So, my favourite way to avoid Endgame, in my WIPs (I have so many lmao) is to just... not ever let it become a thing! My favourite way to do this, is that when Tony nukes the space ships, the purple grape is standing front and centre and gets turned into space confetti.
This is so much fun, because it can have some spectacular butterfly effects! Tony doesn't know it, but he's basically the Hero of the Galaxy, and the potential for him to get the credit he deserves is :chef's kiss:
But also, Tony doesn't know it, so he still gets to fret about keeping the Earth safe, unknowing that it is safe, not only because he destroyed Thanos, but because everyone Out There knows he did, and they're either thankful, terrified, or both!
Depending on when/if you have a Space Dude come and tell Tony about his Feats of Strength, can seriously change the flow-on for the MCU timeline! I usually have Thor be the one to tell Tony, because Thor is a fun character, is known to Tony, and can easily bring down the Space Gossip to Earth. But there are so many other options, too! Guardians of the Galaxy, Captain Marvel, Blue Meanie coming to destroy the threat/kiss him (ymmv lmao), just... options. So many options.
And the best bit?
NO BLIP
NO ENDGAME
:cheer:
If you have or do write something like this, hit me up?! I wanna read it, all of it, ever! :D
Fic where Pepper got snapped, too. When Tony finally gets back to Earth, he discovers that not only has he lost his surrogate son but also his fiance.
And, just to dig the knife in even deeper, he finds out about a pregnancy test Pepper had taken after their jog. It turns out, his dream had been right. She was pregnant.
Was.
Tony just lost his son, his wife, and his other child he never even got to know, all at the same time.
To say he explodes at the rest of the surviving avengers is an understatement. Only Rhodey and Happy seem to have a clue what's going on, seem to get just how much Tony has truly lost.
All of this means Tony throws himself into his research to fix the snap. Unlike in canon, Tony has no reason to pull back this time. No one is relying on him to live on with whatever's left. He has nothing left.
This time, Tony won't stop until he's fixed things. After all, these deaths weren't natural, they were caused by aliens and magic. If half the universe can be erased just like that, then there must also be a way to un-erase them
This shit is solvable. There is a solution. He just has to find it.
Not Language but a Map (The Grammar of Sensation) ∘ a Post-TFATWS Fix-it
Stucky, Endgame Fix-it, Road Trip Get Together
Indirect light fills the bedroom with a pearly glow, reflecting off the courtyard walls outside where more of those tangling vines with hundreds of pale star-shaped flowers trail down. They must’ve forgotten to close the curtains after eating room service late in the little private courtyard covered with blue-and-yellow tiles as Bucky lounged in one chair with his bare feet kicked up on another, wearing only those dark sweats low on his hips.
Now, heavy and warm with sleep, Bucky sprawls out against his chest; Bucky, who came back to his bed at some point in the early morning.
Steve skims his knuckles down the long dip of Bucky’s spine: his walking-around miracle, his bad penny.
Read Chapter 7 on AO3
Only the epilogue left to go in this part of the series!
So I made a music video as a Christmas present for my besties. It's a tribute to one of my top brOTPs as well as one of my favorite music artists of all time, and I'm really pleased with how it turned out. As a little bonus, it even acts as an Endgame fix-it ;)
tags: softness, lots of pining, endgame fix-it, everyone is alive, Bucky wasn't dusted au, love confessions, get together, sappy and tender, meddling Steve, Bucky being (lovingly) a little shit toward Steve, he deserves it though, love and hope and love
beta'd by @little-specificity 💜💜💜
Last confession, perhaps, the first and the last, born out of the selfish need to lay himself bare. Of course, it would bitter the mood, break something fragile, for no matter how kind Tony is, surely he won’t— he won’t.
Yes, Bucky thinks about it, he imagines it. What he could say, how he would say it. He chooses not to, in the end.
read below or on Ao3
The compound is empty and devoid of light. It may have added a sense of foreboding, once — not that Bucky remembered a time like that, of course — but now it is normality. No reason to spend energy on lighting when it can be used elsewhere. Not many people are living there, too, even these last weeks, after everyone moved in.
