AN: Due to evil cliffhangeritude. posting this chapter a little more promptly. Enjoy!

Beta'd by the wonderful Kadigan, any remaining mistakes and/or British-isms are my fault.


Chapter Twenty Eight: Moment of Truth

Being Tony Stark's colleagues had been bad enough, but being his friends was terrible. There was always the threat that he would be caught without the suit, or that the arc reactor would run out of juice - and they'd all got a taste of that at the end of the Battle of Manhattan - or that he would just fall over and die when the shrapnel got tired of hanging around.

And then he had collapsed during a mission.

Piece by piece, they'd watched him lose capability; grounded as Iron Man, unable to lie on his back, sleeping, so much sleeping... and then he hadn't been able to stand. That horrible, grinding descent, the drugs on his bedside, the wheelchair, made them all utterly, painfully aware that this was necessary.

It didn't make it any easier to watch.

Bruce and Natasha, at least, felt like they could be useful elsewhere, and the scientist headed up to the recovery room to run final checks while Steve and Clint followed Pepper up to the observation gallery. Tony was just being wheeled in, laid out flat on the gurney, and Steve had an almost instinctual moment of 'no, he needs to sit up; he'll drown'.

Steve's grip on his shield was making the handles groan; Tony had replaced them for him, weeks back, before they knew he was sick and God was that only weeks ago? How was that only weeks ago?

He carefully loosened his grip on the straps - Christ, is this LEATHER, Cap? Wow, you and Clint should go to a Renaissance fair sometime: you'd fit right in. - and put the shield down by force of will, but then Tony was asleep and they were putting an enormous tube down his throat and Steve found the shield back in his hands.

The doctors were sure and efficient and they made it look like they did this every day, but Steve just couldn't watch once the needles started piercing deep into Tony's neck. Looking at Pepper wasn't any better; she was standing at the glass, railing gripped in white knuckles and a tiny flutter on the fabric of her skirt giving away the fact that she was trembling.

XXXXXXXXXX

Clint didn't have his bow, and maybe he should be glad of that, because the way Steve was holding his shield gave away too much, but he did have his service pistol strapped to his leg.

The only thing keeping his hand off it was the fact that he could draw and shoot faster than he could think. Y'know, if he needed to.

He didn't like the look of the techie working the big grey box on the right; the kid had slipped out of the Tower for coffee the day before, and Clint had lost sight of him for a second in the queue at Starbucks. The surgical nurse was clean; she'd sewn up Clint's left buttcheek once and never mentioned it again, which had to count for something.

Clint had never been on guard over surgery before and the unfamiliarity made it hard to tell if someone was a threat. Was that cut really necessary? He'd been warned about the circular saw, but shouldn't it have a guard on it or something?

The moment they cut into the arteries was tense; the wound filled with blood and Clint's palm hit the pistol's grip, but it was fine, and oh god they just stopped his heart.

Steve took his pistol after that, and pushed him into a chair.

His hands were shaking.

Fuck.

XXXXXXXXXX

It took a horrible, stomach-twisting 87 seconds for Tony to come out of the anaesthetic. Pepper was counting.

But then, the flash and glint of understanding had broken through and Tony's tools were in his hands, where they were supposed to be.

After that, Pepper could sit down. She needed to; it had taken hours to get Tony to this point, hours of slow extraction of that fucking shrapnel, of the reactor housing empty and dark, of his heart exposed once the magnet was lifted out. Her legs felt like... like Tony had just flown a nuke through an interdimensional portal, Tony, what were you THINKING?!

She still hadn't forgiven him.

They were going to talk about it again, once the surgery was successful. Because it would be.

She channelled a bit of that anger into keeping Tony awake for stage who-the-fuck-knew, springing back to her feet and arming her phone. JARVIS helped; he always was her favorite.

If Steve wasn't quite so super, she might have worried about the force she was exerting on his shoulder, but she really wasn't, particularly after the railing screeched and gave up on life under his hand.

But then, Tony was awake and almost smiling, under the tape and the tubes and the 'do I have to shave it off? All of it? Really?'

Ms Saunders had been a good choice, Pepper decided as the assistant fitted the baseplate, and then it was done. Tony could sleep.

Her eyes were fixed on the reactor as it went in, so she saw the moment his chest flinched. It was sudden, it was unexpected, and it was catastrophic. His blood sprayed out of the wound, bubbled up, filled it. The arc reactor darkened under a thick layer of red, almost enough to block out the light completely.

Her eyes flicked to his face but he was already gone, eyes rolled up in his head.

Steve caught her, his shield ringing as it hit the floor, and held onto her, tight, so tight, like she might just vanish. She almost wanted to.

But.

But Tony wasn't dead yet. Her hand shook and fumbled and almost dropped the phone, but she got it to her ear. "JARVIS, save him, JARVIS..."

"Yes, Ms. Potts. Reactor core is online. Booting processor." The AI's voice was cold, so, so cold, and fast and terrified.

Clint caught the phone as it fell out of her hand and crowded close. His hands were cold, too, but she held on tight, anyway.

