Before I get started with this chapter I'd like to mention that July is sarcoma awareness month. The type of cancer Bucky has in this story is just one of many different types of sarcoma, a cancer sometimes called "the forgotten cancer" because of how rare it is. Despite this rarity, approximately 12,000 people in the United States are diagnosed every year. Sarcoma mostly affects people under 20 years old and on average the survival rate is about 50%. Those that do survive face a lifetime of side effects and often amputation or limb salvage. It's important to educate people about these cancers to raise awareness and increase funding to hopefully find better treatment options or even a cure.

Chapter 16: Scanxiety

Since his diagnosis, Tony had learned lots of new words. Most of them pertained to cardiology, the names of specific regions of the heart and specific ways in which it could malfunction. Fibrillation. Sinoatrial node. Cardiomyopathy. He knew the vernacular of his friends' conditions to a lesser extent, but still more than the average teenager knew. Tony didn't expect that the average American could name any chemotherapy drugs, but he'd learned a few. Thor taught him some neurological terms, and Steve the names of some other medications. Beyond that, he learned a ton of Star Wars lingo from Parker and a few Russian words from Natasha. However, if Tony had to choose the most important addition to his vocabulary, it was no contest. Scanxiety. The frighteningly easy-to-construct portmanteau that placed lives on hold with almost the same severity and frequency as the disease the scans looked for.

The first sign of impending doom: Clint neglected to wear his hearing aids for two days straight. Occasionally he forgot them, but always went back to put them in if someone reminded him. Multiple people had reminded him and he'd refused each and every time, leaving Tony puzzled. Clint never actively shunned participating in conversations or activities, but now it seemed he wanted nothing to do with anyone else. Naturally, Tony asked Steve what was going on. Steve somehow always knew everyone's deepest thoughts even if they hadn't shared them with him.

"He has scans tomorrow," Steve informed him.

"So?"

"Scans are a big deal for cancer kids. They reveal if treatment is working or not and inform Rescue's next steps."

"Oh." Now he understood just why this could cause a mental shutdown even in someone as youthfully bubbly as Clint. The course of his immediate future depended on the results of those scans. "Is there anything I can do to help him?" Tony asked.

Steve shook his head. "Scanxiety is tough. I've been trying to help during these times as long as I've known them and nothing ever works. They just need to mull until results come through and they stop worrying about what-ifs."

"Scanxiety?" Tony had never heard the term up until this point.

"Anxiety for scans. It's just what they call it. I can't imagine anything is more capable of making people anxious than those scans. I get nervous enough for lung function tests, I can't imagine the kind of stress they're under."

"What about his parents? Won't they be here for moral support?"

"Yeah, they'll come in. But even they can only do so much. Clint's old enough now that he understands what's going on and placating him doesn't really work. He understands that six years of treatment failing to get him into remission is not a good indicator of long-term survival."

"Are you saying he's going to die?"

Steve hesitated, and because of that Tony knew whatever he said next was either only a partial truth or an outright lie. "No, that's not what I'm saying. Rescue knows what she's doing and Clint's been doing pretty well over the past few months."

"The truth, Steve. I can see that you're telling me one thing while thinking something else."

"Survival rates for high-risk neuroblastoma aren't particularly high," he admitted.

"Define not particularly high."

"Forty to fifty percent."

"Steve," Tony began, unsure exactly where he intended to go with this sentence. "Are you convinced he's going to die?"

"Yes," he admitted. "I have no idea when, but I don't foresee this cancer leaving him alone long enough to be considered survival. I know it's pessimistic, but I've seen enough similar cases in my time here to know a lost cause when I see one."

"You're thinking about someone in particular, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Steve sighed, readjusting his oxygen cannula nervously.

"You want to tell me about them?"

"Scott was about the same age as Clint when he started treatment. Too young. But he seemed so much younger…he was so small. It must've been a combination of genetics and chemo stunting his growth, but he seemingly didn't age at all over the time he was here. He and Clint became really close friends, as close as Clint is with Natasha now. Clint called him Ant-Man because of his size, but Scott didn't seem to mind. He went along with everything the other kids did with as much enthusiasm as he could manage. He was too young to understand the weight his scan results carried, so he didn't get nervous, but I got nervous for him.

"The scans weren't good. I didn't need to be a radiologist or even look at them at all to know that. Scott's treatment intensified, and his spirits dwindled. His team was throwing everything they had at his cancer, but his tumors weren't shrinking. Fortunately, Clint wasn't admitted here during Scott's last days. That would've been horribly traumatizing for him. I was here, though. I saw him two days before it happened, and I wish I remembered more from that visit. I think I somehow blocked it out as soon as the interaction was over. All I remember is him saluting me. I don't know why he did that, or why my brain decided to file it away forever, but I vividly recall his little salute. It's like he was seeing me off or something, even though he was the one leaving."

