Tony regretted everything the moment he stepped into the car.
Shelby would've been a better option, now that he thought about it, even if she technically didn't have a license. Anything was better than this.
Tony had one arm pressing his son close. The seat belt was strapped over both of them, laying on Peter's back. With one hand, Tony was clutching the seat. He was half tempted to roll down the window so he could vomit, but he didn't trust Charlotte enough not to take a sharp turn and throw him out of the car window.
He should've just gotten Bert to take him. Or walked the thirty-or-so miles to the hospital. Anything, anything, was better than this.
Tony felt himself tense up as they turned into the city, and into a long, winding line of traffic. Charlotte laid on the horn every few seconds, adding to the cacophony of noises around them, an orchestra of drivers who were late to work, heading to a social gathering, or just plain angry in a way only New York drivers could be. Tony sunk low in his seat, taking the infant sleeping peacefully on through the noise with him, as Charlotte decided to use sign language to express her displeasure toward everyone around her.
It took them a distressing amount of time to get to the hospital. He stumbled out of the car with a gag as soon as it stopped, Peter waking up with a half-confused-half-irritated wail as he did. Tony hushed him as he tried to catch his bearings, Charlotte climbing out of the car with a chuckle a few moments later. Tony shot her a glare that lacked any real intensity, walking on shaky legs to the front doors of the hospital. Charlotte skipped along behind him.
The woman at the front desk took one look at him before guiding giving him the room number. Apparently she recognised him. Or perhaps she had been told to look out for a scrawny teenager carrying a baby who looked like he had been beat within an inch of his life. Either or seemed rather likely.
Mary would be kept in the ICU until she woke from the coma which - the doctors had informed him - with how she was developing, would more than likely happen within the next two-ish days. She was still hooked up to more machines than Tony was comfortable with, but she looked healthier. Sure, there was a giant tube stuck down her throat, but she looked less pale, her hair less lanky. The sweat that had been constantly dotting her forehead, thanks to the fever, was gone now that she'd had surgery.
In short, she looked…. Good. Better. She didn't look like Mary, not yet, but she was getting back to her old self, and Tony couldn't really ask for anything else, given the situation.
Peter had his head resting on Tony's chest, big brown eyes gazing at Mary with an indifferent look on his face. Tony wondered if he recognized her. Probably not. Why would he? Had Tony ever even taken Peter to visit Mary? Has anyone? Or had they taken away the baby as soon as he was born? Had Mary even been conscious?
Some friend you are, Stark, the cynical voice in his head said. It always sounded so familiar, but he could never place it. How do you not remember this?
Fuck off, Tony shot back.
He sat in the chair at her bedside, Charlotte taking the one on the other side of the hospital bed awkwardly. She had never really met Mary before, and didn't know much about her, besides the stories Rhodey and Tony told her.
"That's..." Charlotte seemed to be looking for the right word. Her fidgeting increased tenfold. "She's a lot worse than I was expecting." Tony snorted.
"You shoulda seen her before the surgery," Tony said sadly. "She looked like a corpse. She was so pale, and her hair was so stiff and- and if you held her hand, she was so cold… the doctors said something about it being poor circulation, because of lack of oxygen and all that, but… it was still a bad shock."
"I'm sure," Charlotte said, looking at Mary's still form with sad eyes. Her fingers were twisting relentlessly. Did the fidgeting increase when she was nervous?
"Do… do you think it was my fault?" Tony asked, quietly. "That she's in this mess in the first place? That she had to go through surgery? That she almost died? Was it all my fault, in the end?" Charlotte, for the first time since Tony had met her, went still. Her eyes took on a fire that Tony had never seen before, and Tony was reminded intensely of Momma Rhodes.
"None of this is your fault, Tones," Charlotte said resolutely. "None of it. Got it? None of this is your fault. It's just a bad situation all around, alright? But none of this could possibly be your fault."
"I-if I had taken her to the doctor sooner. If I hadn't gotten her pregnant in the first place. If I hadn't been so goddamned selfish-"
"What are you talking about, Tones?" Charlotte demanded.
"I'm the reason she got sick," Tony said. "Me. No one else. Me."
"How the hell could you have managed that?" Charlotte asked. "Are you God, Tones? Are you the sickness itself? No. You're not. So this is not your fault."
"You don't know what happened," Tony insisted.
"Then tell me."
Tony sighed, and did as asked, head hung in shame.
Tony was nearing the end of his rope.
If he had to deal with one more phone call from Mary asking him to bring her Red Hots, he was going to lose it. They weren't even good.
He was deeply immersed in his work in the lab, bent over his chemistry assignment. Tony had perfect grades in all his classes, and he knew he was amazing in chemistry, but he didn't know his way around it as much as he did engineering. And if he came back home with anything less than a perfect score…
And so, there he was, leaning over a microscope, studying a compound. They were supposed to combine two mystery substances given by the teacher - all different, and all completely harmless, she had assured - and come back knowing what the compound was. Problem was, try as he might, Tony just couldn't figure the damn thing out. It was such a complicated formula, he could barely tell what elements had been mixed together.
That's when he had gotten the phone call, from a home phone he always carried around in his bag. Mary had the other one. She was supposed to call him when she needed him. More than likely asking him to make her salted lemons or for him to fetch her Red Hots. But he just didn't have the time...
The labs were on the basement level, multiple layers of concrete between him and the outside world. He hadn't known that it was raining, the droplets falling down in heavy, icy sheets. He hadn't known that Mary was stranded in the downpour, shivering in a too big hurry. He hadn't known that the reason Mary hadn't called again was because the rain had ruined the phone.
And he'd have to live with it, the knowledge that all of Mary's pains and suffering could've been avoided, had he just picked up the phone, Red Hots be damned.
But he hadn't. And Mary got sick. Just a cold, at first, barely even a case of the sniffles. Nothing that couldn't be helped by Nyquil.
And then the symptoms got worse. They'd been so focused on their school work, the end of the year finals rearing their ugly heads, that they hadn't gone to the hospital until Mary literally couldn't breathe.
All because Tony couldn't be bothered to pick her up out of the rain.
He hated himself.
"Coincidence," Charlotte said immediately. "Not your fault."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes!"
"No!"
"She could've died!" Tony shouted. "She could've died, and never met Pete, and-and- it's all my fault!" His chest felt tight. His eyes burned. Each breath stung, like his lungs were being binded by an elastic cord. It only made his frantic state worse, realising he couldn't breathe properly.
Good, the voice said. Now you know how Mary felt. How you made her feel.
His vision was blurry. Images of Mary, on a cold table, skin as cold as ice flashed behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes. Visions of a baby, blue lips and grey skin, wrapped in a towel and handed to him with care. Not Peter. Peter wiggled. Peter cooed. Peter didn't still, didn't quiet, not even in his sleep. So why-
Dead. Your fault. All your fault.
"T-t-t-take the baby," he stuttered, arms feeling like rubber. He had no doubt he would drop it if they didn't. Someone took the baby from his arms, and he collapsed back against the stiff backed chair, running free hands through his tufty hair.
Dead. Dead. DEAD!
SHUT UP!
He couldn't tell whether he was talking in his head or thinking out loud. Was there even a difference, really?
There were frantic whispers. Hands on his shoulders. A warm palm on his cheek. Tony couldn't focus. Tony felt like he was dying. Tony wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not, anymore.
It's what you deserve, the cynical voice said. These thoughts, the thoughts of dying, that had been erased back at the beach when he thought there would be no one left to care for Peter, came running back full sprint.
No.
Yes.
NO!
"Tony!"
He let out a final, shuddering gasp. And then the world went dark.