than in concession. Tony could be difficult at the best of times, sure, but Bruce had been one of the few people who he'd never managed to truly get a rise out of.

This, however, was clearly taking a toll on him. Tony watched as Bruce took deep breaths, like he was desperately trying to calm himself down.

When he spoke again, Bruce's voice was low, the anger still there but eclipsed by a more pointed frustration, along with what Tony could only place as something edging toward despondence. "Why— why do you do this? You can't just keep pushing everyone away. You're acting like a child lashing out, but for what? Your father is dead. There's no ghost of him following you around, Tony, waiting for you to screw up, waiting for you to fail so he can bail you out and tell you 'I told you so.' All of that exists only in your head."

Only in my head, and in the eyes of everyone who looks at me and sees a failure, who sees me as half the man my father was, he thought bitterly, but kept his mouth tightly shut.

"This is your life we're talking about. And I don't care how little you value it, there are still plenty of people here who do."

He let out a harsh laugh at that. "Pretty sure contractually obligated doesn't count."

"Pretty sure I'm contractually obligated to report anyone who isn't fit to work," Bruce snapped back.

Tony turned to Bruce, his jaw clenched as his own anger swelled fiercely. "You wouldn't."

Bruce stood there, arms crossed, saying nothing in reply. Internally, Tony seethed. Bruce was the last person he'd expected to pull rank over him, and he suddenly wondered if he'd been seeing them all wrong. Maybe Bruce wasn't the friend he played at; maybe he was just another person who smiled politely and indulged Tony but ultimately thought no different than those who openly despised him.

"Sir, Sergeant Barnes is requesting access to the lab," JARVIS' voice broke through the heavy silence that had fallen between them.

"Let him in," Tony replied without taking his eyes off of Bruce. "Doctor Banner was just leaving."

Bruce's shoulders fell the smallest fraction, clearly deflating, but his expression remained steadfast. The only thing he gave away was a small shake of his head before he turned to leave. "Stop using the suit, Tony," he called back as he passed by Barnes on his way out of the lab.

Tony watched him as he left, anger still burning in his veins. He hated that the words made him feel like a chastised child; stop touching that, Anthony. Stop getting in the way. Stop bothering me. Just stop. God, was he really that pathetic?

And here was Bruce, threatening to bench him, to put a leash on him like everyone was so desperate to do.

Well, fuck that, and fuck him.

"I didn't mean to interrupt."

Tony finally turned to Barnes then, the expression on his face both curious and unsure of himself, like he had half a mind to turn and leave. Tony took a deep breath, shaking his head as he forced the tension from his body. Everything's fine. Press face. He slipped into it with practiced ease. "You weren't interrupting, Bruce was leaving anyway."

"Oh," Barnes nodded, his tone suggesting he didn't believe him but wouldn't pry. "Well, I was just—"

"You here about the arm?"

Barnes' gaze snapped to Tony's, eyes wide. His mouth opened several times before he finally settled on, "What?"

"The arm," Tony nodded to the appendage in question. "I can make you a better one."

"I– That would be, uh..." Barnes looked down at his arm for a long moment before looking back to Tony. "Why?"

"Because the joints are too heavy and the whole thing is unbalanced. You've subconsciously learned to compensate for this, putting more strain on the right side of your body which will no doubt come to bite you in the ass years down the line, however many centuries that may be. Can you even feel anything with that hand?"

Barnes blinked. "What would be the point in that?"

"What would—" Tony cut himself off with a humorless laugh. "Why am I not even surprised by that question."

"Look, Tony, that's not why I—"

"I know that's not why you came here." He had a strong feeling he knew exactly why Barnes was in his lab, but after the fight with Bruce, he wasn't exactly in the mood to have a heart to heart with him over what happened down on the outpost. In fact, he would be quite happy to put it behind him and never discuss it again. "So, the arm?"

Barnes squared his jaw, a determined look crossing his face, and all Tony's hopes flew out the window. Today was decidedly not Tony's day. "I want to apologize—"

"Please, please stop doing that," Tony said as he closed his eyes, willing the floor to spontaneously open up and swallow him whole.

"—for what happened in the lab. All of it. I didn't mean to make you feel trapped, or like you had to—"

"I forgive you. Great, now can we move on?"

Barnes blew out a frustrated breath. "Why won't you just let me apologize?"

"You already did! What exactly is there left to apologize for? You didn't make me feel—" Tony stopped short, reigning himself in with a quick breath. "It doesn't matter, ok? Now let's all move on and pretend it didn't happen."

"I'm not going to do that."

