Widows: Part 1

Some time. Somewhere. The Starship Benatar. 2018.

Tony pulled the mattress out of his bunk and hauled it across the spaceship. It wasn't particularly heavy, but the effort made him pant and sweat all the same. It was a stupid thing to do, an extravagant use of strength and calories, but fuck it. He was good as dead anyway. If he was going to starve, he might as well enjoy some of the wonders of the universe in the meantime.

He dropped the mattress in front of the big viewing window and then flopped down on top of it. Outside, the infinite sky was filled with some nameless nebula, its gasses glowing pink and blue and green, like the Aurora Borealis dialed up to ten. Its awesome beauty was on a size and scale that made Tony feel like a dust speck. But then, Tony was pretty speck-like. Every deed he'd ever done, good or bad, was tiny compared to what Thanos had wrought. Nothing he had ever done, nothing he'd ever do, meant anything in the grand scheme. Superhero? Hardly. He'd been a big fish in a little pond, but he'd seen the ocean and its sharks now, and he knew the truth: he had only ever been a king among minnows.

Holding up his hand, Tony watched as the colored light played across his palm. It reminded him incongruously of Christmas. As a child, his mother had let him sleep by the tree. He'd made pallets on the floor with the sofa cushions and gazed at the strings of fat bulbs until he fell asleep. His mother had always insisted on real trees, even though dear, old Howard complained ceaselessly about the needles. Tony could almost smell it, balsam fir. He actually had a theory that Christmas trees didn't smell as good as they used to. When he was a kid, those big incandescent lights heated the VOCs in the branches, leading to an increase in fragrant off-gassing, or so his theory went. Of course, those incandescent lights also caused a lot of housefires, so now it was nothing but LEDs. Such was the march of progress: fewer fires, shittier Christmas trees.

His parents had always had always given beautiful Christmas parties, always black tie, always with a champagne tower and a pianist playing carols, and always the second Saturday of December, after which all the staff went home to their own holidays. In the years since his parents died, Tony had dreaded December, and he'd dragged himself through season after season running on nothing but eggnog and false cheer. Still, he'd kind of been looking forward to it this year, with Pepper. They'd recently bought property upstate, a big chunk of a forest and a lake. Supposedly, the lake froze solid, and he had dreams of teaching his California girl to skate. After she had her fill of falling, he'd warm her up by the fire, maybe stretch her out naked under his Christmas tree. He could see her in the rainbow glow, everything about her soft and warm and familiar. He sighed, wanting her skin, her hair, her mouth.

At least Pepper had survived. He knew she had because if she hadn't, he'd have known somehow. He'd have sensed a disturbance in the Force, seen some celestial omen. She was too important to just blink out. Tony was totally, completely, 100% confident that she was fine.

Except for the times when he was totally, completely, 100% confident that she was gone.

It was the one consolation about being lost in space, really, the not-knowing. For now, Pepper remained nebulously alive, at least in Tony's own mind, even if she were actually dead. He was Schrodinger's Widower, caught between mourning and un-mourning states.

He was Schrodinger's Baby Daddy, too.

At Tony's urging, Pepper had recently removed her IUD. In theory, she could be pregnant right now. He hoped she wasn't: if he wasn't already a widower, then Pepper would be a widow, and a baby would complicate her life in ways she didn't need. At the same time, he hoped she was, because real or imagined, alive or dead, he loved their baby with his whole heart.

God, he was so happy he was dying. He'd never know the worst of it.

God, he was so sad he was dying. He'd never know the best of it, either.

⁂

2:30 PM. Nick Fury's New York Office. Manhattan. May. 2011.

Steve walked the periphery of the office, hands in pockets. There were windows all around with views onto Central Park. The cherry trees were blooming pink and white; at this height, they looked like little clouds. After this meeting, he was going to take a walk down there, have a look at them, see a little spring. Spring was his one consolation; if he'd come back in winter, to slushy sidewalks and gray skies, he figured he would have run right into traffic. Instead, it was May. All sorts of things were waking up: frogs, insects, flowers, super soldiers.

"Nice view, huh? Better than a vanity wall." Nick Fury came into the office and sat behind his wide desk. "Have a seat." He gestured to a chair, and Steve sat in it. "You want anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee."

"Sure." Fury pressed a discreet button and said into an even more discreet microphone, "Tommy, bring Captain Rogers a coffee. So," he leaned forward, folding his hands on the desktop, "how's the apartment?"

"It's very nice. Thank you." It was nice, too, a pre-war apartment in Brooklyn with high plaster ceilings, granite countertops, a working fireplace, and a third bedroom. It was the fanciest place Steve had ever lived by a hundred miles.

A young man in glasses and a thin-cut suit appeared with a coffee. Tommy, Steve supposed. When Steve tasted his cup, it was just to his liking: one cream, two sugars. Someone had recorded his coffee order somewhere. He didn't find it flattering.

