In the last hour of the flight, Tony loses the capacity to focus all together.
He swipes through file after file after file, reading a word here and a word there, unable to make himself stop long enough to take in any more than that. He feels like he's going to shake apart.
When he finally gets frustrated by his inability to make any progress with the files, he throws himself out of the chair and starts pacing, listening to the feed of the quiet lab. It only makes his antsiness worse.
He fusses around at the bar, moving glasses around and stacking them in different configurations, rearranging the bottles. He drinks a little more scotch. The morning light streams in through the small plane windows, cold and muted by cloud cover. It's gloomy, especially compared to the late-summer sunshine in Australia, and Tony goes around closing all of the shades to shut it out.
Then he goes to the door of the cockpit and hits the intercom. "Charles, can we speed this up any?"
"No, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
Tony mutters irritably under his breath and is about to stage another attempt when Steve speaks up. "Tony, leave him alone. Distracting him isn't going to get you here any sooner."
"It might," Tony says and pulls himself away from the intercom, back to the table where his monitors are set up. Steve is peering into the camera at one of the stations in the lab. Tony taps it and brings it center stage. "You look tired," he realizes.
"You say the sweetest things."
"Shut up, I'm serious," he grumbles. "How long have you been up anyway?"
"Ah," Steve frowns and scrubs a hand through his hair, the little furrow Tony loves digging in between his eyebrows. "Going on...twenty-seven hours I guess."
"Hm," Tony says, "nowhere near the record, but combined with the stress... No wonder you look a little ragged. Peter's sleeping, you should catch some shut-eye while you can."
"Back at you."
Tony lets out a bark of humorless laughter. "Yeah, no. I'm so keyed up I can't even sit still, Steve."
"Don't have to tell me." Steve nods and Tony looks down to find himself tapping at the surface of the table at a frenetic pace, every finger involved. He slouches back in the chair and shoves his hands under his arms.
"See. I'm gonna lose it. I'm losing it already."
"Can't lose what was already gone," Steve says and the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
"Mister Stark," the stewardess interrupts, and he twists in his chair to look at her, "the Captain is asking everyone to buckle up for our descent."
Tony sits up, heart starting to beat a little quicker. "Finally!"
He should feel better, now that they're finally in New York, but the sensation of the plane dropping toward the runway kicks his anxiety into high-gear. He fidgets, dragging the nearest window open again so he can stare down at the landscape as they judder overhead, tiny cars slinking by under low-hanging smudges of cloud.
His fingers clench around the armrests as the plane touches down with a jerk and a roar. Watching the ground creep by outside as they lumber toward the gate is torture.
"You're almost home, Tony. Just a little longer."
"Not close enough," Tony mutters.
"Closer than you were twelve hours ago."
"Somehow, this feels worse." The plane rolls to a stop and Tony forces himself to wait five full seconds. Then he looks back at the screen and kisses his fingertips, blows on them. "All right, we're here. I'm going offline."
He doesn't give Steve much of a chance to respond, quickly moving to shut down the station so he can be out ASAP.
Tony grits his teeth while he waits for the crew to open the door. Then while they get the stairs situated, and then while they get them secured. His fingers hurt from how hard he's clenching his fists, barely resisting the urge to throw a punch at anyone who gets within striking distance. He takes the stairs two at a time when given the all clear and groans in frustration at the sight of the customs agent waiting for him a couple yards from the plane.
Forcing a smile, he brandishes his papers, already filled out by the crew. He waits while the agent examines them, trying to contain his impatiently tapping feet while they ask him asinine questions like did you bring any fruits or vegetables back with you, sir? No, he didn't fucking bring anything back with him, he spent the entire time with mourning families for Christ's sake.
It's freezing, and well-made as his leather jacket is, it doesn't stand much of a chance against the strong winds cutting across the Tarmac. The cold bites at his cheeks and leaves him shivering, his eyes watering. The air even smells restless, like something is coming.
When the agent hands back his paperwork, Tony points in the direction of the terminal and raises his voice to be heard. "I'm good to go?"
"Yes, sir, have a nice day," the guy says and Tony nods, cuts him a wave, and he takes off. He doesn't care if it looks suspicious.
There are a handful of people he vaguely recognizes from SI and beyond them, a black towncar. Beyond that he can see a pack of paps like runners waiting for the gun at the gate to the airfield.
"Mister Stark—" one of the SI people says and he cuts her off with a wave of his hand.
"Not now, don't care. Whatever it is can wait."
"But Mister Stark," another one starts and he ignores him. Happy smiles at him from beside the car and that brings Tony up short for a second.
"Glad to have you back, Boss."
Tony tips his head. "What are you doing here? Is this even your job anymore? Because if I remember right—"
Happy opens the door for him. "No, but like Cap's always saying, you can't ask your people to do something you wouldn't do yourself. And anyway, Pepper and I figured one of the other guys'd get your blood pressure up too much."
