A/N - After all these weeks, Infinity War still hurts me. This idea wouldn't let me go and is what finally broke me out of a writer's block, so I hope you enjoy it!
Title is inspired by the beautiful piece 'Reveries' by Ramin Djawadi, which I couldn't stop listening to while writing the first half of this story.
Morgan is crying again.
This is hardly surprising, considering the list of grievances which set him off is extensive even on a good day, ranging from the usual (he's hungry, sleepy, lonely...) to less routine upsets like scaring himself when he sneezes or being unable to reach a toy and refusing to grasp the notion that he can simply crawl towards it. Life must be as distressing for a five-month-old as it is for a fifty-year-old, it would seem. Or perhaps Morgan's simply releasing all of his tears while he still can; before experience forces him to clutch his pain tightly in his hand and conceal it from the rest of the world.
Tony's all too aware of what burying pain does to the soul to ever begrudge his son a few tears.
High-pitched wailing ceases in a heartbeat when Tony takes the scarlet-faced child in his arms, hushing him with comforting nothings as Morgan grips the fabric of his hoodie tightly. There must be something effective in what he does, for it doesn't take long for choked sobs to dwindle into hiccoughs, and all tension slowly drains from the tiny body pressed against him. Morgan was lonely then. That's easily fixed at least.
For lack of anything better to do, Tony presses a soft kiss to Morgan's temple and sways gently until all sounds of distress are finally banished, making way for soft, even breaths.
Morgan looks like Pepper this time. That isn't always the case, much as Tony wishes it was. On some nights it's like his brain has flipped a coin to determine whether his son should more closely resemble him or Pepper, and it isn't uncommon to gaze at the child in his arms and find his own eyes staring back.
Not tonight, however. Tonight, sparkling blue has mercifully replaced dark brown, and Morgan's small, pointed chin can only have originated from Pepper. The only traces of Tony in his appearance are the dark wisps of hair finally cropping up from his head, though if Tony had his way those too would be altered to make way for fiery red. He knows it's likely inappropriate on some level, given society's many expectations regarding parenthood, but Tony finds himself loving Morgan more whenever he looks like Pepper; feels the gaping hole in his chest fill with a temporary warmth whenever trusting blue eyes meet his own.
Once Morgan's recovered from the myriad of grievances which have plagued him today – choosing instead to wriggle impatiently against his father's chest - Tony finally settles them both on a couch before his son can launch himself to the floor. Granting an unspoken wish for freedom, Tony holds Morgan away from his chest and gently supports him as shaky legs balance awkwardly on his thighs, occasionally bending upwards before coming back to earth in an odd series of exercises. Tear-tracks crawl across his red cheeks but his eyes are brighter at last, scanning the nursery with a palpable inquisitiveness that will serve him well in future. What Morgan sees must provide some amusement beyond Tony's comprehension, for his mouth eventually hangs open in a close approximation of a smile and nonsense babbling spills forth with abandon.
It'll be a few months yet before those syllables form anything resembling English, Tony imagines, but he's willing to listen all the same. Morgan takes great pains to tell him everything about his day in a language which must be more intricate than it sounds (give it a week and FRIDAY might be able to translate everything), all the while continuing his clumsy dance as Tony holds him upright. Only now does Tony realise that Pepper's dressed him in his favourite shirt – a small blue number boasting a vibrant illustration of War Machine and Iron Man flying across the sky – and he can't help but smile with tired fondness. One of Rhodey's many gifts, he supposes, though his brain hasn't seen fit to conjure the memory of receiving them. The knowledge is simply instinctual; accepted as baseless fact in the way truths in dreams often are.
For the sake of his sanity, Tony refuses to dwell on that further.
It doesn't take long for Morgan to yank him from his thoughts with an indignant cry, and what might be intended as a slap against his wrist. His son's displeasure has the desired effect, as Tony simply grins and plants an exaggerated kiss against his cheek, revelling in the wide smile and delighted squeal doing so elicits.
"Sorry kiddo," he says, though he imagines he's already been forgiven for his momentary slight. "Got lost in my head there."