"I'm sorry, what's this meeting about, anyway?" Steve asked as the door closed on Tommy.

"Nothing in particular. Just wanted to check in, see how you're doing." It was a load of shit.

"I'm fine," Steve said with a tight smile.

"You sure?"

Steve shrugged. "You tell me. I know you're keeping tabs. My next door neighbor is one of yours, and so is the old lady one floor down."

Fury pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. "You're pretty good, Rogers."

"I don't appreciate being watched in my own home."

"I can understand that. And you know, I hate to do it to you. I really do. But if you won't go to regular counseling…" It was Fury's turn to shrug. "It'd be a real bad look for me if I let Captain America throw himself in front of the A-train."

"I wouldn't do that," Steve scoffed, offended by the very suggestion.

"Hey, I don't know. You're not sleeping, at least not according to the little old lady who's been listening to you pace the floor. And this," he opened his hands, a gesture encompassing the whole of modern life, "it ain't exactly Disneyland."

"Neither was the war." Steve set down his coffee on the edge of the desk and stood up. "If you'll excuse me." He wouldn't stay and be infantilized, and he wouldn't bare his soul for some SHIELD psychiatrist either because it would all wind up in some government file somewhere, just like his damn coffee order. He'd keep his own counsel, as he always had.

"Where are you going?" Fury called after him.

"The park. You can watch me from the windows if you want, make sure I don't hang myself from a cherry tree."

The park was lovely, full of every shade of green in the palette, and the cherry blossoms were even prettier up close, their blossoms fluttering overhead in the soft breeze.

Steve's father had died in the spring, in Flesquières, some insignificant spit of a town in northern France. The battle had been a disaster by all accounts: the Germans had smothered the streets with mustard gas and pounded the trenches with artillery fire, destroying communications, and then they broke the line, forcing the Allies into a retreat. Afterwards, the French accused the British of cowardice. The British accused the French of incompetence. Both blamed the Americans for not arriving in greater numbers. But Joseph Declan Rogers, from Brooklyn, New York, twenty-four years old and not quite a father, had been there. He'd fought and died there. When his young widow received word, she'd been married eleven months, pregnant for seven of them, with the baby due in July.

Steve had taken out the telegram a few times; his mother had kept it in an envelope with a picture of his father in uniform. He knew she missed him terribly; they'd been childhood playmates, best friends for years. And then he'd grown handsome, and she'd grown pretty, and they'd remained playmates, but the play was of a different kind. "He was a bonny dancer," his mother had said with a fond sigh, "and a bonny lad. He had all my heart. At least he left me a bit of sunshine." And then she'd touched Steve's blond hair.

Steve shuffled through a scatter of pink petals along the sidewalk. He wished he knew what had happened to that envelope. He'd never see it again, of course, like so many things in his life.

Steve wondered how the military informed families these days; he doubted in this age of email and cellular phones that telegrams even existed. He'd have to look it up on the internet. Of course, no telegram had been sent when Steve had gone missing anyway. There'd been no one to send it to: Bucky had been listed as his next-of-kin, and Steve couldn't recall ever having updated the paperwork. A telegram had gone to Bucky's parents, though; Steve wondered if someone in the family had kept it. He had an urge to see it, put it together with a picture of Bucky in uniform, and keep it somewhere safe, a jewelry box or a desk drawer. He wished so badly for some tangible artifact of their lives together. There wasn't even a grave he could visit; he'd asked, and apparently they'd never recovered Bucky's body. Buck had been dead eleven months. Eleven months and sixty five years, and the pain of it remained so sharp, Steve didn't know what to do with it. It cut him to the quick whenever he tried to touch it, so mostly he didn't, staying away from its razor edge as much as possible. And now Peggy was gone from him, too; their youths had passed by one another like ships in the night.

What a strange thing. He wanted someone to send him a telegram about Peggy, straight from Western Union, an acknowledgement of his loss that he could hold in his hand. Maybe then it would feel real. Maybe then he could mourn her properly.

Steve looked up at the canopy of blossoms. He tried to find some gratitude for them, tried to be happy he'd gotten to see another spring, but it was hard. He couldn't shake the feeling that It would be easier in every way to be dead.

"Are you listening?" Steve asked. It was hard to tell sometimes whether Morgan was listening or not. "Put down the giraffe and look at me, please." She didn't. She was busy tying a leash around its neck, and the leash looked an awful lot like the tie of Steve's bathrobe. Steve had been wondering what had happened to it, but he decided not to belabor it, not right now.

"Morgan," he said, squatting down on her fluffy bedroom rug, "I want you to know that your dad is coming home today. He'll be here pretty soon."

