Survived By…
Part One
It was always the same cream colored walls, and the same white linoleum floors. No matter how many hospice homes that he visited, they all had that same distinct odor of depression and death. Every now and then, he would see a glimpse of acceptance—someone who was ready to go. They had lived their life to their fullest, and made the most of what they had. But a good chunk of the time, Sam noted as he turned down the last hallway to stand before the large dark pine door, they were desperate for someone to give them that last glimpse of hope.
It was the most depressing part of his job.
"Marcus Prince…" Sam muttered to himself as he flipped through the file. He had been hired on as a therapist, to listen to the dying, and to help them accept what was coming. It was in his job description, and a good ninety percent of the time, he was able to walk away feeling as if he had been able to let his patient leave their life with some form of acceptance. He just wanted to make sure they were comfortable, mentally and emotionally, when the time came.
Carefully, taking a moment to compose himself, Sam let his knuckles rap against the door. He waited the appropriate amount of time—quite used to getting no answer from the inside—before stepping into the threshold.
"Hello, Mr. Prince," Same greeted as calmly as he could. In the beginning of his workings, he had made the mistake of being cheery. He had thought that if he could just bring a little bit of joy into the work place then those who were expecting the end would feel a little better. Instead, Sam found it made them bitter and hateful. They had cursed him out and accused of him being heartless because they were suffering and why should he make it out to be enjoyable?
"Who the hell are you?"A voice, long deteriorated from long term smoking, rasped out from the bed. He had a square jaw line, long worn down by the weight of gravity and the stress of being a veteran. He was still a rather stout man, though Sam imagined he would have been tall and broad in his days of activity in the field.
"I'm Sam Wilson, your grief counselor." Sam pursed his lips in a thin line, making sure to keep the grim look on his face. Make them think you understand, he reminded himself as he readjusted the slipping folders in his hand.
"I don't need no-" Prince's breath hitched in his throat just before he doubled over coughing sputum into his clenched fist. "Don't need no damned counselor." The man griped, shooting the first of many dirty glares at the man standing before him. "I ain't so worried I'm gonna die. Done accepted it." The man huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. It was a defensive posture that was all too familiar to Sam. He had seen it far too many times in those that weren't just afraid of what awaited them on the other side, but were terrified of it.
But he couldn't blame them. They had done their best in their life, and most times, they couldn't understand by the end why they were dying. Why had they been picked by the hand of death while their great uncle Johnson who had smoked and drunk every day of his life still lived on, healthy as a damned ox? And for those questions, Sam never had an answer. But that certainly didn't mean that he didn't try his best to give them one.
"I'm sure," Sam sighed softly collapsing into the char just beside the man. The sneer that Prince had sent him didn't go unnoticed, but when he kicked his shoes off and hitched them up onto the side of the bed, it was worth the look of confusion. "So then my job is done. Mind if I just nap for the next thirty minutes?" Sam allowed his head to fall back against the uncomfortable rest of the chair.
And for the next thirty minutes, Marcus Prince said nothing. The grumpy man simply stared ahead at the television, stubby arms crossed over his chest in annoyance. Sam would give it two more visits before the man opened up. And then for the next three weeks, as it always seemed to go, they would get closer until he passed.
"Alright," Marcus groused, dragging an arthritic hand down his face. "Alright your thirty minutes is up. Get out."
Exaggerating his stretches, Sam stood from the chair and smiled as warmly as he could towards the aged man.
"Guess I'll see you next week then." Sam rolled his shoulders and neck, enjoying the cracking and popping that it relieved.
"Hopefully not." Prince grouched sinking further into the white sheets of the bed.
After the first visits, Sam liked to take about ten minutes after to make notes of his observations. The slight twitches in the way the man sat, or how he lisped when he talked. If he rolled his eyes, or shook his head while saying yes. It was little things that he was looking for that would give him confirmation on the persons acceptance. It would be the little movements that would make him feel like he had done his best.
