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On the surface, the hospital room looks ordinary.
The decor is soft and soothing with cream walls and tasteful pictures of peaceful scenery hanging here and there. Plush armchairs fill one corner and a vase of fake flowers rests in the middle of a varnished coffee table. There’s a widescreen television on the wall too, set to mute.
It’s the technology that gives away the reality, the sleek and powerful touch of Wakanda evident in every machine and monitor, every hologram and every doctor.
It’s the images that keep dancing across the holograms serving as television screens, endless clips of dancing crowds and old footage of Iron Man playing on a never ending loop.
It’s the fact that it’s Tony Stark lying in the bed near the large window which makes this whole room, this whole situation, so very far from ordinary.
But that’s always been Tony. Nothing about him has ever been ordinary. Rhodey knows that better than most.
He casts the heart monitor another look, watching the steady pulse of the line with a vicious kind of hunger, then turns to look out the window. The view outside is just the same as it was half an hour ago: a once again thriving city, overflowing with life once more, lit up like Christmas with fireworks in the near distance and crowds celebrating with joyful abandon.
It’s a very far away contrast to the atmosphere within the room.
A wet sniffle draws Rhodey’s attention to the tense statue that is Pepper sitting in a chair next to the bed. Her face is whiter than a ghost, the redness surrounding her eyes sharp and sore. Her armour is gone, but there’s still the smudges of battle decorating her cheeks.
She meets his gaze for a brief moment before returning it to the small drone slowly sweeping a blue light up and down the ruined stretch of Tony’s right arm.
"I’m told T’Challa’s sister designed that herself," he offers weakly, some attempt at comfort. "She’s smart as hell, smarter than Tony even. She’s the one who managed to help Barnes. Bruce says - "
Pepper looks at him again and Rhodey stops talking.
He’s known Pepper a long time; long enough to recognise the expression on her face, the pain tightening her jaw and the emotion held at bay behind pursed lips and gritted teeth.
There’s no room for small talk and empty reassurances. Not here, not now.
Not when the very thing they’ve been running from for years has finally snatched Tony up in its grasp and squeezed tight, bringing him to the edge of a place where they won’t be able to follow.
Plenty of times Rhodey’s been the sturdy presence just behind Pepper as she tried to deal with whatever chaos Tony was causing or trouble he was falling into. To be that for her now seems absolutely impossible.
He wants to tell her that they’ll get through this, that it will be the same as all the other times where they thought Tony was too far out of their reach to save.
But this isn’t like those other times.
"Pepper…"
Rhodey throws his hands up placatingly as she suddenly stands, chair knocking back into the wall. Her face cracks, chin trembling so furiously that Rhodey swears he can hear her teeth chattering. She shakes her head, mutters something about Morgan and heads for the door, narrowly avoiding T’Challa as he steps into the room.
"Am I interrupting?" he asks.
Rhodey shakes his head, sighing heavily, unable to offer the man anything else.
They stand and watch the blue light of the drone continue to move up and down Tony’s arm.
"How likely?" Rhodey asks.
It’s obvious why T’Challa is such a good king, for there’s both kindness and a vacancy of admission on his face as he says, "We are doing the very best for him. My sister is not one to admit defeat when it comes to these things." He smiles fondly. "She’s stubborn like that."
"Yeah," Rhodey snorts, "I know what that’s like."
The drone zips up into the air, blue light vanishing with a soft hum. A series of beeps follows before it settles into a small compartment on the wall displaying various vitals and stats. Rhodey watches the figures and information shift and change, unable to discern much from it.
"You should rest," T’Challa says. "You’ve been awake since you arrived here. Along with the majority of your friends."
"Good luck with getting them to do that," Rhodey snorts. "Most you’ll manage is a shower and some food."
"Yes, I’ve heard that remark a number of times in the last few hours."
"Is that all it’s been? Just a few hours?" Rhodey asks, a little stunned. It’s not like he’s been keeping track of time since Strange conjured a portal for Rhodey to carry Tony’s nearly lifeless body through, but it feels like days have passed since then.
"About twelve in total," T’Challa says, glancing at the nearby hologram. "Not that I imagine many others in the world are keeping track."
Rhodey lets out a long breath and steers himself into Pepper’s empty chair. A hand comes to settle on his shoulder.
"Your friend is strong."
"He’s a pain in the ass," Rhodey retorts, attempting humour but the words feel too broken on his lips, the sentiment hollow in his chest. "Always has been."
T’Challa’s answering laugh is quiet and warm. "My sister is the same," he says before giving Rhodey’s shoulder a squeeze and taking his leave.
Rhodey leans his chin into a fist and looks over at the hologram. Footage of the decimated compound quickly shifts to a huge group of people dancing in Times Square, many of them dressed in Iron Man masks and holding up signs declaring love and thanks.
"Can’t believe you’re missing this," Rhodey finds himself murmuring. "Though it’s probably just as well. Your ego doesn’t need to get any bigger."
There’s no reply, just like he knew there wouldn’t be, but the silence still hurts.
The silence always hurts.
And Rhodey’s had to deal with it too many times.
The days Tony had been missing in space had to be some of the worst of Rhodey’s life.
More wrenching than Afghanistan, because at least then there had been somewhere to look, a way to try and do something.
After Thanos stole half the universe out of existence, there was nothing to do but wait. Pepper cried once, only once, a swift and guttural collapse that left her weeping in Rhodey’s arms, the reveal of her pregnancy a hoarse choke against his chest.
The fear Rhodey had felt then was all encompassing, somehow more terrifying than the few seconds that seemed to stretch out like hours when he had fallen from the sky. The world was in ruin, the universe in tatters, and right in the middle of it all was this gigantic gaping hole that resembled the shape of Tony.
To think that the sight of Tony, skeletal and frail and being almost carried down the steps of a spaceship by a blue alien would be a sight not actually taken from some feverish nightmare, but in fact a welcome relief that somehow managed to fight back the fear, just a little.
