Author's Note: The story in this one-shot was referenced in an earlier chapter of "Heroes & Demons" when Pepper met Captain Carol Danvers, a close friend of both Tony and Rhodey. Again, Carol is not an oc, but rather my take on a more realistic, movie-verse version of the comic book character Ms. Marvel who shares a long friendship with Iron Man as well as some of his serious character flaws. For this verse, this fic is my take on the different ways Tony's friends handled his 'death'. Enjoy and please read and review!

May 24th

By: Silver Spider

May 24th was not a good day.

Actually it was a gorgeous spring evening in the north east, but Carol Danvers could not enjoy it, would never enjoy it again. On this day, there was nothing but her little ritual she had all but perfected over the last three years.

Step 1: Find a bar

This was Washington, so she could have probably found some military-friendly bar where she would no doubt run into someone she had once worked with, share a few laughs, a few drinks, and go their separate ways.

But that wasn't part of the plan.

The plan involved a bar somewhere where no one would know her. Where she could be just another pretty face to be flirted with and hit on, but ultimately forgotten, just like she instantly forgot everything and everyone in place as soon as she entered.

Step 2: Drink. A lot.

Once a suitable bar had been found, Carol made it a point to get thoroughly drunk, if not to a full-blown blackout, then as close as she could come to it and still make it to a taxi. The only piece of sanity she forced herself to have was to tell the bartender ahead of time to call her a cab when it looked like she was about to pass out.

She wasn't in the habit of getting trashed in unknown places. She wasn't in the habit of getting trashed at all, considering what such a thing could do to her career. But May 24th was a special occasion, and she always gave herself plenty of recovery time.

Step 3: Get home. Sleep it off. Get on with her life.

So far it had always worked out great. She had no reason to think year three would be any different.

So, this particular story went like this:

Carol walked into a bar whose name she didn't bother to check, nor care about. She went through the usual routine of sitting down at the bar in the furthest corner, giving her address to the bartender for the possible cab later, then ordering a Jack Daniels – light on the ice.

Then another and another.

Her head was beginning to feel fuzzy if she moved too much. She had no idea how long she had been at the table, but a little voice inside her head was starting to complain about the time and pointing out that maybe she should check just how many empty glasses were in front of her. She ignored it. A non-descriptive man sat down on the barstool next to her and extended his glass in greeting. Carol did the same for the sake of politeness.

"I was going to come on with a cheesy line like 'what's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this,' but clearly, there's some occasion."

He waited for her to offer it up. What the hell? Carol thought. Isn't this what bars are for? Free therapy from strangers you'll never see again.

"My brother died. Three years ago today."

She didn't really know if that was the actual date, but it was the only one she and the rest of the world had. It was funny; she didn't remember morning quite as... passionately when Steven – her real elder brother – had died. Steve had also been in the military, which came with a certain amount of acceptance that, for many, death was the only retirement plan.

But Tony...

She took another gulp of the whiskey.

"Hell of a way to morn," the man said.

"Yup. See this?" She held up the glass. "One of his favorites." A split second later, Carol gave a very un-ladylike snort. "Then again, what wasn't?"

There was a swish of warm air as the door opened. She didn't even bother to look until a hand fell on her shoulder. When she traced it back to the source, Carol made a face.

"Oh, look." Her tone was dry. "Here's the other one."

The man beside her raised a brow. "Your brother or a brother?"

Carol snorted again, but Rhodes looked far from amused. His hand squeezed her shoulder lightly but enough to let her know he wanted her full attention.

"Let's go, Captain."

"Go 'way." She shrugged off his hand. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm having a deep, important conversation with my friend here."

The glare the lieutenant colonel gave the other man was enough to make him quickly finish his drink, mutter an apologetic good-bye, and make a hasty exit. Rhodey came around to where the man had been sitting and gave her a serious look. Carol scowled, her eyes anywhere but on him. Maybe if he saw that she was planning on ignoring him, he would go away. Jim Rhodes was one of the last people on the planet she wanted to see on this day.

To her infinite annoyance, he wasn't leaving, just sitting there and watching her with an inscrutable expression. She wished she could tell what he was thinking, but he had always been one of the most difficult people for her to read. Finally, annoyance surpassed patience.

"You," she said sourly, "are the worst bar hopping... mate... person... whatever. Total buzz-kill. I happened to like that guy."

"You saw him for the first time thirty minutes ago," Rhodey pointed out. "And you're lucky he didn't realize just how drunk you are."

"'m not drunk," she protested.

"You are, and I'm taking you home. It's just a question of when we go. I prefer sooner rather than later, but I've got all night."

Oh, fuck. Was he for real? "Go to hell, Rhodes."

She reached for the glass again, but his larger hand covered the top before she could lift it off the table. Now, Carol was angry.

"Wanna play it like that, Colonel? Fine. Better bars in this town, anyway."

With that deceleration, she slid off the stool, fully intending on calling a cab and finding a different place, somewhere far far away from the great Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes. Prick, she thought angrily. Righteous piece of shit.

Gravity, however, had another idea. As soon as she lost the support of the stool beneath her, Carol felt the faint sensation of falling, of her head swimming and her feet buckling under her. A second later, a strong solid arm wrapped around her waist. Rhodey silently pulled her upright, shifting so that he was supporting most of her weight. Carol felt dizzy and slightly sick. Her right arm came to wrap around him, nails digging into his right forearm.

