"...Papa says he got malo in him..."
The song bleeds from the radio in the high window, fluorescent lights glaring from overhead. 3:00 AM in Tony's labs looks pretty much like any other time on the top floor of the Avengers Facility; lights bright, floor and shelves covered in tech dating anywhere from the 1960's to futuristic, and paper plates of half-eaten shawarma and pizza littering the worktables lining the walls.
I come here, sometimes, on nights when I can't sleep. I've known Tony for long enough that his clutter doesn't bother me. It's peaceful, sort of. At least compared to the last few days. Nobody else comes in here except Tony and sometimes Peter when he's here, and it's dead quiet, except for the distant humming of the arc reactor that powers our massive home.
I lean against the wall and slide down it, until I'm sitting on the ground, hugging my knees. Softly, I sing along to Camila Cabello. "...He got me feeling like, oooh-oooh-oooh-oooh-oooh-oooh-oooh-ooh..." My voice cracks on the high notes and I fall silent, allowing myself, for the first time, to think about what happened.
Tony and Steve fighting...Rhodey paralyzed...Bucky Barnes reappearing and then disappearing again (I still don't really trust him, but I know he means a lot to Steve)...still no sign of Thor or Bruce (Don't think about Bruce)...and so many new players. I couldn't tell you who half of them are. I vaguely remember the King of Wakanda dressing up as a cat, and someone else growing and shrinking a lot before passing out and being carted to jail. We're not what we used to be, I think to myself. The days of us teaming up to fight off alien invasions are over. We're divided, half of us on the run from the law, some of us desperately injured or missing entirely. And those of us left over aren't the same at all.
Tony stalks the halls of the facility at night, eyes bloodshot, face unshaven, muttering to himself when he thinks we can't hear him. Wanda has nightmares. Regularly, since she was freed from prison. She screams and thrashes in her sleep, haunted by the dead. Her dead brother, her dead parents, and every death that we're responsible for. It tortures Vision, I can see it in his eyes. He barely talks anymore, doesn't cook like he used to, doesn't sit on Wanda's bed and make her laugh until she cries like he used to, doesn't touch her hand or her hair in the same soft way that he used to. Instead, he parks himself at a desk every day and busies himself cleaning up the mess we made. And Rhodey - Well. Rhodey struggles just to walk.
And me? I hold our little group together. In some weird way, I feel responsible for what happened at the airport. I've always taken care of my boys, looked after them, and I messed up. During the day, I'm strong. I'm optimistic. I keep on trucking and pull everyone else along with me. During the night, I come to Tony's labs, listen to whatever's on the radio, and feel desperately sad. I cried once. Two days ago. I let myself think about Bruce (Don't think about Bruce), and the last thing he said to me. "I've got a compelling reason not to lose my cool." Less than four hours later, he was gone. Not dead, I tell myself for the hundredth time, just gone. He flew off on one of Tony's QuinJets to God-knows-where, leaving me with one more thing to add to my list of things I can't think about.
Thinking about my life right now is incredibly exhausting, and before long my eyes glaze over and I fall asleep.