It returned again on the battlefield, leaving Rhodey almost numb with it as he reached out a metal encased hand to cradle Tony’s head, tears of something like bitter resignation burning his eyes.
He keeps replaying the way Tony smiled at him over and over in his head; that flicker of knowing in those war-weary eyes, like he knew exactly what Rhodey was thinking.
Rhodey rubs his face, trying to banish the moment from his thoughts, then leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his lips against the tips of his fingers.
In the bed, Tony sleeps on, a sight that would have once thrilled and reassured Rhodey because god knows how many times he’s pestered Tony about this sort of thing in the past.
But this isn’t reassuring.
This is terrifying.
With his face waxen and haggard, clean of blood and dirt but still streaked with the marks of war, Tony already looks dead. The flare of hauntingly ethereal colour upon his right cheek, the silver tendrils coursing down his neck and the mangled mess of metal and flesh that sits in place of his right arm seem to taunt Rhodey; a vicious scream of retribution for his failures.
Maybe if he’d been there with Tony in that moment, held his hand as he snapped, squeezed Tony’s fingers hard enough to break just so he knew he wasn’t and has never been alone.
Maybe if he’d been better over the years. God knows he would love to sock Howard Stark straight in the face even now. A part of him still wishes desperately that he’d met Tony long before he did, so he could have been there, so Tony would have had more people in his corner.
Like a movie reel, Rhodey’s mind tumbles through all the memories of their stupid little fights. The way Tony would just look at him sometimes, eyes bright with a far too vivid kind of vulnerability, and Rhodey would always push back against whatever Tony threw his way, the right kind of stubborn to ride out Tony’s own tempest of anger and secure enough to raise him back up when it all fell to pieces.
But somehow none of it seems enough, not when his best friend, his brother, is lying here like this, torn apart and unable to hear all the things that Rhodey wants to tell him.
All those laughs, late night shenanigans, moments of softness where their friendship was the glowing dawn after a storm; the bitter fights and the reckless decisions that still somehow never parted them for long -- it all collides like fire and ice within Rhodey’s chest and suddenly it’s teenage Tony lying in front of him, exactly as he was long before the fate of the universe fell on his shoulders, and Rhodey is where he’s always been, somehow right by Tony’s side and yet still too far away to do a damn thing but watch the fallout.
Rhodey looks away as a sob burns its way past his lungs.
"How many times you gonna do this to me, man?" he hisses wetly, tears spilling onto his cheeks. "I’m not a cat, you know? I don’t have nine lives for you to scare off me."
He waits, desperately, foolishly, hoping for some ridiculously and typical Tony comeback.
("Oh but honeybear, you’re just so puuuurrfect.")
But there’s nothing.
Just the metronome beats and hums of the surrounding equipment and the faraway popping of more fireworks as the world outside carries on celebrating, too happy to spare too much thought for the one who saved them all.
Rhodey slides forward until his knees brush the edge of the bed. He tilts down until his forehead touches the sheet and lifts his hands to gently grasp Tony’s good arm, tucking trembling fingers around Tony’s wrist to feel his thready pulse.
"I’m right here, Tones," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. "Right here."
Steve shuffles in his seat, whispering a quick apology as he accidentally knocks his foot into Bruce’s leg.
On the other side of the bed, Clint sighs and slouches a little in the chair he’s sharing with Natasha, while Thor remains eerily still where he stands at the foot of the bed, hair knotted in a wild halo around his head.
Steve’s conscious of how filthy he feels - of how filthy they all look despite having cleaned up hours ago - and how dark and stained his fingers appear as they fiddle with the edge of the sheet draped over Tony’s legs.
Despite the size of the room, they’re all crammed together like sardines in a tin, as close as they can be. There’s a scent of blood and grime, of war, that lingers in the air somehow, like it’s permanently infused into them all.
Rhodey had looked red-eyed and exhausted when he’d greeted them at the door to Tony’s room earlier. There had been an exhausted vitriol to his voice as he explained, "The arm’s gotta go. Total amputation from the shoulder down. There’s a shit ton of toxic energy still running riot in his body that needs addressing, not to mention the burns on his face…"
Steve’s seen many injuries in his life. Plenty of death too. In a rain soaked trench, he’d held the hand of a soldier, nothing but a mere boy really, while blood poured from the hole in the guy’s stomach and soaked into Steve’s trousers. He’d watched limbs be blown off like flimsy pipe cleaners and seen shrapnel tear skin from bone like slow cooked meat.
But to see Tony, so devastated and crumpled, is a sight unlike any other.
Nobody had dared to ask what the chances were. Nobody wanted to. So Rhodey left them with the knowledge that Tony would be collected soon, giving them nothing else to do but sit and stare together in a tremulous kind of quiet, once full of aches that went deeper than their bones and thoughts far too real to say out loud.
Steve lifts his gaze, something electric rushing through him when it meets the very alive eyes of Nat over the bed. He doesn’t understand how she’s alive, how Bruce managed to bring her back, but he doesn’t care enough to ask.
All that matters is that she’s here.
He studies her face intently. Her expression is brittle, splintered glass beneath the glimmer of fear in her eyes. She’s always been a tough one to read despite their closeness of their friendship, but right now her feelings are as bold as a black eye; smudges of guilt and sadness that can’t be covered up.
Bruce’s foot - his normal, average size foot - knocks into Steve this time, catching him just above the knee. Steve glances over to offer a reassuring smile but finds that he can’t quite summon the strength to do it.
Plus, it’s odd seeing Bruce as Bruce.
In some ways, it’s like looking at a ghost. Gone is the green skin, the hulking mass of muscle, the eyes that were neither Bruce or the Hulk but a fair mix between the two. Sitting there, smaller than Steve remembers him being, is all Bruce. Pale skin, messy hair, brown eyes that look far too big for his face. There’s no trace of Hulk, or any signs of the livid fury that the stones had chartered up Bruce’s right arm as he wore the gauntlet.