"Okay," she mumbled into his shoulder. "Maybe 's time to go home."

She didn't remember the ride home or telling Rhodey to fish out the keys to her apartment from her jeans pocket, teasing him about wanting to get into her pants. She did, however, remember leaning over the toilet bowl and emptying the very minimal contents of her stomach. Rhodey was behind her, one hand on her shoulder while the other held her hair out of the way. He didn't say anything afterward, simply handed her a glass of water. In hind sight, Carol wished she'd remembered to thank him.

It was still dark when she woke up, the bed-side clock flashing five-fifteen in the morning. She'd slept on top of the covers in the same clothing she'd worn out save for a clean shirt. Carol didn't want to think about what happened to the original. Swinging both legs over the edge of her bed, she sat up and stretched, silently thanking her parents for giving her the amazing genes that had yet to allow her to have even a single hangover. She'd been the envy of all her friends in college for that.

Rhodey was sitting on the couch in her living room, forearms resting on his knees. He was staring at something on the coffee table, and when the remainder of sleep cleared from her vision, Carol saw that it was the bottle she'd bought a few days ago in case she didn't make it out last evening. She also saw that it was still sealed and that Rhodey's head was bent, his shoulders rising and falling in a familiar rhythm. That made her pause.

Carol had seen men break. The military put the best of them through physical and emotional trials – but she'd never seen – couldn't imagine seeing – James Rhodes in tears. It put her entire world view on its head. To her he had always been the pinnacle of strength and courage and honor, a sort of untouchable nearly mythical paragon of manhood. It took her a full minute to realize that he was crying.

"Jim?"

He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hands and spoke so quietly she almost didn't hear.

"I don't want you to die."

What? "I'm not going to die."

She couldn't imagine where it was coming from. Her memory of the night before might have been foggy, but Carol was fairly sure she hadn't done anything to warrant that kind of concern.

Fairly sure.

"Tony did." The area around his eyes was still wet, but the look he gave her was angry.

Carol sighed and bit her lower lip. "I don't… drink drink. Not like that. Not like he did."

"It doesn't matter!" He held up the bottle. "This? This is what killed him. Why would you choose to remember him this way?"

Okay, that was fair. She might have been inclined to look the other way, but Tony Stark's alcoholism was no secret to Carol. She had always just thought that since Rhodey gave him a hard time about it, she wouldn't be helping by ganging up on him as well. But she wasn't that blind. After all, Carol had been with him only a few days before that last flight to New York. The memory made her stomach churn.

"I miss him," she said finally.

"You think I don't?" He must have thought he sounded too harsh, because he looked away. "Does it help?"

"Does what help?" she asked even though she knew.

"What does getting drunk do for you today? Does it help you remember him or not remember or what? What's the point? Why do you do it?"

She hadn't really thought of it. The first anniversary had almost taken her by surprise. She'd already been at the bar with a few Air Force buddies when the reminder of it came on the late evening news. God bless her friends; they had gotten her home in one piece that night. The next day was like any other, and after that she made sure she had no obligations on May 24th. Some day, someone would build a time machine so she could skip it altogether. Of course, it would probably be later rather than sooner, with the smartest engineer on earth gone, so for now drinking it away was the next best thing.

"It numbs things," she admitted. "Most of the time, I can put some distance between myself and things I don't want to think about, but not today, not with him. I think if it wasn't for this, I'd spend the entire day curled up in a ball."

"Maybe that's what you should do," Rhodey suggested. "It's probably what I'd be doing if..."

"If you weren't hunting me down?" Carol offered him with a smile. "See? You have a distraction, and you didn't even have to drink. You're welcome."

"You think you're helping me?" He stared at her with open astonishment, his anger resurfacing. "You're not! I don't ever want to find you like I did tonight. Or worse..."

"I'm not Tony Stark." There was an edge to her voice, a coldness.

Rhodey said nothing for a long time, then finally sighed and wiped the last of the moisture from his face. "You're right. You're not, and it's not fair for me to... to be this way, but every time I see that," He pointed at the bottle as if it was a bomb that could explode any second, "I can't help but think about Tony. You know it killed him. Please tell me you understand that much."

"I don't think it's that simple. It didn't help, but... you know how he is... was... Damn it!"

Her hands balled up into fists, and she sank down next to him. Neither moved for a long time, then Rhodey silently reached out and took one of her hands in his. It was comforting, Carol noted with a measure of surprise. They both had the hands of soldiers; calloused and firm, so used to communicating through touch and intuition rather than words. She could feel herself drawing strength from him, and he from her.

"Do me a favor?" He squeezed her hand. "Next year, if you decide to do this, call me first. I'll give you space. I won't lecture, but please, just... just let me know where you are. I don't want to loose another friend."

She wanted to yell at him, to tell him to get off his high horse, that he was being stupid, that one night of three sixty-five wouldn't kill her.

She wanted to tell him she was sorry for making him worry, that she would never do it again, that he wouldn't have to live through another loss like that.

She wanted to kiss him.

Carol did none of those things, instead covering his hand with her free one and returning the comforting squeeze.

"I'll call," she promised.