And Marcus had done none of the minute gestures that would have left Sam worrying. But he had been a rude old man that was lonely. Even if it wasn't part of his job description, Sam would still check on him the next few days just so he wasn't alone all of the time.
"Alright," Sam sighed making his way behind the nurse's desk. "Who's next?" He dropped Marcus Prince's file into a small holder marked Checked. It had been designed by one of the nurses before him to help with organization. In another file holder marked Needs to Be Checked, depth fingers wrapped around another manila folder.
"Parker, huh?" Sam's brow drew down in confusion at the familiarity of the name. He had heard it before, that much he was sure, he just wasn't exactly sure where. It wasn't exactly an uncommon surname, and Sam wouldn't have been surprised if he had heard it recently, but it stuck to the roof of his mouth. He flipped the front of the file open and glanced over the paper work. His face blanching of all emotion.
A kid.
Go figure.
After the whole Thanos thing, there had been an influx of children having to go into Hospice because of some disease that had followed them home. But Sam had always done his best to avoid the children that were involved. He couldn't handle the way they had looked at him expecting him to bring them good news—that they had found a cure, that this was all a joke, that they wouldn't die before their parents even had to think about it. The younger ones always accepted it much faster, and the Parents seemed to handle everything after a little better. They'd maybe get a divorce, and sue for custody of another child. But they would be able to continue life like it was normal after a few months, maybe a year. But when it was a teenager, someone who was old enough to understand what was going on; who could feel the injustice of it all...those were the hardest.
"Alright...Peter Parker, let's get this over with."
The kid was nothing like Sam had expected. When he had seen that he was sixteen years old, he had expected a chiseling chin, or strong arms. He had expected probably a football player, or someone just a little more athletic. Instead, propped up on the bed in front of him, was a child that had no doubt been subjected to bullies for a good chunk of his life. His cheeks were slightly rounded, his jaw was still in the process of defining itself.
And had it not been for the way that purple seeped up the veins in his arms, or the blue tint to his lips, Sam would have thought he was a fairly healthy teenager that was simply sleeping. But the further in he stepped, the more medical equipment came into view; and with the medical equipment came a visitor that Sam wouldn't have expected in his wildest dreams.
Tony Stark was supposed to be the most uncaring man on the Avengers team. He had proven, time and again, that he had never been good at putting others before himself. And up until a certain teenager entered his life, why should he? He had tried with Pepper, and it had either backfired or took off, but it was a roller coaster. One day he was a good Tony, and the next she was angry with him for something he honestly couldn't recall. But the kid had always looked up to him no matter how bad he had screwed up. And that honestly meant more than the Avengers Initiative had.
But it also meant that he had to keep the kid hidden from the rest of his group. They couldn't know about the teenager that had grown on his heart like a damned tumor. Because then they would know that Tony Stark could care about someone that wasn't himself. It would give them cause to believe that he actually had a heart. And that was information privvy to only those closest to him.
So when he was visiting his kid in that damned white washed room and none other than Sam Wilson—THE fucking Falcon—walked in, carrying that folder in his hands…
Well Tony didn't really know what to do. He had forgotten, in all of the mess and conglomeration of Thanos and Titan and the fact that his kid had been one of the ones to come back in partial shape, that Sam was a counselor. And of course, at the last minute, he would have switched from PTSD on soldiers to dealing with grief of those who were about to re-enter the soul stone.
"Hello, Mr Pa-" Sam stared at the man before snapping his jaw shut; teeth clacking at the force and surprise. "Tony..."
"Sam..." Tony stared at the man, years of exhaustion and restless nights coming to a head. There were bags upon bags under his eyes, and a sickly yellow hue to his skin. He looked like a father that was waiting with their child while they took their last breaths. "What..." Tony forced the mucus that was building up in his throat to clear away before straightening his shoulders. "What can I do for you, Sam?"
"I...Is..."Sam cleared his own throat, throwing a cautionary glance towards the boy on the bed. He wasn't supposed to be involved personally in any case that he accepted. That being said, he also hadn't known that Tony knew his current patient. "I need to speak with Mr. Parker. I'm his counselor."