He had half a mind to strangle this man, and it didn't even have anything to do with his past deeds as a HYDRA assassin. "Barnes—"

"Bucky."

Tony stopped short again. "What?"

"You can call me Bucky."

It was Tony's turn to blink owlishly, then from one moment to the next he was speaking without really thinking over what he was saying. "Absolutely not. That's a terrible nickname and you know it."

A startled look crossed Barnes' face, but Tony only had about half a second to curse his brain-to-mouth filter before the hint of a smile was spreading across his lips. "Do you have any better suggestions then?"

"So many," Tony replied easily, "but I don't think you'd particularly appreciate any of them."

"Try me."

Tony eyed him, noting the slight ease in his posture now. Still, while he'd learned the man certainly had a sense of humor that erred on the darker side of things, he wasn't foolish enough to think they were anything approaching friends. "How about I stick with James for now?"

"James?" Barnes questioned with a quirk of his brow.

"I think I've called Rhodey that all of once in his life, so it's not like it's taken," Tony reasoned.

Barnes slipped his hands into his pockets, seeming to consider it. "Still feels a bit formal—"

"Your first name feels formal?"

Barnes leveled him with an unimpressed look, which Tony returned with a roll of his eyes but conceded the hypocrisy. "Touché"

"But, if that's what you want," Barnes shrugged, "I can work with that."

"Fantastic, I'm so glad we've managed to get over that massive hurdle that was holding us back. Now, about the arm—"

"I'm still going to apologize."

Tony felt his whole body deflate.

"Tony Stark," Barnes began, his tone becoming serious again, "I, James Buchanan Barnes, am sorry for what happened."

Tony pressed his hands to his face, letting out a loud groan. "I need you to know how much I hate you right now."

"I'm sorry for confronting you while we were trapped in the lab," he continued despite Tony's interruption. "It wasn't the time or the place, and I shouldn't have— I just..."

Tony's hands fell from his face to find Barnes staring straight at him, an openness to his gaze that instinctually made Tony want to turn away. He held fast.

"I wanted to know where I stood with you. So, I'm sorry I pushed you on that. And I'm sorry that I made assumptions about you, about how you should feel about all of this. I just know how I would feel and I… Honestly, I don't even know how you can look at me."

Tony let out a breath that fell just short of derisive. "Wouldn't that go against your upstanding moral character?"

"That's all Stevie," he said with a shake of his head. "He's always had a heart of gold. I'm not quite that good of a person, when you get down to it. Why I always looked up to him, I guess."

"You and everyone else," Tony muttered under his breath. When Barnes didn't seem inclined to add anything further, Tony found himself somewhat surprised at Barnes' restraint. "That it? No attempt at some grand apology for the giant elephant that insists on hanging out in every room where we cross paths?"

Barnes swallowed, his eyes briefly falling before coming back up to meet Tony's. "I don't think there's anything I could say or do that would ever be enough to make you understand how sorry I am for that, so. There's just..."

"Living with it?" Tony supplied.

"Yeah," he breathed out heavily. "Yeah, something like that."

Tony kept staring at Barnes as his emotions warred inside of him. He didn't really care for Barnes' apology—said so as much many times—but that didn't mean the words didn't still sit heavily in his chest. Despite his comment earlier that it didn't matter, it didn't not matter either. It was a lot for Barnes to say it out loud, and the gesture was not so much lost on Tony as many would assume. It was just a lot for him to process, emotions he usually brushed aside or buried deep because dealing with them meant… well, dealing with them. Considering recent events, he could definitively say he was not a fan.

However, standing here before him now, the least Tony could do was admit to himself that hearing Barnes say the words with such sincerity only confirmed what he'd realized down in that lab: he didn't hate this man for what he'd done, and he never would.

So Tony cleared his throat and forced himself to say, "Well, for what it's worth, I um... I forgive you. Seriously. For all of it. Even that nonsense down on Callisto."

Barnes quickly shook his head. "That's not why I'm doing this. You don't have—"

"I know," Tony cut him off, his voice firm. "I know I don't. Still."

Tony couldn't quite describe the emotions shifting through Barnes' eyes, but he didn't miss the slight tremor in his voice when he said, "Thank you."

Tony gave a short nod in acknowledgement, but this whole interaction had left him unmoored. He knew his usual flippant remarks in a bid to change subjects would come off as particularly callous, even for him, so he grasped at something familiar—engineering. "So... about the arm?"

Barnes looked somewhat thrown, glancing down at the appendage in question. "Oh, um... No. No, I'm good."

Tony hummed. "Are you saying no because it's me asking, or are you saying no because you don't think you deserve it?"

Barnes shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes still cast downward.

