Chapter Text
Chapter Three
“Can’t sleep?”
Tony was glad he was so tired otherwise he was sure he would have screamed like a little girl as Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder. Instead, he jumped slightly, an unbidden shocked noise catching in his throat, scrapping his oesophagus raw as he forcibly swallowed it down. Steve watched him carefully, waiting for Tony’s response as the silence lingered between them.
Tony forced himself to smile. “What gave it away?”
“Well, you are sat by yourself in the kitchen at 3 am… but mostly it was a wild stab in the dark,” Steve said, there was a gentle mischievous glint in his eyes just waiting to come out.
Tony couldn’t help but smile back. People had very particular ideas about how Captain America should act and think, and the intensity of those expectations often made Steve clam up like an oyster, retreating to blank stoniness. It was sad because the real Steve Rogers was a little shit, sarcastic and pushy, competitive to a fault and with a mouth like a sailor when he was annoyed. Tony much preferred Steve Rogers to Captain America.
Tony shrugged, the movement of his shoulder sending his oversized MIT sweater sliding down his arm. Steve’s eyes tracked the movement, his mouth moving as he sat down, close enough that Tony could feel the heat radiating off him. “Everyone has nights where they can’t sleep. You’re awake.”
“Side effect of the super-soldier serum, I don’t need much sleep. What’s your excuse?”
Tony looked down into his coffee cup; it was still nearly full. The once steaming liquid had cooled to something tepid in his hands. His strained, bruised eyes stared back at him from the surface of the coffee, haunted-looking. “Bad dreams.” He told his reflection with a grimace.
“I think I can understand that,” Steve said, his voice was soft, words carefully drawn out as if in confession.
Tony pushed his mug away; the movement made the coffee slosh over the rim of the cup and flood across the counter. Tony cursed, shooting to his feet but then hesitated as he stared at the spilled coffee; suddenly unsure what do to. He could feel Steve watching him silently, eyebrows curling up in worry. Tony knew that he was acting oddly and a strange thrum of nervous energy started to crawl through his limbs, lightning running across his muscles.
He wanted, in that moment, nothing more than to get himself a drink. A martini, or wine or straight-up vodka for all he cared. Just anything that could slow down the furious sharp edges of his whirling, sleep-deprived mind. It was how he had always dealt with things previously. Well, alcohol and sex. It had been too long since he’d had either.
“Tony.” Steve’s hand came down slowly, heavy and hot on his bare shoulder. “It’s OK.”
Tony glanced over at him and Steve squeezed gently. There something too intimate, too raw in the gesture; Tony swallowed, his throat feeling narrower, painful. He had the strangest feeling that he might cry suddenly.
Tony slipped out of Steve’s hands deftly, bereft at the loss of contact while simultaneously glad it was over. Steve touching him made him feel stripped bare, exposed. He turned, trying to force a reassuring, carefree grin at Steve. If Steve’s expression was anything to go by, Tony guessed he failed that too.
“I should probably just go to bed –”
“You know when I can’t sleep. I always find that watching a movie helps.” Steve interrupted.
Tony grimaced awkwardly “I’m OK.”
“I know,” Steve said casually, and his expression was open, shoulders softened and rounded. “But I’m awake and it would be nice to have some company.”
Tony narrowed his eyes suspiciously but Steve just smiled, pressing his advantage. “We can finish watching the Stars War.”
“It’s Star Wars.” Tony corrected automatically, but he was already trailing after Steve to the TV area.
“Yeah, that too,” Steve said over his shoulder. He dropped onto the sofa easily, eating space in a way he rarely let himself do. Tony wondered about that sometimes, tried to imagine what it would be like to wake up one day and find himself doubled in size. Steve hid it well, but the deliberate, careful control over his physicality indicated a level of awkwardness that he never spoke of aloud. Tony slumped down next to Steve, muffling a groan as his bones decided to make their weary aches know.
JARVIS, always one step ahead, had queued up the film and the familiar brass notes of the main theme filmed the darkening room.
