Orphans: Part 3
The water stretched away to infinity under an orange sky. It wasn't hot or cold, and it was only half an inch deep, at least where Tony was standing. He sensed it was deeper further out, though he wasn't sure which direction 'further out' might be.
There was a breeze, again neither hot nor cold, just a sensation of moving air. Lacking other ideas, he walked with the flow of the air currents, feeling them ruffling the hair on the back of his head.
In the distance, he could see a figure, tall and slim, a person, or a post, or a standing stone. It was impossible to tell at the current distance, but he was heading in that direction anyway, so he chose the upright landmark as his destination. Sometimes, he'd break into a jog. He found he could keep it up a long time, longer than he should have been able to; he just didn't get tired. He didn't get thirsty either, which was fortunate, because the water, when he'd tasted it, was salty. Occasionally, his splashing disturbed a school of fish, tiny minnows with silvery skin that reflected the orange light. Occasionally, he'd stop and try to catch one, just for shits and giggles, but they darted away from his fingers, too quick to touch. It made him uneasy—speed, schooling behavior—there were predators here somewhere.
Now and then, he shielded his eyes, trying to gauge his distance to the figure, but it seemed no closer to him. He walked on, or jogged, or sprinted. Sometimes, he walked backward, just for the sake of variety. It was deeply boring on the all-but-featureless plain. But somehow, Tony knew boring was what he needed. There was something wrong in his mind, a rending in the fabric of his cortices that was slowly knitting itself back together.
So he walked. He thought the figure was getting closer, then, gradually, he knew that it was.
The going got tougher, then. The water got deeper, up to his knees, and the sand under his feet was loose. He tired easily now, and he had to stop and sit in the still, temperature-less water while he recovered, but he liked the struggle. It made him feel stronger, and he was going to need strength when he got where he was going. Eventually, the water became shallow again, the sand compacted, and the going was easy.
Too easy. It gave him the feeling he was about to have his ass handed to him in a brown paper bag. I should turn around, he thought, and head back for that deep water. But he marched on, wind at his back, until one day, he arrived.
Pepper crossed her arms at his approach. She was lithe and lovely, sexy in a pair of cut-off shorts and one of his white shirts, hair flowing loose down her back.
"You are woefully late," she said, immediately undercutting her relaxed, beachy vibe.
"My watch stopped."
"I think it has more to do with the fact that you spent so much time walking backwards."
"What'd you want me to do? Walk forward the whole time like a normal human being?"
"That was the expectation, yes."
He was close enough to touch her, and he wanted to, maybe more than he'd ever wanted anything, but when he lifted his hand, it wouldn't make the connection with her skin. There was a barrier between them, thin but impermeable.
"Hey, Pep, why can't I touch you?" he asked, though he already half-knew the answer.
"Because I'm dead, Tony," she said calmly, "and you're not."
"Am I going to be?" That wouldn't surprise him either. If he wasn't dead, he was certainly close.
"Some day, I suppose. Not today."
They sat beside each other instead, close as they could get, looking out over the infinite stretch of water and light.
"What is this place, anyway?" Tony asked. "Some kind of purgatory?"
"They call it a waystation."
"A waystation," he repeated. "So we have to leave, is what you're saying."
"Why? Did you plan to stick around and keep walking backwards? Maybe try to catch some more fish? Seriously," she said, amused but exasperated, "do you know how long I've been waiting for you?"
"No, actually. How long?"
"Months, Tony. You missed my funeral." The wind was picking up, lifting her long, blonde hair. He wanted so badly to touch it, run its slick length between his fingers.
"Months?" That couldn't be right. It wasn't possible she'd been dead that long, that he had continued to live without her all that time, that Morgan—
"Morgan," he said with a sudden stab of guilt and sorrow. "Oh my god. I forgot. She's—"
"She's fine," Pepper said soothingly. "She's with Steve."
"Cap said yes?" Tony said, his anxiety easing. "I knew he would."
"You knew he would?" Pepper turned to look at him, eyebrow raised.
"Oh, come on. Give me a break. You're wise and all-seeing. I never asked him. You already know I lied to you."
"I just wanted to hear you admit it."
"Guilty. I'm an asshole and an unfit parent and whatnot, but it was the only way I knew for sure I could lock him down. He's good with her, right?"
"He's great."
"Did he get her a kitten?"
"Two kittens," Pepper said, smiling.
