Chapter 5: Five. Years. Later.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fanfiction that uses characters, themes, and universe that belong to Marvel Studios, the writers/directors of the MCU, and the brilliant mind of Stan Lee. I do not own nor claim any of the characters as my own creation, other than the original character R'dawē. *This chapter contains dialogue from the film "Avengers: Endgame." Credit for those lines belongs to the writers/directors/actors of the film.* The song mentioned in this chapter is a traditional Scottish ballad that is hauntingly beautiful, called "The Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond." Thank you for your attention and enjoy!

Note: Reviews make me happy; let me know what you like/dislike/want to see happen!

Circe was chopping up strawberries, humming along to the song that played from her phone. It was a nostalgic song, one that reminded her of simpler times in childhood, and of cool summer days spent at her grandmother's historic home. She hardly listened to the words, but the melody carried a sense of comforting familiarity.

"For ye'll take the high road

And I'll take the low road

And I'll be in Scotland afore ye"

She moved on to the bananas, assessing how much fruit had already filled up the bowl and how much more needed to be added. She was still sweaty from her morning "therapy" session and despite having a full schedule for the day, she was relaxed. She'd get to have dinner with Mr. Stark and his family tonight, as always. It was a Thursday, after all.

"For me and my true love will never meet again

On the bonny bonny banks of Loch Lomond

For me and my true love will never meet again

On the bonny…"

Circe harshly dropped the paring knife and grappled with her phone to turn the music off. She slammed the device back on the countertop suddenly and let out a loud breath.

This happened sometimes. The sudden shift in her mood. She'd start feeling…normal. She would be content for a few minutes, maybe a few hours, until it all came rushing back: the harrowing images, the nauseating sensations, and, worst of all, the dumbfounding feeling of helplessness. It wasn't like a flashback nor was it any lingering anxiety. Rather it was a sinking feeling that felt a lot like disappointment. And when that happened, the last thing she wanted to hear about was "never meeting again." That was a reality all too palpable which she shared with the poor soul in the song. Leaning against the countertop, Circe laced her fingers together and allowed herself a moment to remember.

When she had woken up, all those years ago, she had been in a hospital bed feeling seriously disoriented. Her eyes had squinted against the sunlight that poured through open blinds. Where was she? As she had stirred to life, struggling to get her bearings, a voice sounded from somewhere to her right.

"Ah, you're up!" It was Tony Stark. What was he doing here? Sitting in a chair placed beside her bed, of all things? He looked a lot better, healthier, than the last time she had seen him, which was…when? Today? Yesterday?

Circe hadn't said anything. Her mouth had felt like sandpaper and nothing was making sense. She had…wait, she had gone to space, right? It wasn't a dream. She had been there. She had definitely been there, seen galaxies and innumerable constellations. She had been with Rocket and Captain America and…and they were…fighting. Right, they were fighting…Thanos… Oh.

As she had begun to turn her head away, Mr. Stark took hold of the hand closest to him, drawing her attention back in that direction.

"Hey, kid, listen, before you react…you've been out for almost a week," he had told her. "You've got a lot to catch up on but there's no rush, okay?" His voice had sounded oddly…resigned. Stronger than it had before, but different somehow.

"R'dawē…" she had croaked hoarsely. It was a question, that single word, the most important one her hazy thoughts could form.

"He's fine. He's been in this chair since you got back, wouldn't leave until Cap persuaded him to get actual sleep for a few hours," Mr. Stark assured quickly, understanding the concern. "He won't be happy that he missed you waking up though. Might have to pretend to do it again."

Circe had let out a breathless chuckle. Surprisingly, it hadn't hurt in the least. That was odd. Last she could recall, everything hurt, ribs included. Then, it hit her. What had happened. Turning her head once more, her eyes had landed on something entirely unexpected.

It was a robotic arm, nearly identical to one on Iron Man's suits. And it was connected to her, apparently.

She had slowly lifted her left arm from the elbow, staring in wonder as the artificial limb moved with her subconscious commands. Mr. Stark had been watching closely for any apprehension, for the realization that this was going to be her new normal. He knew what it was like to wake up disoriented, with something vital missing and a piece of metal in its place. And he knew he didn't want this brilliant young woman to experience the fear and alarm he once had.