That was an experience. At first, Bucky thought he would be a sore thumb among the heroes and the geniuses, worried that his presence would be strange, unwanted.
“You hang around me all the time, and you’re fine,” Tony told him after nagging the truth out of him, “and you’re a better and smarter man than, like, half of them. Don’t fret. But if you do fret, that’s okay, don’t shame yourself about fretting. And maybe go to the workshop, I’ll save you from the horrors of having to interact with people.”
Back then, Bucky just chuckled, trying not to show how much Tony’s praise affected him, but days after that, he found himself surprisingly comfortable with the whole situation. He didn’t contribute much, but he was the designated common-sense person. The one who reminded everyone about food and breaks and only laughed when everyone called him mom friend. Laughed and remembered, with a feeling so bittersweet, how he used to have the same routine with Steve and his sisters.
And with the Commandos, later — but those thoughts were too painful.
Now, at night, the place is dark. Almost everyone is asleep, getting ready for the big day. “Almost” being the keyword, since when Bucky goes down to the dimly-lit workshop, he’s presented with the sight of Tony, or, more accurately, Tony’s back, for the man is bent over the table, fully submerged in his work. Bucky clears his throat.
“Oh, hey there!” Tony’s hair is in disarray, a clear sign of him messing with it, distracted, for hours. Working. “Trouble sleeping?”
“Checking on you. Whatcha doing?”
“Oh. Uh. Just a bit of finishing touches.” Tony shows the gauntlet to him.
Red and gold, of course, but strangely big, with places for the stones. Too big for Tony’s hands. There are parts of the Iron Man suit laying around in chaos, nanites moving, forming into shapes. This sight always manages to take Bucky’s breath away a little: it’s all wonders that look as if they came from a science fiction book, and at the center there’s Tony, the mind behind it all, eyes bright and intense, looking at him. A shining star.
“Weren’t you finished with it already?” Bucky asks softly and tries to get out of his reverence, to find a ground beneath his feet, as if it is possible, as if he hasn’t already lost this battle a long time ago. Tries to seem normal, at least, to act like it.
“There’s always something to improve, you know it, Bucky bear.”
Oh, yes. They have this thing now. The nicknames. It started as a way for Bucky to answer to all the ridiculous names Tony was throwing at him, to mockingly say “yes, dear” in return, to tease each other, friendly. It wasn’t supposed to change to this: too soft, too sincere, too close to the truth, accompanied, as always, by a feeling of exhilaration in his stomach.
Bucky says to himself — keeps saying — it’s still friendly teasing. He masks it with sass and a deadpan voice. (He’s losing a hopeless battle.) Grappling for the denial, for the act, to save the fragile peace.
Tony only rolls his eyes at him, turning around immediately, back to his work.
“Pot, kettle. I’m fine! Just this one thing.”
“Okay,” Bucky gives up.
He gives up because he doesn’t want this to be an argument. He wants, selfishly, greedily, to spend one last night here, now, in their little shelter, before tomorrow changes everything in ways yet unknown, too hard to predict.
Makes himself content just watching Tony.
It’s a perfect moment for a goodbye, perhaps. Considering what waited for them tomorrow. And he does consider, too used to think about every possible way everything could go down, about every route and every path of the future. Too used to notice and to think and to calculate: a remnant of his days as a machine. He knows their chances aren’t perfect. This moment — both of them, alone and quiet and at peace — can be their last one. So Bucky knows he should say goodbye, to not regret it, afterward — if there will be such a thing, of course, a possibility of that regret.
Bucky knows. He thinks of it. He imagines it, what he can do: last words. Last touch. Last memory. Last confession, perhaps, the first and the last, born out of the selfish need to lay himself bare. Of course, it would bitter the mood, break something fragile, for no matter how kind Tony is, surely he won’t— he won’t.
