Orphans: Part 1

December 16, 1991. 9:06 PM. Stark Mansion. Upstate New York.

Tony slurped his cocktail and stuck a hand in his shorts. The cocktail was excellent: scotch, Campari, and champagne, a blend dubbed 'Paris Between the Wars.' He'd picked the recipe at random from the book on Howard's bar, and he was already on round three. The porn was less-than-excellent, some convoluted Chinese shit involving a monk with a transplanted horse cock. The VHS tape Tony had was a copy of a copy, and said horse cock was not quite as crisp on screen as Tony would have liked. Still, it was passable entertainment for nine o'clock on a Thursday, at least while he was stuck upstate. He was just getting good and hard when he heard the doorbell ring. He ignored it, turning the volume up on the television. It rang again and then just kept on ringing.

"Alright! Alright, already! Jesus Christ! I'm coming!" Tony shouted, pulling his bathrobe closed over his underwear. Jarvis had gone to England for Christmas, and his parents had gone to DC, leaving him the sole occupant of the mansion, and the only warm body available to open the door. He bumbled down the hall, still slurping at his drink. Some of it slopped on the floor as he flipped on the chandelier in the entryway. "Whoops," he said to himself, mopping up the spill with the toe of his sock.

"Stark Residence," he said, whipping open the door, "the lady of the house speaking…" Tony trailed off. Policemen, two of them, complete with squad car. "What did I do?" he wondered aloud. He had drugs in his room back in Boston, but cops didn't cross state lines for pot and a few bumps of coke, unless this was some kind of set up, somebody looking to embarrass Howard—

"Anthony Stark?"

Was there anything here in his bag? No, right? Tony didn't like to fly with shit like that.

"Yeah?" he said, trying to head them off at the pass. "Listen, I'm not saying anything without my lawyer, so—"

"Mr. Stark, can we come in? You might want to sit down given your…condition." The officer was young, maybe twenty-five, not too much older than Tony. He was frowning deeply, looking Tony up and down, taking in the bathrobe, the drink, Tony's shower-damp hair.

"My condition? What? Am I expecting? Does it show?" Tony slurped his drink again, studying them. So they wanted in the house; this was some kind of fishing expedition, for sure. Well, they could pack up the fly rods and get fucked.

"Please, Mr. Stark–"

"Mr. Stark is my father. I'm the lady of the house. And the lady says you're not coming in."

The second officer stepped forward, a middle-aged guy, hard body, hard eyes, wearing a look of withering contempt. "There's been an accident, dipshit."

"Dipshit?" Tony laughed.

"Your parents' car went off the road. They hit a tree," he continued, voice icy cold.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark," the young guy said. "Your father wasn't wearing a seatbelt. His head impacted the airbag and steering wheel. And your mother's seatbelt was across her neck. Her windpipe—"

Tony didn't hear more after that. There was a buzzing sound in his ears, like a small motor was slightly loose in its casing.

"And here you are, drunk as a lord on a fucking Thursday. Was your old man on the sauce, too? Is that why he wrapped the car around a tree?"

"Clements, stop. Give him a break. Look," the young guy stepped forward, put a hand on Tony's shoulder, "is there someone else here we could talk to? A…a maid or—?"

"No," Tony said weakly. "No, I'm here by myself. It's the holidays." He started to slide down the door frame, coming to rest on the parquet.

"Mr. Stark?" The young officer bent over him. "Mr. Stark, let's call somebody. You got a phone in the hall here? Who can we call? You have other family close by?"

"No," he croaked.

"A friend? Anyone in the area who can come be with you?"

"No." Wait. There was shit in his bag. He had that molly; he'd been keeping it for New Year's in the city— "Get out," Tony said weakly, pushing himself off the floor.

"But Mr. Stark, you really shouldn't be alone. Let's call somebody—"

"Out." He wanted them gone. If his father found out he had drugs in the house, or worse, his mother—no, wait. His parents were…

"Come one, Jones. We did the deed." The guy called Clement nodded at the car. "The young squire would clearly like to drink himself to death in peace."

