Apologies? Sympathy? The devil on his shoulder laughed, and Tony felt sick.

"Then don't."

Tony wasn't out for excuses. He wasn't out for pity, much less from the man before him. No, no, no. He was out to get home. And James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, whoever the hell he was--he was just another wall to smash through. A massive liability with a slippery grip on his sanity.

Letting this man know rest was a decision not of emotion, but of pure practicality. Tony steadied his hand.

'Decisions that, honestly, feel like the right things to do at the time. Then you realize that you're lying to yourself--'

There was that voice again, throwing his own words back at him.

'--and the whole reason was because you really, honestly, just cannot help yourself because of how damn good they would make you feel.'

He clenched his fist. The glow of his repulsor died.

'Like murdering the man who killed your parents and stamped a giant, lingering black mark on your psyche.'

He brought his fist back into the mirror behind him. The sounds of shattering glass were distant and muddled.