Yes, Bucky thinks about it, he imagines it. What he could say, how he would say it. He chooses not to, in the end.
The reasoning is simple. It’s not because he doesn’t want to create a burden, not because he feels this moment is good, perfect enough to remember, to cherish, later, even though both of these things are true. No.
Bucky feels hopeful. He believes. So rare in his life, this hope holds him up, this hope makes him silent, for he believes in a future possibility to say all the hidden words, to tell every truth. And to keep this optimism, this emerging happiness, this will to live, he remains silent. He remains silent so that he will fight for the right to break that silence.
It is how he spends this time — last time, last evening — laying on the couch, looking at Tony working; only interrupted minutes (hours?) after, when Tony stops and sighs and tells him: “Fine, fine, I can hear you judging, let’s go.”
“Never said anything.”
“Uh-huh. I just needed to do some stuff. It’s fine. It’s ready. We should go to sleep.”
“Sure,” Bucky says, standing up and coming close. “You did everything perfectly, I’m sure. Now get your ass to bed.”
“Going,” Tony says, but doesn’t move.
He stands near the table, stares at the gauntlet. A figure that seems too lonely. Unmoving, tense.
“Everything will be alright. I know you hate waiting, but we went through all the possibilities. It’s going to be okay.”
“I know,” Tony smiles at him, “I know.”
But the smile is tired, way too tired. They all are exhausted, after the weeks of planning, readying for the heist, after guessing and overthinking. But they can’t stand the delay anymore, for time to spend losing themselves in their obsession isn’t what they need at all.
Tony goes, finally, leaving Bucky looking after him with a mixture of tenderness and worry and longing, as always. With a wish to hold him close all night, this night of waiting. Bucky doesn’t go after him, of course. His eyes are settled on the table, unseeing.
“What did he work on, FRI?” He asks.
“A mechanism to connect the stones back to the gauntlet, were they lost in battle, Sarge.”
Ah. No surprise.
“You running that ball, right?” Bucky says fondly — he and FRIDAY have a weird relationship, somewhat close to the one he once had with Becca. As much as this analogy can be drawn between siblings and a machine bonding with screwed-up remains of a human.
“Of course I am,” she says, not unproud, making him smile.
He then asks her one last thing, one last favor for today, and leaves, lights going out behind him.
Tomorrow. They just have to wait for tomorrow.
Bucky dreams.
It’s surprising, and yet it’s not. It feels like it’s natural. It feels like the right order of things: the stones giving him dreams while his body is too busy trying to recover.
Bucky dreams of real things, things that happened. Of the moment just before he snapped, in the middle of the battlefield, when everyone was scattered and there was no way to see it all from the inside, only to catch snippets of others.
Others, returning. Steve. The feeling of a battle almost lost. Then: Tony, raising his arm. Bucky, reacting to it. His jump wasn’t a graceful movement, nor was it thought through. A reaction. Like watching a bomb and then running and jumping on top of it. A movement so simple, born not out of a thought, but of a feeling. Of desperation. Of a prediction, waiting in the back of his mind for days, a prophecy he told himself, born out of fear.
He dreams of the moment of silence that came after.
The dreams are changing. Bucky dreams of the past. Of faces young and carefree, unburdened by the thought of the future. Of hope he once had, when he was merely a child. Of people long gone, of one person who remained, who changed and yet stayed, always the savior, now to be saved.
Of the past, but a more recent one. Of barren ground and of grief. Of sadness shared, of a hand reached toward him.
Of dark eyes, weary but kind. Of a soft smile, so uncommon in the place — in the time — of desperation, in the aftermath of death and pain and loss.
Of falling in love.
Bucky dreams of the present, and this present is unknown and strange. Of walls white and bright, of his own face, unmoving. Of whispers and worry and blue eyes, turned to his body, of trembling hands. Of a person, alive. (Alive!)
Of an argument happening one night near the closed door, of angry voices and accusations, of an arm (an arm that belongs to a person, alive. Alive, again!) obstructing the way to his room. Of a lone figure that builds walls and armors, that works too much and doesn’t sleep, for nobody’s there to make him sleep, and never comes again.
