remains • b. barnes

10

I dreamt about Tony again that night. Except this time, it wasn't staticky like earlier. Everything was clear, in full color. Bruce was there, too. We were in the lab at Stark Tower, in that in-between phase before the Tower had officially rebranded. Steve and Natasha were still in DC. I hadn't met them yet.

2013. I was 17. It was the summer after I finished college. An in-between for me, too. I was going into my first PhD program the following semester. I spent the whole summer in that lab with them. In between, my brain wouldn't settle on a single moment. It flashed between them out of order, disjointed, and forward, too, 2015 weaving in.

I'm talking about a suit of armor around the world—

I had this sense of awe that summer—both of Tony and of the universe, like I was looking at the whole expanse of the stars at night with this feeling that Stark Tower, light years away, could shut the stars off if he wanted to, if he really tried. It was this sense of how small he was compared to infinity. And this sense of holy shit he really did that, that he could really be so small and still protect the earth from the outside.

"Hey magna cum laude," Tony called. "Come lend me your tiny hands."

"Stop calling me that!" I complained, trudging over to the counter to help him with something else tiny.

Sounds like a cold world, Tony.

I've seen colder.

"Look at Gracie. Look at her," Tony said, grabbing me by the top of my head and steering me in front of Bruce. "Do you want Gracie to enter adulthood next year in a world where she could, at any minute, be devoured whole by a big green—or any color, not green specifically—let's say purple...alien?"

"Please, sir, I want some global security," I added holding up empty, cupped hands.

"Stop using Grace to pitch your schemes," Bruce said.

Peace in our time. Imagine that.

I jolted straight up in Bucky's bed. He followed me smoothly, like he'd already been awake.

"Come here, can I touch you?" he said quietly. I turned into him, pressing into his shoulder. I wasn't upset, really. Just stunned. Disoriented.

"'M sorry I didn't wake you up," he said. I was vaguely aware of his arms around me. "I was hoping you'd sleep through and not remember."

I didn't reply. I blinked, turning out to look around. There was a sliver of dawn in the room, just visible where the curtains almost met.

He kissed the top of my head, wove his fingers through my hair, rubbed my waist underneath my shirt—his hands were everywhere in frantic comfort, like he couldn't settle, like he desperately wanted me to be fine.

"I'm okay," I said, because now I was starting to worry about him instead. He kept kissing my head and squeezing me tighter, then realizing he was maybe squeezing me too tight and then kissing my head again—and so on.

I looked back at him, away from the window.

"What d'you need me to do?" he asked.

"Have you slept yet?" I asked.

He winced. "Don't worry about me."

He definitely hadn't slept, I thought, which meant two nights (at least) in a row that he hadn't gotten proper sleep. I squinted at him in the dark, wishing there was more morning light to see him in. But I could tell even in the dimness that he looked exhausted.