The three of them leaned against each other and the glass, watching, waiting and hoping, while Tony bled on the table.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

He had his fingers on the leak.

In the first few seconds after Stark's aorta had torn around the cannula, the pressure had been so high that the blood had arced straight up, showing him exactly where the damage was. He had leapt for the tear and clamped his fingers over it, but the pressure was too much and the bleed was quickly filling up the chest cavity. He called for a clamp for the return cannula just as the perfusionist stopped the heart-lung machine; they could pause like this for three minutes. Maybe. Stark's brain was running hot, active, and without circulation the drugs the anaesthetist was already pushing would have limited effect.

They made quick work of suctioning the blood away and with the pumps stopped and tube clamped, the tear bled only sluggishly. Slow enough to suture.

"Alright. Arterial sutures, number two scissors." He swapped the tiny suture needle he'd used for the sensors out for a larger one and bent over the damage. The purse-string sutures around the cannula had held, but cut through the tunica adventitia, while the jerk of the cannula had pulled the initial incision open from the inside.

It was a mess but... doable.

"Tompkins, check the venous drain and start flushing out the potassium chloride. Becker, verbal count from perfusion-stop."

They'd already lost almost a full minute, but damn-it if he was going to cut this chest open again. He'd have to be quick, but he wasn't about to do a patch-job either. The real trick was to place the sutures with the cannula still in the hole, restart perfusion to clear the remaining potassium chloride, and then pull the cannula and cinch the sutures in one, swift move.

He closed the tear with a line of six knots, close and tight, then cut out the broken purse-string suture and replaced it at a wider diameter. By the time he placed the final knot, his neck was cricked from holding his head slightly sideways, so that the trail of blood on his visor wasn't blocking his view.

"Start reperfusion."

The count stopped at three minutes, fifteen seconds.

He watched the venous O2 monitor as it plunged, deoxygenated blood from Stark's body returning to the heart, but it never dropped past the 'organ failure' mark.

They'd done it. They had actually done it.

"Cross-clamp off," he said, and between them, Ross and Tompkins put the heart back into the circuit. It shuddered once, but didn't start beating.

"Paddles-"

"That will not be necessary, Dr. Ross. Calibration complete, initiating sinus rhythm." The cool, robotic voice echoed, just slightly over-loud, and the strong, regular beep of the heart monitor filled the room.

"Ventilate, ninety percent, cut perfusion." he ordered, eyes fixed on the perfectly even, perfectly strong beat of Starks battered heart. The steady rush of oxygen into the man's lungs, the clear beat... Ross's head dropped between his shoulders, his face shield hitting his chest.

Christ.

He let out a low chuckle and a long breath, tension leaching out of his shoulders. After that, getting the patient disconnected would be practically routine.

"Right, push the protamine. Tompkins, double check those sutures; let's get him closed up."

XXXXXXXX

Tony woke up.

That was nice; he'd been worried for a second, there.

He was aware of his body only distantly, that was cool, no rush, guys. Oh, hello toes. Still got toes. 's good, right?

His mind was swimming, twisting and mothballed, all at once, but still, toes. Also; fingers. On the end of arms.

Still intubated, thick and cold and tasting foul on his tongue... they could turn the pressure down, actually. At the end of each breath, when his chest felt full and cool, there was the distant sensation of pulling, dull and irritating.

The sheets felt smooth under his fingertips and the back of his neck was a twisty, bruised not-ache. Needles; not going to do that again... But yay! Good drugs! The pain was over there, rather than here.

Pepper was there - that brisk, slightly drawled tone so familiar and so, utterly welcome - and talking in long rambling sentences about... words, she was using words. He knew what words were. 's fine. Sleep.

Next time he woke up, it was quiet, and that would have worried him, if it hadn't been dark too. The warm little fingers curled against his palm might have had something to do with it too. Night, Pepper, more sleep.

Boring.

The third time he woke up, he opened his eyes.

Pepperpepperpepper, hello.

She was sitting, straight as a ruler, masked and dressed in scrubs, but still ginger and freckled and beautiful. She was talking, but not to him; his gazed tracked over slowly, he couldn't move his head, it was too heavy, but there was Bruce, just in sight.

His thoughts were slow, glacial, and he was cold - why was he cold, that was just rude - but he wanted the ventilator gone. Less sedation, maybe, or maybe he was just stronger, but his throat convulsed around the tube. It felt raw and stretched and rough and he wanted it out.

He groped for it blindly, hand failing to rise far above the bed because he was an idiot, and he'd used his left. Pep had his right, one spot of warm that he couldn't bear to lose, but his left arm was... malfunctioning. In need of repairs. Out of order.

The burning, heavy ball in the middle of his chest convulsed and suddenly became pain. Real, immediate, I-was-here-all-along-didn't-you-notice agony. The gagging heave of his throat around the tube was not helping either.

Someone grabbed his twitching left hand and pinned it to the bed, curling his fingers around a warm, dry palm. Bruce, get this out of me. He squeezed - nothing wrong with those muscles, thank you very much - and hauled his eyes open again.