"Uh huh," Tony says, and slides into the car, admitting to himself that he's glad it's Happy.
The front door opens and Happy climbs in and smiles reassuringly at him in the rear view. "Relax, Boss. You know I'll get you back, safe and sound, just like the old days."
Tony smiles, though it feels brittle. Happy's easy-going confidence is reassuring, but it doesn't do much to stymie the growing unease in the pit of his stomach. He taps a staccato rhythm out on his knees as they pull away from the plane, and asks, "How's traffic?"
Happy glances back at him. "Not too bad, little congestion in the Tunnel, but we should be there in a little over a half hour."
"Half hour," Tony mutters to himself, and curses the universe because he could be there in two minutes in the goddamn suit. Shit. How the hell had he forgotten the suit?
As they creep through the gate the reporters are yelling questions loud enough it sounds something like a jet engine. Tony focuses hard as he can on texting Happy picked up. Home in 30. He finishes in time to watch the car slip past the last few reporters and out onto the road.
Whatever Happy says, the trip feels like an eternity.
He makes it two minutes before the text seems too long ago. He thumbs the screen of his phone, debating whether or not he should call Steve. Not a hell of a lot is going to happen in a half hour, surely. And he's been on the line with Steve with hardly any break for hours and, yeah, Steve loves him and it's reassuring to be able to talk to him and see his face and he probably wouldn't mind if Tony called, but he should probably give him some breathing room. No need for him to get all clingy now.
Tony scrapes his thumbnail over his lower lip—chapped from the way he's been raking his teeth over it—and tosses the phone aside. Yeah. He can go thirty minutes without harassing Steve.
The clouds are darkest over Manhattan, distended to the skyline and clinging to it like a shroud. The Tower isn't really visible from out here anyway, but not seeing it makes Tony nervous nevertheless. He squirms and glances over at his phone.
The car moves along the turnpike in small bursts, stopping and starting and stopping and starting until Tony wants to scream. How could he have forgotten the fucking suit? "Sorry, Boss," Happy says, apologetic eyes framed in the rear view. "There's been a wreck."
"Of course there has," Tony mutters. He eyes the bar and grits his teeth as they jerk to a stop for the thousandth time.
He's tapping at the arc reactor when his phone blares with an obnoxious klaxxon and starts vibrating across the seat. It's not Steve. He knows instantly that it's not Steve, or anyone else who might be calling about Peter, because the stupid klaxxon is the default ringer reserved for irritations. Tony answers it just to have something to do.
"What?" he snaps.
"Mister Stark, can I get a statement about your premature return from Australia? Yesterday we learned that Peter has been sick for the better part of a week, is your return related to his illness?"
"Lose this number, or I will see that you lose your job," Tony replies coldly. "How's that for a statement?"
He hangs up before they can respond.
Asshole.
Thirty seconds later the phone rings again.
"I swear to god," he snarls and viciously stabs the ignore prompt.
The sound of muffled horns outside the car is interrupted by the shrill chime indicating he's got a voicemail. Then the klaxxon goes off again.
He fumbles with the phone, gripping it so hard he'd be afraid of damage if all the Avengers' phones weren't created to endure pretty much everything except being dropped into actual magma, and manages to turn it off after four attempts. That done, he throws it and it skids across the seat, clattering down into the space between the seat and the door. "Son of a bitch!"
"Boss," Happy says warily.
Tony shuts the divider, biting his tongue as it takes its sweet time sliding toward the ceiling, because Happy doesn't deserve to take the brunt of his frustration.
They've finally reached the Lincoln Tunnel and he leans back in his seat and tries to breathe as the car slinks into the darkness. Halfway there. Halfway there. Okay, he can do this. He can, really.
He starts biting the corners of his fingernails, the awful habit he picked up from Steve.
Tony wonders what Steve's doing, if he's still sitting next to Peter's bed or if he's bothered eating. Twelve hours is a long time for Steve to go without food. He gets cranky and if he goes too long, shaky. Peter's the same way and the effect is only amplified by the fact that he's growing so goddamned much all the time. He eats like an army.
Tony realizes he hasn't seen Peter eat hardly anything in the last week, and with all the throwing up he's doing that can't be good. Maybe that's why he's not getting better. If his body isn't getting the fuel it needs then how is it supposed to fix itself? It needs energy.
Bruce and Betty probably know that, but maybe he'd better call and make sure. Except he turned his goddamned phone off and threw it—
Shit.
He moves across the seat, sickly bars of light sliding down his chest and over his thighs, and starts groping around. God, what if Steve's called and his phone's off? What the hell was he thinking? He should have blocked the fucking number, not turned his phone off.