"You got hurt pretty bad up there," he said warily, clearing choosing his words with care, keeping his tone soft. "We didn't have much of a choice; your bones were crushed and the veins collapsed. Third degree burns. The works."

She had studied the apparatus that began at the, well, her fingertips and ended in the space between her elbow and shoulder, only half listening to its architect who sat beside her. It was a red titanium alloy model, with a repulsor device hidden in the palm, and a single word scrawled just at the crook of her arm: Excelsior.

"Bruce said it was for the best. Things were, well, they were kinda chaotic when you got back. We didn't have many options," he paused a moment, staring at something along the wall. "It's biometrically attached and everything, so you shouldn't be able to feel a difference. You're a strong one so I have a feeling you'll adapt to it quickly. If the color is a bit much, I can make a replacement to look more realistic. It's still top of the line prosthetics, and if it's not…"

"I like it," she had murmured, a bit dazed, cutting off his rambling. Stark had run his hand through his hair, mouth curving upwards into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. She flexed her new fingers, curling them into a fist, watching in muted amazement as the mechanics responded instantly.

It was another week before it finally hit her that she had become an amputee. The gravity of the fact was hard to wrap her mind around, even if her new prosthetic made it easy to forget that anything had happened at all. But the truth was still difficult to swallow. She had lost an arm. No. Correction: lost an arm in space.

When R'dawē had come back to the medical bay in the Avengers Compound (and Circe had indeed pretended to wake up for the first time), he hadn't spared any detail as to what happened.

The stones were gone. The Avengers had lost. Thanos was dead, but that didn't really matter anymore. The world was still in chaos. And the UN Secretary General had more or less panicked during R'dawē's debrief of the mission to the Garden. He ordered that a global reconstruction strategy be developed as soon as time allowed. And, of course, he had given that order to IPR, Circe's department, of which she was now acting director on top of everything else.

Not long after that, life had fallen into a rather mundane pattern. She had gotten back on her feet quickly, always being one to recover fairly fast, and was able to return to the task of managing a thoroughly changed world and one that was now unprecedently connected with others through shared tragedy. It was an immense challenge.

Circe and R'dawē had both moved into the Avengers Compound on a more permanent basis and set up a base from which to work and live. It was convenient; interstellar communication technology to keep in touch with Nebula, Rocket, and Captain Danvers, distance from the desolation of New York City, and, best of all, regular training sessions with Agent Romanoff…Natasha, as she all but demanded Circe call her…who had offered to help Circe with therapy and, later, to become a competent adversary in a physical confrontation.

Another part of this new routine, one of the best parts, was her Thursday dinners. Every single Thursday since she had gotten out of the medical bay, for five years, Circe had gone to the Stark home for dinner. Initially, Mr. Stark had invited her each week to see how her arm was doing, do some "tune ups," and fix minor glitches that presented themselves as she became used to the apparatus. Then, without anyone really articulating it, the Thursday dinners became an unspoken tradition. A standing invitation. She had become very close to Mr. Stark and his family over the five years and cherished her Thursdays with them. Little Morgan, in particular, was a ray of light even when everything else felt like it was going wrong at the UN. Being around a family, for holidays, birthdays, milestones, and run of the mill activities…it was nice. It was what Circe missed most about her own family being gone.

"I'd say that's it for today. You're getting a lot better with turning defense into offense." Natasha declared as she entered the kitchen, interrupting Circe's rather morose thoughts about the past. "Might even be good enough to take me down one day."

Circe grinned at the praise. Coming from the Black Widow, that was the best compliment she could have gotten. Despite being sweaty and her mind having drifted to a dark place, Circe felt glorious; it was a rare uplifting feeling that didn't happen all that often anymore.

"Well, I have a good teacher. She's kinda tough on me though. And doesn't pull punches," she replied jokingly, noticing Natasha glance down at the cutting board. Of course, the she knew what the fruit was for. She knew, but never commented. No one did. Circe would just say that she was "heading out" and they, even Captain Rogers who hadn't been on speaking terms with Mr. Stark for years, all knew that meant she was going to spend the evening with the Starks.

Things hadn't healed among the Avengers since that fateful day, that awful argument. Whatever animosity existed between Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers was deep and not easy to heal. Circe had since picked up on the fact that the Sokovia Accords weren't the only thing dividing the two, but she had never inquired further to either party. It felt like Thursdays were a completely separate sphere in her life, something that existed outside of time completely. She didn't want anything to tarnish that sanctity.