She still didn't look at him; she tied the giraffe's leash to the arm of the glider beside the bed.

"I don't want him to run away," she explained, ignoring the reference to Tony completely. "Occasionally giraffes run away and get lost. Occasionally they don't come back."

'Occasionally' was her word of the week.

Steve didn't know what to do. He was never sure how hard he should push her about Tony. It never did any good anyway. Once in an act of desperation, he'd made the mistake of telling her he wouldn't let her have dessert if she didn't talk to Tony. When he'd given her the phone, she'd promptly said, 'goodbye,' and hung up. He was angry: a single word wasn't what he'd meant, and she knew it. He subsequently refused to give her a juice pop after dinner, and she screamed 'No fair!' and 'Mean Steve!' and then cried. It had been a terrible evening all around, and he hadn't tried to make her get on the phone since. 'Goodbye' was the only communication that had passed between the Starks in weeks.

"Sweetheart," Steve tried again, hoping that something he said might stick, "when he gets here, will you please come downstairs and say 'hello?'"

She shook her head vehemently, not looking in his direction.

"Why not?"

"I don't like him," she murmured. "He's scary."

Steve looked at the floor and wanted to scream. Why in the name of all that was holy had Tony used that particular word? It had stuck in Morgan's mind like a pebble in a shoe and no amount of work on Steve's part had managed to dislodge it.

"That's not true, Morgan. You love him. And he isn't scary. He just looks different now," Steve said calmly, using the words Dr. Nakamura had given him for the umpteenth time and then changed the subject. "What do you think I should make for dinner?"

"Spasketti."

"Sounds good, but we're out of sauce. Get your boots on, and we'll go to the store."

Tony let his forehead rest against the cold car window as he looked out at the snowy trees, bright white against the gathering gloom. They were just a couple minutes from the house. He hadn't seen it in three months, hadn't seen Morgan or Steve in five weeks.

"What are you thinking?" Rhodey asked, glancing over. They hadn't spoken much on the ride.

"That this van is the least sexy conveyance I've ever had the misfortune to ride in, let alone own."

"Pimp it out. Add some flames."

"I was thinking about an airbrushed memorial piece, maybe my late wife on one side and my late right arm on the other."

"Do it. Can't get more classic than an airbrushed van." Rhodey flipped on the turn-signal, though there was no one behind them for miles, and pulled from the road onto the long gravel drive.

They rumbled slowly through the trees. Tony could feel the vibration in his bones. Amazing how much you missed the fat on your ass when it was gone.

"You sure you don't want me to stay?" Rhodey asked.

"I'm sure," Tony sighed, though he wasn't. He watched Rhodey's thin, brown hands on the wheel, the side of his serious face. He'd spent all week with Tony in the hospital, bullying and cheerleading by turns as Tony walked on the world's slowest treadmill and practiced standing from chairs.

Rhodey pulled up to the house and the end of a newly installed ramp onto the porch. "You ready?"

"I guess. And, oh, look. The welcome wagon." The door had opened, and Steve Rogers walked onto the porch. Evidently, he was starting to grow a beard. Copycat. He lifted a hand in greeting though he didn't look entirely happy to see them. Morgan was conspicuously absent.

"Where's your kid?" Rhodey wondered.

"There." Tony pointed to an upstairs window where a little face was peeking out between a pair of frilly curtains. He plastered on a smile and waved at her, but she bolted like a rabbit, disappearing from view. It was, Tony reflected, not unlike being stabbed.

"She'll come around, Tony."

"Sure she will. Probably about the time she's sixteen and realizes I buy the cars and the designer dresses."

Tony opened the passenger door with an effort, and watched as Steve strode down the ramp, all ready and eager to nobly assist. Fuck Tony's fucking life.

"Need a hand?" Steve offered one of his burly, wool-sweatered arms.

"Nope," Tony said brusquely, though the answer almost certainly should've been 'yes.' He was a little stronger, but outrageously wobbly, like a toddler. If he face planted climbing out of the handicap van, it would be infinitely more humiliating than taking Steve's arm, but Tony was a man that enjoyed life on the edge. He would've made it, too, stuck a successful upright position if the gravel hadn't shifted under his feet. Goddamn dynamic surfaces. No wonder the therapists were always trying to make him stand on bean bags and trampolines and shit.

Steve caught him under the arms, "Whoa. I've got you."

He was every bit as big, and solid, and stable as Tony was not, and he kept an arm around Tony's waist until Rhodey got the wheelchair out of the van. Steve eased him down into it.

"Thanks," Tony said grudgingly.

Steve bobbed his chin, then stuck out a hand to Rhodey, "How was the drive?"

"Okay."

"Good. I was a little worried. I've been watching the weather. You staying for dinner?"

Tony could feel it when Steve and Rhodey's eyes shifted to him, but he didn't return their gaze, just looked at the house, at the ramp, at the lake, like he wasn't part of the conversation at all.