"Two? Well, it's his litterbox."
"Your litterbox, Tony, starting today. You're waking up."
Waking up. Morgan. He couldn't wait to see her; he felt his heart might break with happiness at the possibility. Now that he thought of it, he remembered hearing her little voice, miles and miles back, like distant music carried on the wind. But at the same time…
"I don't want to leave you," he said to Pepper, feeling his heart breaking in an entirely different direction.
"I know, but you have to. Morgan needs you. Steve needs you."
"Steve?" Tony laughed. "Steve Rogers? Rogers never needed me for anything but a punching bag. I irritate the ever-loving shit out of him."
"Yes," she said dryly, "but you also irritate the shit out of me. He loves you, Tony."
"Okay, sure, whatever," he snorted. "When did 'tolerate' and 'love' become synonyms? I must have missed that update to Merriam-Webster."
"I mean it," she said urgently. "You know he does."
"Ah, no, I don't," he scoffed. "I know he used to check me out in the locker room and give me the puppy dog eyes before we had a massive falling out and stopped speaking for a couple years. You're not saying he's still carrying a torch? Also, I can't believe the last conversation I'm going to have with my dead wife is, like, seventy percent Steve Rogers—"
"Well, it's the conversation we need to have. I'm hoping some of it will stick." She stood up, looking at the sky. It was starting to change color, the orange deepening towards purple. "I have to go soon. So do you, if you want our daughter to keep believing in Santa Claus. She wants Tony Stark for Christmas. And, whether you want to hear it or not, it's what Steve Rogers wants, too."
"Yeah? Did he write a letter to Santa?" Tony stood up after her, walking beside her in the shallow water.
"He asked God on his knees at midnight mass."
"That is the Cap equivalent of a Santa letter. You're rooting for him, aren't you?" he asked, slightly incredulous.
"Of course. He's my natural successor."
"What? Hot, blond, and bossy?"
"I was going to say calm, patient, and practical, but," she gave a little shrug, "he is hot, blond, and bossy, which is undeniably your type. I've seen you looking."
"Come on. Not since we've been married."
She fixed him with a look.
"Okay, but not seriously looking. I love you, Pep. I always will."
"I know," she stopped, hands in her pockets, gazing out over the water. "But that's the wonderful thing about being alive, Tony. There's always someone new to love, and our capacity is infinite."
"Wow. Were you always this poetic, and I just didn't notice or—?"
"No. I think death just does that to people. It makes you introspective."
Together, they watched the stars come out, and the stars were infinite, too, shining above them bright and clear, shining all around them, reflected in the water. Something was starting to happen to Pepper; she was losing corporeality, and Tony could see the twinkle of starlight behind her, through her. The cosmos is within us, Tony thought. We are made of star-stuff. She was right; death did make you prone to poetry.
"Promise me you won't let yourself be lonely, Tony. Not for my sake."
"I won't. I mean, I'll mourn for a week or two, just to be polite, but then I'm totally getting railed by Captain America."
She laughed. Oh my god, he thought, get this down. Remember it. This was it, the last time he'd ever make her laugh. There were stars in her smile and in her eyes.
"Give Morgan my love," she said, her voice blending with the wind.
"Whatever I don't keep for myself," Tony promised. "I love you so much."
There were tears on his face when he woke up, and they tasted like a wide, shallow sea. Or maybe like a Paris Between the Wars.
"I came to see him, because it's Christmas and all, and I thought, well, since you and Morgan were in Iowa, he probably wouldn't have any other visitors, and coma or not, nobody should be alone on Christmas," Peter was talking fast, the words coming out in a steady stream, leaving no place for Steve to interrupt, "not that I'm trying to make you feel guilty or anything! You've got Morgan, and—
"Parker," Steve said sharply, "what happened? You said he's awake?"
"Yeah! Well, no. I mean, he was. I turned the TV on, y'know? Figured I'd just sit there for a while? And I was watching A Christmas Story, and then the part came on about the lamp, and I looked over, and he was staring at me. His eyes were just open."
"Did he say anything?" Steve tried not to get excited. He'd read about people waking from comas only to enter vegetative or minimally conscious states indefinitely.
"Yeah. Mr. Stark asked for you. I told him you were in Iowa with Morgan for Christmas. And then he kinda laughed and said something about not missing it, and the spirits doing it all in one night, and then he kinda fell asleep again."
