I'm not going to lie, it takes me a probably inexcusable length of time to figure out what the hell I'm looking at, and only part of that is because I'm hungover. I'd been in bed, and so I think, actually, that I'm dreaming — What I'm seeing is definitely weird enough for that. Then, when the cottony throb of my head makes it clear I am very much awake, I think I'm watching some kind of production. Like a weird village movie night I showed up late to.

Even after the whole thing with Peter telling everybody about the stones and the glove and hearing about that in some form or fashion over and over again, it doesn't click.

Not until I see Tony's face.

And then I almost fall down myself, taking two shuffling backwards steps, becoming peripherally aware that I've only got socks on my feet and my right hand is clasped around the neck of a bottle of vodka — Or what used to be, anyway. Only a few swallows left now.

I want to throw up, that's how desperate I am to both see Bucky and not.

It doesn't help that I know how this ends.

It doesn't help either that I know Tony survives this, that I helped him survive this. I can't move — Physically, I mean, although it's possible this place wouldn't let me leave if I could. I just stand there, shaking my head like I can will the onslaught to stop, like it's going to go any other way.

I think I cry out at one point, but I can't be sure.

I don't remember sinking to the ground, but here I am, my breath stuttering into my lungs as I become aware, finally, that Tony is actually there next to me, gasping for air. The bottle clanks as it falls to the ground and rolls away, my hands coming up to press against his arm and back.

"Just— just—" I swallow roughly around the lump of emotion in my throat. "Count to five, in... Count to five, out."