"If it's the latter, I can tell you I really don't care what you do or don't deserve. I just know I can do a better job than them, and you get a better arm out of it."

"And if it's the former?"

"Depends on which side you're falling on. Whether it's because it's me and you don't trust me, or because it's me and you still feel guilty."

"I don't..." Barnes paused, his brow furrowing. After a moment he finished, "I don't not trust you."

"A ringing endorsement, if I've ever heard one."

Barnes sighed. "I don't know you. Not really."

"That's fair," Tony shrugged. Then he tilted his head in consideration. "Well, how about this: get to know me." When Barnes finally looked back up at him, eyes somewhat wide and unsure, Tony spread his arms and nodded to the space around them. "Feel free to come into the lab if you want. I can't promise I'll be good company if I'm buried in something, but you don't have to avoid me either."

Barnes' face scrunched a bit, like he couldn't quite comprehend what Tony was saying. After a moment he finally said, "I don't—"

"You won't be bothering me," Tony cut him off, just knowing in his gut where that statement was going. "If you were, I wouldn't have offered. And if you do, I'll just kick you out. No harm, no foul."

Barnes looked around the lab then, his eyes wandering from one surface to another. "All this... just to get at my arm?"

"No." Tony waited until Barnes was looking back at him. "I'm not HYDRA. I won't strap you down and force you to do anything you don't want to. If you don't want me working on it, I won't. That doesn't change my offer."

Tony could see him visibly swallow, and again it looked like he was doing everything to force himself to keep eye contact.

"Okay," he finally replied with a small nod. "And, um... you don't have to avoid me, either. If you want."

Tony scoffed as he turned back to the projections. "Who says I was avoiding you?"

"Is that a coffee maker?"

Tony was already beginning to regret his decision.


To say Steven Grant was losing his mind might not, actually, be an over exaggeration for once. As he sat in the medical ward of a SHIELD space station, so called Cerberus II, being told that his name was Marc Spector and that he had been in an accident down on Jupiter's moon Callisto was... a lot to take in. Mostly because his name wasn't Marc, it was Steven, and he had never worked for an organization called SHIELD. Or been to space.

He was definitely losing his mind.

The doctor, Bruce Banner he'd introduced himself as, was being remarkably calm about the whole situation. Perhaps suspiciously so, given that after Steven finished explaining that no, he was not, in fact, Marc Spector, that this all must be a very vivid dream that he'd very much like to wake up from, Bruce gave a small, sad smile and said, "I think I know what's going on here."

When he asked Steven if he could do a brain scan, he was quick to refuse.

"I think I've had enough being poked and prodded for one nightmare, thanks."

Surprisingly, Bruce conceded.

"Alright. Well, I can't force you to do anything you don't want, so long as you're not hurting yourself or anyone else. I suppose I should give you a rundown of the station so you can find your way around."

Steven humored the man, listening to him tell the story of the space station, of the mission to reinstate a lunar base that had encountered unforeseen problems that supposedly led to him being in medical, and of the crew that comprised the station. It was all very detailed, and even the exam table he sat upon as he listened felt decidedly solid, real, so much so that he found himself slightly worried about (and a tad impressed with) his brain's ability to create such realism.

When he left the room with permission to explore the station, his wonder only increased at the amount of detail around him. Everything beneath his fingertips held such specific texture, felt like it all existed somewhere outside of his mind. Of course, that would be absurd; losing a day or two here and there, ending up on the floor instead of in his bed, that was one thing. But ending up on a space station? That would be madness.

So he indulged the dream as he explored the station, and he asked questions to an AI who seemed happy as anything to answer. He ignored his hunger—what good would eating in a dream do anyway—and found himself enthralled by the area Bruce had labeled "the atrium." It was a lovely little spot, one he'd never imagine being on a space station, but it felt like the most familiar thing to him as he walked through. Finding a bench nestled back in an overhang of plants, Steven sat down heavily as he took in all that was around him.

"Suppose I fall asleep in a dream, think I'll finally wake up from all of this?"

"The perceptions of falling asleep and waking up can both be simulated in a dream state, and as such what you would feel as waking up may actually just be another facet of your unconscious mind's processes during a REM cycle," the female voice answered.

"Well, that's a shit deal. How am I supposed to know if I'm really awake, then?"

"There are usually indicators that become apparent in the dreamer's mind that give away the experience as a dream; oddities that do not align with reality, or feelings of displacement and unease."

"Like ending up on a space station with no recollection of how you got there, or everyone calling you a different name?"

"Those are not necessarily things that would indicate a false reality."