Mr. Stark asked for you. Steve felt weak in the knees, and sat down abruptly on the porch steps, glad to be outside in the cold. "What's happening now?" Steve asked, trying to maintain his focus. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah, yeah! I got the nurse right away, and she got some more nurses and some doctors–there's, like, ten of them in there right now. Anyway, they sent me out in the hall, and that's when I called you. Are you coming?"
"Yes." And just like that, Steve was on his feet, ripping open the front door. They had to get home. He had to pack their clothes and drive to the airport. It was Christmas Day; no one else would be flying.
"Bruce!" he yelled. "Get in here!"
Bruce came running in from the living room; the rest of the household came on his heels.
"What's the matter?" Bruce asked, face grey. "Is it–?"
"Talk to the kid." Steve thrust the phone into Bruce's hand, already starting up the stairs to get Morgan's things. "He's at the hospital. Tony is awake."
"His eyes are open? Because that doesn't—"
"He made a wisecrack about Charles Dickens. I'm telling you: Tony is awake."
At first, Tony couldn't manage to stay conscious more than a minute at a time, but he made the most of it, eyes scanning the room, looking past whatever doctor or nurse was trying to get his attention (they didn't interest him) until he found the kid.
"Mr. Stark!" Peter exclaimed. "I'm here! Captain Rogers and Morgan are still at the airport, but they have tickets! They're waiting for their flight!"
And then Tony was out again.
Later: "Mr. Stark! There was a storm. They got stuck in Toledo, but I've been watching the weather radar, and it should be over soon."
Out like a light. It was frustrating, like watching satellite television in an electrical storm with the signal cutting in and out.
"Mr. Stark! Cap is on the way! They're at Kennedy! He called me from baggage claim!"
Smash cut to black.
Then, finally, Tony woke up for real. He knew it was different immediately: there was a sticky quality to his consciousness, adhering him to the normal bounds of time and space. It was dark outside the window, dark inside the room. Nighttime. He tried to sit, but he only made it up half an inch before collapsing back to the mattress, exhausted by the effort.
"Fuck," he muttered.
He knew this feeling. This was like coming back from Titan, when his muscles, even the ones that had nothing to do with vanity, had melted away to slivers. With an effort, he lifted his arms for an inspection. One was painfully thin, and the other was non-existent. He'd had two in the waystation, but here, in the waking world, he only had one. He remembered losing it now, alongside Pepper. Pepper. Pepper was dead in this version of reality; what was left of her body was buried in the ground, biodegrading in some eco-friendly willow basket in a meadow upstate. He'd missed her funeral. He shouldn't have spent so much time walking backwards. His eyes threatened rain, but he sucked it up. Right now, he was on a fact-finding mission.
He stuck a shaky hand under the covers, touching gingerly. He found a tube taped along his stomach and some bags. There were more tubes on the inside of his thigh. Feeding tube. Catheters. He pulled his hand out, repulsed. Tubes and their attendant holes in his body made him squeamish. Very carefully, he reached for his opposite arm, running fingers over the bandages; the skin was tender underneath. The prosthetic would be a problem. He wouldn't be able to make it himself, not with just his left hand. He'd have to recruit someone, the kid maybe, or…
"Fuck," he muttered again, feeling the pressure of tears behind his eyes. Who was he kidding? The prosthetic was the least of his problems. Widowhood. Single parenthood. Even able-bodied with four working limbs, he'd be incapable. He could see himself already. Without Pep, he'd wind up just like Howard, a miserable, workaholic drunk who'd fuck anything that moved and left any and all child rearing duties to someone he could pay. It was too overwhelming. This was Titan, this was Afghanistan, this was his parents dying, all rolled into one disaster, and death suddenly seemed so much easier than this, and…
Something stirred in the shadows. "Hello?" came a sleepy voice.
But Tony couldn't answer around the clod of misery in his mouth.
"Mr. Stark?" the voice came stronger, excited. Someone Tony hadn't noticed unfolded from the armchair, scrambling out from under an overcoat. "Mr. Stark!"
Fuck. The fucking kid. He had to pull it together for Parker; you weren't allowed to be a hopeless, suicidal sad sack in front of a teenage labrador. Tony sniffed hard, but kept crying as Parker came over to the bed, too weak to do anything else.