"That's horrible." Scott's name wasn't on the gauntlet, so Tony had never heard mention of him before. He should have known that in all Steve's time being treated at this hospital he'd seen some unspeakable things. This was probably just one of many kids he'd gotten to know only for them to leave him in the cruelest way possible. Tony hoped he didn't experience the same repeated agony, though he didn't have much faith in the hope that he'd escape this place mentally unscathed.

"Neuroblastoma is a fucking monster," Steve growled. "Sometimes I just don't understand how things like this can even exist. What did these kids do to be betrayed by their own bodies before they can even grow into them?"

"I don't know, Steve. I don't think we can ever know. I think the best we can do is help them while they're here. And nobody does that better than you." Tony didn't expect a pep talk to come spilling out of his mouth, but that's exactly what happened. Steve blamed himself for any misfortune he couldn't remedy—which, in a hospital, was quite a lot—and Tony feared he'd dissolve from the inside out with the frustration of not being able to help.

"I just don't want to have to watch what'll happen to Nat if Clint dies," Steve whispered hoarsely. Tony didn't want to see that either, but if it came to pass they'd have no choice.

"She's strong," Tony reminded him, for his own sake as much as for Steve's. However, he couldn't necessarily say the same of himself.

"Look at us and our vicarious scanxiety. It's pitiful."

"No, it's not. It means you care. There's nothing pitiful about that."

"It's impossible not to care about people here," Steve said. "But it also hurts so much."

"I know," Tony placated. He had absolutely no idea how to go about comforting Steve in this situation, but he figured just letting the guy talk was as good a strategy as any. Steve stood and made his way over to his wall of drawings, fixating on one in the corner Tony hadn't noticed before. He knew without having to ask that this must be Scott. The technique was less refined, indicating Steve had completed this work when he was much younger, and the person depicted was a boy who looked to be around five years old. Lovingly scrawled in the corner was the nickname "Ant-Man" in handwriting he suspected was a younger Clint's.

"Back then, were you still drawing your friends as if they weren't sick?" Tony asked.

"No. I came up with that idea after I met Carol. This is just Scott as he was."

"How did Clint take it when he found out?"

"This was before his hearing got so bad, but he retreated so far within himself that he might as well have been deaf for a week. At least, that's what I heard. He was at home on a break between treatments, and his parents told him. When he was admitted again, I overheard his parents talking to Happy about it and requesting some therapy sessions. I myself spent some time with the Falcon after Scott, and after Carol. It always hits hard when someone goes. It reminds us that none of us are safe from Thanatos."

~0~

"Three cups of CT contrast," Clint stated. "Breakfast of champions." Tony watched him finish off the first cup and reluctantly begin the second with a grimace of disgust. Oddly, he'd seemingly returned to his old self on the morning of scans despite the anxiety of the previous two days.

"Is it flavored?" Tony asked, at a loss for anything else to say.

"Nope." Clint took another gulp.

"Bummer."

"I've had worse," he said nonchalantly. "One time my mom tried to make banana smoothies."

"I happen to like your mom's banana smoothies," a new voice said. Tony turned to find that two people who must have been Clint's parents had entered the room. Clint's eyes lit up and he sprung up to embrace them joyfully. Tony couldn't suppress the smile that spread across his face, though he wished they were here under less stressful circumstances. Clint had been doing this for so long that they trusted him here without their supervision most of the time and he was comfortable enough in this horrible routine that, even at his young age, he didn't need them here. Tony's own parents rarely visited after that first time, though he suspected that had more to do with his father's work schedule than their trust of Tony managing hospital life on his own.

"How are you doing?" Clint's mother asked.

"Ready to get this over with," Clint replied. He stepped out of the hug and gestured to Tony, "This is my friend Tony. He's the newest Gravesen resident."

"Nice to meet you Tony," Clint's father said. They nodded at each other in greeting. Anyone who'd spent any length of time in a hospital let hand shaking as a custom fall out of fashion; it was a fantastic way to spread germs. Tony decided it would be best to leave Clint alone with his parents so they could all mentally prepare for today's scans. Besides, he'd asked Natasha if she'd like him to keep her company today in Clint's absence and she'd somewhat reluctantly accepted. He understood that she wasn't as familiar with his presence as she was with Clint, but Tony truly wanted to get to know her better. The closest he'd had to bonding time with her was the one time he accompanied both her and Clint to chemo at the beginning of his stay here, and that hardly counted.

"Good luck," he told Clint on his way out.

"Thanks Tony. Don't let Nat get too worried."

"I won't."