Morgan releases a drawn-out hum as though somehow comprehending his words (perhaps he can by this age – Tony will need to ask FRIDAY to look that up later). Satisfied that the spotlight is finally back on him - as it should be - Morgan extends two chubby hands towards Tony's chest, only to grapple with air as his arms prove too short to reach. A perturbed shriek announces Morgan's wishes more clearly than words ever could, and Tony huffs a laugh before settling the child on his lap; unzipping his hoodie and allowing a familiar glow to spill forth while FRIDAY dims the lights without prompting.
The current reactor may be the greatest technological marvel Tony's achieved in his lifetime, but he's quickly accepted that Morgan sees little value in it beyond its capabilities as a nightlight.
The fact that Tony still wears it is perhaps his brain's least subtle indicator that none of this is real. He should not have a child of his own while monsters continue to lurk in his closet, yearning to tear out his heart and harm everyone he loves.
That notion is quickly discarded and locked somewhere beyond reach. He is not ready for any of this to fade. Not yet. Not while Morgan is gazing up at him with trusting blue eyes illuminated by the reactor's light, breaking Tony's heart in a manner which is almost pleasant.
They must resemble ghosts as they sit there, bathed in an undying glow which casts shadows across the room once Morgan's hands start dancing across the surface. The light never fails to enchant him, no matter how many times he's drifted to sleep at the mere sight of it. Perhaps that's why Tony has deigned to keep it on his person for so long. Perhaps there truly are no more monsters left to fight, and the function of 'nightlight' is the only one he'll ever need the reactor to fulfil.
It's a sweet notion, though not one he's ever managed to trick himself into believing. Lying convincingly to himself is a talent he's never quite mastered, even after years of trying.
Morgan babbles something incoherent as his hands eventually grip the reactor's edge with the intention of pulling it away, only for a scowl to arise when it remains fixed in place. A soft laugh at his son's expense escapes Tony before he can stop it, and he casts aside momentary guilt before carefully guiding one hand away from the unit and letting it grasp his thumb instead. The grip is surprisingly strong for one so small; give it a few months and it might actually start to hurt.
"You can't have your own just yet," he reminds his son with as stern a tone as he can manage, though his heart melts far too easily at the sight of uncomprehending eyes meeting his own for it to last. Out of the pair of them, Tony really hopes Pepper adopts the role of disciplinarian when Morgan's old enough to need it. He can't imagine there ever being a time when those eyes don't force him to relent to his son's wishes. "Not until I've managed to perfect a kid-friendly version. Just don't tell your mother that."
If Morgan understands the implied promise, he gives no indication of it. Any threat of a foul mood evaporates however, and he releases a yawn that has him tilting backwards, only to be saved by Tony's free hand. Recognising this pattern all too well, he takes Morgan into his arms once more and lets him sprawl across his chest; his head resting against a shoulder as exhaustion grips his small frame. Morgan's starting to get a little too heavy for this and Tony's ravished chest complains at the sudden load that's been placed upon it, but the weight is a comforting one nonetheless. Tony leans back against the couch and settles for rubbing soothing circles against his son's back, absently humming some old rock song until soft breaths ease into the restful pattern that comes with sleep.
Exhaustion is gripping Tony as well – creeping menacingly at the corners of his eyes – but it's a good exhaustion. One which carries a sense of fulfilment rather than the soul-crushing numbness he's used to. Part of him yearns to fight off sleep and cling to this perfect moment just a little longer. He knows intimately what sleep will bring - what he will return to when he surrenders to it - and perhaps that certainty means the illusion has already shattered, but he can't bring himself to care.
As sleep claws at his eyeballs, dragging his eyelids together with painful slowness, all Tony can bear to focus on is the child in his arms. On the weight against his chest which never ceases to feel real, no matter how many times he's torturously pulled free from this dream.
The weight is gone by the time Tony wakes.
His awakening isn't a particularly violent one, all things considered, but it still feels like a jolt has shot through his nerves as he opens his eyes; heart hammering against his ribs in a bid for freedom and gasps coming faster than they should. Tony clenches his eyes shut for a moment, willing his heart and lungs to calm to the point where breathing doesn't hurt while trying not to berate himself for the fact that he should be over this. His anxiety had been all but buried before... well, before. It's insisted on returning with a vengeance in recent weeks however, and the sudden loss of a familiar weight in his arms doesn't help.