"Oh," Parker said, face falling as he took in the state of the disaster. "Oh, no. It's okay. It's—"
The door from the hall opened, spilling light into the room, capturing a tall, broad, very Captain America-esque figure in silhouette. Steve Rogers.
"Thank god and Uncle Sam," Tony croaked. "Get him out."
The kid looked nervous, glancing back and forth between the man in the bed and the man in the doorway. "Get him—?" he asked anxiously, pointing towards Steve, trying to figure out just how he was supposed to eject Captain America.
"Not me, Parker," Steve said softly. "You. Come on. It's getting late, time for you to go home, anyway. Here," he pulled out his wallet and stuck a wad of bills in the kid's hand, "take a cab."
"But—"
"Goodnight, Parker. I'll call you in the morning, alright?"
Steve pushed him gently but firmly out the door, then shut it behind him and held the knob for a minute before he turned his attention to Tony. Tony was weeping in earnest now, hand over his face, but he could still feel Steve's eyes on him, feel his proximity as he came towards the bed on silent feet. The smell of fresh snow and aftershave came with him. Slowly, tentatively, his weight settled on the edge of the mattress, and his hand came down on Tony's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry, Tony," he said, squeezing gently.
"I didn't want to cry. Not in front of the kid." Tony pushed the words out with the tears.
"I understand. There's a lot of that going around. You want me to go? I can come back in a few minutes if you—"
"No," Tony said, surprising himself by the strength and immediacy of his answer. While it was a fucking humiliation to cry in front of Steve Rogers, he equally did not want to want to be left alone again with the endless water and the silver fish. No, that's not right, he corrected, trying to pull himself back out of the drift. He was in the hospital. There were no fish…
"Tony," Steve asked him, "what's the last thing you remember?"
"The waystation. I was walking with Pepper in the water, and she said you—" He cut himself off, seeing the guarded look on Steve's face. Wait. Had that been real? It had felt real, but…
"It's alright, Tony," Steve assured him, squeezing his shoulder again. "The doctors said you might have some trouble with—"
"I remember," Tony said fiercely. "Thanos ripped off my arm, and then Pepper had to save the fucking world because I wasn't fast enough. I had them, Cap. I had the stones in my fucking hand, and I —" he struggled to find the words to describe the incandescent pain, "it was like—like I was strapped to an electric chair and they'd thrown the switch, and I was too busy shaking apart to pull the fucking trigger—"
"Tony—"
"It should've been me, Cap, but I couldn't do it. I—"
Tony was sobbing now, his whole body aching, unraveling. It was terrifying. He had no other outlet—couldn't fight or drink or fuck to numb the intensity of his emotions like he had after past disasters. He was trapped in this frail rack of bones, in this hospital bed, with nothing to do but feel his fucking feelings and cry. It didn't feel survivable, this degree of emotion. Abruptly, Steve released his grip on Tony's shoulder. Still in his snow dusted overcoat, he lay down on the bed, stretching out on the extreme edge of the mattress, despite the fact there was emphatically not enough room for two men, and threw his arm over Tony's body, pulling Tony against his chest.
"It's alright," Steve said calmly. "Get it out."
"I wish I were dead," Tony said, bitter, ashamed, but he was going for broke now, spewing out all the black, hopeless words he knew better than to think, let alone say. "This is too hard. I can't start over like this again. You should've let me bleed out, Cap. I can't—"
Tony choked, ready to be told what an ungrateful coward he was, but the rebuke never came. Instead, Steve just rubbed at his back. The humiliation of it burned; he wanted Steve to fight him, to tell him he was a useless piece of shit that deserved to die if he had so little will to live in the first place. He wanted a screaming match, wanted to hate someone externally for fifteen minutes. Instead, he clutched at Steve's sweater and stuck his face right in that massive chest because it was the only comfort on offer. And Steve just held him until he'd worn himself out, limp, exhausted, starting to drift. There was water around him again, but it was warm this time, like a bath.
"You know," Steve said quietly, "after Bucky fell from the train, I wished it had been me instead. I figured I'd have survived the fall. He did, too, as it turned out, but I didn't know it at the time. What was worse was wishing I'd been a little faster. I almost got a hold of him; we were a foot apart. It was a question of seconds. But I didn't get there, and I watched him fall. It made me crazy for a while. Had nightmares about it for years, even after the ice. I still have them sometimes."
Steve's fingers were in Tony's hair, gently sifting through the strands.