"You got any plans for the afternoon?" Natasha asked, pulling out a jar of peanut butter and some bread.

"Unfortunately. I have to provide updates to the Assembly about the new trade system we implemented last year. Plus, I've got the Asgardian delegation coming over from Norway for a panel discussion about agriculture. Which means I have to go into the city, so I probably won't be back until late."

"I'll let you know what we cover in the meeting later."

"Shoot! Is that today?" Circe asked, pressing a hand to her forehead. "I completely forgot. And R'dawē…he won't be here either…he already left for headquarters to keep an eye on the seismic stuff going on in the Indian Ocean. Would you, ah, tell Nebula that if she and Rocket are within range, I can call them back in like…um…eight, nine hours about the treaty plans for those two warring planets near Torfa? I still have to shower before I leave for HQ."

"Sure thing, and hey, heads up!" Circe turned just in time to see a peanut butter sandwich leave Natasha's hand and arc across the kitchen in her direction. The Black Widow smiled when the younger woman caught it with practiced ease. "Nice reflexes. You really are doing well."

Circe smiled, genuinely smiled, before jogging off in the direction of her rooms.

After a quick shower, redressing for the office, and gathering her bag of papers (she was a traditionalist, and liked to write her thoughts out rather than type them), Circe realized she would have to take the fruit salad for tonight's dinner along too, since she wouldn't be back at the Compound until afterwards. Hurrying back towards the kitchen, she heard Natasha's voice and slowed her steps, wondering if the call was still going on and if she might join for a minute. But the voice that responded was not one she expected to hear.

"You know, I keep telling everybody they should move on and…grow." It was Captain Rogers. He was rarely here anymore. Circe had gotten to be on better terms with him over the years, but he had taken to staying in the city more often than not.

His words felt like a blow to her earlier elation. She was about to confront him, point out that some things couldn't be moved on from. Otherwise, what value did any of her work have? She and R'dawē would never stop working to fix things, but that didn't mean they had moved on from the immense loss of life that precipitated all of this. Then she heard the Captain's next words and it froze her in place, "Some do. But not us." Not us.

"If I move on, who does this?" Natasha asked. Circe couldn't see either of them. She was tucked behind a wall, near the kitchen corridor. Time was ticking by and she knew she had to get going soon, so she moved in the kitchen, where she could still faintly hear the conversation.

"Maybe it doesn't need to be done."

Circe again stopped. Her hand was nearly on the door that led to the garage and her car. She looked down at that hand, the artificial one, made by Tony Stark to replace the one Thanos had taken from her. They couldn't move on, they couldn't just stop doing this. Too much had happened, too much of their lives had become invested, intertwined with the horrible actions of the Mad Titan that there wasn't any other option. At least not for Circe.

"I used to have nothing. And then I got this," Natasha began, her voice cracking with sorrowful emotion. "This job…this family. And I was…I was better because of it. And even though…they're gone…I'm still trying to be better."

Circe pressed her other hand to her mouth, tears coming to her eyes freely. She knew that pain, the feeling of being aimlessly adrift. To hear Natasha, who had become like a sister to her these past years express openly such sentiments pulled at her heartstrings. The Black Widow was tough, unmoving, and yet so very human. And Circe understood, too, the exquisite sense of belonging that had surrounded her since she moved into the Compound. The Avengers, the remaining ones, and R'dawē had become her family. What had started as a radical idea to go into space had turned into the creation of a new home, even if it meant the loss of a limb. A place she was accepted, cared for, and embraced. In a twisted way, she was grateful that things had turned out the way they did in the aftermath. If they couldn't bring everyone back, at least she had found…belonging.

She rushed out to the garage, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, not waiting to hear if Captain Rogers gave a response.

It had been a frustrating day. The update to the Assembly went about as expected, which was to say: poorly. The ambassadors were still wholeheartedly focused on petty geopolitics, which to Circe seemed quite insane given the circumstances. One might have thought that the indiscriminate mass obliviation of humanity by an extraterrestrial entity would have acted as a catalyst for unprecedented unity.

Nope. Back to bickering over relative gains and balances of power.

