Orphans: Part 2
"I'm sorry, Captain Rogers, but I simply can't accept any new patients. Surely you can understand the need right now is overwhelming—"
Steve was on the line with his twenty-fifth child psychiatrist. Or, rather, his first. This woman had made the mistake of answering her own phone. The rest had all been receptionists.
"This child has lost both her parents," he pleaded. "I've been trying to get in with someone for two weeks–"
Through the kitchen window, he watched Morgan playing on the porch. She'd brought up an armful of sticks from the yard and was arranging them around each of her stuffed animals. Another zoo. She glanced up at the window, and he waved at her. She waved in return and then went back to her game. She liked to know where he was.
"Again, I am sorry," Dr. Nakamura said. "And I know the provider situation is—"
"Who'd you get back from the Blip?" Steve snapped.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, 'who did you get back?' Your mother? Your brother? Who?"
There was a hush on the other end of the line. "My best friend," she said, barely audible.
"Yeah? What's their name?"
"Eito."
"Well, I've got a four-year-old who gave up her parents for Eito. For you. For everybody else. And now nobody will–" he clapped a hand over his mouth. It wasn't her fault. It was nobody's fault, nobody but Thanos, and he was dead.
"I apologize," Steve said, reining himself back in. "Have a good day—"
"Wait," she said, even as he started to pull the phone from his ear. "Wait, please. Look," she sighed, "I can't possibly add you to the regular caseload, but I'll give you a consult. Maybe I can help tide you over until you find a provider."
"Thank you," Steve said fervently. "Thank you so much."
"No, don't thank me. You're right. It really is the least I can do."
"It'll just take me a few minutes. They have those neat magnetic blocks. And they have a basket of animals."
Steve was starting to sweat, painfully aware that the psychiatrist was watching his every move. He was trying to convince Morgan to sit in the waiting room with the receptionist so he could speak privately with Dr. Nakamura, but she wasn't having it. That's right, he thought, take it in, the story of my life. I'm supposed to be in charge, and some Stark refuses to do anything I say.
"Look," he said, reaching into the basket and pulling out an exotic plastic beast, "it's a…a…" Great. He couldn't even identify all the animals in a basket of children's toys. Had they invented new animals since 1945?
"It's a tapir," said Morgan.
"Like a candle?"
They blinked at each other, both confused.
"Nevermind. Please, Morgan. I'll be right on the other side of the door. You could make a great zoo with all this stuff."
The receptionist smiled at Morgan encouragingly, but Morgan only scowled back.
"I'll take you for hot chocolate after," Steve pleaded. Morgan narrowed her eyes. "Here," Steve said, struck by inspiration. He pulled his keys from his pocket and handed them to her. "Now you know I won't go anywhere. Can't leave without the keys. Keep up with them for me, okay?"
She nodded gravely, "These open the car."
"That's right. See you in a few minutes."
She sat down on the floor, finally mollified, and started to systematically examine each key on the ring. Dr. Nakamura ushered him into her office, closing the door behind them. She took a seat in a green velvet armchair.
"Have a seat," she said, gesturing to an armchair beside her own.
She was a neat woman in her early sixties with big pink glasses and a bob. Steve sat down, resisting the urge to move his chair. It was ever so slightly too close to her. He'd have picked a different one, but all the other seats were child-sized.
"I'm sorry," he said. "She likes to know I won't go anywhere."
"Is she clingy at home, or just in public places?"
"Clingy?"
"Does she have to be around you all the time? Maybe she even wants to hold onto you physically."
"You mean tied to my apron strings? No. She'll play by herself in another room or on the playground fine. She's pretty independent. She just…well, she likes to make sure I'll stay where I'm put. Is that bad?" He asked, suddenly anxious.
"Bad? No. She needs to feel confident she can find you. Given what she's been through, that seems like a reasonable accommodation to me, at least for the time being. But tell me about your concerns, Captain Rogers."
"Steve is fine," he said, not quite managing to smile.
"Very well, Steve. What are your concerns?"
He shifted in his seat. "What are yours?"
Dr. Nakamura spread her hands, "I don't have any."
Steve frowned at her. "Morgan has lost both her parents."