"I don't really understand the multiverse, Tony, but I know that in some stories, I get to catch him. I can feel it. There's places where I was fast enough. I find some comfort in that."
"Not here, though," Tony murmured. "Here's where it all goes to shit, Steve." He moved his feet restlessly; there were fish somewhere unnervingly near his toes.
"I don't know, Tony. It's bad right now, but I prayed for a miracle, and I got one, and so did Morgan. She's so excited to see you, you have no idea. When I told her you were awake, she went and put on her boots. She was still in her pajamas, but she put her boots on because she was ready to go. She would've started walking from Iowa if I'd let her. You're going to see her tomorrow. Think about that. That amazing little girl is coming to see you. In some universes, maybe even most, she doesn't exist. In some universes, you don't. And maybe you saved the world there, but you don't get to see Morgan again, not in those stories."
"Morgan," Tony said drowsily. He was having trouble staying awake again. Morgan. Morgan was a nice thought. She might like the fish. They fed the ones in the lake sometimes, took out a row boat to the middle of the still water and threw handfuls of pellets.
"I'll bring her," Steve promised. "Everything will seem brighter in the morning. You'll see."
The door to the corridor opened, spilling a little light in the room as someone slipped in quietly.
"Steve? Is he awake?" Bruce whispered.
"Sort of in and out now, I think," Steve whispered back. "That's second shift," Steve murmured to Tony, starting to extricate himself—when had his fingers twined so thoroughly through Tony's hair? Tony's head felt cold and unsupported without them. "Bruce is going to stay with you. I have to go back to the hotel. Olivia can only keep Morgan until ten."
Then, hesitating beside the bed, Steve leaned over him, pressing his lips to Tony's forehead. "I'm so happy to see you, Tony. We're going to be alright."
And then he was gone, leaving nothing but his warm impression in the mattress. Tony curled into the lingering heat and fell asleep.
Steve dressed Morgan carefully: corduroy dress, knit tights, and new red boots that Steve and Morgan had purchased themselves. He took extra time brushing her hair and pulling it up.
"St-eve," she said impatiently, making his name into two emphatic syllables. "Let's go!"
"I want you to look nice, Morgan. It's important."
He wanted her to look immaculate, like a kid in the Sears and Roebuck, to show Tony what an indispensably good job he was doing. Finally he held up her little green coat, settled the matching hat on her head, and put on her mittens.
"Steeeeve!" she said again, tugging at him, vibrating with excitement.
"Okay!" he said, grabbing his own coat from the bed. "Okay!"
Steve had picked a hotel close enough to the hospital that they could easily walk. There weren't many people out, and Morgan zigged and zagged back and forth across the sidewalk with her owl.
"You happy?" Steve asked.
"Yep!" she answered happily.
Yep. The answer to everything for the past few days had been 'yep.' He wondered where she'd picked it up. Last week, her pet word had been 'actually.' The next word could be anything.
He would not let himself be cut out in the coming days, on that point he was firmly resolved. The two Stark peas were about to reunite in their pod, and that was wonderful, but they were going to find the pod now included a third pea. But maybe it wouldn't be as hard to make it a trio as Steve had first thought. He'd been surprised how willingly Tony had accepted his comfort in the night; he'd come to Steve almost as easily as Morgan had, grabbing Steve's sweater, rubbing his wet face against Steve's chest. It had filled Steve with something that made him sad and happy in equal parts: Tony's world was in shambles. Steve's world had been in shambles since he was twelve, but for the first time in a long time, he glimpsed something among the remains of Tony's life that looked like happiness. Two months with Morgan, and Steve knew he couldn't bear to be without her. And maybe, just maybe, Steve could have Tony, too, if he were patient. But was he allowed to sift his happiness from the ashes of another's man's tragedy?
They're both yours, Steve told himself, holding Pepper's dying whisper carefully. They were. They were his, and he was claiming them. Steve could still feel the outline of Tony against his chest, all heat and bony angles, pressed against his heart.
"Daddy is going to take me to the park," Morgan said, crunching her boot carefully into a patch of snow on the sidewalk, leaving a neat footprint.
Steve jolted out of his reverie. "What?"
"I'm going to the park with Daddy. We're going to ride the carousel."
A pit opened up in Steve's stomach. "He can't, Morgan. He has to stay in the hospital."
Morgan stopped on the sidewalk, frowning at him. "He's better. You said."