"He - the Hulk, he’s gone," Bruce had stammered when he lurched through one of the portals, Thor hot on his heels. "I can’t - "
He’d tipped backwards into Thor’s arms, sharing alarmed glances with everyone as he tried to explain. "The gauntlet -
"How?" Thor demanded frantically. "Tony wouldn’t have - "
"No - no, the first, the - all that gamma, when I used the gauntlet," Bruce blabbered as he pulled himself free and stared at his hands, turning them over and over again. "Hulk must have…"
Another sacrifice. Another loss, unfair and unjust like the rest.
Steve’s gaze drifts to where there’s still a blotch of green, like a discoloured bruise, resting on the side of his neck, no bigger than a large thumbprint. It’s the same shade as the Hulk’s skin, a small physical reminder that the other half of Bruce Banner, a big part of all of their history in ways Steve’s never really considered until now, is missing.
"I’m sorry, Bruce. I really am."
Bruce nods, leaning into the hand that Steve rests against his back. ‘’You know, back when we first met, Tony told me that he thought the Hulk had saved me for a reason." He smiles ruefully, shaking his head as tears spring to his eyes. "When New York happened, I thought maybe, maybe, he was right." Bruce looks down at the hand of his previously injured arm and curls it into a fist against his thigh. "And he was. We just both got the timings wrong."
"Ironic," Natasha says softly after a moment, "seeing as you’ve both dabbled in time travel."
The shift in the atmosphere is instant, a speck of levity that reminds Steve of days gone by. Clint groans loudly, causing Nat to smirk proudly, while Bruce gives a weak snort before saying, "Well I can’t argue with that."
"I will miss him," Thor murmurs. "Greatly. He always had a way with words.”
From across the room, Clint snorts out a laugh.
"He always liked you," Bruce replies. "Ever since that fight on the Helicarrier."
A melancholy kind of fondness covers Thor’s face. "I’m glad that you’re still here, Banner."
Bruce ducks his head with a hushed chuckle. The affection between them is warming but yet another reminder of all that’s been lost in the blank spaces of their lives; lost in all the days the team had been apart. Steve’s suddenly never felt his age more than he does now, a hundred years weighing far more heavily upon him than ever before, turning him ancient with weary regret.
"You know," Clint huffs, resting his chin on his hand, "I can’t imagine him with one arm. Could totally see him with extra arms, but not one."
Nat rolls her eyes. "He’s Iron Man, not Iron Octopus."
"Tony doesn’t even like octopuses," Bruce says.
Clint lifts his head a little. "He doesn’t?"
" Nobody likes octopuses."
"I’ve never eaten such a creature," Thor remarks with a frown. "Do they not taste good?"
A part of Steve wants to tell them to stop, yell at them until his throat is raw. But he doesn’t. He can’t because this is what they do. Masquerading bravado and thin lipped smiles serving as a waterlogged band aid against their worries; dumb jokes and pained grins outrunning the shadows of concern and fear by only a few steps.
Steve’s always been grateful for moments like these: the little glimmers of sunshine amongst the rain clouds. Bucky asking him about Coney Island before they jumped the train that would part them for something like a lifetime; Fury teasing him for cursing at the sight of the Helicarrier rising out of the clouds next to Sokovia; the commentary between him and Thor about their personal grooming; Sam with his on your left that had Steve’s heart catapulting out of his chest.
But it’s not the same without Tony. It never has been.
Steve looks at his own hands, still as stained as the last time he looked, then reaches out for Tony’s, cradling it gently between his own.
He waits, and he hears the others do the same, for something, anything, just a glimmer of hope; for the real presence of the voice that Steve can hear in his head.
("Easy there, big guy. I like you an’ all, but you squeeze my hand any harder, I’m gonna start getting ideas if you know what I mean.")
But there’s nothing. Just their ragtag team, finally patched back together save for the gigantic gaping hole in the middle. The one shaped like Tony.
Steve squeezes Tony’s hand and hopes that somehow, his friend knows that they’re all waiting for him.
Happy’s been here before.
Tony’s bedside is hardly new territory. Right down to the phone perched on the bedside table beside a pitcher of water that will go undrunk and a vase of fake flowers, it always looks the same, every time.
Happy lost count of how many times he’s sat in this exact position years ago. Between him and Rhodey, the tally became pretty damn high.
First there were the days of accidental overdoses and booze binges, endless hours of pacing corridors and fighting off paparazzi while Tony had his stomach pumped.
There was the odd attempt at Tony’s life here and there, though it never led to much until Afghanistan, an event that Happy still swears would never have happened if he’d been there.
And then Tony became Iron Man.
Sometimes Happy misses the way it used to be; misses the days where he felt like he could do something that didn’t involve watching helplessly as his best friend second guessed everything to the point of near madness, trying to shoulder the burden of the whole world on his own.
After the incident with Killian, Happy made a conscious decision to focus on the silver linings. Like the wedding ring tucked safely in his pocket, watching Downton Abbey on Sundays with a glass of his favourite wine that Tony stocked in cases for him.
He never expected a teenage vigilante to be on the laundry list of Slightly Less Terrible Things in Life.
Or a miniature version of Tony that is currently sitting in his lap, fiddling with the well-loved ears of a stuffed dog.
"You okay, squirt?"
"Mhm," Morgan murmurs.
"Sure?"
"Mhm."
"You hungry? We can go get something if you are."
Morgan tilts her head back against Happy’s chest to look up at him. Her face quirks in a manner so reminiscent of Pepper; a slight curling of the upper lip and the wrinkling of the nose, but her eyes are still all Tony.
"Cheeseburgers?"
Happy snorts, reaching up to stroke her hair. "What else?"
Morgan looks at Tony. Happy had worried that the lack of an arm would upset her but, much like her mother did with most things, Morgan had taken it in all in her stride, vowing to help Tony do all the things a person might need two hands for.
