AN: This chapter was very difficult for me, so I hope I managed to get Tony's emotions across accurately. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU everyone that reviewed! You are so amazing, I can hardly stand it! I love every single one of you!
-O-O-O-
Timing Is Everything – Garrett Hedlund (Specifically the Garrett Hedlund version, not the Trace Adkins version. A little cheesy, but it's sweet and if you really listen, I think it's fitting for the Starks' death as well as Pepper's return. Also, because I watched Country Strong this weekend and Gwyneth Paltrow broke my lil ol' heart, but I digress).
-O-O-O-
December 16th, 1995
His ears were ringing. A high pitched, nauseating ring that made his head swim.
The sound grew in pitch to the point where it was almost supersonic. Just when he was sure his skull was going to explode, the sound thinned to a steady pattern of beeps. Another pattern overlapped and the two sounds fell into a steady rhythm. Beep-bleep-beep-bleep-beep-bleep.
A blur of voices rumbled low beneath the beeping. He couldn't understand the words, but he could pick out Obadiah's familiar vibrato without even having to.
The world was white when he finally managed to open his eyes, but even that blinding filter dispersed to a watery haze. He couldn't see shapes, couldn't see people, or see where he was. But all the same, he knew. He knew he was in a hospital. Where else?
He didn't dare move, or give any signal that he was awake. He didn't want to have anyone poking and prodign at him like he was a frog ready for dissection.
Through half-closed eyes he found Obadiah's stocky outline a few feet away. He couldn't make out any of his features, only his usual dark clothing and hulking stance. Beside him, Tony expected a doctor, but whoever Obadiah was talking to turned their head and he saw a flash of red. Not red like cherries. Not red like the sleek exterior of his Corvette. An entirely different sort of red. With hints of amber, or maybe gold. Either way, the red was intoxicating, transfixing. Violent against the dull colors of the room.
Now he could make out the body, slim and exceptionally small next to the adjacent husky black figure. His original feelings of ache and numbness melted away as his eyes followed the red. It was gorgeous, drawing him in like a magnet. Like an electric current he couldn't break. For a moment, he felt like he could move a mountain until it all washed over him again. An undercurrent sucking him back in. His entire body burned. His bones were made of titanium. Blackness enveloped him again, but still he saw the red. It had been burned into his retina; a part of him. It floated around in the endless dimension of darkness. A swirling, swimming light that wouldn't be extinguished.
-O-O-O-
The next time he woke, things were clearer and brighter. It didn't take long for the fog to lift and the glaring white room to come into focus. He flinched away from the light and tried to lift a hand, but a painful tug in his wrist held him back. When he glanced down, he found that there were several fluid lines inserted at his wrist, pumping some unknown substances into him. Yes, he confirmed it, this was a hospital.
Various machines beeped and hummed behind him, none of which he could shift quite far enough to see. The blinds on the window to the right of his bed were partially open, letting in the unfiltered day light. Whose bright idea had that been? Were they trying to blind him?
A thin blanket hung over his legs, and he assumed his tux had been disposed of, and now replaced with a gown of papery fabric.
He shifted and the fabric scratched against his chest like sandpaper. To his left, two chairs flanked a small table, one of which was occupied. His heart twisted in his chest when he realized who it was.
Her elbow was leaned on the arm rest, and her cheek rested in her hand. She was obviously uncomfortable, her body folded into the confines of the chair as she slept. She had no blanket, but a thick knit cardigan huddled around her. For a moment, he just watched her. The streams of light from the window near her illuminated her hair, and he noticed it was the only warm color in the room. Everything else was dull greys and muted blues—or white; he was beginning to hate white.
While he stared, he noticed she'd changed her hairstyle. It rested just a few inches beneath her shoulders now, and her bangs were fuller. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he liked it. It was almost too short for his taste, but he decided it suited her. It made her look older.
Either out of discomfort, or because she felt his presence, she shifted. Her face lifted from where it had rested in her palm. She stretched long and slow, like a cat. He reveled in the arch of her back and the pointe of her toes. Finally, she opened her eyes and turned immediately to the window, as if it had offended her. She reached over from her spot and twisted the rod that closed the blinds, shutting out the blinding rays.
He froze, unsure of what to do. Make himself known or feign sleep. He waited for her to turn in his direction, but instead she bent to dig in the purse at her feet. Too anxious to wait any longer, he grunted softly.
Her head snapped up, and she smiled. "Hi," she said in a whisper, as if talking louder would cause him to shatter.
"Hi," he rasped. His throat was chafed and blistered, and he involuntarily coughed, trying to shake the feeling.