Bucky dreams of the future, too. The future is bright and calm and tender. Everyone is alive. The future feels like a warm embrace. Like a little sun inside his chest.
When Bucky stops dreaming, he forgets.
Bucky’s days of waking up are just that — days. Days still full of sleep, but now with short periods of conscience. He barely talks, he can hardly listen, still too tired for conversations. But he’s waking up. He’s alive.
With time, he starts distinguishing Steve’s hands, his presence almost constant. Nat’s, later. She’s quieter and calmer. Both of them are comforting. Sometimes it’s someone else’s.
It takes him days to be present enough to realize what’s missing. Tony’s not there. And Bucky, well, Bucky doesn’t remember any moment of him around.
He doesn’t have the strength to think about it too much, and the disappointment knocks him down fast. But the thought lingers. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Maybe he was asleep.
Maybe Tony just didn’t come.
Bucky’s finally done with not knowing one morning. Natasha’s at his side, reading to him, her voice a comforting sound.
“D’you know if Tony’ll come?” he asks.
She frowns.
“He hasn’t?”
The question is loaded. She believes Tony should, for one, which quiets Bucky’s nervous side.
“Not t’my memory.”
Her expression changes in a subtle way, unnoticeable to a stranger. She tenses, freezes a little. Both of them are thinking the same questions, the questions that Bucky ponders daily.
“How much do you remember?” Natasha asks, preferring to start with intel as detailed as possible.
“Not much,” he admits, “you. Steve. A lot. Wilson, I think.”
Her face is thoughtful.
“Steve is here most of the time, so—” she starts saying, and fuck. Fuck.
Bucky’s dumb. He’s seen dumber, though. And he has the excuse of being half-dead.
“These two fucking idiots,” he says with feeling.
“Ah,” Natasha closes her eyes for a second and does this thing of hers where she laughs inside, not showing it on her face.
Bucky sighs. He’s tired and hurting. He doesn’t want to deal with it.
“Please hide the idiot number one somewhere. And drag the idiot number two here? And maybe yell at the idiot number one for doing whatever he did. I wanna sleep.”
Natasha swears she will do as he says. She even helps him make a threatening yet vague text to Steve before going.
Bucky falls asleep.
An unknown amount of time later, Bucky is torn from his sleep by the sound of the door closing. If someone else woke him up, he may have grumbled and grouched, but it’s Tony. Tired and worried and looking a bit like a guilty kid, but it’s him, it’s real. He’s in Bucky’s room, just standing, looking uncertain.
“Hey,” Bucky grumbles. His throat feels scratchy.
He probably looks nightmarish, down an arm again, too many scars, too pale in the unforgiving hospital light. He’s suddenly overcome with stupid, vain insecurity. He wants to fidget. It’s weird, but in a light-hearted way — he hasn’t been worried about his appearance since, probably, 1943 or so.
“Hey yourself,” Tony says, but doesn’t move, so Bucky has to nod to him to come closer, which he does, finally.
Bucky stares at his face. Bucky missed this face. Tony sits on the chair next to the bed.
“Are you… shit, no, that’s not a — what do you ask people in the hospital? I mean, you think I would know, with all of my experience in the area, but — fuck, sorry, I’m rambling. Hi. You’re here. You’re alive. I brought you fruit, they didn’t allow me to bring it inside.”
Bucky is smiling so much it hurts.
“I’m alright,” he says, “good to see you.”
Tony breathes.
“Good to see you too, Snowflake.”
Bucky sees his fingers fidgeting in his lap.
“Missed you,” Bucky says because, for all of his resolve, he’s still on the good drugs. Some stuff is bound to simmer through.
Tony freezes, then turns away, and, oh, that’s sad. Bucky wants his face back.
“Sorry,” he gets instead.