"Yes, and she is grieving. She misses them very much, as any child would, and I do think you should take her to see her father, but we'll get to that in a minute. Right now, she's doing as well as she possibly could under the circumstances. She's already formed a secure attachment to you. Even though her primary caregiver has changed, her needs–physical, emotional–have been continually met during this very challenging time. Watching you interact with her, I can see that you're warm and attentive."
"I'm trying my best."
"And I'm here to tell you your best is good enough. What I just witnessed with the keys, for example—it reassured her. You gave her an important object she can be proud to hand back to you, and that will build her confidence and self-esteem. It was well done."
"Really?" he said, so relieved he wasn't quite sure he believed it.
"Really. But let's talk about what makes you think it isn't. What's going on at home? You were insistent that you needed to see someone."
"Well, she's crying a lot."
"That's to be expected. When does it happen? What precipitates it?"
"It's at night, mostly," Steve said. "When she gets tired, she wants them and not me, and there's nothing I can do."
She cried most nights, and it was exhausting for both of them. But it wasn't just the crying that tuckered him out, it was the echo of Mama's death, the memory of his own childhood heartbreak and all his lonely tears. Sometimes, he cried a little, too, right along with her, let the tears roll into her hair while he held her.
"So what do you do?"
"Hold her while she cries, mostly."
"And then what happens?"
"Eventually, she stops. Then we read a couple books, and she goes to sleep. But then she comes and gets in bed with me."
"I see. Is she waking upset?"
"Sometimes, but she always wakes up, usually around midnight, and she wants to sleep with me after that."
"And this distresses you?"
"Distresses?" He thought about it. "No, not exactly. I just…I worry if it's alright?"
She shrugged, "Is it alright with you? It's clearly alright with Morgan, and you're the only two interested parties. Unless you have a partner?"
"No," he shook his head. "No partner."
And, truthfully, it was fine by him. More than fine. In just three weeks, he'd come to love the little body curled up beside him, her tiny sighs. He especially loved waking up with her; she was always happy in the morning, like the night's storm hadn't happened at all. Yesterday, she'd kissed him on the nose and asked for pancakes, and his chest had bubbled with something sweet and effervescent that tasted suspiciously like happiness.
"It's fine with me. It's just—is it normal?"
"Very. Particularly in non-Western cultures. The Japanese, for example, often share a family bed until a child is nine or ten. Physical contact is very important for young children, and the two of you are still forming your parent-child bond."
Steve felt his face twist a little before he could stop it.
"What?" she asked, seeing the expression.
"That's just it. I'm her legal guardian. I'm not her parent."
There was a beat; he could feel the weight of her gaze, even though he wasn't quite meeting it.
"I wonder why you say that. Is it that you don't want to be her parent? That isn't a judgment, by the way. You've gone from being a man with a lot of day-to-day independence to a man with very little. I know this was thrust on you quite suddenly—"
"No," he said quickly. "No. It isn't that. I just…I don't think I've earned those stripes."
"And when do you think you'll have earned them?"
Steve shrugged.
"You know," Dr. Nakamura said, "every time a baby is born, a father is made. Not a good father or a bad father, not yet, but a father nonetheless."
"Maybe," Steve said noncommittally, "but Morgan already has a father."
"Tony Stark."
"Yes."
"And if he dies," she asked pointedly, "will you be her father then?"
Steve shifted uncomfortably, "I don't know. I'm not looking to replace Tony."
"You can never replace a parent, Steve. You're a new parent; you'll do things your own way, and your relationship to Morgan will be unique. Even if Tony Stark comes out of the coma, you'll find there is more than enough room for the two of you."
You'll be a better parent than I am, said Tony, his voice casually bitter, and I hate you for that.
"I'm not so sure he'll want me around."
"He'll be a new widower. He'll need time and space to grieve his spouse, and I imagine his physical recovery will be protracted. Morgan will need another stable adult. They both will. He chose you as the legal guardian for his child. I assume you're also making his medical decisions?"
Steve nodded, nonplussed.
"You really think he'd cut you out?"
Yes, he thought at once, then reconsidered. Tony had put aside their history for Morgan, named him legal guardian because he thought it would be best. Hell, Steve was Tony's guardian, too, not that he'd done much guarding in that department, not yet. But Dr. Nakamura was probably right. Tony probably wouldn't cut him out. And if he tried to?
They're both yours, Pepper said. I'm giving them to you.
If he tried to…Steve simply wouldn't be cut. Simple as that.