Jones went reluctantly, looking over his shoulder until Tony closed the door. From the living room, Tony could hear lusty moaning, punctuated by the occasional ecstatic scream. He sipped his drink, staring unseeing at the nearest wall. On top of the peaty scotch and the champagne bubbles, there was a new flavor, a discordant bite of salt. Tears.

⁂

April 9, 1930. 6:10 PM. Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. Hell's Kitchen.

"Steven Rogers!"

Steve's head jerked up from his plate.

"Rogers!" Sister Martha called again, sounding irritable. Steve knew it wouldn't go well for him if she had to call him a third time. He stood up from the bench and made his way between the long tables towards the back of the dining hall. Steve didn't like Sister Martha; she wasn't patient, not even with the little ones, and he'd seen her bloody more tiny palms with her switch than he cared to count.

"Yes, Sister?" he said, head down. He found it was best not to look at her too much, not if he could help it. He had a 'defiant' look that got him in trouble, and he tried to keep his eyes on the ground as much as possible. You couldn't hit a nun, no matter how much they might deserve it, and so Steve tried to save his defiant look for times and places he could hit back, schoolyards and alleys and subway trains.

"Father Callum wants to see you," she said, jerking her head towards the door.

"Yes, Sister."

Steve made his way to Father Callum's office, groaning internally. The nuns could be hateful, but they did keep everyone clothed and fed. Father Callum, on the other hand, was terribly kind and perfectly useless. The father always meant well, but Steve was missing dinner, and once plates were cleared, there'd be nothing else 'til breakfast.

"Father?" Steve called through the closed door.

"Come in, Steven. Come in."

The priest's office was small and dreadfully untidy with books piled here and there in precarious stacks. Not just religious stuff either; Steve had seen mystery novels in the piles, plays, big illustrated folios about art and science.

"Just, err—let me—" Father Callum came around from behind his desk, clearing a stack of books from a dusty armchair. "Have a seat." Like his office, Father Callum was also small and untidy, with smudged glasses and a rumpled cassock.

Steve sat. "Father, it's dinner. Can it wait?" You could say that sort of thing to Father Callum. But Father Callum shook his head.

"I'm afraid I've been on the phone with the hospital. It's your mother."

Steve looked down at his hands and nodded; it wasn't a surprise. She'd been bad the last time he'd seen her, coughing up so much blood she could barely speak. It was a relief almost. He hadn't wanted to see her worse, and he'd known for at least a year that he would never see her better.

"Oh, Steven, I am sorry."

"It's alright, Father. She's been sick a long time," Steve murmured. He could feel something in his chest, something trying to get out, a sob or a wail, but he wouldn't let it. He couldn't cry in here. It would have to wait until lights out. Crying children annoyed the sisters and made you a target for the other boys, and Steve knew if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop.

"Still, she was your mother, and…" The priest squinted at Steve through his dirty glasses; he started to put a hand out for Steve's shoulder, but he let it drop again before it got there. Steve could see he would be as ineffectual at providing comfort as he was at everything else. "Shall we pray?" he said instead. "Perhaps–"

"Do it for me, Father," Steve said, standing up. "I've got to go back to dinner."

"But, Steven–"

"Please, Father," Steve said, a desperate tremble creeping into his voice. "I can't." He wasn't sure just what it was he couldn't do, pray or cry or feel sad or what, he just knew he couldn't.

"I understand," Father Callum said gently. "It's quite alright. Why don't you go back to the dining hall?"

Steve nodded once and walked out. Behind him, he heard the father mutter, "When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes." It sounded distinctly unbiblical. God was supposed to cherish every fallen sparrow, at least as far as Steve had been told, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed it.

Steve made his slow way back to a cold supper. The others looked at him curiously as he resumed his place, but Steve just shrugged and said, "Father Callum." They nodded. Father Callum was peculiar; he got the notion to talk sometimes for no reason anyone could discern.

Steve resumed eating. A single tear slipped down his nose, making his spoonful of beans taste salty. Considering they usually tasted like nothing, it was an improvement.