The silence is uncomfortable, and Bucky ponders whether it will be good to poke the wound, to talk about the issue. To call Tony an idiot for believing his other idiot, for thinking himself unwanted. He knows it will be hard, as every conversation that addresses Tony’s issues, hidden by an invisible armor, is hard. Bucky doesn’t want to fight. He also feels his own issues, usually hidden, protected from the light of the day, ignored and silenced, trying to rear their ugly heads.
“Were you mad at me?” he says, teasingly, trying — so hard — not to ask it seriously.
Not to mean it.
Tony’s head snaps back to him.
“No, of course—” he stops and shakes his head and looks at Bucky with something akin to tenderness, eyes soft and everything there is to dream about, and then changes his tone to playful, “you know what. A little. You heroic asshole, making us all worry. Why did— stealing our thunder, becoming the greatest hero ever lived, whatever. We’re all very pissed, actually.”
Bucky moves his head closer to him, wishing for a touch.
“Hypocrite,” Bucky calls him tenderly. “And I’m no hero.”
“Of course you are,” softly, impossibly soft again, god, Bucky can listen to this voice for eternity, “you saved us all. Look at what you did for the world.”
Tony brings his hand closer as if wishing to touch, too, and Bucky meets him in the middle. He’s a bit tired. But this is a pressing conversation, the most important one to have, so he wills himself to stay awake.
“Didn’t do it for the world,” he says.
“What? But—”
“I had a thought. Before and during, I guess. That you would do it. Of course, you would. Always ready to. But between us both, I’m the one who can survive stuff like that. So, no. I’m no hero, Tony, and I didn’t do that for the world.”
Bucky closes his eyes in the middle of his speech, exhausted, but his hand keeps its embrace on Tony’s one, not letting go.
“You asked FRI to change the— that’s why the stones went to your—” Tony says, his voice suddenly hoarse, and his pulse is way too fast under Bucky’s fingers.
“Stop with the guilty face. I know you have it on.”
“Jesus, you can’t just—”
“It was an easy choice. The only way we would both be alive. And I mean it. I didn’t want to die, don’t worry. But I needed— I need— you.”
They’re silent for a bit, connected by their hands, by the feeling in the air, electric and glorious. Bucky caresses Tony’s wrist with his thumb, feeling his pulse beneath his skin.
“Fuck,” Tony mutters finally, “how are you— you are so— fuck you, honestly, you are the only one to shut me up like that,” that makes Bucky chuckle, “this is something people do for the ones they love, not me, and you—”
“I do love you,” Bucky tells him and smiles.
It’s easy. After days of thinking, years of longing, of worrying, of fearing, this final moment is easier than breathing. Literally, in his case, for the actual breathing is still a feat. He’s alive, here, and he loves this person, who’s also alive and here. Everything else is insignificant.
Tony gapes at him, which is the first thing he sees, opening his eyes after a bit of silence.
“It’s that easy,” Bucky says, squeezing his hand a little.
“You’re the most insane person in the universe,” Tony says, sounding breathless, and then, not letting Bucky say a word, leans down and kisses him.
It should feel like a dream that he’s having, on drugs and imagining, because it’s perfect, because it’s impossible. It doesn’t. The kiss is short and uncomfortable, for they are still in the hospital, Bucky’s body isn’t responsive much, and he is way too tired to move. For real life isn’t like the horrible romance novel Nat was reading to him aloud, where the world stops, and physical pain doesn’t bother you if the person you love is with you. Yet, Bucky can’t be happier.
It’s perfect.
“I’m going to sleep now,” he says, “but you’re staying here, and when I wake up, we’re doing it again.”
“Okay,” Tony says, slightly dazed, and nods several times.
Bucky falls asleep, joyful.
His life has become a series of moments between sleep, it seems. But when he wakes up, Tony’s there, as promised. He dozed off, was snoring a little, head on Bucky’s bed and back so weirdly curved it would ache later. Bucky pokes him until he’s awake and makes him lay in a more comfortable position, on the bed. They lay like that, faces close, bodies flushed against each other. Both are way too tired for anything, as if everything of the past many years has caught them, finally.