It takes far longer than it should to acknowledge the soft hand rubbing circles on his shoulder, grounding him more successfully than his feeble attempts have managed. Another hand strays to his face, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead and soothing the creases which now rest there permanently. Though it's impossible to decipher what Pepper's saying over the roaring of his heart, her voice acts as a pleasant anchor to reality, and when he finally drags his eyes open he somehow manages a grateful smile in her direction.
She's curled on her side to face him; the bed-sheets having been kicked away at some point during the night, though if she minds the cold she gives no indication of it. Dark shadows circling her eyes suggest a similar lack of sleep to Tony's own, but her sad smile is still the most beautiful thing he could possibly see in this moment, and one of his hands absently finds hers and clutches it tightly once he's fully returned to the present.
"Morgan again?" Pepper asks, with a trace of sympathy that might have irked him were it to come from anyone else.
Tony can do little more than nod in response. Pepper always seems to know instinctively whether he's just emerged from a flashback or yet another dream of the child that never was; his tells memorised from the tension in his muscles, or the pitiful whimpers he releases, or his incoherent rambling (because apparently that's a thing he does now). The confirmation that she's right has tears burning in her eyes before she can stop them, and Tony wonders if it would be cruel to turn away before the sight brands him.
It is pointless, he knows, to mourn the absence of a child who exists only in dreams. A child who will never exist in reality, now that the world has fallen to ruin because of Tony's failures. They had decided early in the aftermath that Morgan could never become more than a fantasy, though the notion broke their hearts more than either wanted to admit. They both understood all too clearly that any possibility of a normal life was lost to them. How can they raise a child in a world like this? How can they force their son or daughter to inherit the monumental devastation which Tony failed to prevent?
There also remains the possibility of a greater fight ahead, if Strange's dying words can be construed as fact rather than discarded as the ramblings of a madman. Should it come to pass, that fight is one Tony cannot sit out even if he wanted to, and he thinks forcing his child to grow up fatherless would make him even worse than Howard ever was.
It's a while before either of them speaks again, though the silence is hardly an uncomfortable one. Basking in each other's presence has become a habit in the months since he returned from Titan. There are still times where Tony can't believe Pepper is truly alive, as though a cruel trick has yet to be unveiled in which he will be forced to watch her too fade away. He can remember with startling clarity the way he'd crumpled under the weight of relief upon seeing her and Rhodey again; remembers tearing down his many walls as he wept like a child in their arms and clung to them for dear life. In any other circumstances he would look back and recoil at how pathetic he must have appeared, but Pepper and Rhodey had been as broken as he was by all accounts. Holding back their pain would have been a pointless exercise if ever there was one.
The weeks that followed are little more than a blur of numb exhaustion and confused debriefings marred by a vague yearning for home, though his eventual return to the Avengers compound had left him feeling cold. The buildings are far too empty now – reminding Tony all too clearly of how barren the Earth itself has become – and there are days where the silence threatens to shatter his eardrums with more ease than an explosion ever could.
Numbness quickly gave way to nightmares whenever exhaustion forces him to pass out; relentless visions of everyone he loves crumbling to ash despite his own body refusing to shatter. Such visions are often interspersed between dreams of the child he will never have, and Tony can't decide if those are better or worse than the alternative. Once or twice, his brain has been cruel enough to combine the two like a twisted puzzle; gifting him a child with trusting dark eyes and brown hair which is just a little too light to have been inherited from Tony. There's rarely enough time for brutal recognition to take hold before the child's cries are silenced, and he's left grasping nothing but ash and air.
One would hope that such dreams might become easier to endure with each repetition, but Tony's still waiting for the agony they bring to subside.
He tries not to think of Peter too deeply when he's still conscious, if only to allow himself to actually function from day to day. That's easier said than done, considering echoes of the boy linger all over the compound. The main reason Tony isn't using his awakening as an excuse to storm off to the lab is because he knows he'll be brought face-to-face with prototypes for Peter's suits if he does; models he's refused to throw away out of some feeble hope that they may one day be needed (he blames Strange entirely for that, and the old wound in his side burns at the thought).