Steve peeled off his helmet in front of the bathroom mirror. It left him with two perfect circles of grime around his Raccoon,he thought, and it would've been funny if anything left in the world were still funny. He soaped his hands, washed his face in the sink. He needed a shower, needed to eat and sleep and—

His phone buzzed. He didn't want to look at it. It would be a job, he was sure, something urgent. You didn't double the world's population in a blink and expect things to be peaceful. There were people displaced, children and invalids and old people, criminals and madmen, who had just reappeared in their last location. They'd won the day, and still, the world was chaos.

They'd won, Steve reminded himself. It didn't feel like it.

Steve was too tired to answer the call, but he took the phone off his belt anyway, if only to see what he would be ignoring: it was a text message.

A text message from Tony Stark.

Steve dropped the phone. It clattered to the floor, and he dove after it. This was some kind of mistake, or a joke, though certainly not a funny one. When he'd retrieved the phone from the bathroom floor, he hit the notification with his thumb, and the message appeared. There were no words, just a little picture of Tony's face with a white arrow hovering over it: a video. He pressed play, trying to swallow past the hard lump in his throat.

Tony was sitting at a table in his shop. Autumn sunlight was pouring in from an open garage door; a crow called. He took a sip of coffee from a chipped Stark Industries mug then gave Steve a waggle of his fingers. He was smiling, but his expression was strained, and there were bags under his eyes. Tony, Steve thought with a pang, you look exhausted.

"Hey, Cap. You should probably have a seat for this one." He took another sip of coffee. "You're going to want to kill me. But, sadly for you, if you're watching this, things have gone wrong for my little family. Pepper and I are dead already. Vegetables. Whatever. You'll have to hash out your feelings of impotent rage vis à vis me with your support group. Anyway, let me cut to the chase here: I've named you Morgan's legal guardian. I'll give you a second to pick your jaw up off the floor."

Steve sank slowly to the bathroom tiles; Tony was right. He did need to sit down for this one.

"You over it? Good. Look, I should've asked you; Pepper thinks I did. And you know, I thought about it, but if I'd asked you, you might have said 'no,' and I couldn't let you say 'no,' Cap. I just couldn't. Pep and I don't have a deep bench, okay? Our folks are dead, and when you've got no family, your options are limited. But you know that. And that is yet another reason I picked you."

Steve put a hand over his mouth, holding something inside. He didn't immediately know what.

"Listen, I considered Bruce, and I considered Rhodey. And if you say 'no,' they are choices two and three respectively, but you're the number one draft pick, and I'll tell you why: you want her. Maybe not right this second; right this second, you're probably cursing my name, but hear me out: I saw you looking at those family photos on Peggy's desk, and you looked hungry. Seriously, you looked like a starving man checking out a picture menu at the Denny's. And I know you wouldn't choose to have a family like this; nobody would, but—"

Tony's voice wobbled for just a second, then he took a breath, took a swipe at his eyes, and continued like nothing had happened.

"Morgan is great, Cap. She's so, so great. I mean, I know I'm not objective about it, but she's so smart, and so funny, and so weird. You're going to love her. I'd tell ya to take good care of her, but hey, I don't have to. Because you're you. Anyway, if you want to immediately dethrone me as king of her heart, get her a kitten. Pepper and I have been saying 'no' for a while, so you should probably say 'yes.' Now pull yourself together. The lawyer will call you in a few minutes."

Steve watched him reach towards the camera. Apparently, there would be no 'good-bye,' no 'please do this for me.' Still, his finger hesitated before turning it off.

"You'll be a good father, Steve," he said. The smile fell from his face. "You'll be better than me, probably, and I'll be honest, I hate you for that. Or maybe I love you for it. Either way, you're the guy. Morgan deserves you. You deserve her. Stark out—no, wait. That was terrible. Forget I said that part."

The screen went black.

Steve looked at it for a long, long time, so long the phone was still in his hand when it rang.

"Captain Rogers?" said a crisp female voice.

"Speak—" He was hoarse; he cleared his throat. "Speaking. Sorry."