It was a moot point anyway, Steve thought, feeling a sharp stab of grief. Tony was not expected to wake up.
Steve couldn't find Morgan. She wasn't in her room or Tony's room. She wasn't on the porch. He was just starting to feel real, icy fear when he thought to ask Friday; he'd never get used to the omnipresent AI.
As it happened, Morgan was in the garage, spinning on Tony's drafting stool, kicking herself off from the leg of a work table every time she slowed down. A huge weight lifted from Steve's chest when he saw her; for a moment or two, he'd been convinced she'd drowned in the lake.
"Morgan, you scared me, sweetheart. I didn't know where you were."
"I was here."
She stopped spinning to look at him. She was strikingly out of place in her rainbow striped pajamas, like a bright bird that had flown in through the open garage door.
"I know, but this isn't a place to play. It's dangerous. There are all kinds of sharp tools and—
"I don't touch tools. I'm not allowed."
"Okay, but—"
The spinning resumed. She'd heard his concern—tools are sharp—but since she already didn't touch tools, it was no concern of hers, and she'd proceeded to tune him out. She was very good at it, another trait she'd inherited from Tony. Steve sighed.
"Come on," he said. "I made you breakfast. Next time you want to come out here, I need you to tell me, alright?"
"Yes, Steve."
At least she seemed to remember his name now.
"I don't know how to thank you," May Parker said. "We've been looking all over, but the market is crazy right now. I can't even get a real estate agent on the phone. And I'm still trying to find a job. Seriously, the hiring managers act like the gap in my employment history was a five-year Netflix binge or something, and it's like 'no, hello, I was Blipped!—'"
"I'm happy to do it, Mrs. Parker." Steve handed her the keys to his apartment.
"May," she corrected.
"May."
They were standing in the small kitchen drinking coffee after a morning of moving boxes—his things, their things—up and down the stairs. He'd taken his clothes and art supplies, left the furniture and everything else.
"Listen, May, it's been sitting empty, and no apartment has any business sitting empty, not right now. Happy should have asked me sooner."
"I promise we're excellent tenants. Always pay on the first of the month," she said, taking out her checkbook again. "Now, do I make it out to Captain America, or—?
"No," Steve laughed, "please. I told you already. You can't pay me."
"Not even utilities? I like it hot. My electric bill is always outrageous—"
"Keep it set to seventy-five if you want. It's Tony's money." It would always be Tony's money as far as Steve was concerned.
"Only until I get back on my feet," May insisted. "How's he doing, by the way? Tony?"
Steve looked into his coffee cup, "No change."
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks."
"And how are you?"
"I'm fine."
"Steve," she said, smiling at him. "You can't kid a kidder. My brother and his wife died when Peter was six. Those were the hardest weeks of my life; every time he cried, it felt like a personal failure. I've never been so tired. It's exhausting, right? And it's twenty-four seven."
"It's exhausting," Steve agreed, "but—" he stopped himself; something had almost slipped out that shouldn't have.
"But you kind of love it? Little kids are amazing, aren't they?" May said, hearing the unspoken words. "They trust you immediately. I still remember the first time Peter sat in my lap. I'd been his guardian for about an hour, and he just climbed right up there like he owned me. And he did, y'know? That's the thing. All it takes is five minutes, and you love them with your whole heart. And the guilt just about rips you in two because they were never supposed to be yours. It feels like stealing."
Steve kept studying his coffee cup. "Does it ever stop?" he wondered. "The guilt?"
"I don't know," she sighed. "Sorta kinda? Not really? Peter is such a great kid. I've been his parent longer than Ray and Mary now, but I still have a hard time taking credit for him, y'know? Still, I must be responsible, at least a little, right?" She drifted to the kitchen doorway, nodding towards the living room.
Peter and Morgan were on the rug with a set of Magnatiles from the house, building a city in rainbow plastic and talking quietly.
"This is the kitten store," Morgan said, adding a green roof to a set of blue walls.
"They sell kittens?" Peter asked.
"Yes. Mommy says I can't have a kitten. My mommy died."
Standing in the doorway, Steve sucked in a breath, ready to swoop in, but May put a hand on his arm.
"My mom died, too," Peter said, matter-of-fact, "and my dad."
"Oh. Who takes care of you?" Morgan asked, starting on a tower.
"Aunt May. She's been taking care of me since I was six. Who takes care of you?"