Seeing the suits on display upon returning home had felt like a knife in the gut – the unfinished designs mocking him with their very presence – and it had taken several attempts on FRIDAY's part for her soft "Are you all right, sir?" to even register. Tony can't remember what he told her, but his response clearly wasn't reassuring as she still asks that question every single day. Telling her to stop has yet to yield any results - Tony doubts it ever will.
He had hoped Peter could become more involved in the actual design process and programming of his suits, given the impressive skillset he had already displayed. He'd hoped the boy could start building his own suits without assistance soon, or that Tony could teach him more about AI technology; he'd hoped...
Well. He'd hoped for a great many things that couldn't happen now.
"Hey," Pepper says, breaking through his haze so completely it's startling in spite of her gentleness, and Tony simply smiles weakly when she pokes a finger against his forehead. "You getting lost in there?"
Tony can do little more than shrug, though that small action seems to tell her everything she needs to know. Forming words is beyond his capabilities at the moment, such is the exhaustion which clings to him even after he forced himself to sleep for a couple of hours. He could resort to some mindfulness tricks to ground himself to the present for a moment or two, though he'd never quite mastered them before and he can hardly see them working now. Any attempts will likely achieve little more than highlighting the gnawing ache in his chest which hasn't abated since his surgery, or the wound beneath his ribs which still transmits phantom pain months after it was actively killing him. The latter only serves to drag him back to Titan, and he clutches Pepper's hand so tightly it must hurt in a feeble effort to remind himself that that barren wasteland is far behind him.
"I love you," he says without needing to be prompted, and Pepper presses a soft kiss to his palm in unspoken reciprocation.
Tony never said it enough, before. He probably still doesn't – he could tell Pepper he loves her ten times a day and it still wouldn't be enough – but the reminder seems to lighten both their souls a little; makes him slightly less afraid that he'll die without her truly knowing how important she is. Not that he's planning on dying anytime soon, though he knows that's something far beyond his control. Having any desires to settle down and build a semi-normal life fragmented in a matter of hours is something he is all too familiar with, and it would be foolish not to prepare for the rug being pulled from under him again.
They still have a wedding ahead of them, though the thought of hosting a grand ceremony seems ludicrous now, and after that there's no telling what their life will be like. Whether moving on is even remotely an option, or whether there's only the war; one final push to achieve the single victory in fourteen million possible outcomes.
Not for the first time, Tony finds himself wishing Strange had never bothered to make that trade. That he'd simply been left to bleed out on Titan's wastes, or vaporised in an instant as Thanos intended. Perhaps nothing would have changed – the wizard seemed to know far more than he ever let on and was hardly one for mindless sentiment – and it would have meant leaving Pepper behind without so much as a goodbye, but his death might have bought the team a few more hours while the Time Stone remained beyond Thanos' reach.
The Avengers could have done wonders with a few extra hours.
He should call them, the few that remain. They're still stuck on the other side of the world for now, because apparently bureaucratic bullshit still exists when half of humanity has been wiped out and trying to save the world wasn't enough to revoke their fugitive status. Tony hasn't seen most of them since those initial frantic weeks which remain little more than a haze, though he does remember a strange, overwhelming relief at finding Steve and Natasha among the survivors. Bitter squabbles from years gone by seemed to fade to nothingness in the face of what they'd lost, and Tony thinks it would be nice to hear their voices again.
Perhaps they're closer to developing a plan than he and Rhodey and Bruce are. Then again, perhaps not. He imagines he'd have heard by now if that were the case. More likely, they're still as numb as he is; waiting for their grief to subside to a point where it can finally be powered through before enduring another fight seems possible.
Thoughts of allies direct his musings to Nebula with little warning; the daughter of Thanos who sat by his side once everyone else was gone, her own silent grief threatening to consume her. She hadn't broken like Tony had, not entirely, and he probably owes his life to that resilience. Instead of wallowing in grief, Nebula had smothered her pain and taken charge, dragging him towards the Guardians' battered ship without a care for whether he wanted to be saved. On their trip to Earth, she'd practically kept him alive through sheer will – forcing medication and fluids into him as though afraid his death would render her completely alone – and Tony could do little but cling to life, even as part of him wanted to let go and fall into the abyss.