"Yeah, you would say that, wouldn't you? Means you'd have to acknowledge you ain't real either."

The voice didn't reply for once, and Steven counted that as a win. "Was nice meeting you, then," he said as he laid back against the bench, closing his eyes with the determination to set his world back on its proper axis once and for all.

When he opened his eyes sometime later, however, it was to the same shroud of greenery, the bench beneath him still hard and unyielding. The only change appeared in the form of a tall, blond man, now standing before him. A slow, tingling sort of panic began to race up his spine.

"I cannot still be dreaming."

"Wow," the man breathed on a small laugh, shaking his head in what looked like wonder. "Bruce wasn't kidding. Accent's different and everything."

Steven sat up abruptly, feeling his heart begin to race as he gripped the edge of the bench that still felt too solid beneath his fingers.

"Whoa there, take it easy," the man said gently, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. He stood a beat before flashing a brief, disarming smile, then moved to sit next to Steven on the bench. "I'm guessing this is all a lot to take in."

"What, that either my mind has created the most vivid dream ever and it refuses to let me out, or that this is all somehow real and I've ended up on a goddamn space station with no recollection of it?"

The man winced at his words and took a moment where he looked to be deciding how to reply. "Yes, but this isn't the first experience you've had losing time, is it?"

Steven suddenly felt very nauseous.

"I know it's hard to hear," the man continued, "but you're not dreaming. This is all very real."

"I'm beginning to get that, yeah," Steven replied without thinking, his mind feeling like it was screeching to a halt as it tried to process the very idea he didn't want to be true.

"Have you..." the man began slowly, his eyes still so earnest and full of sympathy, "have you ever heard of DID?"

"What?"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder. Multiple personalities."

Steven stood up, the growing panic inside of him too much. "Mate, there's just no end to this, is there?" His voice was harsh as he shook his head, rubbing his palms roughly over his face before he turned back to the man. "Of course I've heard of it. But what is this? About me and multiple personalities? Are you sayin' that—"

"Yes." The man's voice was firm but still aggravatingly calm.

Steven took a deep breath. "No. No, no, no, no, you're havin' a laugh, is what you're doing." He started pacing the length of the bench, glaring at the empty spot he had once occupied. "There ain't no other personalities or whatever in my head. It's just me, I'm—"

"How do you account for the missing time, then?"

"Well that's—" He stopped short, the faux wood grain mocking him. "I've been... sick, or whatever. I sleepwalk, probably. Haven't been to get it checked out."

"And your station here?"

"Well I'm not stationed here, am I?" he shot back. "Maybe I was put under or something, and this is all some, I dunno, elaborate experiment."

"Steven," the man said in his stupidly calm, stupidly placating voice. "We have video logs of Marc working here. We can show them to you if you think it might help."

"Help, help what? It's not hard to fake something like that. I bet the AI is doing it right now."

The man finally sighed, leaning back against the bench as he gave a helpless shrug. "You're technically right, but I'd never do that to anyone. Look, either you can trust me, trust all of us, that we're not lying to you, or drive yourself mad trying to make up some other alternative that explains what's happening to you."

Steven buried his face in his hands. This wasn't real, this couldn't be real, he didn't want it to be real. But, truly, when in his life had he ever gotten what he wanted? When had things ever made sense for him? This explanation wasn't so far fetched as any other; what would choosing this answer over any of the others really mean in the long run? This man seemed earnest enough, and the doctor had backed off when he'd told him to; if this was all real, these people didn't seem too preoccupied with forcing him to do anything in particular. And if this was all a dream, nothing that happened really mattered anyway. But then, even if this was all real but buried in some twisted psychological torture, what agency would he have? He could fight them tooth and nail, but ultimately he was still stuck here—it wasn't like he could go home.

Right?

"Would you lot let me leave?"

"What?"

He dropped his hands from his face, his eyes unwavering from the man before him. "If I said I wanted to go home, right now, could I leave?"

The man took a deep breath, considering, but his gaze remained as steady as Steven's. "As the Captain of this station, yes, I would grant you leave to return to Earth. Now, what my superiors would do with you once you returned is out of my hands; I can't pretend to play God in all of this. You are aboard a SHIELD-operated vessel, and as such they have final say over any and all dealings with personnel under their jurisdiction, which you technically are, regardless of your opinion on the matter. However, I refuse to hold anyone here against their will—if that is truly what you wish to do, I would not prevent you from leaving."

And there it was. Steven saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice; he knew the man wasn't lying. But what did it matter? He was fucked either way. Staying, going—the result was the same. To everyone here he was Marc, and he had a feeling whatever "Marc" was involved with wasn't something they'd let Steven walk away from.