"Sorry, he's finally asleep." Tony sighed dragging a calloused hand down his face. "And I'm not waking him up."
"Then maybe I can help you while he's sleeping. I...You can talk to me, Tony." Sam glanced at the man, then back towards the young man on the bed.
"What is there to say about it? The kid has the worst luck..."Tony chuckled bitterly at the idea of Parker Luck. Memories of Peter rolling his eyes as he told Tony about his day in exasperated hysterics. Visions of the teenager flopping into the chair in his lab, while kicking his feet up to complain about whatever happened at school was an emotional coaster for the inventor. "We just have to find out how to get him back on his feet..."
"Tony...Do you know the percentiles on this disease?" Sam pursed his lip. He wanted to be worried about the man before him; wanted to take him to the side and ask him how he's feeling and tell him that he can talk to him and get everything off of his chest. However, before they could make that step, he had to make sure the man understood that the chances of the kid making it through whatever it was that he had was slim.
"I know. But Bruce and I..."
"Can I ask a question?"
"Isn't that part of your profession?"
"Why are you here?" Sam pursed his lips glancing the man over. He hadn't moved back into the compound himself, so he wasn't sure what the dynamics were anymore. But he was still a part of the Avengers—no matter how much the team was dwindling. So he was positive he would have heard somewhere on the grapevine that Tony had a kid.
"Because...He shouldn't be alone." The inventor blanched and focused his visual attention on a spot directly across from him. He was avoiding giving a truthful answer; allowing his mind to naturally block everything that would give him away.
"They won't let him….You know this. So what's the real ans-" Sam was shoved aside by a pushy Italian woman. Her brows were furrowed, and her jaw was gaunt and thin.
"Tony...How is he? Sorry I just got off. I didn't mean to be late." The rather beautiful woman stationed herself in the chair on the other side of the bed. She was wearing scrubs that belonged to the local hospital—probably the one that the boy had come from. Which would mean that if he wanted to, Sam could get the boy's medical records and check into all of his history.
"He's good," Tony nodded towards the woman dragging a hand down his own face. "He's slept through most of the day, and he woke up a little for lunch." The man glanced at the face of the brunette; eyes closed and not even the slightest twitch of sleep.
"Oh," The woman sighed softly, her shoulders slumped forward in defeat. "Well..I guess it's better than the other option." She forced a smile to her lips.
Then it was as if she had just noticed Sam. Her shoulders threw themselves back, as she put on her professional face.
"Oh, oh!" She jerked her hand back, and dusted off the imaginary dirt on her scrubs. "I-I'm sorry, I'm May Parker. Peter's Aunt." She held her hand out for him to shake.
"Pleas-"
"We're leaving." Tony stood, grabbing Sam's hand before the woman had a chance to. "Call me if anything changes." He arched his brow pointedly, and pursed his lips. "And if you need anything May. I'm serious." Brown eyes landed on the Sam—who at this point was so lost that he was sure he needed a map. "You and Me. Let's go." The brunette clapped his hand to Sam's shoulder and ushered him out of the room.
The inventor waited until they were well out of the room before turning on the man he had at one point called a comrade and friend. His lips pursed as he glanced the man over, checking for any bugs or a camera. He glanced around the corner as if someone would jump out and tell him that he had been pranked.
"Who sent you?"
Sam jolted back, hands held up as if Tony had a gun. He had no idea that the man would be at the hospital; hell, he didn't even know the man was back in New York. After the whole Thanos thing, Tony had gone incognito and just disappeared from the team, and from being THE Tony Stark. A place of hospice was the absolute last place he had ever expected, or wanted, to come across the inventor.
"How did you find out?" Tony snapped. His jaw tightened as he stared down one of the few remaining Avengers.