Tony blinked; somehow missing Steve shuffling up next to him until he was pressed close. A muscular arm stretched out behind Tony, resting across the back of the sofa and fingers trailing down to rest on his shoulders. Lightning quick, Tony’s mind took him back to his desire to drink once again; drinking and sex. Just making out would do. The thought made him tense beneath Steve’s hand and the man glanced down at him.
“Oh sorry, I can move-“ Steve said.
Tony shook his head, grabbing Steve’s wrist before the man could pull away. “No, it’s fine. It’s nice.”
“Ok.” Steve’s cheeks were pink again, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he had overheard something funny and was trying not to give his eavesdropping away. He let himself relax once again, spreading out further around Tony until Tony thought he was going to try and envelope him. Tony’s eyelids were heavy, sluggish and instead, he found himself tilting his head towards Steve’s fingers, the curve of his cheek coming to rest against them.
“I’ve got you,” Steve said, his voice warm and safe and sounding far away.
Tony made a noise; his eyelids drooping closed slowly.
Tony sat quietly in the doctor’s waiting room, listening to the coughing and sneezing of the waiting patients around him.
His mother had reminded him before they had arrived that the doctor needed to understand that he was sick, but Tony was bored, restless. He sighed, fighting against the urge to swing his legs back and forth knowing that it wasn’t what sick people did. He looked down at his knees instead, pressing his thumb into the joint. His legs were pale branches, knees swollen and straining through thin skin and his thumb left a white mark that lingered like a stain, fading as blood sluggishly crept back through his flesh.
“Tesoro, come on.” Maria interrupted him, holding out a hand. She was wearing gloves, neat little white things that felt slippery in Tony’s hand. He let her lead him on, peering around distractedly at the waiting room. They had only recently started venturing beyond the manor to find a paediatrician who “knew what they were talking about” and Tony was still intrigued by the clean little white offices he found himself in and the brightly coloured picture books and toys that filled the waiting rooms. He didn’t have anything like that at home, his father said he was too smart for rubbish like that but Tony’s fingers betrayed him, itching to touch.
Tony curled his free hand into a fist guilty. Howard and discussions of Tony’s intelligence had infiltrated Tony’s life seemingly overnight and Tony wasn’t sure he liked it.
A few months ago, Howard had caught Tony playing around in his workshop, copying his father's plans for a circuit board. Tony knew he shouldn’t have been anywhere near his father’s workshop. The only other time Tony had tried to enter the workshop Howard had thrashed Tony; bending him over the worn leather arm of his desk chair and whipping his bare backside with the hardened sole of his shoe until Tony was crying, begging him to stop. Sometimes Tony thought maybe he had dreamed the incident, that the lingering pain in his thighs and buttocks were the cobweb remnants of a bad dream. Even if it had just been a dream, it had been enough to keep Tony away. At least for a while.
That day, Maria had been having one of her bad days. Howard was meant to be on business and Tony had been so hungry. It felt like he was always hungry nowadays, and it was only when Tony’s mind was occupied did the cramping, biting hunger pangs seem to disappear. It hadn’t seemed like a huge risk at the time.
Tony remembered the sinking, horrified feeling of his stomach dropping away when he’d looked up and seen his father’s shadowy bulk framed in the doorway. He had frozen like a hare caught in the gaze of a fox, the sharp edges of his circuit board cutting into the soft skin of palms. Howard had dragged Tony up off the floor, fingers pressing bruises into his thin wrists and Tony had felt tears forming in the corners of his eyes, sure he was about to be beaten again. Instead, he’d been lifted, dangling in his father’s arms like a ragdoll. The Howard had dropped Tony onto a high stool, shoved him towards a workbench, and ordered to build another circuit board but better. Howard’s expression when he’d completed the second circuit board had been delighted, lips pulled open so wide that Tony could count all of his teeth.
For a while after that Tony thought maybe his father would grow to like him. Whereas before Howard preferred to not hear or see Tony, now he demanded his son’s presence in random prolonged bursts. Tony was given more circuit boards, mathematics questions, logic puzzles. And Tony consumed everything his father put in front of him, hungry from the sudden stimulation and desperate to please his father, to keep him happy. And if Howard's interest was sometimes mixed with something darker, a shadow across his face when Tony succeeded too quickly: well Tony was used to conditional love.