Bucky is content, though. He smiles.
They kiss a little more, soft and lazy and silent, arms around each other — three of them, which is still unfairly complicated, Bucky says, and they are full on in a ridiculous debate about which amount of limbs are optimal for snuggling. This — talking and laughing, jokes that are a bit too weird, a bit too dark — is familiar. This is purely them, them as they were, but also them as they are now: soft and tender and close. Intimate. Whispering and touching.
Bucky calls Tony sweetheart, but this time doesn’t hide any feelings inside that word. Tony shivers.
Togetherness is exhilarating.
They’re mostly left alone, and the nurses have worked there long enough to not bat an eye at them. What they say are mainly admonitions for Tony to stop hogging the patient’s bed. They aren’t strict, however.
Everyone feels too fragile. Everyone is hopeful and kind.
Later, when the sky is dark and Tony is asleep again — his head on Bucky’s shoulder, face clear of worry and unusually still, beautiful, as always — the door creaks again. Bucky opens his eyes unwillingly, but it is so worth it, for Stevie’s face is indescribable.
Bucky thinks he hasn’t seen that level of confusion since their school math lessons. He almost giggles.
Steve continues to gape at them. His eyes are wide as saucers. His mouth is literally open. He wants to say something when Bucky shushes him.
This is the most fun he has had in decades.
“He’s sleeping,” Bucky mouths, then leans to kiss Tony’s forehead, “and you’re an idiot.”
Steve looks at them for a second, unmoving, then closes his eyes, wishing, Bucky knows, for someone to pinch him, and leaves abruptly.
“T’s okay,” Bucky tells Tony, who’s woken by his giggles, “sleep.”
take your leave of me my love (though i beg of you to let me stay) [a post-endgame tonynat fanfic]
Fandom: Marvel
Ship: tonynat
Characters: Tony | Natasha | Rhodey
Rating: T for heavy angst and non-graphic descriptions of injuries
Additional tags: angst | endgame fix-it | established relationship
take your leave of me my love (though i beg of you to let me stay)
Written as a fix-it for @queeenpersephone's fic: https://queeenpersephone.tumblr.com/post/185483537999
[read on AO3]
The last thing Tony saw before his vision faded to black was Natasha’s tearful smile. Even with consciousness slipping from him, he could see the cracks in her brave face, could see how she was holding it together desperately for him, could see it as naturally as breathing because that was how well he knew her.
He had snapped his fingers and saved the universe. But he couldn’t save himself—and he couldn’t save her anymore.
It was with the other Avengers’ promise that they would look after her that he drifted off.
The first thought in his mind when he woke was that heaven smelled uncomfortably sterile. The second was that it hurt. Something. Everything. Nothing.
Cracking his eyes open, he saw the familiar off-white of hospital walls, an array of beeping equipment presumably hooked up to him, and Rhodey slumped in the chair by his bed, tapping idly on his phone.
“If this is the afterlife, I’m disappointed.”
Rhodey’s head immediately snapped up. Oh no. Tony’s heart sank. He could see it in his oldest friend’s micro-expression—it was bad.
“Disappointed that it’s me?” Rhodey’s tone was light, but his relief was audible. As was the underlying heaviness.
“Where’s Nat?” How bad is it?
A shade flickered across Rhodey’s eyes. “We made her go home and get some real food and sleep. She was here for fifty-two hours. Steve practically had to force her away from your bedside.”
Relief settled briefly in Tony’s chest, light as a bird’s landing before taking off again, leaving a little spray of kicked-up sand in its wake.
“We promised we’d take care of her,” Rhodey reminded Tony. As though he would forget. As though it wasn’t with their promise that he knew he could go. Maybe he had wanted to go. Maybe it would have been better if he had gone.
“I’ll text her, she’ll want to be here now that you’re awake.”
“Wait,” Tony interjected. Rhodey paused mid-text. “Let me see first.”
Rhodey hesitated, his phone still in his hand. “Tony, I don’t think that’s a—”
“Let me see,” Tony said through gritted teeth, his heart thumping unsteadily.