"Just until he makes a new arm," the girl had declared with unabashed certainty.
Happy envies her innocence, the childlike belief that everything will turn out right in the end. He’s as jaded as they come, every inch of faith that he haS wary and suspicious, all tied up in the unconscious form of the man he loves like family.
It’s a surprising part of the job description, but one that everyone close to Tony comes to realise eventually. Within all the chaos, the recklessness and lack of self-preservation, there’s an endless reach of love that Tony could never really control. He could cover it up in gadgets and extravagance all he liked, but Happy knew, right from the day that Tony offered him a job fresh out of the boxing ring, that this was all real, a lifelong deal.
Happy’s never regretted saying yes. Not for one minute.
"Maybe he’ll wake up if we bring him a cheeseburger," Morgan suggests.
Happy turns his head to blink wetly up at the ceiling.
( "Come on, Hogan, you know the drill. Cheeseburger first.")
"Maybe, yeah."
"Or two cheeseburgers," Morgan adds. "Daddy always eats two when he takes me to the diner after school on Fridays."
Happy tucks her into a hug, this little girl that he loves just as much as Tony, and holds tight. "Your dad’s always loved cheeseburgers, but I reckon he loves ‘em the most on Fridays."
"It’s Friday today."
"It is," Happy affirms, noting the expectancy in her voice. "Guess we better go find us some cheeseburgers then."
"The King will have some."
"Right. What kind of self-respecting king wouldn’t have cheeseburgers?"
His phone buzzes in his pocket as he lifts Morgan from his lap.
"Happy," Rhodey says as soon as Happy answers, "the kid is about two seconds away from trying to rip Strange’s head off. His aunt’s with him but I think another friendly face would help out a lot right now before the webs start flying."
Happy curses loudly, earning a shocked glare from Morgan. He knew Peter was taking this whole situation badly, and Happy could hardly blame him, but a fight wasn’t what any of them needed right now, Peter included.
"I’ll be there in a sec," he says, hanging up with an agitated sigh. "Damn it."
"Shit."
Happy glares affectionately down at Morgan who beams up at him, cheeky and sweet.
"C’mon, squirt, let’s go. Time to be the boss."
He’s got absolutely no idea what to do about this. Maybe pull Peter to one side, let the kid rage it out until something gives. Offer a shoulder and let him cry if he needs to. Happy’s never been good with tears, but for Peter, he’s willing to do his best.
He takes Morgan by the hand, squeezing gently when he feels her do the same, and leads her along, pausing at the door so she can run back and press a feather soft kiss to Tony’s uninjured cheek.
Moments after the door closes behind them, the screen of Tony’s phone lights up.
"Hi, Boss."
The Irish twang hits the air delicately, the slight robotic lilt almost lost beneath the softness of the words.
"My bookmarks indicate that you and Miss Morgan left off on page 46 of Peter Pan . But I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I gave you a preview. Shall I read it for you while we wait for her return?"
Tony doesn’t move, remaining obvious to the invisible presence of FRIDAY at his side.
"The loveliest tinkle as of golden bells answered him,” FRIDAY says. “It is the fairy language. You ordinary children can never hear it, but if you were to hear it you would know that you had heard it once before."
Her voice stays, the fairytale unfolding before a lone audience, until approaching footsteps have her fading away into silence once more.
Nebula eyes her surroundings with disdain, the neutral calmness of the room making her seethe with a strange anger, one that has her fingers curling into fists.
It feels wrong, completely in contrast with the man she knows Tony to be; a man forged of iron and power and a kindness that she still can’t comprehend.
What this room feels like is a tomb and she despises every inch of it.
The air around her shifts as Rhodey stands up, patting her gently on the shoulder as he does so. Nebula glares holes into her knees, into the soft cloth of the borrowed clothes she’d been given in place of those she had worn in battle, and makes a noise like a growl.
"This isn't right."
"Which part?" Rhodey asks, the bitter agreement clear in his voice.
"It should not be him lying there," Nebula hisses, lifting her head to meet Rhodey’s gaze. "Not again."
There’s always been an understanding between her and Rhodey. Somewhere between watching her help a barely alive Tony down the steps of the Benatar and blasting off into space together to hunt down Thanos, a bond had forged, just as unexpected as the one Nebula had come to share with Tony.
It surprised her less and less as time went on. The two men were brothers in arms, lifelong friends, their connection almost hypnotic in Nebula’s eyes. And they pulled her in, the pair of them, into some new kind of orbit unlike anything she’d ever known before, secure and free without any strings attached.
So there’s no need for Nebula to elaborate, to explain the depth of how angry she feels, how it’s carved caverns in her chest and rewired fire into her soul, because she knows that there’s a fury burning somewhere in Rhodey too.
"Listen, Blue. Tony...he’s a stubborn asshole, always has been. I know what you’re thinking and he would have risked fighting even you if he had to, if it meant doing what he felt needed to be done."
"But he did not need to be the one to do it!" Nebula snaps, voice cracking into a burning rasp. "I swore I would kill Thanos, long before I met any of you. Long before my sister was killed and my body was ripped apart for the thousandth time. And this," she throws a hand in Tony’s direction, "is what my failure has done."
Rhodey sighs, not unkindly, and looks at her softly. It’s familiar, a look Nebula knows well, and she finds herself thinking of those days trapped in the black of space; of Tony’s gaunt grin as he flicked a paper football across the table and praised her for winning, offering her a glimmer of brightness even while trapped in the darkness of his own grief.
"You think that changes anything?" Rhodey asks. "You think that Tony would have been able to live with that? With knowing that you died instead of him?”
"It’s what he’s asking of me, isn’t it?"
Rhodey’s jaw snaps shut and Nebula feels a surge of spiteful victory for a moment, though it rapidly churns into regret when she sees the pain dance across Rhodey’s face. He grimaces and heads out of the room without another word.