"I didn't..." Sam sighed heavily, dragging his own calloused hand over his face. Ground yourself, Wilson. He couldn't expect Tony to keep calm and think rationally if Sam himself couldn't. "I didn't even know you would be here. I was hired to coach people through their emotions while they're..." Sam waved his hand quietly to show he meant the entire ward. "I wasn't...I didn't know you would be here."
"Now you do," Tony sighed, his shoulders slunk forward and for a moment, Steve felt as if he was reprimanding a puppy. "What are you going to do with that information?"
"Tony..." Sam frowned, his brows furrowing together as he stared at the man. Did Tony expect him to sell him out? To tell the world that Tony Stark was mourning the loss of some teenager that had been afflicted by whatever disease had latched onto him in the soul stone. "I wasn't going to do anything. I was assigned here by my boss, they accepted my help. I'm not here to out you, or to find you, or whatever it is that you've got me doing in your head. That's my motif."
"Then what is..."
"To help," Sam reached out and draped a hand over the man's shoulder. "I'm here to listen as the people yell at me until they can't yell anymore. I'm here to help them and their loved ones," Sam pointed his arched brow at the inventor. "Accept what is inevitably coming. I've moved from just a PTSD counselor into a grief counselor. I'm only here to help. And that includes you, if you and that young man are in any way related."
"I...He's...He's just some kid Queens," Tony started, his lips pursing tightly. His chin wobbled as he threw a backwards glance over his shoulder towards the door. "Coffee...Let's...and..."
"Got it." Same nodded ushering the man out the door and towards the silver elevator. "Talk over coffee. If I recall right, you can hardly function without it some days."
"Most days now," Tony chuckled softly. He drug a hand through semi greasy hair as his eyes wandered the white halls. It almost, in a sentimental way, reminded him of the way Bruce had been right after the snap. Sam remembered the countless nights that the scientist had invested in cracking the secrets of the soul stone; while he was trying to reverse it.
"It's understandable...after everything that happened..." Sam sighed, jamming his finger into the button again. His patience for the machine was thin, and veiled only by the anxiety of being face to face with Tony Stark. It was almost incomprehensible how much had changed in the past couple of years. Falcon recalled fighting along side the snarky man as they had taken down the Chitauri, and fighting against him in Leipzig. Sam recalled the way that Tony would fall asleep during movie night because he had spent so many nights before working relentlessly down in the labs.
"Yea..Well..." Tony sighed heavily shoving Sam's finger from the button. "If Bruce and I could figure out how to bring people back...I can figure out how to cure this thing."
"And then what, Tony?" Sam questioned. There was no malice or confrontation lining his voice as there had been the many times before when Sam imagined himself talking to Tony. After all, the man had essentially disappeared when the world needed him the most. "You going to disappear again?"
"What? No," Tony shook his head scrunching his brows down. "I'm going to retire and rewrite my damn will."
That had certainly not been the answer that Sam was looking for. He had expected Tony to scoff, shrug his shoulders, or roll his eyes. He expected him to sigh as if whatever was going through his head was much too complicated for Sam to understand.
"So...you'll go back to normal? Start fighting bad guys again?"
"God no," Tony shook his head as if the conversation was draining all of the energy from him. "I can't do that. I've got to watch out for the kid. If he sees my throwing myself body first into whatever dangers I find...He'll just...He's already..."
"He's already too much like you?"
"Exactly."
"That's not a bad thing Tony..." Sam glanced back at the elevator doors as they finally dinged. They slid open with a hydraulic induced hiss before allowing the men to step on. "I mean...If you do. Ya know? You saved a lot of people, and took a lot of damage. Best of all, is you didn't even give up when the stakes were against you."
"You were a hero, and you still are. There's nothing wrong with that." Sam sighed softly, pushing the button for the bottom most floor. "Still...that begs the question." Sam ignored the way that Tony's shoulders tensed as the doors slid closed. "Who's the kid and what exactly is he to you? You didn't even wait on Steve after the whole ordeal."
"His name is Peter Parker," Tony whispered as if the words were painful for him. "He's sixteen, almost seventeen and he's from Queens. I call him underoos, for short."