It wasn't helpful. It wasn't even remotely useful that the countries had resumed their infighting when, globally, conditions were teetering on the brink of improvement. How were they supposed to get anywhere when old rivalries, irrelevant ones in her opinion, kept surfacing and stalling progress? She kept her mouth shut about it, mostly. It wasn't her job to comment on politics as such. But she certainly gave R'dawē, the most patient of souls, an earful afterwards.

Circe was more than glad to be out of the city and on the road to the Stark farm. The drive was pleasant, she had the windows down in her car, and sped along the empty roads towards her destination. No traffic anymore.

She rounded the corner that would take her along the gravel path up to the house. As she slowed down, car rattling as it transferred off the pavement, she saw something ahead in the distance. Another car? Huh. Then she realized who it belonged to. They were standing on the porch, scowling at Mr. Stark, who held Morgan in his arms. This was…hmm…different. A bit awkward actually, since none of them ever discussed where she went on Thursdays with a bowl of fruit salad. Also, who was the other person, the man with his back to her, the one standing between Captain Rogers and Natasha?

She pulled up hesitantly, a short distance from the other car and killed her engine. The group on the porch turned at the sound. Well, this was uncomfortable. But she wasn't entirely sure she was the one to be feeling that way. Captain Rogers looked positively agitated; Natasha's carefully schooled expression was even a bit sheepish. And, hold on, that was… what the hell? She knew his face from months of careful study and several brief encounters after the incident at the airport in Germany. But Scott Lang was reported as one of the disappeared, so…how was he here? Moreover, why? And where the hell was he for the past five years?

She opened her door of her car and slowly stepped out onto the gravel. Mr. Stark gave her a nod of acknowledgement and Natasha gave a gentle smile, which Circe returned. Captain Rogers walked off the porch and back towards the cars, towards Circe. She wavered for a moment, feeling a bit like a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar. He didn't say anything, just glanced at her with steely eyes, and she felt somewhat emboldened by the fact that he wasn't going to object to her being here. Either way, he had no right to do so.

Circe offered a shy smile in passing to Natasha, who returned it. Scott Lang looked at her blankly until she could see the recognition take place in his mind, and a brief cold fury washed over his face. Well, wherever he was for the past few years, he sure hadn't forgotten her misunderstood involvement in the Sokovia Accords business.

She continued past the two cars and up to the deck, where Morgan promptly squealed and demanded to be set down so she could hug Circe.

"Brought the fruit salad?" Mr. Stark asked, still watching his colleagues…former colleagues…get settled in their car, talking amongst themselves.

"Always," she replied, getting the air squeezed out of her by the younger Stark. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

Mr. Stark let out a sigh, watching as his old teammates rattled their way down the gravel drive.

"You're not going to believe this," he said in a low voice before twirling his daughter around in the air, extracting her from Circe with practiced ease. "But first, we have crickets and lettuce, wait…ouch, Morguna! I said pesto chicken and lemonade!"

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"I mean…Geez. The…what…quantum realm?" she said slowly.

"Mhmm. Yep."

"I've read about Hank Pym experimenting with it a long time ago. But still…it doesn't… Well, hmm…it can't be possible, can it?"

Mr. Stark shook his head, "Not for a sane person. Besides, it's out of the question, trying something like that."

"And they came here to ask if you'd help?" Circe questioned, still having a hard time wrapping her mind around the mechanics of it.

Mr. Stark made a noise of confirmation, passing her a freshly washed dish. They were alone in the kitchen, cleaning up after the meal while Pepper helped Morgan with her bath. It gave them a moment alone to discuss what motivated Captain Rogers to come here, after years of almost nonexistent contact.

Turns out, it was time travel.

She absentmindedly moved the cloth across the plate as Mr. Stark continued scrubbing at a pan. He was pretty good at concealing his emotions. But Circe could sense that something was amiss. These after-dinner conversations with Mr. Stark (she absolutely refused to call him Tony on the grounds of having had a polite upbringing, despite his continual protests) were insightful. Not just into the world or technology, but into the brain of one of the most intelligent, creative, and compassionate people she had ever met.

When she was a child, Circe had idolized the billionaire inventor after he had publicly announced that he was, indeed, the Iron Man. He was a hero. It was part of what inspired her to intern with S.H.I.E.L.D. during college and what led her to pursue studies on interplanetary relations that had been discouraged and rejected by so many professors as a farce. Tony Stark had done what he believed was right, no matter what anyone had to say about him, and that was admirable. Now that she knew him as a person, as a friend, she was even more sure of that.