At some point, there had been a press conference; Tony standing in a smaller version of his father’s suit as he held up his circuit board to the flash of a hundred cameras. Howard had been stood next to him, grinning. Tony had tried to smile too but his mother’s pinched, pale face was staring at him from the side of the stage, and Tony felt off-kilter as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.
That night, everyone in the manor must have heard his parents arguing. Maria’s voice was a high-pitched wail, accusatory and desperate and Howard had been mocking, disgusted by her. Tony had rarely seen his parents interact outside of public events; they were like planets, orbiting the same space but never meeting. However, it wasn’t until that night he’d understood the depths of their loathing. Tony thought he would throw up listening to them, flinching each time his name echoed up through the floorboard. Tony had wiggled down into the centre of his bed, the weight of the duvet surrounding him, muffling the sounds coming from downstairs. It didn’t make much difference; he still knew what they were arguing about. They had found another battlefield.
Tony blinked away the memory, brushing the spiderwebs of clinging feeling away his eyes as the door to the doctor’s office closed behind him. The little office felt small, stifling and Tony drew in a shaky hot breath, wondering if the air was thick or heavy or if maybe his lungs were ill as well as his stomach.
“Good morning Mrs. Stark, Tony. It’s good to see you again.”
Maria smiled at Doctor Carter, gesturing for Tony to take a seat as she finished a series of soft-spoken pleasantries. They had seen this doctor thrice now, more than any other doctor since Doctor Everette. The doctor weighed Tony, tutting disappointedly and then got him to lie down on the examination table, pressing his fingers along the concaved lines of Tony’s abdomen and asking him to say when it hurt. Tony’s stomach always felt a bit tender, sore from the still constant fluctuation between diarrhoea and constipation and he wavered, unsure which parts of his torso were meant to be sore.
“Anthony, stop messing around,” Maria said sharply as Doctor Carter started to pull away. She leaned over and pressed her thumb into Tony’s lower stomach, pushing hard to remind him. “You said it hurt here, remember.” She looked at the doctor, shrugging apologetically. “I’m sorry, Doctor Carter. I don’t know why he’s acting like this.”
The doctor smiled at Maria easily. “It’s quite common in children this young. It can be hard for them to explain their symptoms. Tony is lucky he has such a dedicated mother.”
Maria blushed, waving his compliment away. “It’s what any mother would do.”
Doctor Carter snorted, settling down back at his desk. “You’d be surprised.” He glanced over at Tony, an afterthought, “You can come down from there now Tony. I think we have everything we need.”
Tony pulled his t-shirt back down but didn’t get up off the examination table. His mother and the doctor were absorbed in their quick-fire conversation, his mother prompting the doctor when he started to trail off into silence. Tony was tired and happy to stay lying on the table. He was always tired lately.
“His blood tests came back clean but his weight loss is very concerning.” Doctor Carter was saying, “Are you sure he is eating fine?”
“He’s always hungry but he complains that it hurts, I can’t get him to finish anything.”
Tony glanced over at his mother, confused. He didn’t think he hurt when he ate and he definitely wasn’t leaving any food, not with the new diet he was on for his allergies. He licked his plates clean, chasing the lingering taste of food with his fingers and tongue as his stomach-churning ravenously. He could feel the protest on the tip of his tongue, an automatic denial but it died as quickly as he thought it, shrivelling in his mouth like rotting fruit. He hung his head, suddenly ashamed but not sure why.
“Nobody can quite figure out what’s going on.” His mother was saying, “But look at him, my baby’s withering away. There is something wrong here.”
Doctor Carter hummed, “I agree. I believe that Tony may have some issues with his digestive tract. It would explain his weight loss, the pain in his abdomen, and his upset stomach. I suggest we refer him for some more tests. Have you ever heard of a Sigmoidoscopy?”
Tony woke with a start, white starbursts popping across his vision.
He groaned, screwing his eyes shut and turning his face into soft bulk next to him. The pain in head softened around the edges, allowing Tony’s brain to separate the sensory overload into the familiar blare of the avenger’s alarm.