Instantly, she stood and moved to the tray table at the foot of his bed to retrieve a Styrofoam cup. She perched herself on the edge of the mattress, and it compressed under her weight. She helped him to drink.
He wouldn't have even been aware he was drinking had he not known she was pouring water down his throat. The liquid slowly eroded the gravel in his throat, but it still felt raw and charred.
She held the cup awkwardly between her hands, drumming her fingertips against its sides.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. The tension in the air was thick as tar. He wasn't really sure where to begin, or what to ask. There were too many questions that needed to be answered before they could even begin to work on themselves. But he wasn't ready yet to hear about the accident, or what had been done with his parents. Just the thought made him shift uncomfortably, and he turned away from her, clearing his mind before he spoke.
"Who called you?"
She looked at him, a little startled at his voice. Her gaze fell back to the cup in her hands. "I saw…" she swallowed deeply, obviously choosing her words carefully, "…the news at the airport while I was waiting for my flight home…Luckily they let me switch my flight to the red eye headed to Boston. I got here two hours ago, but you've been sleeping since you got here, so…"
"Who else is here?"
"Just Obadiah…and Jarvis was here earlier."
It shocked him a little, how familiar their names sounded on her tongue. She'd only just met them, and already she spoke so casually of them. It didn't bother him. It was oddly comforting.
"How do you feel?" she asked quietly.
His eyes closed and his head rolled from side to side. "How do you think I feel?" he replied, coldly.
"Right…" Her voice was barely audible.
He hadn't meant to be so harsh, but it was a stupid question. His entire body ached. He felt like he'd been pressed flat by a steam roller. He knew she didn't mean it the way she'd said it. She was trying to fill the silence. Silence made things worse.
Her fingers drummed against the white plastic cup again as she tried to think of what to say next.
Another silence, stretching between them like taffy. Its fibers strained and came close to breaking, but the door opened and it was sent snapping back together.
Obadiah's head peeked into the room. Tony hadn't ever seen him so dejected. It was as if he carried a lion on his shoulders, sinking under its weight. His white dressed shirt and black pants were wrinkled and Tony realized they were pieces to the tux he'd been wearing to the party. His throat cleared softly, uncomfortably. "Pepper, you want to grab a bite to eat?" he asked casually. Tony was again taken aback at how easily they interacted with only a few hours of knowing one another. It wasn't strange. But it was familiar, like they were family. Whatever family was. He shrugged the thought off.
She stood, placing the cup back on its tray. "Sure."
The mattress filled itself with air again, filling the void left by her absence.
"You want anything, Tony?" Obadiah asked while Pepper gathered her purse.
He didn't answer, but turned his face away, back towards the window on his right. The blinds were still open, letting in much too much sunlight.
The pair left without another word.
Tony glared at the blinds, squinting up at the offending rays. What was he supposed to do now? How did people move on after things like this? He just wanted to get out of this forsaken place, but the thought of home was jarring. He wanted to avoid it. Avoid everything. Avoid the house, avoid Obadiah; anything that had to do with them. It was too fresh.
Tony Stark had become quite good at circumvention, and this would be no different.
-O-O-O-
Only half an hour after Obadiah and Pepper left for lunch—at least he assumed, he had no idea what time it was—a doctor let himself into the room, introducing himself as Dr. Brooks, accompanied by a young, rather naive looking nurse named Jessie.
Jessie went to work at changing his bandages while the doctor ran down the laundry list of things wrong with him. "We can release you tomorrow morning if everything goes well this evening."
"What do you mean everything?" he asked incredulously while watching Jessie tape up his fingers. The doctor ignored him and continued.
"You've got major lacerations on your fingers and hands, so I suggest doing no lifting or any strenuous work with your hands for a while. You've got stitches in your neck and at your hairline. And of course there are other minor cuts and bruises which we've tended to. And you might want to watch your right side carefully. You cracked several ribs on that side when your body slammed into the car door, so treat it carefully. I'm prescribing you 500mg of Vicodin to help with the pain. If you have any migraines or headaches, your standard OTC ibeprofen should do the job." He ticked off his injuries like a grocery list, and Tony wasn't blind to Dr. Brooks' obvious lack of bedside manner.
Finally, he finished and tapped his pen incessantly against the clip board he held. "I need to brief you about what happened to your parents," he said after a beat.
On that note, Jessie exited the room, leaving them alone together for this private discussion.
Tony's eyes narrowed. "Ok," he said dryly. All oxygen in the room had thinned and he found it hard to catch a breath.
"They were both killed on impact. Your father first, when the initial vehicle hit, and your mother when the car hit the highway barrier. I will tell you that it was quick, most likely. But you are quite lucky to be alive, with only a few cuts and bruises."