Tony likes Nebula, despite everything. Her bluntness was something he could appreciate, given that anything else in the aftermath of Peter's death would simply have tortured him further, and she'd demonstrated a mastery of hiding her pain that even he found himself envying.
And she'd brought him home, despite having no clear incentive to do so beyond the fact that she herself had nowhere else to go.
Admittedly, she's probably killed more people than Tony's met. In any other circumstances she might even have been considered an enemy, but then, these aren't normal circumstances. One can't afford to be picky about alliances when their opponent is the greatest mass murderer in history.
It's possible she's still on Earth. Not likely, considering she has little reason to stay, but there's a slim chance that contacting Wakanda would eventually link him to her. Tony doubts she'd have much to offer beyond a harsh "pull yourself together and fight" but that sounds like advice he could use right now. If he had the energy to pull himself out of bed and make the call then he could indulge in the familiarity of his friends' voices to his heart's content, but there's a heaviness to his limbs which renders even that simple task beyond him, at least until morning. He could ask FRIDAY to make the call instead, but if he's too exhausted to get out of bed then he's likely too exhausted to form coherent sentences, and worrying his friends further isn't his intention.
So, going to the lab is out of the question, as is phoning Steve or Nat or anyone else stuck thousands of miles away. Fatigue still has him trapped in its claws, with no intention of letting go anytime soon. Tony used to be much better at fighting it off, but he is older now and feels it, and he has fought off sleep with coffee and work for several days as it is. His eyelids flutter of their own accord, and he startles before forcing them open once more. It doesn't work; much as he tries, blinking does little to bring Pepper back into focus.
She must notice his silent battle, for a soft hand returns to brush hair from his face and her voice manages to quieten the heart he hadn't realised was racing.
"Sleep," she commands, and suddenly the prospect seems appealing. "We can work on saving the world tomorrow."
Pepper says that a lot these days, and it's always 'tomorrow' because trying to comprehend fixing the universe in the present is always unbearable. As the weeks have passed, Tony's noticed that she seems less and less sure of her words, as though slowly adopting the idea that saving the world may not be as realistic a goal as rebuilding it.
Abandoning hope of undoing Thanos' actions isn't something Tony himself can consider. Not yet. Their losses are too insurmountable; the weight of those deaths too heavy to even think of letting them stand. Once, he'd had the lives of thousands on his conscience as a consequence of what his company did, but even those numbers were easier to accept than the trillions resting upon his soul now. He can't insult those people by moving on without fighting on their behalf. A plan will come together, it must, and if it doesn't end up being the one in millions that works, well, at least he'll have done something.
It is strange to have a trace of optimism these days, and Tony isn't naïve enough to believe he truly has any left to spare. That said, he would like to believe there's a reason Peter's suits remain where they'd been left, beyond mere sentiment on his part. He'd like to believe that one day their rightful owner will don them once more to fight petty criminals to his heart's content; that the Guardians will fly off in their battered ship and Strange will survive to spout yet more fantastical bullshit; that half of the universe will once again be able to embrace the other half.
That the future will consist of something more than black-painted possibilities.
Those hopes can wait until tomorrow though, as they always do. For now, there's only restless sleep and visions of a future he cannot begin to fully comprehend. Visions of a son Tony may never be able to hold in reality, but who he still loves without question.
He feels himself slip away beyond all control; feels Pepper press a soft kiss to his forehead, and knows instinctively that sleep will evade her even as it refuses to let him go.
That knowledge barely has time to settle, before his world narrows once again to the sound of Morgan's cries and the sight of blue eyes which never fail to break his heart.
A/N - Thank you so much for reading this! I'm not sure I'm entirely happy with it, but it was lovely to finally start writing again (as much as I loved getting lost in my last story, it definitely wiped me out for a couple of weeks once it was finished). As always, I hope you enjoyed this and any feedback is appreciated!