Nebula stares after him, rigid in her seat. It’s all she was ever used for, bringing pain to others, but in the last five years, that changed.
She changed.
And part of the reason why is lying in front of her; lying so still that he appears already dead.
Nebula watches Tony for a while until his face blurs, until the ruined pieces of his skin are vague amongst the rest.
Tentatively, she reaches out to touch his shoulder, fingers pushing gently into the muscle on the curve.
The last time she’d known Tony to be so quiet, she was moving his nearly weightless body from the floor and to the chair that belonged to Quill, the closest thing to a position of dignity she could give him. Like she had in that moment, Nebula now wishes fiercely for the sound of his voice, real and not a phantom ghost in the back of her mind.
( "Aw, come on, Bluebell, flip that frown upside down, huh? You owe me a rematch, and the rules don’t allow for moping.")
Nebula pulls back with a flinch, turning her face into her shoulder and squeezing her eyes shut. Without much thought, she finds herself reaching into her pocket for Quill’s Zune, the one she had stolen from him an hour ago as he snored on the floor outside one of the sprawling lounges with Rocket right beside him, both far too stubborn or perhaps too afraid to stray too far and use one of the rooms offered to them all for rest and recovery.
Knowing that the gadget had been a gift from Yondu to Quill, a parting exchange that Nebula hadn’t quite understood the meaning of at the time, makes her treat with more care than she would do most things, and she moves her thumb softly as she scrolls the buttons.
When she finds what she’s looking for, Nebula places the Zune on the table by Tony’s bed and angles the headphones just so.
Familiar music seeps out from them, doing very little to cover the noise of the machines within the room, but the guitar and soft drumming somehow quietens the feeling of vacant sorrow in Nebula’s chest.
Dear Mister Fantasy, play us a tune, something to make us all happy…
It’s a sentimental action, one that offers no obvious solution or reprieve.
Then again, a paper football had once seemed just as powerless too.
"H-hey, Mister Stark."
Peter’s been back in the world for no more than a day, in Wakanda for who knows how many hours, and waiting for Tony to wake up for what seems like forever.
He’s only seen Tony asleep a handful of times before.
Catching a power nap on the couch in the lab, propped up in a chair by Peter’s bedside with his head tipped back and snoring softly, passed out on the couch after necking an impressive amount of Nyquil: these are just a few of those times, a strange kind of reminder that Tony Stark, despite some appearances, is actually human.
Just as fragile and breakable as the rest of them.
"Sorry I didn’t come see you right away. May, uh...May needed me, you know." Peter swipes an arm under his nose with a loud sniff, trying to project some lightness into his voice as he says, "There’s, uh, there’s no gift shop here, which kinda sucks, so I couldn’t bring you anything."
There’s a pause, a natural one like there would be in any conversation; a gap that Tony would typically fill with something sassy or playful if he could. Peter’s loud sigh fills it instead, along with the gentle rasp of his fingers fumbling together across the sleeves of the hoodie he’s wearing. The cuffs slide down to cover his hands, the faded material a soft and much welcomed comfort.
It’s the only thing that he’s wearing that is actually his. He isn’t sure what possessed May to grab it before she arrived alongside Happy and Tony’s daughter, all but running through the portal to pull Peter into her arms with a broken sob, but he’s glad that she did. The rest of the outfit, a gift provided to him and the others by the King, an actual King because that really is just the cherry on the top of the madness that is Peter’s life now, feels far too crisp and new, catching sharply on his skin as though brushing against multiple splinters.
There’d been no chance of staying in either of his suits. The new one no longer has its new car smell and the other reeked of sweat and a strange staleness, like it hadn’t been washed in a long time. May had practically tried to strip Peter herself, like she couldn’t bear to see him wearing any of it a moment longer.
Peter clears his throat, fidgeting in the chair again, curling up and stretching out and then curling up again. He finally settles with his legs tucked up, a welcome kind of weight despite the nagging ache in his ribs, and lets his chin drop down to rest on his knees.
In the bed, Tony lies completely still, not a single part of him moving except the barely discernible rise and fall of his chest. Peter’s eyes stray to the space where an arm should be and a pressure starts to expand in his stomach, bubbling up inside him like soda in a shaken bottle. He pushes against it, clenching his fists as tears start to distort his vision.
"It’s - it’s so weird, being back," he says. "I feel like I was only gone for five minutes but...turns out it was five years, which is...yeah. Talk about a really long day."
Peter laughs, or at least tries to. It twists in his throat, bursting out far too loudly.
"Apparently there’s like, actual action figures of me now. Of Spider-Man, I mean. Real ones, not those cheap, scary ones they sell in the bodegas with the pinky red parts and huge eyes. I gave you one as a present for Not A Father’s Day, you remember?"
Another pause.
"You probably do," Peter carries on, fighting the tremor in his jaw. "But yeah, actual legit Spider-Man action figures. I can get you one of those next year."
He waits again, peering hopefully at Tony’s face. It’s such a mess, smeared with thick layers of salve and lit up garishly beneath some sort of blue light suspended above the bed.
The small part of Peter that wants to be curious, that wants to understand how all of this works, comes up short against the part of him that just wants to know when it will work.
He just wants Tony to wake up.
"I, uh, I met your daughter. Morgan. She’s really great, Mister Stark. She invited me round to your house for juice pops. I hope that’s cool."
Peter fiddles with his sleeves again, thumb swirling in slow circles in the patches where the fabric is almost transparent.
"Happy’s uh...he was pretty, well, happy to see me. Which was nice. He found May. She was gone too, but I guess you’d already know that ‘cause, well...you stayed."
The pause is much longer this time. Peter closes his eyes and moves his head to let one of his ears rest on his knees, the other tuning in to the slow, steady beat of Tony’s heart.
It stopped on the battlefield.
Not slowly, just a sudden drop out of existence that had Peter near screaming and wrestling his way out of Rhodey’s arms, almost smacking the guy in the face in his desperation.