With a deep sigh, he figured there was nothing for it. "You're Steve, then? Bruce fellow said something about a Captain Steve Rogers."

The man nodded. "That would be me, yes."

"Well fuck me, that's gonna be annoying, innit?"

Steve broke out a laugh at that, some of the tension easing at the sound. "You can call me Rogers, if it helps. I'm fairly used to it."

He shrugged. "Alright, Rogers. Show me these recordings then."

So Rogers took him to a room, sat him down at a desk, and called on the AI to pull up video logs of Marc Spector. And Steven watched. He watched a man who looked exactly like him talk with an American accent about whatever they were doing here on this station, about updates, about crew conditions. He watched him talk to a girl named Layla, the only time his voice dropped to something less formal, something hinting at regret and hope.

He watched all of them, a whole life of a person who was supposedly him but until now had no access to. He watched and he watched, a sickening sense of terror and fascination growing inside of him.

He was Steven Grant.

He was Marc Spector.

Oh, and the year was 2132 and somehow he'd lost three years of his life.


"This is... um, sorry. This is Communications Officer Clint Barton, reporting from Cerberus II. The date is July 21st, 2132, and the station temperature remains stable at 22 degrees Celsius. Functions are normal. We're at ninety-four percent for the gardens, sixty-sixty for rations.

"As you know, Marc is awake. Well, not Marc, but... you already knew that. And shockingly don't seem to care much. Somehow his condition doesn't meet your standards for 'demands immediate action;' I'm beginning to wonder what even would. He's doing okay, by the way. Or, at least as okay as one can be in this situation. Nice enough guy. Way nicer than Marc, actually. Not sure where that comes from. We're still monitoring him, like you all asked, even though no one on this station is qualified to deal with this.

"Nothing's changed.

"To be honest, I'm not sure what you're expecting from us here. To just keep going, like there isn't effectively a whole other person on the station with us now? I get that Marc is still here, might come back, but it... If I may speak freely, Command? And I will, because I doubt you all really listen to these anyway—this doesn't feel right. Something is off, something is way off, and either you don't know and don't care, or you do know and still don't care.

"Or maybe that's the whole of it, why we're all here. Just some experiment you want to see the results of, consequences be damned. If that's the case, fuck you very much—I hope you're all enjoying the show.

"And while you're at it, feel free to log my insubordination for disciplinary action; I wait with bated breath.

"Cerberus II out."


The atrium was simulating a thunderstorm. There were no flashes of lightning, but the slow roll of thunder played intermittently in complement to the heavy patter of rain coming through the speakers.

Bucky sat on a bench tucked away in a small alcove, hidden further by the wide spreading branches of an allspice tree. He sat with his arms crossed, his eyes on the floor in front of him, unseeing.

His nightmares were getting worse.

Truly, it was nothing new for him. Ever since he'd been brought back, so to speak, his nights had been plagued with memories from the decades he'd lost. "It's your mind trying to work through what happened," a therapist had once suggested. Or it's penance, he'd thought to himself. Why should he be granted a peaceful night's sleep after everything he'd done?

There were times it got bad enough that he'd even long for the cryo chamber, biting cold be damned, if only to escape into the nothingness it offered.

They hadn't been too bad in awhile, though; manageable. He'd gotten to a place where he could catch uninterrupted sleep in small windows of time that didn't pull him all the way under, that would skim the surface of memories only to retreat before the picture coalesced. Those breaks were becoming harder and harder to come by. He could feel it worsening, growing beneath his skin, burning through him like an infection. In the weeks since their mission to Callisto, he was lucky to get more than a few hours of sleep at any one time. He was tired.

Steve had approached him about Marc. Well, Steven, now. Had explained the situation to him and had gently asked him if he'd be willing to talk to him.

"Talk to him? About what?"

The question had only just left his lips before it dawned on him.

"Well, with everything that happened to you, I thought, maybe—"

Bucky had cut Steve off with a sharp shake of his head before he could continue.

"It's not..." He'd stopped, searching for the right words that wouldn't give too much away. "I don't think I'd have anything to offer him, really. It's just, it's not the same."

And Steve—ever patient and accommodating—had simply nodded and said he understood.

He knew the words were meant to be comforting. Instead, it left him feeling like a broken thing again, like a tool that had lost its usefulness and was nothing more than scrap metal taking up space in an ever growing pile of "maybe one day I'll need this." No one needed him, though, not really.

"You look like you're thinking way too hard for 3 AM."