"He's better, Morgan, he's not well. He's still very sick. He…he's going to be sick a long time."
"He's like before?"
Her bottom lip started to stick out; this wasn't what she'd asked Santa for. She wanted a whole, working Tony Stark, new out of the box, ready to take her to the park. Steve should have been more clear. She was four: of course she thought 'better' meant 'well.' But he'd been so happy himself; Tony was alive and lucid, when he hadn't been expected to survive at all. It was a miracle, but Morgan couldn't see that.
"Well, he looks like he did the last time we came, right before Christmas. But he's awake now. He can talk to you."
"I don't want him to look like that. I don't want him to talk to me. I want Daddy to go to the park."
"But—" They were about to retread the same ground. Steve took a breath, tried again. "We have to go, Morgan. I'll take you to the park after, but we have to go see Tony."
"No." She stopped dead on the sidewalk.
"It wasn't a question."
He scooped her up in one arm and was relieved when she allowed herself to be carried instead of pitching a fit. Marching grimly down the sidewalk, he tried to work out what to do. He'd call Bruce from the lobby, talk to him, talk to Tony, try to explain it to them…
But no one picked up.
They let Tony have a cup of coffee. It was shitty cafeteria coffee and only half-caff, but it tasted like nirvana. Breakfast was still some slurry that went directly into his stomach, but the speech language pathologist and the nutritionist agreed he could try some real food at lunch. Things were looking up. 'Up' in this case was only an inch from rock bottom, but 'up' all the same.
And Morgan was coming, Tony told himself, every time he started to get overwhelmed. Morgan…and Steve. Steve, who had been solid and warm in the night. Steve, who for once in his moralizing life had rendered no judgement, letting Tony rage and weep against him until Tony had worn himself out. And then he'd stroked Tony's hair, rubbed his back, kissed Tony's forehead…maybe. The specifics got vague for Tony towards the end; all Tony knew was that he found the concept of Steve Rogers comforting.
He loves you, Tony, Pepper had said. I mean it. You know he does. But Tony shook the thought away. Like the water and the fish, his conversation with Pepper had not been real...maybe. He wasn't ready to render a final verdict on that one.
After the coffee, the physical therapist made Tony get out of bed and stand holding on to a walker. Even the minor effort exhausted him and weirded him out. The moment his feet hit the floor, he could feel shallow water, see the occasional flash of a minnow darting along beside his toes, but he had the sense to keep it to himself until the authorities were out of the room.
"I'm hallucinating," he said quietly as Bruce propped him up with a stack of pillows.
"What? Now?" Bruce drew back, glancing around as if he might be able to see the hallucinations, too.
"Not right now, but when I was standing up. I kept seeing little fish on the floor, and I could feel the water around my feet."
"So visual and tactile. Was this the first time?"
"No," Tony admitted. "I could feel the water last night, when Steve was here."
"Would you say it's better or worse today?"
"I don't know. I think it's about the same. At least today I know it's Looney Tunes. Last night, I wasn't sure."
"Hallucinations are pretty common with stuff like this. It will probably stop after a few days, but we should tell the neurologist."
"We should, but we won't," Tony said. "I want to go home, Bruce, as soon as possible. The prosthetic isn't going to build itself."
"Yeah, but, if you're seeing things—"
"If you rat me out, I won't tell you if it happens again. I'll tell you it's all fine and dandy, and that I'm just picking up fish flakes for the neighbor's guppies."
Bruce made a face, weighed his options. "You have to let me know," he said finally. "Every time. We've got to keep tabs on it."
"Agreed. I'll—"
There was a knock at the door. It opened a crack, then Steve poked his head in. "Are you decent? I tried to call first, but no one answered the phone."
"Oh, sorry," Bruce said, slipping the phone from his pocket to check the screen. "I see it now. I turned off the ringer. We've had a lot of people in and out, therapists and—"
"Do I have a visitor?" Tony said brightly, feeling a sudden jolt of high voltage happiness, the kind that just last night he thought he'd never feel again. "Is it my Morguna?"
"It is," Steve said, "but maybe we could talk—"
"Morguna!" Tony called, ignoring Steve completely. No child was forthcoming. Steve, still in the doorway, was frowning down the hall.
"Come on, sweetheart," he said quietly, ushering her in. She came reluctantly, her little feet dragging in a way generally reserved for doctors' visits and trips to the shoe store.