When he stopped by Natasha's room it was around nine thirty in the morning. As long as he'd been here, he hadn't really seen anyone else's hospital room besides Steve and Parker. He didn't really know what to expect of the girl's living quarters. Her room sat across the hall from Clint and directly next to Parker. He knocked gently and received a quiet invitation to come in. If it wasn't for Natasha sitting there, Tony wouldn't have known anyone inhabited this room. His own he'd decorated with his AC/DC poster and stuffed animals, Parker's was littered with Star Wars memorabilia, Steve covered his walls in drawings, but Natasha had next to nothing to mark this room as her own. The only things that weren't universal to every hospital room at Gravesen were a stuffed black cat and a red-and-black knit blanket folded up at the foot of the bed.

"Good morning," Tony greeted after pausing far too long to take in the bareness of the room.

"Could be better," she remarked curtly. Tony noticed she'd neglected her dark red wig for the day, which wasn't completely out of the ordinary, but something seemed off. She sat up in the bed, picking at a plate of dry toast without actually eating any of it.

"What's wrong?" He moved slowly forward, watching for any indication that Natasha didn't want him nearer. She didn't react, so he sat down in a chair beside the bed and braced himself to listen.

"I worry about Clint," she sighed. After his conversation with Steve, Tony worried about Clint too, and he figured it must be ten times worse for Natasha. She understood what he faced better than Tony ever could.

"I'm worried about him too, Nat. But he hasn't given up in six years of fighting this thing. I don't think he's going to give up now.

"He cannot. If he gives up, I will too."

Tony wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that. But he tried, "No you won't. If you both give up, cancer wins. You don't want that, do you?"

"Cancer always wins," she stated angrily.

"I suppose I can't argue with that," Tony sighed. "I didn't come here expecting to have such a depressing conversation. What do you say we talk about something else? Something to get our minds off any bad stuff that might happen."

"Okay," she relented.

"Where did you get this blanket?" Tony asked, picking the one thing in the room that could actually be considered a topic of conversation.

"Mama made it," she replied, and Tony detected the dramatic shift in her tone. She no longer sounded down, but now spoke as if remembering something fondly. "Mama made many blankets, but this is my favorite."

"What do you like about it?"

"Soft wool. And colors. I like black and red."

"I'm more of a red and gold kind of guy, but black and red also look really good together. Especially on this pattern," Tony remarked, flipping over a corner of the blanket to admire the stitchwork. "Your mom is a fantastic knitter."

"Yes. She was teaching me a little. Before I came here."

"Do you get to talk to her ever?"

"Yes. We talk most mornings. Time difference is weird."

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Russia's a long way from here. What's it like?" he asked, genuinely curious. He'd never traveled beyond the United States in his life, his father never taking enough vacation days for them to go anywhere exciting as a family.

"Home," she said wistfully. Tony waited for her to elaborate, but she fell silent. She'd been away from her home for so long that dredging up memories of it might bring about more pain than pleasure.

"Sorry I brought it up," Tony muttered hurriedly. He felt like he was treading on eggshells now, one misstep potentially plunging Natasha into misery worse than she already experienced as a kid with cancer. Why had he forced himself into this situation? He wasn't Steve, he couldn't handle being a rock for these kids the way the other boy could. Steve embraced his role as the nominal father of the Gravesen group with a grace Tony admired but could never mirror. He was really out of his element, and he could tell Natasha knew it. Hopefully, she wouldn't resent him for trying to be a good person and failing miserably.

"It is okay," she told him. "Tell me about you," she instructed, redirecting the conversation away from herself. She put the plate of untouched toast on her bedside table and turned to look at Tony, waiting for him to speak.

"What about me?" he asked.

"Anything."

"Um, well…my mom can't knit, but she's a pretty darn good cook. Speaking of which, you should at least try to eat before Peggy or someone comes in to scold you." Tony knew some of the nurses were always disappointed with a full plate—he himself had been chastised for it multiple times.

Natasha shook her head vehemently. "Will not stay down. Chemo later."

"Oh. Okay…changing the subject…" he struggled to come up with something. "What did you find most surprising or weird about America when you got here?"

"Besides alphabet?" she asked with a smirk.

"Yeah. Besides the alphabet."

"I do not know. I did not see much before hospital."

"You've been in New York City for this long and you haven't seen much? That's practically a crime."

"Cannot leave hospital. Immunocompromised," she shrugged.

"Mark my words, we'll find a way around that soon enough," Tony vowed.

"Adventure?"

"Yes. An adventure."

"Sounds fun. Also dangerous."

"That's what makes it fun."

"Okay. If we get in trouble, it is your fault. You get blame."

"I'll take that risk." She smiled, and Tony internally celebrated eliciting a response other than a morose sigh or awkward silence.