"I think I'd better head back, in case the weather comes in early. I don't like flying the suit in snow."

Tony hit the joystick on the wheelchair and made his way up the ramp, leaving the conversation entirely. "See ya' later, Rhodey," he said over his shoulder. "Thanks for the ride."

"Anytime. You want me to come back next week? We could—"

"Nope."

Tony ripped open the door and steered inside, slamming it behind him. They were going to talk about him now, outside, behind his back. He knew just how it would go: Steve would ask how Tony was doing, and Rhodey would talk about what great progress he was making, blah, blah, blah, how much hard work was still ahead, blah, blah, blah. And then Steve would ask but how's Tony really doing with that look on his face, the earnest one that made his brows pinch together. And then Rhodey would shrug, tell him about the random crying jags that would blow in from nowhere, caused by nothing. He'd tell him about Tony's unwillingness to discuss Morgan, or Steve, or his plans for the future. He'd tell him about Tony's complete inability to sleep through the night.

Rhodey wouldn't tell Steve about the fish, but that was only because Rhodey didn't know about them. Tony could see some now, darting ahead of him as he drove the wheelchair to the bottom of the stairs; so much for Bruce's prediction that the hallucinations would let up after a couple of days. The little ones were okay, flickering along the floor, but the big ones, the gars or barracudas or whatever the fuck they were, they scared the shit out of him. He only ever saw them from the corner of his eye when he was really upset, but they made him feel like he was well and truly cracking up. Minnows could be ignored. He could tell himself they weren't there and believe it, but the big ones looked like they could take off a hand, and frankly, he didn't have any spares.

He looked up the staircase at the newly installed stairlift, considering. He could take it up, find the kid, maybe make a little conversation. Hi, Morguna. Sorry I abandoned you for three months after your mother died. I only did it intentionally the last month or so. Listen, I just managed to transition all the way to real food last week, and I can barely button my own shirt. I've had a lot on my mind.

Then again, maybe not.

He saw something in the corner of his eye, something with teeth. He needed to lie down, collect himself, maybe take a nap. Sleep usually eased his ichthyological problems. Carefully, he pushed out of the wheelchair and sat on the stairlift, buckling himself in with difficulty; everything took three times as long as it should when you only had one hand. He pressed the 'up' button and glided up the staircase at a stately pace; he was bored halfway through. That would be his first post-prosthesis project, making the stairlift move at a reasonable speed. At the top, Steve had very thoughtfully placed a walker. He ignored it, making his wobbly way down the hall. Thankfully, Morgan's door was shut, making it easy to walk past on the way to his own bedroom.

The master was almost but not quite as he'd last seen it. There was the same neatly made bed, Pepper's novels, her hand cream, but on his own bedside table, next to his pile of glasses, he saw some fresh library books: To Kill a Mockingbird, The Autobiography of Malcom X, and Charlotte's Web. So Goldilocks had been sleeping in his bed. It made sense; if you slept in the bedrooms downstairs, you couldn't hear Morgan if (when) she woke up at night. He lay down on top of the covers and closed his eyes.

"Friday," he said to the darkness, "tell me what Morgan is doing."

"Welcome back, boss."

"Skip it. What's she doing?"

"Morgan is building a wall in front of her closet with pillows and stuffed toys."

"Erecting Fort Avoidance."

"Boss?"

"Don't worry about it. What's Father of the Year up to?"

"To whom are you referring, boss?"

"Rogers."

"Captain Rogers is—"

"Standing in the doorway," Steve said. Tony opened his eyes and started to sit, but Steve waved a hand. "Don't get up."

Tony didn't have the strength to get up again anyway. He subsided back into his pillow, wondering whether or not Steve had heard the crack about 'Father of the Year.'

"Welcome home," Steve said quietly; he set Tony's suitcase on the floor. "I brought your things. Rhodey's gone. Dinner's in an hour." Steve studied him from the door, his expression unreadable. "Why don't you rest till then?"

"I'm not sure I can eat," Tony said honestly, feeling his stomach churn at the mere suggestion. Today had been a strain on the system, and his guts no longer worked well under pressure.

"Okay," Steve said evenly. "But can you sit? I'd like us all to have dinner together."

"Maybe." Tony didn't want to, but neither did he want to do anything else. He didn't want to be alone; he didn't want to be with people. He didn't want to live or die. He just wanted out of the timeline completely. He wanted total erasure, but that wasn't an option. He had to resume his life. Dinner was just the first challenge; he'd have to knuckle down and meet it.

"You need anything right now?" Steve asked. "I was going to give Morgan a bath, get her ready for bed."