"Steve. Steve makes pancakes."
"So Steve's pretty good, huh?"
"Yeah. Steve is pretty good. He took me to the zoo."
"Wow. What's your favorite animal?"
"The tiger."
"You hear that?" May said. "You're pretty good."
"Hey," said Steve, "I'll take it."
"My kitten's name is Stanley," Morgan said, holding up her stuffed cat for Steve's inspection. "Would you like to pet him?"
Steve put down his spatula and stroked its head dutifully.
"Good kitty," said Steve. "Now could you please take Stanley to the rug while I finish making breakfast? I wouldn't want him to get burned."
"But he's hungry," Morgan protested. "He wants a snack."
Steve produced a graham cracker from the omnipresent box on the counter; the kid went through graham crackers like a priest went through Communion wafers on Sunday. Sometimes, he thought he should probably cut her back; from the taste, he figured they were full of sugar, but Steve's understanding of modern nutritional guidelines was tenuous at best, and Morgan was picky. He sighed and pushed the thought aside; Morgan's cracker habit was a problem for another, distant day.
Morgan took her cracker to the dining table and pretended to feed it to the stuffed cat. When she'd decided he was full, she ate the cracker herself.
"I want a real kitten," she said when Steve brought her a plate of scrambled eggs.
"A real kitten, huh?" Steve asked, sitting down to his own plate. "Stanley isn't real? Looks real to me."
"No. I want a real real kitten that eats."
"Oh, I see. A real real kitten. What do you want it to look like?"
"Like this," she said, holding up Stanley. "With black and orange."
"That kind of cat is called a calico. Don't forget to eat." Like Tony, Morgan tended not to eat when she had a bee in her bonnet. Today, the bee was kittens.
"Calico," Morgan repeated, tasting the word. She clearly liked it and said it a few more times under her breath. Calico. Ca-Li-Co. She ate some eggs, then fed a pretend forkful to the stuffed cat.
"What would you name your calico kitten?"
"Stanley."
"I think calicos are mostly girls. Stanley is a name for a boy."
"I like Stanley."
"Well, alright then. Stanley it is."
"Why are they girls? Is it genes?" Genes. From a four year old.
"I suppose so. Why? What do you know about genes?" he asked, curious.
"They have DNA. They make your hair brown and your nose go swoo-oop," she ran a finger down her sloping nose when she made the swoop.
"Say, that's pretty good. Who taught you that?" Steve asked, already knowing the answer.
"Daddy."
"Your daddy sure knows a lot. You know a lot, too. Speaking of your daddy," Steve watched her feed her cat again, "we're going to go see him today."
Dr. Nakamura had said Morgan should witness the gravity of his illness so she'd better understand it if he died. One parent had already disappeared into the ether, never to be seen again, and she'd insisted Tony should not be another. It was logical, but Steve still dreaded the notion; he remembered his own consuming fear when he'd visited his mother in the hospital. She'd looked so fragile and pale, and the way she'd been at the end—bone white, emaciated, blood on her lips—was always the top image of her in his mind. He hated that it was an effort for him to remember her as vivacious and pretty, though she had been.
Morgan's head jerked up, and she looked at Steve gravely. "But he's very sick," she said. "He can't wake up."
"That's right." Steve had been trying to prepare her the past few days. "He won't be awake, but we can still go and talk to him. The doctors told me sometimes people in a coma can hear you, and I know he misses your voice. Now eat up. We're going right after breakfast."
To Steve's unending gratitude, Bruce met them at the hospital. When he saw them, he pulled Steve into an unexpectedly solid hug, two arms and no holding back.
"It's good to see you, Cap. How are you?"
"I'm fine. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get down here."
"Nah. You've been busy, and it's not like there's anything you can do. Not here." Bruce redirected his gaze, leaning down to approximately Morgan level. "Hi, kid."
"Hi." She clutched her picture book tight to her chest, like some kind of emotional armor.
"You've got a book, I see. You gonna read that to your dad?"
She nodded mutely. Steve put a palm on her back.
"Great. That's good. Are you ready to go see him?"
Another mute nod.
"You want to press the elevator buttons?"
Another nod.
"Good. It always makes my fingers tired. He's on the fifth floor." They got in the elevator, and Morgan pushed the '5.'