The warm wall Tony was pressing himself into shuddered, a brief earthquake of breathing, and Tony realised abruptly that he was pressed into Steve’s chest, his whole body curled up tight into the other man. Tony’s eyes opened, his gaze darting up to catch Steve staring at him, watched Tony through the feathery sweep of his fair lashes. Steve smiled, the corners of his lips pulling up into a lazy, sleep-filled smile. Tony felt momentarily breathless, caught off guard by the other man’s soft golden perfection.
“It’s not fair that you look like that after falling asleep on a sofa,” Tony muttered, his brain to mouth filter non-existent. Steve huffed in amusement. “Especially as I know I feel like I’ve gone a few rounds with a bear.”
Steve’s hand which had been curled possessively around his shoulder crept up, coming to rest of Tony’s face, drawing him closer to Steve’s bent head. His hand was big enough to cover most of Tony’s face, stroking at the skin near Tony’s eye. “You look pretty good to me.”
“Aww, well this is sweet.”
Beneath him, Steve stiffened. His hand dropping away from Tony’s face so abruptly, Tony nearly fell over.
Clint’s cooed with laughter at them, appearing at the other end of the room. He was shrugging into his combat gear, stumbling his way towards them.
Tony glanced between Clint and Steve. The sleep-soft look in Steve’s eyes had been replaced by something by something blank, distant. Despite Tony’s gaze, Steve continued to look straight ahead, the muscles in his jaw twitching. There was a barbed comment on Tony’s tongue, building up into existence but before he could say anything, Steve had stood up and walked away. Tony remained on the couch, crossing his arms and tried to subdue the crawling, sting of embarrassment prickling across his skin.
“Alright, what have we got this time.”
“Doombots.” Natasha said simply and there was a groan throughout the tower even as Steve ordered them to suit up. Tony remained silent as he to his feet, neck cracking at the sudden stretch.
“I hate doombots.” Clint complained, trailing after Natasha as they hurried to grab their weapons.
“Tony, wait.” Steve reached out, big hand curling easily around Tony’s wrist. Tony didn’t bother to try and break away, not that he had a choice if Steve wanted him to stay.
He met Steve’s gaze expectantly.
“I just wanted to say, that you can sit this one out.”
Tony felt his mouth fall open, shock robbing him of his words for a second. Whatever he thought Steve was going to say, he hadn’t expected that. “Excuse me?”
“You haven’t been yourself lately and you haven’t been sleeping…”
“I haven’t been myself?” Tony repeated slowly, furiously.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I can tell you’re going through something.” Steve continued.
“Are you benching me?” Tony asked.
Steve frowned, shaking his head. “What? No? I’m not benching you. I just thought, well it’s just doombots. We don’t need the whole team. We can handle this without you if you don’t feel well.”
Tony’s heart was beating against his rib cage, blood pounding in his ears. Steve was so sincere, eyebrows knotted with worry, and Tony hated his face suddenly, hated that Steve seemed to think he could just look at Tony and know exactly what was going on and judge him after one day.
“I feel fine.” He yanked his arm down sharply, breaking Steve’s grip and spinning around.
Steve called his name and Tony waved at him over his shoulder. “I’m going to put the suit on. I’ll meet you there.” He snapped over his shoulder and darted downstairs to get his armour. Steve’s voice trailed after him, confused and frustrated.
The armour was waiting for him; its armoured plates peeled open like an orange, the uncoloured silvery insides shinning welcomingly. Tony barely noticed as it curled securely around him, still thrumming with anger. He knew distantly that Steve was probably trying to be sensitive, to be kind but it set Tony’s teeth on edge, made him want to come out swinging.
With a curse, Tony stepped out the docking bay and flew out the opening tunnel.
“Interception of doombots in approximately four minutes,” JARVIS’ said, his steady voice almost enough to calm the jittery rabbit beat of Tony’s heart. On the overlay screen in Tony’s headset, he could see Steve’s number flashing at him. Tony ignored it.
“Let’s see if we can’t shave off another minute, shall we?” Tony said instead and his stomach flipped with familiar terror laced adrenaline as he plunged downwards, a bullet into a war zone.