"My name is Cynthia Webster. I'm a lawyer representing the Stark conservatorship. You were expecting my call?" He could hear her anxiety, faint and kept at a professional distance, but still there. She didn't want to be the one to tell him. He didn't blame her.

"I was expecting it. Yes."

"I'd say 'good,' but the news isn't so good for you, is it?" The anxiety was gone, replaced by sympathy.

"No." He could feel something in his throat, that same hard lump he'd felt before, only bigger. It made it hard to speak.

"My condolences. Before I ask you what you plan to do, I've been instructed to outline the financials for you, your property rights and inheritances—"

"No. Thank you. Maybe another time." He didn't care about the money, didn't want to know about it. It was overwhelming enough without the trappings.

"I have also been instructed to ask if you have any questions."

"None."

It wasn't true. He had a million questions. A billion. But if he started asking them now, he'd never stop, and she wouldn't have the answers to the important ones anyway.

"Very well. Do you know what you intend to do regarding the conservatorship? You have twelve hours to consider before I contact Doctor Banner."

"Yes," Steve said, wishing his voice sounded stronger.

"I beg your pardon, Captain, 'yes,' you know what you intend to do or—?"

"Yes, I want her. Morgan."

Do I? he wondered. It didn't matter, of course. It never mattered what Steve wanted. Instead, there was duty.

"To clarify, you agree to an immediate temporary guardianship of Morgan Stark and Tony Stark until such a time as Tony Stark may be able to exercise his personal and parental rights?"

"I—what?" He'd missed something.

"I said, 'you agree to an immediate temporary guardianship of Morgan Stark and Tony Stark."

"I still don't understand."

"Mr. Stark is in a coma, Captain Rogers, unable to make personal or medical decisions. In the event of Virginia Stark's death, you have been designated—"

"I see."

He was being terse, but he wanted to get off the phone. He needed to think, 're yours, Pepper had whispered to him as she 're both yours. I'm giving them to you. She'd been gone less than a day and already she haunted him.

"I want them both." No, that sounded wrong. Who wanted guardianship over another man? No one, himself included. "That is, I will take responsibility for both of them."

"And should Mr. Stark prove unable to assume his rights, you agree to permanent guardianship?"

"Yes." The lump in Steve's throat sank, settling heavy in his chest.

"Again, I'd say 'good,' but…" she trailed off. "I'll send you the documents. You can e-sign."

"Thank you." He didn't know what he was thanking her for. The documents, maybe. It seemed strange to thank someone for giving him a child. For giving him a man in a coma. "Where is she?" he asked. "When do I get her?"

"Morgan is at Mr. Stark's eco-compound– though it's your property, too, Captain Rogers, at least for the time being. I assume you'll need a day or two to get your affairs settled in the city, and the babysitter has agreed to stay another forty-eight hours, though she did express to me that her sister has come back from the Blip and—

"That's alright. Tell her I'm on my way. I'll be there tonight."

"What's she been told?" Steve asked, standing on the porch with the babysitter. It was cold, and they both stood with crossed arms. Through the window, Steve could see cartoons on the big television, and the back of a little brown head pillowed on the arm of the sofa.

Olivia, the babysitter, was red-faced, her eyes swollen from crying. "I told her—" she sniffled, "I told her her parents weren't coming home. She asked me why, and I…I don't believe you should lie to kids. Not about the big stuff, y'know, so I…I said her mother was dead, and she wasn't coming back, and that her dad was sick and in the hospital, and she cried and cried and—" Olivia started to cry, too. "Oh my god, please tell me I did the right thing."

"You did the right thing. I appreciate it." And he did, grateful beyond expression that it hadn't been left to him to bring the news. His job was hard enough already.

"You can call me," she said, pulling herself together, "if you have any questions. Any time, day or night. Friday knows my number. I wish I could stay. I can come back, just give me a few days to get my sister settled. Someone is living in her apartment, and all her stuff is gone, and—"

"I understand," Steve assured her. "You have a lot of responsibilities right now."