"Hey, hey, Tony," Pepper's voice was soft and beautiful and like the sun when you burst out of a cloud layer. She was standing, suddenly, and leaning over so he could see her face properly, mask and all.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, because no crying, Tony, don't you dare. He was covered in tubes, wires, dipping in and out of him, carrying clotting, black blood away from his chest, bringing his air, but she was still there, she still had that look on her face.

She brushed the hair back from his face and left a trail of warm that just... broke down all his barriers. He squeezed her hand convulsively and his throat worked around the ventilator; he had... things to say, so many things. It couldn't wait until the next time he was flying a nuke somewhere-

"Shh, shh shh... It's alright, Tony, the nurse will be here in a minute and they'll take it out..."

Bruce's hand pulled away from his gently, pressing it to the mattress in warning. He left it there; he had a feeling there was a whole bundle of ouch in his near future without adding to it. A quick flick of the sheet exposed Tony's chest and he could feel Bruce checking the chest drain in a strange hurts-but-doesn't-hurt way, but his main concern was the cold and suppressing a shiver.

There was an unpleasant rubbery squeak and- evil nurse! Away, fiend! She had punched a hole in his neck, which was still there, god damn it, and withheld pants and done other things that just didn't bear thinking about.

He eyed her warily as she pulled up a tray of... stuff.

"Nothing wrong with your recognition then..." Bruce had a nice voice, Tony decided; low, rumbling, and so very, very clever. "Excuse us a second, Pepper."

Tony let go of her hand reluctantly, but then Bruce was raising the head of his bed up more steeply, until he was essentially upright and Tony had to concentrate on not using any of his stomach muscles. His right hand fluttered uselessly over the Mark III reactor, feeling like his chest was going to fall apart if he didn't hold onto it, but not daring to touch. He blinked slowly while Bruce adjusted something behind his head and fished about in his jumbled memories. He tried to retrieve the calibration algorithm but couldn't tell which one they'd...

He hadn't done it. He was supposed to have reprogrammed the... His eyes widened in alarm and he tapped the arc reactor compulsively with his right hand, not caring that it achedachedached; all he could remember was the wrong, nonono, blood, Pepper...!

"Tony, calm down, it's fine, you're fine. Concentrate on me for a second." He swung his eyes towards Bruce, who, god, had scrubbed-pink skin and a cleaner shave around the edges of his mask than Tony had ever seen. Right... immunocompromised. And not dead. Focus on the big things.

"Try not to throw up, okay? Keep swallowing and you'll be fine. I'm going to turn of the assist now; breathe from the diaphragm."

Tony gave a miniscule nod and the relentless hiss of the ventilator stopped. His chest deflated all on its own, but as good and restful as his empty lungs felt, dying was not on the agenda. The first breath was jerky as his ribs shifted and screamed, the second better, and by the third he thought the risk of passing out from the pain was probably as small as it was going to get.

"You're doing good, Tony, just a little bit deeper..."

Tony shakily flipped Bruce the bird and drew a bigger lungful in through the tube. It ached and pulled, but didn't feel like it was going to dislodge anything vital. He gave Bruce a slow blink in lieu of a nod and the physicist and his evil assistant advanced on him.

The nurse was as ruthless with the tape as Bruce, and disconnected him from the machine. Twist-lock connectors; what was he, hydraulics? Bruce helped him curl forwards, pressing a careful hand to his stomach for support, and then the nurse was pulling the tube out of his throat and dear god he wanted to throw up.

He swallowed frantically, half around the tube as it slid out, eyes watering, and then it was gone. They pushed him back to the bed and lowered it just enough for him to be classed as lying down.

"Breathe for me, Tony, come on..." A cold, plastic mask pressed against his face, warming rapidly where Bruce's fingers were holding it.

You try fucking breathing with a rib cage broken in ten places and half your musculature transected!

He drew a long, rattling breath then swallowed again as the urge to cough rose up from his diaphragm. The pain was distant through an opiate haze but phenomenal. He reached mindlessly for his morphine button, but it wasn't there and the gesture aborted in an uncoordinated jerk under Bruce's hand when he asked muscles to move that couldn't.

"Okay, good, nice and slow, now..."

Pepper was back, warm warm warm... seriously, why is it so cold in here...

After two, maybe three minutes, he got the hang of it; it felt less like breathing from his stomach than from his crotch, but whatever worked. It still hurt, every, damned time, but each time he tried to breathe more shallowly, ease off, Bruce would squeeze his left hand, the one he couldn't pull away, and remind him to just breathe, come on, Tony.

Once the danger of needing the ventilator back was past, Bruce looped the mask's elastic around Tony's head and stepped back.

He opened his eyes somewhere in the fourth minute and gave Pepper a dazed, tear-blurred look. A straw bumped against his lips - ow, anyone got any lip balm? - and he sipped slowly; apple juice. Not quite scotch, but could be cider if you gave it a chance. Acceptable. Also, infinitely better than intubation-mouth.

"Hey, Pep..." he rasped. She was back gripping his hand again, her thumb rubbing over his knuckles. "...'did it."

"Yeah, Tony, Yeah, you did."