The voice pulled Bucky out of his thoughts, his eyes moving up to watch Tony fall heavily onto the bench beside him. Tony heaved a put-upon sigh as he turned his body sideways and laid back, one leg curling over the armrest, the other stretched out, foot on the floor. His head was on Bucky's thigh, and Bucky didn't quite know what to do with that, so he did nothing. Tony, for his part, seemed like he thought nothing of it.

"I can't sleep and Loki won't let me bother him," Tony grumbled, answering the unasked question without provocation. "What's your excuse, Snowflake?"

That garnered a raise of his eyebrows. "Is that what we're going with?"

"It's the least offensive one my brain could muster right now."

"I appreciate the effort."

Snowflake. Bucky knew that it was, technically, considered an insult, yet Tony managed to make it sound like a term of endearment more than anything. Whether that was intentional on Tony's part he couldn't be sure, and as such he wasn't keen to point it out. Besides, he liked it. Perhaps because of that. "The Winter Soldier" was a moniker meant to invoke fear, a warning, a threat. "Snowflake" was... stupid. Cute.

"So?"

Bucky took in a slow breath. "Can't sleep either."

"Because?" Tony said, drawing out the word to not-so-subtly ask for elaboration.

Bucky didn't reply. He didn't want to voice his thoughts, afraid of how they'd sound aloud. What it would mean.

Tony didn't push. He let the silence linger for as long as his patience would allow, then he hummed to himself as he reached up and pulled Bucky's metal arm away from the other, stretching it out above him.

Bucky wasn't surprised by the action, easily allowing Tony free reign to run exploratory hands over the appendage. It always reminded him of the first time Tony had done it down in the lab on Callisto; he supposed he should have felt threatened by it, or some sense of unease, but he never did. Tony's eyes were curious—and calculating, sure—but never cold. It was a puzzle to be solved, a piece of tech to be tinkered with, improved, not a weapon to fix, to keep whole and in working order.

Bucky had also grown used to how Tony's form of restlessness expressed itself since taking up Tony's offer to visit his labs. He'd noted that Tony was almost always moving, tactile, touching parts or papers, absentmindedly holding things in his mouth when his hands were too preoccupied. He'd mutter to himself, talk to his AI, JARVIS, like it was second nature. The AI, for its part, seemed to know when an answer was actually required or when silence was preferable; often sounded long-suffering but also indulgent.

Tony would sometimes direct questions at Bucky, technical things that he had no hope of even beginning to understand, but he'd quickly learned Tony didn't actually expect a reply. Now when Tony does this he knows to simply stare back silently, an encouraging tilt to his chin as he watches the countless thoughts flying through Tony's brain until his eyes widen just slightly with The Answer, which he will loudly declare before going off to execute whatever said idea required.

Bucky found all of this... comforting. Comforting in the way that it was so far from anything like HYDRA's labs, that his mind could clearly separate the two in his head as distinct, separate spaces. HYDRA labs were cold, efficient. Not that Tony wasn't efficient, but he worked in such a way that was so vibrant, that shamelessly radiated love for his work. He was loud and full of energy, at times so singularly focused it took the efforts of both the AI and Bucky to get him to take a break. He looked at ease surrounded by blueprints and mockups and any number of spare parts scattered around the space. It was, in a way, beautiful. He was beautiful.

It was a passing thought Bucky didn't let himself dwell on. He merely took it in stride, filed it away under his growing assessment of Tony Stark: The Person.

He stared down at the man now, taking in his expression, ever intrigued when exploring Bucky's prosthetic. The desire to know more, to get inside and satiate his curiosity was always openly on display in Tony's eyes when he looked at Bucky's arm, transparent and unabashed. But he never pushed. He hadn't asked about it since that first day in his lab, soaking up any leeway Bucky allowed in his curiosity, but never asking for more than was freely given.

And perhaps it was that consideration that finally wore down his last few reservations.

"You can work on it, if you want."

Tony's hands stilled immediately, his eyes turning to look up at Bucky's own. His gaze was searching until, after a moment, he slowly narrowed his eyes in a suspicious squint.

"Don't tease me with a good time. That's just rude."

Bucky fought the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm being serious."

Tony's eyes grew wide then, looking between Bucky and the arm. He opened his mouth but paused, something clearly warring in his mind. He seemed to finally settle on simply asking, "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Tony's eyes were back on the arm, his gaze holding a kind of reverence, like Bucky had just given him a gift. The notion felt mildly ridiculous to him, but also overwhelming in a way he didn't want to think about.

"Not tonight, though," he said as he pulled the arm away, settling it on the top of the bench.

"Wha— " Tony blinked disbelievingly, looking for all the world like Bucky had just taken away his favorite toy. The analogy might not have been too far off.