"What's wrong, Morguna?" Tony said, feeling the smile fall from his own face.
When he spoke, she ducked her head and stepped halfway behind Steve's legs, clutching at his khakis. It was something she'd done to Tony a hundred times when she was feeling anxious about meeting distant, Pottsian relatives or confronted by an overzealous mascot trying to be friendly at the ballgame. Only now she had Steve by the pant leg and Tony was the bumbling asshole in a fursuit.
Steve half-heartedly tried to tug her out from behind him. "Morgan, please—"
"Don't," Tony said sharply.
Steve let go of Morgan's sleeve, and she immediately dove all the way behind him, disappearing under the tail of his overcoat.
"She's tired," Steve said lamely, not meeting Tony's eye. "We spent most of Christmas Day at the airport, and she stayed up really late. And she…well, she had some expectations. I tried to call you—"
She's tired. The age-old excuse for undesirable childhood behavior came from Steve's lips like he'd been saying it for years, and he'd had Morgan, what? Two months? He was a fucking natural, a parental wunderkind.
"Sure," said Tony lightly, though the words tasted bitter in his mouth. "I understand. I always hid from my father when I missed my nap. Then again, I hid from him most of the time. Or he was hiding from me. Maybe it was mutual hiding."
Steve was down on one knee now, hands smoothing up and down Morgan's arms. They were talking together so softly Tony couldn't make it out. It was lovely to see. Good looking father, good looking kid, having some sweet, intimate conversation. Steve had even done a good job with her hair, Tony noticed, had it clipped up off her face in gold barrettes. And now Steve was picking her up, little arms around his neck. From her now secure position against Captain America's chest, she dared to look at Tony again, her eyes moving over his face in lip-quivering unhappiness.
"Hi, honey," Tony tried again, but now his eyes were brimming with tears. Fuck. Fuck. "I know I'm a bit, ah, scary—"
Steve cut him off with a violent shake of the head. "You look a little different now. You got hurt; you've got some scars, but scars are places your body is healing."
"Can we go to the park now?" Morgan was whispering in Steve's ear, but it was a four-year-old's whisper, meaning it was just as loud as her regular voice. "You said we could go, Steve. After."
Tony wanted to kill himself, open the window and fling himself right out on the pavement of 5th Avenue.
Steve glanced at Tony. "Let's stay a few more minutes, huh?"
"And I think," Tony said, too loud, too clumsy, too cheerful, "you should take Morgan to the park. Who wants to sit around some boring old hospital when you could go to the playground with the Three Bears. Maybe ride the carousel? Build a snowman?"
Steve glared at him, but Steve could shove it up his ass. Morgan didn't want to see him for reasons that now seemed quite obvious. Tony no longer wanted to be seen. He and Morgan were in complete agreement, united against a hot, blond overlord. That dynamic felt familiar at least.
"Tony—" Steve started to protest.
"I want to go to the park," Morgan whined.
"You heard the lady," Tony said. "She wants to go to the park."
Steve saw he was outnumbered; Tony watched in real time as he decided to retrench. "Okay. We'll come back. Maybe later this afternoon—"
"No, you won't," Tony cut in smoothly. "You're going to the movies this afternoon. It's Christmas. Some kid-friendly abomination just hit the theaters, and Morgan is getting popcorn and candy and one of those drinks the size of a trash can. Isn't that right, Morguna? Isn't Steve going to take you to a movie?"
"A movie?" she squeaked with delight, twisting in Steve's arms so she could look right in his straight-nosed, square-jawed, unscarred, completely stupid face. "Can we go to a movie?"
Steve looked gratifyingly pissed. Tony had no doubt at all that the only thing standing between him and a good old fashioned shouting match with Captain America was the presence of his only child. As it was, all Steve could do was stare at him.
"Steve," Tony snapped, "take the hint and get out now before I start discussing toy stores."
Steve laughed, a single, bitter, snort. "Tony," he said, shaking his head, so disgusted Tony could taste it, "you aren't doing yourself any favors."
"Enjoy the movie. Morgan likes Sno-caps."
They left. He could hear Morgan explode in excited chatter as soon as they were out the door, and Tony's heart plummeted twenty floors down an elevator shaft and hit the floor with a wet splat. Bruce edged towards the bed, flabbergasted.
"Why'd you do that? He was trying to help you."
