Absolute Gravity

I sunk into the couch cushions. My arms were heavy with all the accessories Tony had made for me. Monitors and hidden pieces of nano-tech that would change if something went wrong. At that moment, the only thing wrong was pain. And it was sharp enough that I barely noticed the shift in memories. I hadn't done much in the last few months. Or at least nothing significant enough to warrant my focus.

"How are you feeling?" my dad asked as he settled in his favorite armchair. The arms were dented from all the times Clara and I sat on them to watch movies with him. We'd perch on the arms and steal his popcorn. We were almost grown by the time we realized he had made the popcorn just for us.

The layout of the living room hadn't changed in probably thirty years. Maybe the couch was new, and the scent of popcorn no longer lingered in the upholstery. The TV was a gift from Tony. Vastly different from the chunky thing we used to watch all those movies on.

Clara was in the kitchen now, bickering with my mom over something. Tony was trying to wrangle Bernie into an adorable reindeer-themed onesie. But he'd reached the wiggly milestone. He was not yet walking but desperate to crawl everywhere he could.

"Hurts," I admitted.

"Anything we can do?" I shook my head.

"No. Just not used to flying. Atmosphere and pressure and all that." I waved toward my head as if I could brush it off as a simple headache.

"Do you have anything to take for it?"

"Yeah, but I still have to wait a few hours. I'll be fine. I'll make it."

I gave him a reassuring smile. He didn't buy it for a second. But my mom and Clara came back into the room, arguing over the proper way to make gravy. Which was hilarious, given that Clara couldn't cook to save her own life. And now she was rich enough to hire a cook or order take-out every night.

"And how would you know how to make gravy?" my mom snapped at her, pointing a spatula that was probably older than me.

Clara set her hands on her hips. She'd let her curls go for the holiday. Traded out her silk business skirt for a fluffy sweater and elegant slacks. My mom, on the other hand, looked like she belonged in that old house in that old neighborhood. With her wild silver curls wrapped in a cute reindeer headband, wearing a hot pink apron with equally ancient stains on it.

"I have friends in the culinary field," Clara explained. If we were ten years younger, I might have thrown something at her.

"Oh, excuse me. Did you hear that, John? Our fancy daughter has fancy chef friends now. So she knows how to make gravy better than I do. I've apparently been doing it wrong for the last forty years."

My dad looked like he wanted no part of this conversation. He pretended to be preoccupied with learning to use the fancy TV remote. So Clara turned on me instead. As if I'd defend the faceless chefs who put rabbit food in my cell every day instead of my own mother. Who'd stuffed my face with homemade food since the moment I walked through the door because she thought I was too skinny.

"Back me up, will you?" she asked. I dropped my head onto the crocheted blanket on the back of the couch.

"Mom makes the best gravy," I told her. It was true. Mainly because it was ninety percent butter. She puffed up like a peacock while Clara rolled her eyes.

"I told you. I'll make it how I always make it, and you'll butt out, or you'll get nothing on your potatoes." She marched back into the kitchen, and Clara followed after.

"I'm not saying I know how to make it! I'm just saying those pans are unsanitary. You should have let me buy you the nonstick ceramic."

"I like my cast iron!"

"It's older than me!"

"I think I'm gonna step out for a minute and get some fresh air," I told my dad. He nodded sagely.

"Probably a good idea."

I got up and headed out onto the front porch. The air was freezing but sharp and cool against my skin. I took all of three steps from the front door before I kneeled over and vomited into a dormant flower bush.

The front door opened, and Tony knelt beside me, gently patting me on the back while I got it out of my system.

"Gross," he said, handing me a handkerchief to wipe my face.

"Sorry. It's hard to hold in sometimes. I would have gone to the bathroom if it didn't catch me off guard."

"Maybe we should get you home." I shook my head.

"No. I'll manage. I just need a higher dosage."

"If your dosage goes any higher, you'll go catatonic." I sat back on the porch and leaned my arms on my knees. "This isn't a good sign, Jo. You're progressing faster than we anticipated."

So that's why I was being shown this memory. Or why my subconscious had pulled me here.

"I know. I just—wanted the chance to have one last holiday before it gets any worse, you know? I probably won't be able to leave my cell by this time next year. I just wanted—to say goodbye, at least. Even if they don't know it's what I'm doing. Five years was a best-case scenario anyway. We both know it'll be less than that." He patted my shoulder.

"I'm doing everything I can."

"I know you are."

He sighed and looked out over the setting sun and the quiet neighborhood. It was such a small, quaint area. Almost funny to see Tony Stark sitting there in his expensive shoes. But I think he liked it. The simplicity of where Clara came from. She may have dressed the part of a Billionaire's wife, wore things like silk skirts, and complained about cast iron pans. But this place was as much part of her as it was me.

"I've been thinking more about what you said about retiring," he told me, running his hand through his hair. "I don't know if I'm ready for a full retirement. But I'm ready for something. Peace maybe. Rest." I nodded.

"Me too."

The memory shifted all at once. The house grew quiet behind me. The birds stopped chattering. Even the trees stilled as if the air had gone suddenly stagnant. And when I turned back to look at Tony, he was gone. Instead, someone knelt on my other side and set a hand on my back. It was metal. Comforting if strange. I smiled when I realized what this was. Another memory I'd gotten lost in. But Bucky was there to remind me that this was in the past. He looked concerned when I turned back to him.

"You weren't here," I said. "You've never been here."

"No," he replied. "Is this where you grew up?"

"Yeah. You're here. How?"

"The bridge. It won't hold long."

"So it's really you, then?" He smiled.

"It's me. Tell me you've figured something out. I meant to ask you when you talked to Graham, but we lost you before we got you back to the lab." I took a deep breath and let it out.

"I don't know. I tried to tell you the last time I was conscious but couldn't go into detail. It's about separating us."

"But we don't know how to do that."

"If I know, I either haven't seen that memory yet, or she hasn't told me. She wants to go home more than anything else. More than she wants me alive. More than she wants you. If we can find where home is, maybe we can convince her to separate on her own. In a controlled environment." He nodded.

"I'll see what I can do."

"She just doesn't think I'll survive a separation."

"Then it's not an option."

"It's the only option. You know as well as I do that the right decision isn't always the easiest one. I need you to make the right choice if it comes to that."

"I can't, Jo."

"Please, Bucky." He sighed and looked out over the yard and the houses across the street.

"I'll exhaust every effort. But I can make my own promise. If it comes to that, and the only option is to let you die, then Chaos dies with you. Because I'm not sacrificing you for it. Understood?" I squeezed his hand.

"You know she won't let that happen."

"She won't have a choice. You die, she dies. That's the only way I'll agree."

"Fine," a voice said from behind us.

We both turned back to where Beata was standing with her arms crossed. Yet another person who'd never been in this place. But she was staring at Bucky as if she wanted to devour him. There was no spike of jealousy. Because seeing her wearing a face other than mine showed me all I needed to see. He hated her, and she may care for him, but she resented him too. The care was likely only the side effect of being me.

"Deal."

"Jesus Christ," he whispered.

"It's Chaos," I explained. "She takes that form for me." He turned back to me with wide blue eyes.

"It talks to you?"

"More often than you realize." He scowled at the form of her, likely remembering the real Beata and how she'd jumped off a bridge to get away from him.

"Help me save her, and I'll help you. Understood?"

"I said we have a deal," she replied. "Now get out of her head."