"I let them know you were coming," Bruce said quietly. "I was just up there. He looks okay, I think. His color's good, but—" his eyes drifted to Morgan.
"What? What's she going to see?" Steve glanced down at Morgan, too, knowing those sharp ears were likely hanging on every word.
"He's got the trach for the ventilator, of course, and there's the arm. But it's the–" Bruce's voice dropped to a murmur, "it's the scarring on his face."
Steve shrugged; there was nothing for it. "You'll answer her questions?"
"If you want me to."
"My marching orders from the shrink were 'age-appropriate transparency.'"
"Okay. What's that mean?"
"Means we're going to do the best we can."
They got out on the fifth floor. It was painfully quiet, the kind of place that made even walking footsteps seem too loud. Morgan grabbed two of his fingers, squeezing them tight as they made their way down the hall.
Tony's room was bright, with a big window looking right over Madison Avenue and Central Park beyond, and there was an enormous bouquet of flowers. Mostly though, there was Tony, still and quiet. Morgan dropped Steve's fingers as he started walking towards the bed, hanging back close to the door. That was alright; Steve remembered how afraid he'd been of Mama when she was sick, how he didn't know how to be around her, and how there'd been no one to show him.
"Hey, Tony," Steve said, looking down at him. "It's me. I brought Morgan. She's going to read you a book. How's that sound?"
He'd expected Tony to look frail and unkempt, like he had after Titan, but he didn't. He looked like himself, beard neatly trimmed, hair combed, though there were scars on the side of his face, real weird ones. They were silvery grey, like graphite, and branched across his skin on one side of his face, almost to his eye, trailing away down his neck where they disappeared under his hospital gown. Steve wanted to touch them, but didn't. The amputated arm was neatly wrapped in gauze, the stump just protruding from the bottom of his sleeve. Steve debated covering it up, but in the interest of 'age-appropriate transparency,' he left it alone. Exquisitely aware that Morgan was watching his every move, Steve ran a hand over Tony's hair— look, you can touch him— and then bent over the bed and pressed a kiss to his forehead. The skin was warm under his lips.
"C'mere," Steve said, kneeling on the floor and opening his arms. When Morgan walked reluctantly into them, he picked her up. Her face was grim as she looked at Tony. "What do you think?" Steve asked quietly.
"What's on his face?"
"Doc, you wanna field that one?"
Bruce stepped up beside them. "Those are called Lichtenberg figures. They appear on the skin sometimes when someone gets struck by lightning."
"Daddy got struck by lightning?" Morgan's eyes went wide.
"Not exactly," Bruce said, looking to Steve.
"We were in a battle," Steve said quietly, "and your father was hurt by a powerful weapon."
Steve waited, watching her, but she just kept looking at Tony. The explanation seemed to be enough, which was fortunate, seeing as Steve didn't understand the infinity stones himself, not really.
"His arm," she whispered. Her own arm tightened around the back of Steve's neck.
"He lost a part of it when he got hurt. How does that make you feel?" Invite her feelings, Dr. Natamura had said, positive or negative, and validate them.
"Scared," she whispered.
"That's okay," Steve assured her. "Do you have any questions you want to ask Dr. Bruce?"
"Does it hurt?" Her voice was anxious.
"No," Bruce said gently. "Not while he's asleep."
"When will he wake up?"
Bruce and Steve looked at each other. Steve nodded, giving him the go-ahead.
"I don't know if he ever will," Bruce said. "No one does."
They took her to Central Park afterwards, to the playground with the statue of the Three Bears. It was busy; the park was filled with temporary housing for the displaced, and there were little children everywhere. Steve wondered how many were newly returned from some strange purgatory. It had to be a lot of them; the birth rate had plummeted in the last five years, despite all the social engineering the remnants of government could muster. Most people hadn't had the spirit to bring a child into a world like that.
"Stay where I can see you, and where you can see me," Steve instructed, releasing Morgan to the sandbox. There were no more benches to be had, so he and Bruce stood in the grass, hands stuffed in pockets.
"I can't believe he did this to you," Bruce said bluntly, shaking his head. "He's—god, he's such a bastard sometimes."
"It's been alright, Bruce. Really." Though Steve couldn't say he didn't appreciate the sentiment. He hadn't let himself get angry at Tony; it seemed counterproductive, but hearing Bruce say it out loud was oddly satisfying.
Bruce looked at him skeptically.