"It's late. You shouldn't be up, let alone working."

A glare took up residence on Tony's face, but there was no real heat to it. "Or, one could say it's early and just the thing to get a head start on my day. We both know neither of us is going back to sleep anytime soon anyway."

Bucky inclined his head. "We should try to get some sleep, though."

"And yet."

He hummed in acknowledgement. "And yet."

Tony sighed overdramatically. "You're so mean. Has anyone ever told you that you're actually the worst?"

"Yes."

"Good," Tony grumbled. "You should really work on that."

He was pouting. Bucky found it kind of adorable. He wasn't sure he should.

"So, are you going to tell me why you were contemplating the true meaning of life earlier?" His tone was petty, as if the question was retaliation for Bucky's refusal to let him work on the arm immediately, but his gaze suggested he wouldn't push if Bucky really didn't want to talk about it.

"It was nothing."

"The meaning of life?"

"Now who's being annoying."

"I'm always annoying, it's one of my finer traits."

"Steve asked me to talk to Marc."

Tony didn't reply immediately, letting the words hang in the air. Then, he said, "Ah. The Steven thing."

"Yeah," Bucky sighed. "That."

Another moment passed before Tony asked, "Is this about the Winter Soldier?"

Bucky only nodded in response.

"He thinks it's like what's going on with Marc."

Another nod. Another pause, this one even longer.

He could almost feel Tony putting the pieces together.

"But it's not." Tony said it as a statement, like he just knew. But it wasn't accusatory; it was said just like that: a statement of fact.

"I was aware the whole time."

The second the words left his lips, he knew why he couldn't say them to Steve—it felt like a confession, like taking away all plausible deniability and laying bare the truth of what he'd done.

He was so used to referring to the Winter Soldier like it was some other being that existed separate from him because that was easier, wasn't it? People had assumed that's what it was like, and he'd let them, because it was easier to swallow, easier to justify his acquittal.

Tony, though... Tony already had every reason to hate him. What was one more? So he waited for Tony to pull away when he inevitably realized what the words meant, for the familiar disdain to mar his features, for the hate he surely deserved to be hurled his way on biting words.

But Tony said nothing.

When Bucky chanced a look down at him, Tony was staring up at him with a neutral expression, perhaps a tad expectant, like he was waiting for Bucky to continue.

So he did. And he didn't break eye contact as he spoke, watching Tony's face, waiting for a break in the facade.

"Winter isn't some... He's not a different person lurking around inside my head. It's me. It's just me, stripped of everything, made to feel nothing beyond the desire to complete the mission. The more memories that come back to me... I know I was there for every single one, but I couldn't stop it. Didn't want to."

It was, on some level, like living through a dream. There existed a layer of disconnect, a layer of this isn't real that separated his actions from his mind, even though he very much knew what was happening was real.

"I couldn't feel anything. I could feel that I didn't feel anything. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but the knowledge didn't stop me. It was... it was easier than fighting."

And that was the crux of it. Beyond the protective shroud of so-called self-preservation sat the truth of it all: everything he'd done could have been prevented if he'd just fought harder, if he'd pushed and pushed until it killed him. But he didn't. He didn't, because he'd just wanted the pain to stop, because his mind retreated to protect itself, found it easier to give in and obey than to bleed and fight.

Tony sat up, and even though Bucky knew it was coming, the rejection still tore at something inside him.

But then Tony was moving towards him, not away. He was pressing up against Bucky's side, his arms crossed, the point of contact stretching from their shoulders to their calves. "I think you should talk to him."

Bucky hardly processed the words, his mind still reeling from Tony's actions, from the fact that he was offering him support after what he'd said, not dismissal. "Do you understand what I'm saying?" he found himself asking, unable to hold back the accusation in his tone.

"Oh, I understand perfectly what that means," Tony replied, his own tone suggesting that he'd already made up his mind on the subject. When he turned to look at Bucky once more, his eyes also held the weight of that conviction. "Now, tell me if I'm wrong," he continued as if there was nothing more to be said on the matter, "but you're blaming yourself for letting it happen."

All he wanted to do was look away from those eyes, to curl up somewhere dark and alone and away from everyone. But he kept his gaze, and Tony read right through him.

"That's what I thought." Tony looked away then, as if purposely to give Bucky some sort of reprieve. But even as he did, Tony pressed himself more solidly against his side. Acknowledgement. Reassurance.

"It's a trauma response. Dissociation. It happens to a lot of people."

Bucky wanted to ask if it had happened to him. He kept his mouth shut.