"You bathe her before dinner?" Morgan was messy at dinner–not food-in-hair messy, but sauce-on-face messy for sure, unless Steve had somehow miraculously imparted upon her a whole new set of table manners. Maybe he had. Tony wouldn't put it past him.

"Well, yeah," Steve explained. "I do it before so I can do the dishes afterward while she watches TV." So much for Father of the Year. Pepper had never permitted television in the two hours preceding bedtime, something about screens and blue light exposure. "Why?" Steve asked, a note of doubt creeping in.

Tony hesitated, then said, "Nothing." He didn't have the room to criticize anything Steve did.

Steve took another step into the room, hands in pockets. "Will you need help later?"

"With what?" Tony frowned at him.

"With…I don't know. Whatever. Dressing. Bathing—"

"I hired somebody," Tony cut him off. "They'll be here tomorrow."

"I'm sorry." Steve sensed he'd overstepped. "I don't know how much help to you offer you—"

"None," Tony said sharply.

Steve nodded. Then, with just the ghost of a smile, he said, "None. Okay. Well, you certainly don't seem like you need any." He went back to the door and closed it quietly.

Tony stared at the ceiling after he left, watching the last bit of winter sun leak out of the room. He had just started to get drowsy when he felt someone watching him. The creeping feeling down his spine was unmistakable, and he sat up, scanning the room. There, on the corner of the bed, was a little black cat. It eyed him disapprovingly, like he'd taken its spot.

"Where'd you come from?" Tony asked. It flicked an ear, then settled down on the bed, tucking its paws under its chest in a manner that suggested it intended to stay. Tony found he wasn't surprised to see it, though he didn't remember anyone telling him about a new cat. Or, rather, he did remember, but the person that had told him had been dead at the time of their conversation, so it couldn't have been real. Pepper had been a hallucination, just like the water, and the fish, and the waystation.

"Boss," Friday said, "it's time for dinner."

"Yeah." Tony pushed himself up and made his tottering way to the door. "And you," he told the cat, "don't get comfortable. You're not staying."

The cat blinked slowly, curled up in a ball, and went to sleep.

Dinner was a failure on every front.

As soon as Tony made an appearance, Steve knew it would be. Morgan was already in her chair, and while Tony gave her a bright smile as he carefully transferred from his wheelchair to a seat at the table, she didn't return it, cringing back. For a second, Steve thought she might bolt, and it might've been better if she had. Instead, she stared mutely at Tony's face and arm, her eyes flickering between injuries with horrified fascination. It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop, and no one ate anything. As a tactician, Steve recognized a losing battle when he fought one.

"Okay," Steve sighed just five minutes into the meal, "let's have dessert. Morgan, what do you want?"

Her eyes moved from Tony to her untouched plate, "I didn't eat enough dinner."

"It's a special occasion. Just this once, you can have dessert for dinner. How about ice cream?" It had fat, it had milk, you could live on it for ten hours until breakfast.

"With chocolate sauce?" she asked, eyes starting to brighten.

"With chocolate sauce." Steve stood up and whisked away the plates of spaghetti. "Tony, what do you want? Ice cream?"

He shook his head.

"Gotta eat something," Steve insisted. "What's it going to be? I've got some of those meal replacement drinks."

Tony didn't look enthusiastic.

"How about a beer and a spoonful of peanut butter?"

"Does a beer count as eating?"

"Like I said," Steve said, "special occasion."

Steve served the random calories that were evidently going to pass as a meal, and the mood lightened, just a little. The Starks continued sneaking glances at one another with their identical brown eyes. Steve watched them watch each other as he ate peanut butter from the jar; he didn't have the heart for spaghetti either.

After Morgan moved to the sofa for singing trucks, Tony started on a second beer at the kitchen table, and Steve washed dishes.

"So," Tony said to Steve's back, "how long do I have you for?"

Steve paused, hands in the suds, "How do you mean?"

"I mean, how long do you plan to stay? I appreciate you sticking around, by the way, until I get settled." It was a very half-hearted sounding 'thank you,' Steve noted. "But," Tony continued, "I know you want to go back to the city, to your life or—"

Steve pulled his hands out of the sink and turned around, wiping them on his dishrag as he leaned back against the counter. He'd been thinking about this conversation for weeks, and he was ready with his answer.

"Three months ago," Steve said, his voice even, "I got a little girl to raise. Her mother was dead, and her father was supposed to be. So I quit my job. I moved out of my apartment. Whatever semblance of life I had, Tony, I gave up. What you see right now—cartoons, dishes—this is it. This is my life. There's no other life to go back to."

Tony looked uncomfortable, shifting in his chair, clearly unsure what to say. Steve knew how he felt; he was uncomfortable, too. He was laying bare the bones of his life, such as they were, and his life was a sad and lonely one. But, he'd decided, if he made himself vulnerable, it would give Tony permission to be vulnerable. He'd seen it over and over in group: sharing led others to share.