There’d been a mad rush, a blur of movement and frantic voices and sparkly swirling things popping out of nowhere and the next thing he knew, he was sobbing into his hands and being held up by someone that smelt like ozone and thunder. Probably Thor. Yet another thing to add to the gigantic what the fuck list Peter’s been putting together in his head since he woke up on Titan with dust in his mouth and Quill hovering over him in concern.
Peter concentrates harder until he hears nothing but lubdub...lubdub...lubdub... over and over again.
"I yelled at Doctor Strange," he says, voicing it like a guilty secret, hypnotised into confession by the rhythm of Tony’s heart. "He just...stood there and let me. Didn’t tell me I was wrong or, like, even say anything."
Lubdub...lubdub...lubdub...
"And I kinda hate him, Mister Stark. I know I shouldn’t but...he knew. He knew what would happen. Up on Titan, he said - he saw all those different universes, all those other versions of us, and he just...he let it happen."
Lubdub...lubdub...lubdub…
"It’s not fair. You didn’t need to. It could have - why did it have to be you?"
Lubdub...lubdub...lubdub…
"Say something!" Peter hisses through gritted teeth, jaw aching. "Please."
Tony’s voice echoes in his head, torturous and comforting all at once.
("Oh, kiddo, don’t come at me with those big bambi eyes. You look like an actual puppy. I’m only a mere mortal, you know, despite what my many awesome qualities might suggest. It’s my job to worry about you, bud, not the other way around, remember?")
Peter breaks then, a shattered sob ripping out of this throat with as much ferocity as a gunshot. He quickly muffles it, propping his arms on his knees and burying his face into the hollow there. His shoulders tremble as everything finally starts to spill free, leaving him raw and fracturing from the inside out and crying thick, hot tears.
The tears of a superhero whose soul is already far too battle weary. The tears of a kid who has lost far too much in his life to be going through something like this again.
"You - you should have let me - " Peter chokes, the pressure in his stomach bubbling over and consuming him from the inside out like sticky syrup that leaves no room for breathing. "I could have helped, Mister Stark, I would - "
He leans forward, as close as he can get, until he feels the crown of his head bump against Tony’s hip. He grips the sheets with the same ferocity in which he had gripped Tony on Titan, desperate and so, so afraid, and only cries harder when he feels the fabric shred in his hands.
The reality swamps Peter, the crippling realisation that their hug in the middle of a war might be the last they ever share; that the last look Tony ever gave him was vacant and dwindling; that he may never truly hear Tony’s voice again breaking him apart right to the core, fracturing every inch of his already grief-scorched heart.
"Please wake up," he begs, a childish plea thrown out with all the hope he can find. "Please, Mister Stark."
He doesn’t see Tony’s remaining hand twitch against the sheets: a tiny jump of his fingers and nothing more.
Tony’s always had a bad habit of making Pepper wait.
Signatures on paperwork, project specifications for potential investors and dinner with board members were never provided or attended on time. Flights were always delayed, the advantage of owning the actual plane affording far too much potential for abuse of the freedom that came with it, and birthday gifts always arrived later than promised.
Pepper waited for three months after he went missing in Afghanistan. It had felt like a lifetime then, even before the coy flutterings of something more between them had been admitted to.
Things improved when they got together. At least where it truly counted. Even when she repeatedly watched Tony nearly drive himself into the ground for one reason or another, she never doubted his desire to do right by her.
And when it was Tony’s turn to wait for her, he did so without complaint, even when she could see how much her decision to take a break hurt him.
Pepper wonders if that decision led to this; a frightening and spiteful kind of karma to punish her for hurting the man who wouldn’t hesitate to put his life on the line to save the world over and over.
The twenty-two days Tony was missing in space felt like serving time in hell itself. Years later, Pepper still has nightmares about it, the memories never truly leaving her even in their happiest days.
Holding the remains of the Iron Man helmet, given to her by Nebula, yet another person swept up into Tony’s tenacious and protective orbit, Pepper had sat by Tony’s bed in the compound and watched as an eerie recording came to life before her eyes.
"God, it seems like a thousand years ago," Tony’s exhausted voice, so terrifyingly beautiful, had croaked, " I fought my way out of that cave, became Iron Man...realised I loved you…"
Pepper remembers covering her mouth and squeezing her eyes shut at the gravelly rumble of Tony’s words, so full of quiet reverence for her all those worlds away, his gaunt face awash with love even as the life was clearly leaving him with every second that went by.
"And, Pep...I know I said no more surprises but...God, I was hoping to pull off one last one."
All of the heartache, the terror, the grief from back then pales in comparison to the events of the last three weeks.
Seeing Tony collapsed on the ground, barely breathing and the stench of burning flesh staining the air; listening to detailed descriptions about radiation damage and amputation and the low likelihood of survival; holding Morgan as she wept and cried for her father; watching the world celebrate while her husband’s body resided in what looked far too much like a giant coffin as the cells of his body were reforged - all of it was and is a living nightmare that Pepper so desperately wants to be free from.
The only saving grace is their friends who, despite probably being needed elsewhere, despite having their own lives to rebuild in one way or another, just can’t stay away for long.
Besides Rhodey, Peter visits the most. Sometimes he sits outside the door, a sense of awkward uncertainty that he can’t quite conquer holding him back, but Pepper is always extremely grateful for the days he chooses to sit beside her instead. They talk about little things, things of no consequence like their favourite foods and movies; Peter’s face when he found out she likes the Alien movies had been a picture.
He keeps Morgan company too whenever she’s around, endlessly patient and quite clearly as besotted with her as she is with him. May and Happy are there just as often, propping Pepper up just like Rhodey.
Everyone else seems to take it in turns, coming in pairs or little groups to sit and hang out by Tony’s side, trying their best to keep things positive while their eyes watch him sadly. The sight of a raccoon, a walking tree and the man who used to be the Winter Soldier sitting together and playing cards whilst debating the perfect choice of weapon should seem weird, Pepper thinks, but it’s oddly comforting.