"Because fuck him, that's why," Tony spat. "She didn't want to see me, Bruce."
"Come on, that's—"
"She didn't. She doesn't. Why would she? I look like the unholy union of Freddy Krueger and Captain Hook, and I have nothing to offer her in the way of entertainment, simultaneously boring and a nightmare."
The water was back, sloshing over his legs in the bed. It wasn't warm anymore, but the same nothing temperature as the waystation. "God damn it," he said, shoving at it. He could feel it splash against his palm.
"What are you doing?" Bruce asked warily.
"It's like a fucking tide pool in here!"
"I really think the neurologist—"
"Hello!" a chirpy little nurse popped her head around the door. "Did I just see your daughter in the hall? She's adorable."
"Not my daughter. That's Captain America's love child by a well-known New York socialite whose last name rhymes with 'Yetty,' but you didn't hear it from me." Tony swatted at some encroaching minnows.
"He's kidding," Bruce said immediately.
The nurse tittered uncertainly, looking back and forth between them.
"Thank you," Tony said, relenting. "Yes, she is adorable. And yes, she is mine. Genetically, at least. What did you want, anyway? Come to feed the fish?"
"I was going to remove your catheters."
"Terrific. Delightful. I've always been a bedpan enthusiast."
Steve shut himself in the hotel bathroom. Morgan was asleep, stuffed owl tucked under her chin. Between the park and the loud, unfunny children's movie, it had been an exhausting afternoon.
"He won't see us?" Steve sat heavily on the lid of the commode, phone to his ear, trying to take it in.
"That's not exactly what he said," Bruce hedged.
"But he wants me to take her home." Steve rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows.
"It might be for the best, actually," Bruce said hesitantly, and then pointedly didn't say something else.
"Bruce," Steve was too tired for tact, "it's been a long day. Do me a favor: whatever it is you aren't supposed to say, just say it."
"He's hallucinating," Bruce's voice dropped, "when he's upset, he sees things, feels things that aren't there. Most of the time, he knows they aren't real, but—"
"What kinds of things?" Steve frowned.
"It's fairly innocuous: water, little fish, though he said he saw a bigger one this afternoon. He was really agitated; he tried to eat at lunch, but he couldn't make himself do it."
"That's no surprise." Tony struggled to eat enough at the best of times.
"No. He just…he has a lot going on right now. His brain is taxed to its limits. Nothing is automatic. Everything is hard. Everything. Eating, walking, toileting—"
Steve shut his eyes.
"And these are obstacles he has to tackle before he can get out of the hospital," Bruce continued. "Before he deals with the amputation. Before he tries to touch any of the emotional stuff—"
"He can't handle us right now, is what you're saying." Us. He and Morgan had become an 'us' in his mind, some kind of unit.
"But it did look like you had it handled, Steve," Bruce said encouragingly. "At least from the outside. If you could just take this off his plate for a while—"
"I've got it handled, Bruce, but Tony—" He remembered Tony's face as Morgan came dragging into that room, the way his joy had curdled. Steve cursed himself; he should have prepared Morgan better, prepared Tony better. Instead, he'd failed them both. "—Tony shouldn't leave it that way with Morgan."
"I think he might have to, Cap. He can't take another visit right now, not if it might go like it did this morning. He'll go from seeing minnows to sharks."
"I'll take her home," Steve said reluctantly. "Tell him—actually, is he there? Let me talk to him."
"I'm not sure—"
"Bruce, go in there. Put me on speaker and hold it out of his reach if you have to. He can't walk. He's a captive audience."
Steve waited, listening to a muffled exchange.
"What?" said Tony shortly.
"Hi, Tony."
"What?" he reiterated. "You're on the clock. I'm supposed to try to piss again in five minutes, and I would adore it if I could avoid another diaper change."
"I'm sorry about today. Morgan thought you were going to be able to take her somewhere, just the two of you. It was my fault; I should've managed her expectations."
"I'll say," Tony snorted. "You think Daddy's gonna take you to the playground, and instead he's bedridden, trying not to shit his Depends."
Steve winced. "I'll prepare her better next time."
"There is no 'next time,' Rogers. I don't want her to see me like this. She can see me when I get out."
"I wish you'd let us say goodbye before we go home tomorrow."
"You can say it all you want. You can even shout it, but you're doing it from the sidewalk. Now fuck off, I'm going to try to take a leak."
He hung up.