"What are you saying, Cap?" Tony said after a silence. "That you…what? That you live here?"

"I do live here. I've lived here for months."

"But you can't…" Tony laughed uncomfortably. "I mean…you just plan to be here permanently?"

Yes, Steve thought in his heart, but Tony wasn't ready to hear that, and he wasn't ready to say it.

"I plan to be here as long as you and Morgan need me to be," he said instead.

Tony snorted, "Captain America can't be the manny."

"I'm not, Tony. I'm not the help."

"Then what are you?"

"I'm your friend. I'm Morgan's…" he hesitated. He didn't mean to, but this was the tricky part—

"Her what?" Tony asked, his voice soft.

"Her parent."

Steve hadn't said it out loud before, and the words had a strange, heavy quality in his mouth, and they carried the same strange, heavy quality into the room, settling irrevocably between the two of them. Steve couldn't take it back. There was a long silence. Tony looked at him unsmiling.

"Okay," Tony said finally. "And if you're Morgan's father, what am I exactly? Chopped liver?"

"I didn't say 'father.' I said—"

"Yeah." Tony's voice was suddenly sharp. "I heard what you said. I heard exactly what you said. I know when I'm being handled, Steve."

Tony set his empty bottle on the table with a thunk, then made a strange, irritated gesture with his hand, as if swatting at some invisible insect on the table, but he aborted the movement immediately when he saw Steve watching. He stood abruptly, wobbling on his thin legs. Steve resisted the urge to help him, clutching the cold edge of the granite countertop, willing himself to be still as Tony precariously transferred into his wheelchair.

"Where are you going?" Steve asked, watching as Tony backed his chair away from the table.

"To bed. I seem to be extraneous."

"Tony—" He followed Tony to the stairs, again resisting the urge to help as Tony struggled onto the stairlift. Tony didn't, Steve noticed, fasten the seatbelt. "Tony, I'm here to help you. You can't manage by yourself. Not right now. Not—"

"I wasn't going to." The idiot went unsaid, but was strongly implied. "I've already hired someone for me. I can get someone for Morgan."

"But you already got someone. Morgan needs stability right now. She needs—" Steve cut himself off. Morgan had heard the rising voices and had wandered over from the sofa, eyes darting between them. Damn it, Steve thought. The very last thing he'd meant to have was an argument.

"She needs you, you mean." Tony concluded, ramming the lift button. "As opposed to…" he trailed off meaningfully. The lift continued to pull him away at a stately pace. Steve wanted to go after him, but he couldn't. Morgan's presence paralyzed him.

"Good night, Tony," he said, trying to keep up appearances. To make matters infinitely worse, Morgan's little hand clutched anxiously at the side of his jeans, in full view of Tony. "We'll discuss it later."

"Good night," Tony said tightly, then turned his face away towards the top of the stairs. "Looking forward to it."

This time, Tony did use the walker, leaning on it heavily to get back to his room. He collapsed on the bed; the movement startled the school of fish, scattering them in every direction. It startled the cat, too, sending it streaking under the bed.

"What? I thought cats liked fish," Tony called after it.

He shut his eyes tight, floating in phantom water. He was very buoyant, practically on top of the surface. The salinity must be high, like the Dead Sea, only, y'know, not , because it wasn't real. As an experiment, he drew his hand from the water and tasted his fingers. He made a face: salt. That couldn't be good.

"It isn't real," he said, just for the record. Then he added, also for the record, "I'm such an asshole."

Steve Rogers was offering to live in his house, cook and clean, watch his kid, be his nursemaid, even. And the only thing Steve wanted in return was the love and affection of Tony's only child. Too bad Morgan's love and affection was the only thing Tony wanted, too.

Steve had to go.

His reign over Morgan's heart was over; he'd only ever been regent, anyway. Tony was the rightful, once-and-future king. Only Steve couldn't go. Tony had handed him the keys to the kingdom, and the (admittedly tiny) populace had flourished under Steve's benevolent rule. Meanwhile, Tony was menacing the inhabitants like some hideous and terrifying ogre. Morgan would never forgive Tony for Steve's ouster, and then Tony would never forgive himself for it either.

Steve had to stay.

Tony felt eyes on him again. He sat up. The cat was back, regarding him with a sleepy yellow gaze.

"Well, you're too late," he muttered. "They all swam off. If you want a fish dinner now, you'll have to go out to the lake. Cut the lights, Friday."

The lights went out. It was only eight o'clock or something ridiculous like that, but he was over it. A few minutes passed as he waited for the water to recede so he could get undressed. When the bed was dry and fish free, he sat up and planted his feet on the floor. Assume the position, he thought as he did every time. Dress and undress seated, the occupational therapist had stressed, over and over, demonstrating how to put on and take off pants and shirts one handed. As always, it took Tony forever to get down to his boxers. Finally undressed and too tired to attempt pajamas, he got under the covers, wriggling until the down comforter was up to his chin.