Rhodey gave in, tucking his phone back into his pocket, the text unsent, and brought a tabletop mirror over.
The face that looked back at Tony’s almost sent him fainting again. Rhodey’s voice faded into background noise: right arm, amputation, deceased skin, permanent scarring... The only thing that Tony could see his familiar brown eyes, staring at him out of an unrecognizably scarred face.
It wasn’t bad. It was so, so, so much worse.
————————
Natasha woke up disoriented and hungry. After Steve shooed her from the hospital and escorted her home, she had all but collapsed on the bed that still smelled like Tony and passed out, too tired to think or cry or even dream.
It was mid-afternoon when she woke up, judging by the light in the room, which meant that she’d been out for over twelve hours. Rare for her, but hardly surprising, given the events of the last few days. She had time-traveled, been to space, fought her best friend to the death, and lost to see him die—she choked back a sob at the memory of Clint’s long fall down the cliff. She had fought Thanos, watched her husband almost die from using a weapon not meant for mortal hands, and kept vigil at his bedside while he lay unconscious, barely breathing, half his body swathed in gauze and his right arm missing.
It had been a lot.
She wanted to stay in bed and pretend that everything was fine. With the sheets still smelling like Tony, it was easy to pretend that he was in the kitchen making coffee. That she could get up and walk down the hallway and wrap her arms around his middle and kiss his cheek. That she would meet Clint at the training room and exchange banter and roll her eyes at his nineties pop culture references. That he would—
He would never anything anymore, because he was dead.
Natasha rolled over in bed, away from the Clint-shaped ghost that lay next to her, and checked her phone instead.
A text from Rhodey—from six hours ago.
Tony woke up for a little bit. Asleep now. Asked about you.
Mentally kicking herself for sleeping so long, she began typing frantically.
How is he? Is he in pain? Did he say anything else? Why didn’t you call? How is—
She deleted all of that and sent a single, short reply.
On my way.
————————
Natasha paused outside the door to Tony’s hospital room.
It was an unpleasantly familiar feeling. Every time Tony got injured, which was more often than Nat liked and more often that he should for a man in metal armor, it was tough to see him weak and in pain in a hospital bed. No matter how many times they’d been through it, it never got easier.
But this time, it was doubly difficult. Broken ribs and concussions were one thing, but an amputated arm and half his body covered by bandages was another entirely.
Natasha took a deep breath to steel herself and opened the door. The sight of Tony sitting up sent a heady rush of relief through Nat. Most of the bandages on his face and neck were removed, though the dressing at his right shoulder peeked out of the collar of the hospital gown. Beginning there—Natasha tried not to look at the missing arm—was a web of red marks starting to form deep scars. They extended up his neck, onto his jaw and his right cheek. It was the first time she’s seen the extent of his injuries, and though she’s told herself it would be bad, she wasn’t prepared for the way her heart clenched.
Tony was playing with his wedding band in his left hand, and appeared not to notice her entry.
“Hey.” Natasha tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. “Look who’s awake.”
He looked up at her. Those were the warm eyes of the man she loved, but there was an unfamiliar look in them that unsettled her.
“You’re here.” He sounded almost disbelieving.
“Where else would I be?” Natasha sat down in the chair and scooted closer. She wanted to take his hand but she was afraid to touch him when he looked so distant. Like there was something between them.
“Anywhere you want.” Tony shrugged, and a deep chill pierced Natasha’s heart. “You can go, you know. I don’t mean from this hospital, but from my—” He blinked hard, and the softness disappeared from his eyes. They were like flint. Like iron.
“What are you saying?” Her voice trembled. Her shaky grasp on casualness slipped away, and the tears came uncharacteristically easy. She didn’t have the strength to stop them or to put on a brave face. Not anymore.
He met her gaze, the only readable part of his expression was the hard-set stubbornness of his jaw. “I’m setting you free. You don’t have to stay, I won’t blame you.”