Tony has just as much trouble getting the phone turned back on as he did turning it off and he bites a chunk of thumbnail that comes off with skin and swears as blood starts beading in the crease around it. He sucks it up, waiting impatiently as his phone boots.
It doesn't take as long as those worthless Apple pieces of crap, but it takes long enough. Of course, they're in the Lincoln fucking Tunnel so of course he doesn't have service anyway. He looks up and curses himself again when he sees the divider, blocking his view of the road ahead.
They finally emerge what feels like an eon later, and it's nearly as dark here as it was in the tunnel. Tony shifts to peer up at the sky, which seems impossibly more ominous. Staring at the indicators doesn't make his service come back any quicker, but it does come back. He gives it a few seconds, worrying at the nail of his ring finger, but no new texts or messages appear.
So he calls Steve.
And feels his heart skip into his throat when Steve doesn't pick up.
Why the hell isn't he picking up?
They're stuttering along the street past people clutching hats and other items in tight fists while the wind tries to pry them away. He can hear it, moaning through the nooks and crannies of the car. Tony cranes his neck to look for the Tower and can't see past the bleak, gray buildings looming over the street. He calls again.
This time when Steve doesn't answer, he opens the divider.
"Hey, Boss," Happy says and his voice is gratingly cheerful, "we're almost there. Two or three minutes and you'll be home at last."
"Goddammit," Tony snaps and Happy blinks at him. "Steve's not answering his goddamned phone," Tony says, by way of explanation.
"Oh," Happy says. "Well, I'm sure he just set it aside. No need to panic."
"I'm not panicking!"
He's not not panicking either.
What if Steve's not answering because something's gone wrong with Peter? Radiation poisoning, Bruce said, he could be red and raw and blistering. Tony's brain calls up the memory of the dying rabbit, helpfully copy-pasting that horror onto Peter's body and he feels cold in shivering waves. He imagines getting back and being faced with Steve's bleak expression, He's dead, Tony.
It's a near thing, but he manages to choke back the bile rising at the back of his throat.
Steve should be answering, why isn't he answering?
When the Tower looms over them, Tony presses up against the icy window, staring hard. Rain starts to speckle the glass. By the time they make it around the corner to the garage entrance, it's pouring.
"Here we are, Boss," Happy says. "Home at last. Tell Peter I said hi, will you?"
"Yeah, sure," Tony says and throws open the door. He bolts. "JARVIS," he yells, voice echoing eerily around the garage, "medbay, now!"
"Yes, sir," JARVIS replies and the doors close as Tony hits the back wall. The elevator accelerates rapidly and the roar of his heart pounding dulls as Tony's ears pop. A muzak, mellowed version of AC/DC seeps through the car—normally that makes him smile, but right now he wants to rip the speaker out with his bare hands. He waits with one hand on the wall next to the door, glancing over to check the floor every so often. It feels like the elevator's zooming along, but every time he looks it's only gone up a single digit. Come on, come on. Go, you useless heap of steel!
Finally, twenty-four arrives.
The second the doors open, Tony squeezes through.
He sprints the rest of the way, slamming through doors, his heart in his throat. "Bruce!" he shouts as he barrels through the last door. "Steve?!"
Tony swears as he crashes into a lab stool. He bangs his elbow on the lab table when he trips and barks, "Fuck!" as pain spikes up his arm.
"Tony!" Steve says, looking startled, and Tony flails his arms until he backs off.
"How is, how is he?" he pants. "Where is he? Is he okay?"
"Are you okay?" Steve says, hands reaching for him, but wisely not making contact.
"He's fine," Bruce says, and he's talking slowly like Tony's on the edge of a nervous breakdown. "Are you?"
"I'm fine," Tony snaps, and then again, sharper, when Bruce reaches for his arm, "I'm fine, I want to know about Peter! Why the hell didn't you answer your phone? Is something wrong?"
"I left my phone in the lab and JARVIS was busy processing for Bruce; Tony, are you okay?"
"Will you relax about it, I'm fine,"Tony barks, and pushes Steve aside. When he looks through the glass to Peter's room and sees him blinking groggily, a frown creasing his forehead the same way it does Steve's, all the energy goes out of him in a rush. He droops onto the overturned stool, not caring how it digs into his thigh. "He's okay?" he repeats and this time when Steve's arms come around him, he sinks into the embrace, letting out a shaky breath. "Tell me he's okay."
"For now he's fine," Bruce confirms.
Steve's hand covers the back of his head, and Tony buries his face in his shoulder.
Steve hesitates. "He's okay, Tony," he murmurs finally, lips brushing his hair. And it's not a lie Tony doesn't think, because it's Steve, and Steve doesn't lie, and even if it is a lie, it's a good lie and one Tony wants to believe more than anything. For just a second he takes it and basks in it and savors the feeling before he has to face reality.
Finally, he's home.