By now, Tony had turned away, glaring at the blinds again. They were still open. As the doctor spoke, he felt something snap. Something shatter inside, but he couldn't quite pinpoint where. His vision went red.
Before he could think, his head turned back to face the doctor. His jaw set, the saliva in his mouth thickening. "You bastard," he said slowly, densely.
Dr. Brooks looked confused for a beat. Instinctively, he retreated a few steps.
Tony pushed himself upright. "Lucky? You think I'm lucky? You miserable fuck."
He grabbed at the doctor's clipboard and flung it at the wall, where it shattered into two pieces and a flurry of papers.
The doctor flinched and opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he had intended was forgotten when Tony sent his tray table skidding across the room, where intertia took over and it landed on its side with a clang. Whatever items had been on it rolled and scattered across the room.
"You miserable fuck! Lucky?" he raged, practically screaming now. "I'm supposed to feel lucky that they died and I didn't? You fucking bastard."
The door swung open and Pepper and Obadiah rushed in, apparently having heard the commotion. But Tony wasn't going to be stopped.
"You should feel lucky that I don't get you fired! I demand another doctor, and I want a release form right now. I'm not spending another minute in the shit-hole. Get the fuck out! Get. The fuck. Out."
He had only meant for the doctor to leave, but Obadiah and Pepper followed as well. Pepper's face was entirely blank except for a glitter of moisture in her eyes. She worried her fingernails in front of her as she filed out.
"No!" he shouted at her, unable to stop himself. "You stay!" He pointed a shaking finger in her direction.
Almost militarily, she did an about face and perched in her chair from earlier that morning. She didn't look at him, but stared at her hands in her lap. He'd obviously scared the hell out of her. Either that, or she was scared to respond, afraid to set him off again.
Several minutes ticked by in silence, and eventually he eased himself back on the mattress and his adrenaline slowed. His body ached again, and he reached over to his morphine drip to increase the dose.
He glanced back towards her. She hadn't moved an inch.
"Hey," he said finally, his voice still hard.
Her cerulean blue eyes glanced up at him.
"I didn't mean to scare you." He spoke softer this time.
"You didn't," she responded, honesty thick in her voice.
She never ceased to surprise him. He always thought he had such a good read on her, but he was practically always wrong. Pepper was no average woman. She was indeed one-of-a-kind.
She was amazing. There were no other words to describe her. In that moment, Tony was absolutely certain there was no way to live without her. Many things were still unsaid, yet to be discussed. But that could be resolved. One thing was certain: she could never leave him again. Everything around him was shattered, but like an electro-magnet she was creating a charge to slowly bring it back together.
He didn't smile, but he wanted too. Everything was too fresh, too raw to try and smile. Instead he just stared, like an idiot. She finally looked away, out the window at the noon-day sun, the brightest it had been all day.
-O-O-O-
December 17th, 1995
Tony finally gained release early the next morning. Obadiah had brought him some clothes from home: a pair of sweats and an MIT sweatshirt. He had also insisted that Pepper go to the car first, lest the press be waiting outside. The situation was already complicated enough without having to explain some random girl.
There were no reporters, but some of the sleazier paparazzi had their ways of stealth and Tony doubted they were completely in the clear. As the car pulled around for him, he stood slowly from the wheelchair they'd brought him out in.
As the doctor had said, his right side was incredibly sore. It was covered in ugly black and purple bruises from his hip to the top of his ribs. He hadn't even been able to lift his arms to pull the sweatshirt over his head; a nurse had to help him shrug into it. Sometimes he found it hard to take a breath because of his cracked ribs. When he stood from the chair, he felt the pinching feeling in his lungs again, but didn't dare show it.
Obadiah opened the door for him, and he slid into the back seat. Not one to favor his injuries, he disregarded the nurse's attempt to buckle his seatbelt for him like a child, but he did let her pull it behind his head so it didn't rest against the bandage on his neck.
He felt like a mummy, bandaged up like this. He smiled at the irony as the door closed. The walking dead.
Pepper sat quietly beside him, hands in her lap.
Another surprise. He figured she would fawn over him like everyone else. But once again, she astounded him. She was content to give him his space.
Eventually, she turned to stare out the window and her hand fell on the seat between them.
After a few moments, his hand slid over hers. His bandages snagged briefly against her smooth skin. But at his touch, the spaces between her fingers widened and he took the opportunity to fill the gaps with his own fingers. He didn't miss the smile that she tried to hide with her free hand as she stared out the window. And he didn't miss the spark of heat ignite within his chest.
It wasn't enough to warm him. Not yet. But it was a start.