The whole world was going mad; people's dead mothers and fathers, dead sons and daughters, dead husbands and wives, were all making reappearances. But people had gotten remarried. People had gotten divorced. They'd made new families from the rubble. They'd changed jobs and homes and religions and hairstyles. Everyone's lives were different than they'd been five years before, and everyone's lives were about to change again. All except Steve's. When no one else had time for a little, lost girl, Steve had all the time in the world. Was that why he'd been picked? Steve wondered. Knowing Tony, he'd probably thought about it. Every thought crossed Tony's mind eventually.

"There are clean sheets in the master," Olivia said, then thrust a ring of keys into his hand. "I'm so sorry."

Steve watched her drive away until her taillights disappeared in the night. He was on his own now without hope of reinforcements. When he opened the door, Morgan had wandered away from her cartoons. She stood in the middle of the wood floor in her pajamas, watching him closely, the smallest, most serious little thing Steve had ever seen. He squatted down, knee to the ground.

"Hi. I'm Steve."

"Hi." She cocked her head appraisingly, a gesture so like Tony's it made Steve's heart miss a beat. And just like Tony, she didn't look particularly impressed with him. "I've seen you."

"That's right. I'm your dad's friend. I'm here to take care of you."

She took that in for a minute, sniffling. The babysitter had said she had a cold, and Steve could see the green ooze under her nose, collecting sticky on her upper lip. He pulled out a clean handkerchief and reached for her slowly. "Would you like to wipe your nose?"

Morgan leaned forward without hesitation and put her tiny face right into his hand. He wiped gently.

"My nose is runny," she explained. "I'm sick. And I cried."

"I see that. That's too bad. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

Her eyes narrowed, like she sensed an opportunity. It was Tony all over.

"Can I have a juice pop?"

"What's that?"

"They're in the freezer."

"Then let's check the freezer."

Juice pops, as it happened, were homemade popsicles. They ate them on the sofa watching a cartoon with talking trucks. Occasionally, the trucks sang about physics concepts, which seemed about right for a cartoon in the Stark household. Steve watched Morgan from the corner of his eye: she had Tony's sloping nose, but in miniature. Intermittently, Steve would reach over with his handkerchief, and she'd let him wipe it. When she finished her treat, she held over her drippy plastic stick.

"I'm done," she announced. "Sticks go in the kitchen, not in the cushions." There was a well-worn quality to the phrase; someone had said it to her many times, Tony or Pepper or both, and it made Steve's heart ache.

"That's a good rule," he said, and walked the sticks into the kitchen, rinsed them in the sink. He was a little surprised when she followed him. For the moment, it seemed, he was more interesting than singing trucks.

"Stickers only go on paper," she said, apropos of nothing. "Or on clothes, but only at the doctor."

"Is that right?"

"Yes. Did they give Daddy a sticker?"

"Who?"

"Daddy's doctor. He's sick. Olivia said he's at the hospital with lots of doctors."

"Miss Olivia is right."

"Did he get a sticker? If you're brave, you get a sticker."

"Well, your daddy's very brave, so I bet he gets lots of stickers."

"Can I go see him?"

Steve felt his stomach tighten. "Not right now," he said gently. "It's too late."

"Tomorrow?" She asked hopefully.

"No." It crushed him when the little face fell. "He's too sick right now. We'll go when we can," he said, trying to save a little of her hope, though he regretted it immediately; he shouldn't have said they'd go at all. He'd just have to pray to God it didn't wind up a lie.

"When?" Morgan pressed.

"I don't know. We'll have to wait and see." Her face continued crumpling up.

"I forgot your name," she said, and he could hear the tears behind it.

"It's Steve," he offered, crouching on the floor again.

"Steve. Mommy's dead. She isn't coming back from work."

"That's right. She's not," he said, calm as he could, though they were the worst words he'd ever had to say.

"I want Mommy," she cried as the tears started rolling, tears entirely too big for her little cheeks. He opened his arms, and she rushed into them, her face hot and wet against his shoulder. "Mommy! Daddy!" she wailed. But she was stuck with Steve, the only available port in her storm. He wrapped her up in his arms, rocking her, rocking them both, slowly back and forth, trying to be a safe harbor.

"I know," he murmured. "I know. Shh. It's alright. We're going to be alright, sweetheart."