"They're messing with things we can't even begin to understand. So much could go wrong. Hmph, time travel!" he grumbled, momentarily losing control of the sprayer that he was using to clean the fruit salad bowl.

Water splashed up, landing on the window, curtains, and misting a few of the shelves by the sink. Circe laughed, taking her drying cloth and wiping some of the water from the window, while Mr. Stark reigned in the sprayer with even more sarcastic grumbling. She continued drying off the surface of the surrounding countertop until she noticed that he had paused, holding a picture frame that had been hit by some of the water.

"You miss him, don't you?" she asked quietly.

"What? Oh, the kid?" Mr. Stark answered, a bit distracted. "Yeah… hmm, yeah. I do."

Nothing needed to be said. He had told her about Peter Parker early on. Her first reaction was to freak out that Spiderman, THE Spiderman who regularly stopped crime in her very own neighborhood, was a high schooler. Then, of course, she heard about his backstory, how Mr. Stark had been mentoring him, and how the teenager had turned to dust on a remote planet far off in the cosmos. She never knew Peter Parker personally, but on some level, she felt like she did after hearing Mr. Stark talk about him so often. It was still a sensitive topic, one ladened with immense sadness. That's how it was when someone who was gone was brought up in conversation.

She'd be lying if she said that this time travel idea didn't deserve consideration. She wanted to bring people back just as much as anyone. She missed her mom's dim sum, her dad's undying hatred for the English rugby team. And, sure, she was happy now. But a small part of her would always miss how things were.

"Listen, Circe. I, ah… I have something to ask you."

"Fire away," she replied, looking up curiously whilst picking up the bowl to towel-dry it.

Mr. Stark hesitated, as if choosing his next words carefully, "I've been thinking…"

"Uh oh"

"Hey now, I'm being serious," Mr. Stark's trademark smirk flickered onto his face momentarily before vanishing into a concerned expression. "If something were ever to happen to…me, you know, hypothetically, I would want someone to be there for Morgan and for Pepper. For the people I care about. Someone I could count on. Just if I wasn't there, to…well, to…protect them, make sure they're okay."

Mr. Stark paused, looking at her with an intensity that made Circe stop what she was doing.

"If that was the case, again hypothetically, I would want that someone to be…I'd want it to be you."

"Me?" she asked, stunned, nearly dropping the bowl. She did not see that coming.

"I know I can trust you to do what's best, to make the right choices. You've got a level head and a determination to see things through. Bonus points for having a highly weaponized arm I designed physically attached to you. But really, if it's something you're okay with, I want you to promise me that you'd be there…if I… if I couldn't be."

"Is there…something I should know about?" This was not the kind of post-dinner chat she anticipated having tonight. "Because obviously I would, but nothing is going to happen to you. You said yourself the time travel thing is ridiculous. And he…you know. He's gone. Captain Danvers says the rest of the universe is in too much turmoil to even bother trying to invade or anything…"

"Circe."

"Mr. Stark, I…"

"Just promise me, okay? Do an old man a favor, hmm? Helps me sleep better at night knowing that my girls are looked after. I know Rhodey would be there in a second, but he's got responsibilities of his own. He's been tied down to my bullshit for longer than you've been alive."

She shook her head, still disbelieving, "But why now? Is it because of this quantum realm thing? Because it's totally impossible, I mean, it's straight from a movie, right?"

He sighed, looking at a drawing of Morgan's taped to the fridge. "Might be. Sometimes I become frighteningly aware of my own mortality, you know? It happened before. Man, more than a decade ago now! Then, I self-destructed more or less. But now, I have a beautiful kid and a loving wife, and I know they're not helpless; hell, Morgan will be a force to reckon with one day!"

"She already is," Circe smiled.

"Still, I want to protect them. More than anything. Put a suit of armor around MY world. And I gather you and I are a lot alike in that respect. Which is why I want you to promise me. If something ever happened, which it won't, of course. That you'd be there."

She nodded, considering his words. It was true. She was fiercely defensive of her people. R'dawē. Natasha. Nebula. Rocket, even. The Starks. It dawned on her that she really couldn't say no. Here he was, the great Iron Man, admitting his greatest fear to her. Even though she was confident that no calamity would ever occur that would force her to make good on that promise, she knew in her heart that there was only one thing to do.

"I promise."