"And in your case they weaponized it, which is just an extra level of shitty on top of everything else. But you can't blame yourself for it, no matter how much it feels like you should. You may have felt it, seen it all, but it wasn't you. Not in a way that matters."

He sounded like Steve. He sounded a lot like Steve, and he wanted to believe it, wanted to believe those words when they were said to him, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to accept that it wasn't something he could have stopped.

Doesn't change the facts. People died, and on some level it's our fault. Tony's own words echoed in his mind as if in rebuttal.

"You still blame yourself."

Oddly, the statement brought a smile to Tony's face. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." He turned to look at Bucky again as he said, "That's why I don't give life advice. Sounds too hypocritical coming from me. Even if it's true, which in your case it definitely is. My point, though," he was quick to continue, "is that while you guys are experiencing something different, it's coming from the same place. I dunno, maybe talking through what it was like for you will help him somehow."

"And what about you?"

"We're not talking about me."

"Do you want—"

"Never, in a million years, thank you."

"You do realize that's—"

"Hypocritical?" The smile this time was bright, flashy. "Now you know why I'm such a joy to be around."

Bucky saw it for what it was: deflection, a wall. "You're not so bad, actually."

Tony seemed to falter at that, but he recovered quickly. "Oh, actually." His tone was light, teasing. "Good to know I'm exceeding expectations."

Bucky hadn't known what to make of Tony when they'd first met, when he put the man the world ascribed to him against the man that stood before him. In the weeks since, he wasn't sure "exceed" was the right word to encompass all that Tony was compared to what the rest of the world saw.

"Not hard to do when the expectations are so low."

"Stabbing me would actually hurt less." Tony's smile was softer now. "So what do you say?" he asked with a gentle nudge to Bucky's side. "You gonna try talking with him?"

Bucky reached out with his right hand, picking a leaf off of a branch that hung low beside him as he contemplated the idea. "I still don't see how it'd be any help to him." He wanted to say no. Every instinct within him shouted to say no.

"Who says he's the only one who'll get something out of it?"

Bucky turned to Tony with an incredulous look.

"I have it on good authority from many therapists that discussing these things is good for you. Helps figure shit out so you can move on or whatever."

"Really? And how's that going for you?"

"I'll let you know if I ever try it."

"You are truly an inspiration to us all."

"I do my best to give back where I can. Especially to those in need."

"And I'm one of those especially in need?"

"Definitely. Completely hopeless." Tony shuffled down a bit, leaning his head back against Bucky's shoulder, eyes closing. Bucky couldn't imagine laying against the metal was at all comfortable, but he supposed Tony wasn't unused to finding himself passed out on an odd metal surface or two.

"Thought you weren't going to sleep anytime soon."

"Someone won't let me look at their arm, so there's not much else to do. That smells like every overpriced, self-indulgent, fall-themed anything."

Bucky was momentarily confused by the non sequitur until he remembered the leaf in his hand, now crushed between his thumb and index finger. "It's allspice. The berries are where we get the spice from, but the whole plant smells like it."

"Mm. It's nice. That why you came here?"

"I don't—" Bucky stared at the broken leaf, considering. The smell was familiar, warm, one of those scents that just felt like it was meant to be tied to a certain kind of memory. "Maybe? I'm... I'm not—"

"Nevermind, I can feel you thinking again."

Bucky scoffed. "Oh, the horror."

Tony grinned. "Here be dragons. Best not to wake them, or you'll be up all night."

"That so?"

"Mhm." Bucky wasn't sure how Tony could make that simple response sound so smug. "Of course, if you'd let me work on your arm..."

"Go to sleep, Tony."

"You go to sleep," he grumbled petulantly, but his voice was already drifting.

Bucky watched him, the lines of his face relaxed, seemingly at ease. The image itself—of Tony asleep, resting on him of all people—conjured up a sense of cognitive dissonance. How could Tony so easily fall asleep here, trust him when he was so vulnerable?

Bucky let the broken leaf slip from his fingers, the scent of warm spice lingering in the air. Tony was reckless, overconfident, at worst a bit arrogant—and he was dying. Bucky saw it more everyday, in the pallor of his skin, the exhaustion that went beyond lack of sleep, in the way he'd stare off into nothingness, quiet and so, so still, a stark contrast to his usual bluster of energy. He supposed, then, that it wasn't much of a surprise Tony was so blasé about his own safety.

Bucky didn't know all what was going on, wasn't sure how long he had left or if there was any way to stop it. It didn't feel like this place to ask, so he didn't.

Still, he couldn't help but feel like he was losing... something. Perhaps something that wasn't his to lose, but would leave behind an ache all the same.