The pet name came from nowhere, but it came easy, slipping out without a thought. His mother had always called him 'sweetheart," though he hadn't thought of that in a long time.

She cried until Steve's legs started to go stiff, but he knew he'd never move, not until she did. He patted her back, stroked her hair, all things he could recall wanting when his own mother had died, only he'd been too old then for anyone to offer them, too tough to accept them if they had. Hell, he wanted someone to offer them now, though the warmth of the child in his arms was its own kind of comfort. How long had it been since he'd held somebody like this? Probably best not to think too hard about it; it was bound to be depressing.

When she was finished, she wiped her nose on his shoulder, a great, big, unapologetic swipe, leaving a dark streak right across the fabric.

"You have boogers on your sweater," she observed, still sniffling.

"That's okay. It'll wash."

"Will you read me the parade book?" Morgan asked him, pulling away.

"Sure," Steve agreed, "so long as we can find it."

"Will you read me the parade book and the book about Stanley?"

"I love to read. I'll read you as many as you want."

He would, too. He'd read all night if she wanted, and all day, too. All week. All month. All year. He'd read picture books 'til the end of forever if it would make this tiny, motherless, Tony-nosed creature happy.

"Daddy says only two."

"Well, I think for tonight we'll make an exception."

She cocked her head again and gave him the appraising look.

"Do I still have to brush my teeth?"

Just like Tony, Steve working the angle. Then he laughed, unexpectedly, just a little.

"Yes," he said. "You still have to brush your teeth."

Morgan's room was messy. They sorted through a spill of picture books to find the one about the parade, and the one about Stanley, adding a few more along the way, then Steve waded through a whole zoo's worth of stuffed animals to get to the chair by the bed. That was alright; they'd pick it up tomorrow. It would give them something to do.

Morgan fell asleep in her tiny bed sometime during Harold and the Purple Crayon. The glider creaked when Steve stood up, and he froze, watching her, but she didn't stir. He switched off the lamp and tiptoed out.

He was past tired, though it was only 9:00, and he stood in the hallway, deliberating. He'd left his bag in the guest room downstairs, but it was awfully far away from Morgan. If she woke up sad or afraid or sick, he wanted to hear her, which meant he had to sleep in the master whether he wanted to or not.

He truly, truly did not. Still, he was going to do it anyway.

Unlike Morgan's room, this one was very neat, left tidy by Olivia, and he was glad she was the last to have slept in the bed, not Pepper and Tony. That made it a little easier at least. He didn't want to be the first to sleep in the marriage bed that they would never share again.

Setting his bag on top of a dresser, he dug out some pajama pants and a t-shirt, then brushed his teeth. Pepper's make-up was in a tray on the bathroom counter. Tony's bottle of aftershave stood next to the sink. Steve spit, then picked up the bottle and uncapped it. Somehow, he was surprised that it smelled like Tony…or maybe he was surprised that he knew what Tony smelled like. He put the cap back on.

For a long time, he stood looking at the made bed, trying to decide which side he wanted. The distinction was clear: one bedside table sported a tablet, a box of tissues, and three pairs of glasses, the other had a small stack of novels and a tube of hand cream. He chose Tony's side, in the end. Tony wasn't dead, at least not yet, not that it mattered; climbing in the bed still felt like laying down on someone's grave.

There were plenty of pillows, and Steve pulled one to his chest just to give himself something to hold on to. He had spent a lot of time thinking about Tony's bed over the years and what he'd like to do if he got there. Holding a pillow had never been on the itinerary. He started to cry; it was nothing dramatic, just a quiet trickle down his face onto the pillow that would be his only bedmate. He didn't try to stop it; he was too tired for that.

His memory drifted to the night Tony came back from Titan, right before it had all gone to shit again. Tony was a skeleton coming down that gangway, stumbling to the grass and into Steve's arms. Steve wanted to pick him up and carry him then, but he knew it would make Tony feel weak, which was the one thing Tony couldn't stand. So he let Tony throw a bone and a bit of sinew around his neck, and they staggered to medical.