"Really," Steve reiterated. "I feel privileged to have her."
"Privileged," Bruce muttered. "Still, you don't do that to somebody."
They watched as Morgan pushed handfuls of leafy sand into a pile.
"They're asking if I want to take him off the ventilator."
Bruce nodded, "That's not a surprise."
"What should I do?"
"I don't know."
"I don't want to hear that, Bruce. What would you do? Can you tell me that at least?"
Bruce scuffed his shoe in the grass. "I knew you were going to ask me."
"And you've got to tell me," Steve pressed. "You owe me that much. If I'd said 'no' to all this, you'd be on the hook."
Bruce heaved a sigh, watching Morgan add twigs and acorns to her sand pile. "What do you think she's making over there?" he wondered.
"It's a cake. The sticks are candles. The acorns are sprinkles." There was a little beach beside the lake, and Morgan liked Steve to take her there to 'bake.'
Bruce sighed again; it was that kind of conversation. "I'd take him off the ventilator, see if he can breathe on his own. If he can, I'd continue nutritional support, at least for a while, give him some more time. But if his lungs aren't functioning?" Bruce inclined his head towards the sandbox. "You don't want to prolong this, for her sake."
"But people do come out of them, Bruce. I've been reading up. Sometimes, people wake up after years and—."
"Sometimes. But most people improve within two weeks or not at all. It's been more than a month now, and the longer he stays under, the more likely it is that he's sustained significant neurological damage. Can you imagine that? With Tony?"
"Not really. I figure he'd rather die." Steve turned his gaze from the sandbox. "Will you be there? When they stop the ventilator?"
"Yes. Absolutely," Bruce assured him.
"I'm going to call Rhodes, ask him if he wants to be there, too."
In the sandbox, Morgan was singing 'Happy Birthday' to a little boy in overalls, and she applauded when he blew out the candles.
They unplugged the ventilator, and Tony kept breathing.
Morgan got two kittens, a calico named Stanley and a tuxedo named Monty, the last two in a litter that had re-appeared from the Blip. Steve was glad Pepper wasn't around to see what they were doing to the sofa. And the drapes. And the rug in the hallway.
Tony kept breathing.
Steve took Morgan back to the hospital. Morgan sat in Steve's lap in the armchair and recited Where the Wild Things Are while Steve turned the pages.
"You want to kiss him goodbye?" Steve asked her when she'd finished reading, but she shook her head, and he didn't try to persuade her.
Steve kissed Tony instead, pushing the soft sweep of hair away from his forehead. He considered Tony's face as he stood up: Tony's expression was calm, and Steve prayed he was somewhere peaceful, some place he could rest until he was ready to come back to them. Just don't forget about us, Tony, he thought, laying the back of his fingers against Tony's cheek.
Afterwards, they went to the Central Park Carousel, and Steve stood leaning against the rail with all the parents, watching the children on their painted ponies. Morgan had picked a white one with a red saddle and a golden mane. She waved energetically each time she galloped by, her pinned mitten swinging wildly at the end of her coat sleeve.
"Your daughter is adorable," said a woman standing next to him at the rail.
"Thank you." Steve couldn't think of a good reason to correct her.
"And she looks just like you."
"You think so?" Steve asked, amused.
"Oh, sure. Look at that smile. She's the spitting image. And I bet no one else can see it because of her coloring, but I can," the lady said with a note of pride.
"Well, thanks," Steve said, and he found he was somehow pleased by her mistake.
"Yes, she looks just like her father," she concluded, waving at her own child as he went by.
Steve smiled to himself; on that last point at least, she was absolutely right.
Tony kept breathing.
Thanksgiving arrived. Steve and Morgan flew to Iowa to spend a few days with Nat, Yelena, Laura, and the kids. Nat had been living there almost full-time since Laura and the kids had come back from the Blip.
"My god, it's just pitiful," Yelena said with disgust, looking around the dining room table: most everyone had started to cry about halfway through the meal, when the conspicuous absences had finally brought all attempts at pleasant conversation to a screeching halt.
"What do you want?" Nat sniffled. "It's the annual meeting of the Widows and Orphans Club."
"Would that be black widows and orphans?" Steve said, attempting to lighten the mood as he wiped his eyes with a napkin.