He heard Morgan and Steve out in the hall:

"But that's your bed, Steve."

"It's not. That's your dad's room. I was just taking care of it while he was gone. My room is downstairs."

"Downstairs?" Morgan squeaked.

"Friday will tell me if you wake up, okay? I'll come get you. Or you can wake up your dad—"

Tony didn't get to hear her response as they passed into Morgan's room and shut the door. He stared at the ceiling, miserable. Maybe he should give the master to Steve, move downstairs himself. He reached out with his hand to the empty side of the bed, caressing the cold sheet just where Pepper's waist should be. He didn't know how he could bear to sleep in this bed anyway. At the same time, he didn't know how he could bear to sleep anywhere else.

There was a soft knock. "Tony?"

"Yeah?"

Steve opened the door, poking his head around. "We need to talk." His voice was quiet but determined, and it was a tone Tony knew very well: Steve was going to talk at him come hell or high water. The only question was one of volume.

"We can talk," Tony agreed reluctantly, "so long as I don't have to get up again."

Steve shut the door, standing in the dark.

"Have a seat," Tony offered, sweeping his hand towards the foot of the bed.

"Hey, there you are," Steve said, voice softening, noticing the little black cat. He settled on a corner of the mattress, reaching for its sleek fur. "I've been wondering where he'd gotten to."

"What's his name?" Tony asked. It was a good, neutral opening topic.

"Monty." The kitten started to purr under Steve's fingers; it sounded like a tiny gas-powered motor.

"So you did get her a kitten."

"Two kittens," Steve said, and Tony could hear him smiling in the dark. "Don't look too close at the back of the sofa."

"Two?" Tony pushed himself up a little in the bed. He felt a sudden chill run down his spine. Two kittens. It's a coincidence, he told himself. Don't get weird.

"They were the last in their litter. The shelters are so crowded; the lady practically begged me, and I'm a sucker. The calico, whenever you see her, is Stanley; she usually sleeps with Morgan."

"A girl named Stanley, huh?"

"A girl named Stanley," Steve confirmed. "She's a friendly little thing, talks non-stop. This guy is more mysterious. He likes to disappear. He doesn't always want to be petted." As if to underscore the point, the cat stood up, jumped off the bed, and ran to the door. Steve opened it for him, and he slipped out without a sound.

"So," Steve said, returning to the bed with a sigh, "I was thinking: what if I moved into the garage for a while? I can understand why you want your house back. Or maybe I could get a camper or one of those pre-built cabins. I just want to be the one to do things for Morgan when they need doing, Tony. I don't have to be in the house all the time."

Tony rolled his eyes; Steve's martyrdom knew no bounds. "So your plan is to have Friday wake you up in the middle of the night every time Morgan wants a sip of water and then come schlepping over here from some teardrop trailer on the back forty?"

"You can get her a sip of water," Steve pointed out.

"Maybe, if she'd let me, but she won't. No," Tony said reluctantly, "it's not practical. You're staying. You live here for…I don't know. However long you decide you can stand us."

"Thank you," Steve said seriously.

"Whatever. That was it, right? Anyway, good night." It was ungracious, but Tony wasn't feeling gracious. He was exhausted, irritable, and cold. Steve didn't move. "You've been dismissed, Steve," Tony said bluntly, wriggling back under the covers again.

"I have some things I need to say," he said evenly.

"Tomorrow you can talk at me all you want," Tony promised, closing his eyes, wishing Steve would take the hint.

"No. Now. Starting tomorrow, you've got to start fighting for Morgan."

"Fighting for her?" Tony said with a snort. "I just ceded her, Steve. Make up your mind. You want the kid or don't you?"

"I want to be a parent, Tony, not a single parent."

"You've been a single parent so far."

"And I'm here to tell you, it's a damn hard job. I haven't had a break in three months, you know, and it's not—"

"It isn't my fault you don't know how to call a babysitter—"

"I don't need a babysitter. I just need five minutes to myself everyday to—Look, It'd be better for me, for Morgan, if you'd step up and do your share."