The grief is collective, yet another battle for them all to face together, and Pepper is grateful, more than she can fully express.
But a part of her, deep and dark and so, so angry, can’t help but feel alone in it all.
Pepper looks at Tony now where he lays in front of her, free from all the medical tech he’d been buried in for endless days, one arm gone and silvery scars lacing up his neck and across his cheek, and feels the splintered remains of her heart rattle apart just a little bit more.
"Tony…" she whispers, bending to rest her head against his stomach, his remaining hand disappearing under the veil of her hair. For a fanciful moment, she lets herself believe that the snag against the strands is because his fingers are moving through it, not because of her shaking body.
She focuses on his heartbeat, mind circling back to the moment on the battlefield when she watched the light of the arc reactor go out along with the light in Tony’s eyes.
Pepper’s always loved his eyes best. Inky dark, equally bright and soft, endless depths that turn honey soft with love for her, crackle with gold whenever he tilts in for a kiss, flicker gently as he gazes at her, always seeing straight through her, blazing with adoration for every single bit of her.
But what she loves most about them is how much of him she can always see within them. All the bravado and snark is gone and it’s just Tony, brave and beautiful, full of life, full of love.
Hers.
And she had given him permission to rest.
How could she not? To have his last thoughts be full of fright or guilt for leaving them behind was more than Pepper could ever live with.
But she doesn’t want him to go.
She wants him right here with her, with Morgan, with all of them, alive with eyes bright and mouth grinning and a whole brand new lifetime waiting ahead of him.
She wants the life that he deserves, that they deserve to have together, a stamp of forever upon the world they had built for themselves, finally complete with no missing pieces and no lingering nightmares or toxic regrets staining the tentative joy.
Pepper knows that in his heart of hearts, Tony hadn’t expected to survive what was coming. The recording she had been alerted to by FRIDAY, one that brought a holographic projection of her husband to life in the kitchen one morning during one of her brief visits home, had made that point very clear.
Heroes never die knowing that they’ve managed to save the day, they never get to see the happy ending they fought for. Part of the gig, Tony would say, just another occupational hazard.
This is Pepper’s occupational hazard right here; a powerless presence by Tony’s bedside, unable to do anything but hope.
So that’s what she does; hopes from the core of her soul that he decides to not to break the habit of a lifetime by doing what she told him to do.
Rubbing away some of her tears, Pepper leans up to press a kiss to the line of Tony’s jaw, right by the curve of his ear, her very favourite place to kiss. "I love you," she whispers, kissing him again.
(" Right back atcha, Miss Potts.")
There’s something soft touching Tony’s hand.
Silky, fluid, flowing against his skin when he crooks his fingers.
It’s a wonderful contrast to the dull pulse of bone-itching pain rippling through him. He feels raw and stretched thin, like he’s been left out in the sun too long, and there’s a sharp tightness that catches the edge of his right eye as he slowly cracks it open.
Soft light greets him, mellow and not too harsh. He opens the other eye, blinking slowly at the ceiling.
There’s...something…There was noise before. Lots of it.
It’s quiet now, like a mute switch has been flicked.
A sensation of emptiness nags at his side, a fuzzy tingle that he wants to rub.
But he doesn’t quite want to let go of the silk. It’s nice, familiar. He wants to wrap himself up in more of it like a blanket.
Tony’s mind tips slowly to the side. Wasn’t there...an explosion?
Then back to the other side. Did...there’d been lights, right? Swirling lights, so many people…
He brushes the silk again, eyes drifting shut.
It’s hard to wonder about much else, not when this wonderful softness is right here for him to touch.
He notices the sound of crying then.
Opening his eyes again and twisting his head very carefully, Tony manages to gain an angle that gives him a clear view of a mane of red hair. It reminds him of the way the sunrise always catches on the surface of the lake in the fall.
He knows that hair.
Pepper.
His voice is rusty metal on the ground as he says her name. Pepper jerks away from him so violently that he jumps, a new alarmed alertness quickly overriding everything as they stare at each other.
"Tony," she whispers, red eyes skimming hungrily over his features as one of her hands cups his cheek. " Tony."
"You okay?" he rasps, reaching up to fumble their fingers together. "Who made you cry? Gonna kick their ass."
Pepper laughs, tears streaking down her face. "I missed you."
"I went somewhere?"
"Sort of."
"Oh. Without you? That doesn’t seem right."
"No," Pepper’s laugh is brighter this time. She leans forward and kisses his lips delicately, softly, perfectly. "No it doesn’t."
A door opens somewhere to Tony’s left.
"Pep, you want coffee?"
The voice is warm, deep, infused with something that immediately makes Tony feel safe.
"Jim," Pepper says, tearful delight loud and clear.
"Are you alr - wait, he’s awake? Fuck!" The voice says loudly, then fading slightly as it says, "Happy - Hap! He’s awake, tell the - yeah! Oh man, Tony," the voice grows even louder, accompanied by footsteps. "Tones, hey, it’s me."
Rhodey’s face comes into view and Tony hums happily. "Honeybear."
"Yeah, that’s me," Rhodey says, sounding a little choked. "Damn, it’s so good to see you."
"That’s nice. You mind telling me where I’ve been for you to miss me so much?"
He tries to reach out to touch Rhodey on the arm, but nothing happens. He tries again and the fuzzy tingle intensifies.
Tony knows then. Somehow, he just does.
"My arm?"
Pepper’s fingers squeeze his hand and Rhodey’s expression hardens a fraction, sad and stoic. It’s answer enough and Tony lets out a breath, taking a minute to stare up at the space of ceiling behind Rhodey’s left ear.
"Thanos?" he asks croakily.
"Gone, man," Rhodey assures, patting Tony on the chest. "You got him. Everyone’s back."
Everyone. That means -
"Peter?"
A gigantic grin lights up Rhodey’s face. "Yeah, Peter’s here."