The fight later was terrible, all the worse because Tony didn't have the strength for it. Every angry word came at a price, but he hated Steve so much, he was willing to pay it.

"I've got nothing for ya, Cap," Tony spit. "No coordinates, no clues, no strategies, no options. Zero, zip, nada. No trust. Here." Tony ripped the arc reactor off his chest, thrusting it into Steve's hand. It felt like he'd been given Tony's beating heart. "You take this," he said bitterly. "You find him, you put this on, and you hide."

He started to fall, and Steve tried to put his arms out to catch him, but he couldn't. He couldn't. Because he was holding Tony's beating heart in his hand; he was holding his own beating heart in his hand, raw and red and bloody.

Then Tony fell to his knees, him, Steve shouted in his mind, but he didn't move.

"I'm fine!" Tony exclaimed.

He collapsed on the floor at Steve's feet.

Steve shoved the reactor into Rhodey's palm too late. Because it was always, always, always too late when it came to Tony. When Steve picked Tony up, he weighed nothing; he was air and twigs and bird-bones in Steve's arms.

Steve visited often during Tony's long convalescence, but his presence in daylight hours made Tony agitated and snappish. So he started creeping into Tony's hospital room late at night, just to sit in the chair, hoping Tony might wake up wanting something Steve could get for him—water or a hand to the bathroom or the television remote—but Tony never did. He slept on and on, and Steve did all the wanting himself. It was pitiful. Tony was married now for God's sake, and it was well past time for Steve to put away his pining, and he tried to, God knows he tried, but some nights, he did it anyway. He stared at Tony's haggard face, and he wanted.

At some point, he started bringing a sketchbook, drawing Tony's thin cheeks and bony hands in the dim hospital light. What did it mean when the strong, handsome man you'd lusted after for years wasn't so strong and handsome anymore, and you wanted him worse than ever? It was love at that point, wasn't it? Unrequited love, pure and tragic. He'd wasted as much time hopelessly wanting Tony as he had hopelessly wanting Peggy.

He was such a fool. He was wasting his life.

He told himself that every line was the last. The drawings were invasive. Tony wouldn't appreciate them, and he knew it, but he kept doing it anyway, right up until he got caught.

He'd been absorbed by a hand–Tony's hands were changing every day, the fingers ever so slowly becoming fingers again instead of skin over bone–and he hadn't heard her come in.

"What are you doing?"

He was so startled by the question, he dropped his sketchbook on the floor, and before he could stop her, Pepper picked it up. She was silent as she flipped through the pages.

He couldn't look at her when she handed it back.

"The nurses told me you come and sit most nights," she said quietly.

Steve said nothing.

"Oh, Steve," she sighed, "you poor thing."

Steve could not accept the pity of this woman, not when he deserved her scorn. He stood abruptly and stuck out the sketchbook. When she took it, he walked from the room. He didn't go back.

It was past two when Steve felt a prickle down his spine. He opened his eyes: Morgan was standing beside the bed, staring at him in the dark.

"My nose is runny," she said stuffily.

"Okay." Steve reached for Tony's box of tissues and wiped her nose. "You want me to tuck you back in?"

"Yes."

But when he threw back the covers to get up, she climbed in instead, curling towards his chest in a little round ball.

"I meant in your bed."

She sniffled, looking up at him uncomprehendingly. For a moment, Steve didn't know what to do. He couldn't let her sleep here, could he? This was another man's child, and–They're yours, Pepper of them. He remembered when his mother had died, how he'd cried alone in a narrow camp bed at Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. He'd saved the tears up for the night, afraid for the other boys to see or hear them, and he'd have given his immortal soul for a warm body beside him.

"Nevermind," he said quietly, easing back down to the mattress. He pulled up the covers, and Morgan snuggled up against him, face pressed right into his chest.

"I forgot your name again," she said sleepily. It didn't seem to worry her overmuch.

"It's Steve."

She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Goodnight, Steve."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

Her body was warm against him, and she smelled sweet and clean, like lavender and fresh laundry. Tentatively, he let his arm settle over her.

They both slept well after that.