Nat punched him in the shoulder, but Laura started to laugh, and pretty soon they all were, widows and orphans alike. After the kids were asleep, a bottle of vodka appeared, and the hilarity continued late into the night, and come seven A.M., Steve was the only grown-up without a hangover. He made pancakes with chocolate chips and served Tylenol with the coffee.
Tony kept breathing.
Steve helped Morgan write a letter to Santa Claus. She asked for a stuffed owl and Tony. Calmly, Steve explained that wishes requiring a miracle were outside of Santa's purview.
"Oh," Morgan said, crestfallen.
"You can ask God," Steve said hesitantly, knowing he was crossing some kind of line. It was one he'd drawn himself, but it still made him uncomfortable. He was stepping dangerously far into parental territory and knew Tony would not approve.
"How do you ask God? A letter?"
"You say a prayer. You tell God what you're thankful for and ask him for help."
"Do you ask God for help?"
"All the time."
"Will you ask him to help Daddy?"
"I ask every day."
"But Daddy's still sick."
"That's true."
"Then it doesn't work," she said dismissively, cutting through any faith-based bullshit to the empirical evidence beneath. "I'm going to ask Santa."
Sometimes, Steve reflected, watching her decorate the envelope with crayons, he wasn't sure any of Pepper had made it in that child at all.
Tony kept breathing.
Morgan was playing with the kittens. She had a basket of crinkly balls and she was tossing them across the rug, cackling as the kittens dashed after them.
Steve stood in the kitchen with his phone, watching her. Bruce picked up on the first ring.
"Hey, Cap."
"The hospital just called. They're asking me about the feeding tube, now. Specifically, Dr. Gunn said, 'So, nutritional support. How are we feeling about it?' Those were his exact words," Steve scoffed.
"Sounds like a waiter asking about appetizers."
"I know."
Monty catapulted off the coffee table onto an unsuspecting crinkle ball. It never stood a chance.
"So…what did you say?"
"I told him I wanted the wings."
"Sure. Mt. Sinai does great wings."
"I told him I—that I wanted to stop."
Immediately, Steve's eyes filled with tears. He turned around to face the refrigerator and put a hand over his face. He hated open-concept floor plans, he decided. You couldn't drop dinner without everyone knowing about it. You couldn't cry in the privacy of the kitchen while the kid played in another room.
"That's a fair decision," Bruce said gently.
"But I want to wait until after Christmas. Tony was always so strange around Christmas, what with his parents, and I don't want Morgan to—"
Steve cut off himself with a shaky gasp, eyes watering, trying not to lose it completely here in the kitchen. Morgan hadn't cried once all week; she didn't need to see him doing it now. He ripped open the refrigerator and stuck his face into its cool interior.
"I understand," Bruce said. "I'm sorry, Steve. Sorry it's you making the call."
"I can't believe I'm going to let him starve to death. After Titan."
"You can't think of it like that. It's death with dignity. He'll be drugged. He won't suffer."
"Death with dignity," Steve snorted. "It's bullshit, Bruce. There's nothing dignified about it." The idea of Tony Stark, the brightest spark Steve had ever seen in the world, fading out silently, doped to the gills, didn't seem dignified to him. It seemed like an abomination. An echo came to him from across the years of Father Callum in his dusty, book-smelling office: When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. That was true, Steve supposed. When Tony died, the eulogies would pour in from everywhere. It would be the front page of every paper. But until then? Until then, Tony Stark was dying, mostly alone, in a narrow hospital bed, just like Sarah Rogers. Beggar or prince, it made no difference.
"How long will he last after?" Steve asked.
"A week. A week and a half, something like that. It can be longer, but he's so weak now—" Bruce stopped, his own voice trembling. "I miss him so much already. I just—I'm in my car, y'know? And I've got twenty minutes in traffic, and I want to call somebody, just to talk, just for company, and now I've got nobody to call."
Steve squeezed his eyes shut tight, but a tear snuck out anyway, trickling hot down the side of his nose. From the den, he could still hear Morgan laughing, along with the intermittent thumps of kittens hitting the floor.
"Come for Christmas, Bruce," Steve said. "Come to Iowa. Nat said she's been after you about it."
"After me?" Bruce laughed sadly. "Is that what she said? I can't. Nat and I—I mean, she doesn't want me around."
"That's not what she said."
"She was so mad at me after the Smart Hulk thing. She…"
"But you can change back now. You worked that out."