"Because I haven't been doing that? I've been trying to get out the hospital—"

"Frankly, Tony? Getting out of the hospital wasn't your only responsibility. You should have let her come see you. I've been telling you for weeks—"

"But she didn't want to, Steve. She didn't want to come to the hospital. The hospital sucks. Trust me on this—"

"Just who do you think you're talking to?" Steve scoffed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "I know all about hospitals. Just as much as you, that's for damn sure. I hate hospitals," he said vehemently. "And no, she didn't want to, not after you rolled over and played dead that first time. But you know what else? It doesn't matter what she wants. She's four. You and I will decide what's good for her—"

"And what's good for her is to see her father outclassed by his own shirt buttons?" Tony pushed himself up, angry. "Hobbling around? Trying to figure out how long to give himself to get to the bathroom? That inspires confidence in a kid—"

"What's good for her is you, Tony. She needs you back. She cried for you every single night for months. She still cries for you—"

"Not for me like this. She doesn't want me like this. She's afraid of me, and if you can't see that, then—"

"Of course I can see it. And it's up to us to show her there isn't anything to be afraid of. That means you've got to stop locking yourself away like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. She'll get used to the way you are now, but only if you give her a chance."

"The way I am now," Tony repeated, the words bitter in his mouth. "And how's that, Steve?" He tore the covers off, exposing his rail-thin frame, his amputation, his marred skin. The scars were everywhere on the right side of his body, like jungle vines encroaching aggressively on a previously civilized patch of ground. "I mean, look at this. I am objectively scary."

"No, you're not," Steve snapped, "and I don't want to hear that word again."

"Oh, really?" Tony snapped back. "I don't think I've been told to lose a word from my vocabulary since my father informed me I was not to say 'fuck,' and just look how that turned out—"

"You are not to use it around Morgan, and you are not to use it around me. I mean it. It isn't true, and it undermines the mission." Steve was stupidly serious, his voice assuming its full Captain America gravitas; Tony wondered if it was intentional or something Steve just couldn't help. It was absurd either way.

"The mission?" Tony laughed.

"You heard me. The goal here is to reestablish your relationship with Morgan. I want to turn over bedtime stories within two weeks, and that kind of language is counterproductive."

"And just what language would you use instead? How would you describe this godly splendor?" Tony made a sweep at his ruined body, sweeping away a burgeoning school of fish in the process.

"How would I describe it?" Steve's eyes took him in, traveling over his skin. Tony watched his face intently, waiting to pounce on the slightest hint of disgust, but it didn't come. Instead, a look came over Steve's face: awe, maybe, or reverence. Tony wasn't religious, so he couldn't quite place the expression, but he knew it was somewhere over there in the wheelhouse of holiness. Steve's hand, too, was hovering over him, like he wanted to touch the scars.

"How would I describe it?" Steve said again, and there was a new quality to his voice, something fervent. "In a word? Miraculous. Just look at these," he said, under his breath, almost to himself. "They're so…"

Steve's fingers were an inch away from Tony's skin; Tony could almost feel them. His breathing had grown shallow, and he shut his eyes, remembering that last, unreal time he'd seen Pepper, when they'd be so close and yet unable to touch. He shivered all over, a little from the cold, a little from that almost-touched sensation.

And just like that, the spell was broken.

As if waking from some kind of trance, Steve shook himself and pulled back his hand, redirecting it to the covers. He drew them up over Tony's body, tucking him in like a child.

"Are you cold?" Steve asked. "I can turn up the thermostat."

"So can I," Tony said immediately.

"Right. Of course," Steve said with a snort. He stood up and walked to the door. "I forgot that you don't need any help." He paused with his hand on the knob; his big shoulders slumped over. "Look," he said to the door, "I know that when you picked me, you never thought you'd have to deal with me. If you'd known what would happen, it would've been Bruce, but…" he sounded exhausted. He'd sounded exhausted all evening. Tony just hadn't let himself hear it before.

"No, I wouldn't," Tony relented. "It still would've been you. It's you more than ever now. I see how much you love her, which…" he trailed off. It was a remarkably hard thing to say, to acknowledge the strength of Steve's feelings. Steve loved Morgan, just like he himself loved Morgan. Steve wasn't a babysitter; he was Morgan's parent, the same rank as Tony. "You're doing a great job, Steve," he concluded.

"I don't know," Steve said, still talking to the closed door. "She doesn't listen to me half the time. I could never get her on the phone with you. I did try, Tony, I swear. Last week, she wouldn't wear shoes in the grocery store. I can't keep her out of that garage—"

"Cap," Tony said, "it isn't you. These are known issues. She never listened to me either. If you don't believe me, there's a book floating around here somewhere that Pepper bought called Parenting the Strong-Willed Child. I even read the damn thing. "

"Did it help?"

"Not really. It told me what I already knew, which was that you can either give the kid what she wants or you have to be prepared to outlast her."

"Sounds right," Steve agreed, then sighed. "Alright, well, I'm going to go finish up the dishes before I go to bed. Goodnight, Tony."

"Goodnight." Then, as the door was closing, he blurted, "Cap?"

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow. The mission. I'll try."

"I know you will, Tony," Steve said softly. "I didn't doubt it."

The door closed. Tony lay awake a long time afterwards, staring at the moonlight on the ceiling, counting silver minnows until he fell asleep.