Right on cue, there’s the sound of rapid footsteps.
"You up to this?" Rhodey asks, eyeing Tony cautiously. "If you need - "
"Stop talking crazy, sourpatch," Tony grunts, so very grateful for whatever drugs are keeping him on the right side of being in a most likely horrendous agony, and bobs his head. "Help a guy out, would ya?"
Rhodey and Pepper barely manage to ease Tony into a sitting position before the footsteps turn into the distinctive breezy whoooosh of socks skidding on the floor bringing a tousled haired, hoodie swamped Peter into view with a wide-eyed and jittering Morgan tucked under one of his arms.
Tony’s vision warps, foggier in his right eye than his left, and his head spins like a plate on a stick. The breath he takes is crinkly like wax paper and there’s a cloying tiredness prickling him all over but it doesn’t matter, none of it does, because it’s them, they’re here.
It’s Morgan.
It’s Peter.
Jesus Christ, it’s his kids.
"Here," Tony croaks, waving his remaining arm beseechingly towards himself, tilting into Rhodey when he loses balance, "here, c’mere - "
Peter wastes no time in doing as he’s told and then he’s right there, and there’s two sets of arms wrapping around Tony and squeezing so tight. Tony hooks his arm fully round the pair of them as much as he can, breathing deep and burying tears into the space where Peter and Morgan’s hair tangles together in a soft halo beneath his chin.
Nobody says anything. Not even Morgan who never stops talking. Not even Peter who can ramble for hours on end even when asleep. Not even Happy as he enters the room, looking at Tony with such open affection that it makes Tony’s chest cave in a little. There’s just muffled sobs and rustling fabric and deep breaths, the relief and the love loud and clear despite the lack of words.
"Mister Stark," Peter eventually says, adjusting his head to burrow closer.
"Hey, kid. Been a while."
"Yeah," Peter laughs weakly. "Yeah, a bit."
"And you, little miss," Tony adds, tilting his head back so Morgan can look up at him. "How we doing on the juice pop front?"
"I’ve been saving all the purple ones for you," she tells him seriously. "Peter ate one by accident though."
"Oh, he did, huh?" Tony waits for his heart to explode from the amount of sheer happiness that’s suddenly being pumped through it, like pure euphoria has replaced all the blood in his body. "Well, we can’t be having such insubordination in the ranks, now, can we?"
Peter grumbles something undoubtedly sarcastic into Tony’s shoulder. "No sassing," Tony scolds, kissing him on the temple. "I’m a genuine hero, you know. I demand respect."
"You’re silly," Morgan says matter of factly.
"Yeah, Tony," Peter laughingly agrees.
"Oh, so now I’m Tony, huh?" Tony teases. "Am I delirious right now? Are you real?" He peers intently into Morgan’s face, making her laugh, then at Peter when the kid leans his head back into the crook of Tony’s elbow.
"You’re very real," Tony says as they look at each other, feeling every single part of him soften irreparably as Peter smiles.
"Yeah. I’m real."
He knows there’s a lot to unpack. An entire plane’s worth of suitcases to dig through and hang back up and reorganise, but Tony can’t bring himself to worry too much about it now.
They won.
They’re alive.
His kids are here.
Victory is right here in his arms.
There’s plenty of time to worry about the rest later.
Though he can’t resist turning to Rhodey and asking casually, "Are there statues of me yet?"
"What?"
"Statues. Hospital wings. Shrines in my honour. Lifelong dedications to my noble sacrifice."
"You’re not dead, idiot."
"My arm clearly is."
"Jesus, Tony - "
"And being alive doesn’t mean I can’t be immortalised."
Rhodey rolls his eyes. "And how would you like that done, huh, big head?"
"Replacing Tinkerbell as the Disney mascot springs to mind," Tony suggests tiredly. "About time someone else ruled that castle intro if you ask me."
"Yeah!" Morgan cheers in approval over Peter’s exasperated groan. Tony can only huff happily as the tiredness grows stronger, tugging invitingly all over.
There’s a rather lovely moment of soft blurriness where he feels neither asleep or awake, and then he feels himself being propped up comfortably against the pillows with Peter and Morgan wedged in either side of him and Pepper gently rubbing one of his legs.
It’s incredibly perfect. Tony almost feels sorry that he’s about to tap out again for a while.
A cacophony of excited whispering starts up outside the door. Pepper waves a hand when Happy looks at her questioningly, and Tony can only smile sleepily as a stream of familiar faces start traipsing inside, a mixture of Avengers and Rogues and Guardians alike, all fitting together like the world’s weirdest but undoubtedly very best jigsaw puzzle
And it’s so good to see them all. So astronomically, heart tap-dancingly and worth defying death for all over again good.
"Uh, is he really falling asleep on us already?" Someone, maybe Clint, asks incredulously.
"It appears so."
"But we haven’t even told him about Thor wrestling that octopus yet."
There’s Steve’s laugh, rich and deep. "I think that story can wait."
"Oh I don’t know," Nat, holy shit that’s Nat, says. "It’s a pretty good story."
Tony manages one more peep at them through one sleepy eye. They’re all there, from Nebula to a Hulk-less Bruce, from a misty eyed Steve to a grinning Carol and Fury lurking in the back with a sheepish looking Barnes.
Tony catches the man’s eye and they nod almost imperceptibly at each other, which is enough for now.
He feels Peter and Morgan huddle closer, leans his head into the hand Rhodey rests against his hair, weaves his fingers with Pepper’s and manages one final smile for everybody, one he imagines to be as dopey as he feels. There’s a warm wave of laughter, a sweet kiss on the forehead and Tony is gone, drifting pleasantly into what feels like the first sleep he’s had in years.
He dreams of them all; those familiar faces that he loves and cares for so much, staying with him as he gently traverses a place finally void of all that haunted it before.
And when Tony opens his eyes again, all those faces are still there waiting by his side.