"I ignored her for eighteen months. Eighteen months when she needed me. I was crazy—"
"We were all crazy, then, Bruce. We're all crazy now. Promise me you'll call her."
"I'll think about it."
"Don't think about it. Just do it. That's an order."
Tony kept breathing.
Steve went to midnight mass, and Morgan insisted she go, too. Knowing she wouldn't sleep without him, he put a coat over her pajamas and took the Bartons' pickup to the little Catholic church in town. It was crowded and overwarm with all the candles burning, and Morgan didn't make it ten minutes before she passed out on the pew, head pillowed on Steve's balled-up coat.
When Communion came, Steve was torn. On the one hand, he needed that little cardboard tasting wafer more than he'd ever needed it in his life. On the other, what if Morgan woke up by herself while he was in the line? So he sat, watching forlornly as the other parishioners made their way to the altar.
"Would you like to go?" asked an old woman, leaning over the back of her pew. She wore a sweater and a brooch in the shape of a poinsettia. "I could watch her for you."
"Thank you, but…" he glanced at the altar longingly, "she'd be upset if she woke up and I was gone. She likes to know where I am."
"Do you need the Eucharist tonight?" she asked frankly.
"I…yes." He did need it, needed the feeling of closeness to God. He wanted it on his tongue when he asked once more, on his knees, for a miracle.
"Then go. Won't take you five minutes. She'll be alright."
Turned out, it was five minutes too long.
Steve was third back from the altar when a piercing shriek erupted from his pew.
"Steve!?"
He winced guiltily: it never failed. He'd get up for thirty seconds to piss at 1:30 in the morning, and that's when Morgan would wake up looking for him.
"Morgan," he hollered, blushing furiously, his voice booming through the church as he brought the whole mass to a screeching halt. Everyone watched as Morgan pelted up the aisle, pushing past the line to jump into his arms.
"I didn't know where you were, Steve," she said tearfully.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
He kissed her forehead and held her tight as he started to get back out of line, intending to find their abandoned coats and slink out as quickly as possible, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"'Suffer unto me the little children,'" said the priest, a round man with a white beard and an Irish lilt that reminded Steve of Father Callum. He was smiling warmly.
"I'm sorry, Father," Steve said.
"Oh, nonsense. It's grand. Now bring the babe, and come take Communion."
Steve knelt down with Morgan in his arms, and she watched him, wide-eyed as he opened his mouth and the priest put the wafer on his tongue, held the cup of wine to his lips. God, Steve prayed, please save him. Save my friend if he can be saved.
The father made the sign of the cross over both of them as they rose.
"Steve," Morgan said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, "I want a cracker, too."
She fell asleep again in the car on the way home, and Steve peeled her limp body out of the car seat. He toed out of his shoes on the porch and crept into the sleeping house on sock feet. When he opened the door to the guest room, he was surprised to find Yelena in Bruce's bed, scrolling through her phone.
"How was mass?" she asked.
"Memorable." Bruce eased Morgan down onto the other bed and slipped off her little shoes. "I'll tell you about it in the morning. Where's Bruce?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No."
Suddenly, there came a rhythmic squeaking from the floor above accompanied by muffled laughter. Yelena directed her gaze towards the ceiling.
"How about now?" she asked.
"Is that…?"
"Da," she said, rolling her eyes.
"How'd that happen?" Steve breathed, amazed. "They were barely speaking to each other."
"Behold. The healing powers of vodka."
In the morning, while Steve was making pancakes, he saw Bruce and Nat out the kitchen window. Bruce was throwing up in the snow, and Nat was patting his back, grinning. It was the happiest he'd ever seen her in years. The kids opened presents after breakfast: new bicycles for the Bartons, and a stuffed owl for Morgan. Later, Steve found Morgan sitting in the bay window, owl in lap, staring out at the falling snow.
"What are you doing, Morgan?" Steve asked. "Lila is putting on a movie."
"I'm waiting for Daddy. I asked Santa."
"Oh, sweetheart," Steve said, easing onto the window seat beside her. "I tried to tell you—"
The phone buzzed in his pocket: Peter Parker, calling to wish them 'Merry Christmas.' He switched it off and resolved to call back later. The phone buzzed again before he could even get it back in his pocket.
It was a text message this time: CALL ME NOW! At Mt. Sinai! Mr. Stark awake!