Tony’s sudden entrance allowed him to knock out two bots before they noticed him. He spun out and up as they turned around to face him; their red eyes glinting in their metallic faces. They were a more skeleton-like version of a doombot than Tony was used to. Oversized skulls with sharpened limbs; luckily there was only a dozen. Doom must be test driving a new prototype.
“Not his best work at all,” Tony muttered to himself, dodging to the side as a robot tried to slam its bladed arm into him. The blade struck the pavement, the force of the blow crumpling the concrete. Tony allowed his momentum to bring him back towards the robot, slamming a fist into its head and following up with a repulsor blast that knocked the skull-like mask right to the floor. Sparking circuitry was exposed, sparking angrily as the robot crumbling at the knees and fell to the ground.
“Definitely not his best work,” Tony repeated, nudging the robot with his booted toe. A long shadow moved across the sky, accompanied by a familiar whirl of engines. Tony risked a look away from the waiting doombots to see the sleek crisp lines of the avengers’ jet hovering above him.
“Ironman, status,” Steve ordered; his voice crackled across the comms. Tony could hear the tension in his voice, the bumbling anger.
“Twelve bots, a shot to the head sorts them out easily enough.” He told them, demonstrating with a neatly time repulsor blast.
Even as he spoke, the avengers were dropping into formation around him; Clint found a perch on a nearby car roof, Natasha and Cap had landed behind him, herding the doombots together.
Bruce remained absent, he wouldn’t risk the hulk for a dozen poorly made robots but Tony knew was on standby: in the jet above them, on the comms and ready to take action.
The avengers moved together nearly seamlessly, using the sixth sense they had developed of each other’s fighting styles to maximum effect. The doombots never stood a chance.
Tony flipped his mask up, assessing the damage around him. Robot parts were scattered on the tarmac around them, sparking and spasming in some sort of robotic death throes. Clint had dropped down from his perch and was poking a sizzling arm with his bow.
“Did that just seem a little bit too easy, or was it just me?”
Tony hummed in agreement; out the corner of his eye, he could see Steve striding towards them, towards Tony. Even from a distance away, Tony recognised the hard, flat set of his mouth. Ignoring the instinctive urge to fly off and away, Tony turned away as Steve’s approached. He came to a stop next to Clint and let the armour peel away from him, stepping down onto the tarmac.
Clint raised an eyebrow at his socked feet and the unchanged sleep outfit he wearing from that morning but wisely didn’t say anything. The arm at their feet gave a spasm, the circuity flaring.
“It shouldn’t still be able to do that; I wonder if each section has a power source?” Tony said, nodding to the robot arm twitching under Clint’s bow. As if on cue, the arm gave a final splutter and went limp and dark. Tony made a noise of irritation and lent down to pick up the arm, fingers skimming over the metal plates.
“Dude, don’t even think about.” Clint warned, “Coulson will have your guts if you start stealing from evil robot parts.”
“I’m not stealing! Borrowing at worst.” Tony responding, using the robot arm to gesture. “I just –“
“Tony.”
The way Steve said his name had both Tony and Clint winced. Steve came to a stop before him, pulling off his cowl with one quick sharp movement.
“You ignored protocol and went into battle alone.” Steve wasn’t shouting but it didn’t in any way make him sound less angry, less fearsome.
Clint cringed, “You know, I think Nat needs some help,” he gestured to his left, already inching away. “I’m just going to go.”
Steve’s narrowed eyes didn’t waver from Tony as Clint crept away awkwardly. “You ignored my call.”
Tony huffed, crossing his arms. The metal robot arm tangled in with his own, resting against his chest. “I was a little busy at the time.”
If possible, Steve’s frown deepened. “You never ignore my calls. You should have waited for the team.”
“I was fine! You said yourself it was just doombots.”
“Is that what this is about it? You’re angry at me because I said you didn’t have to come out today.”
“No! Yes! Sort of.”
“So, what – going off by yourself was just some childish tantrum because I told you something you didn’t like?” Steve pressed; his eyes were so blue, electric fire as he stared down at Tony.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise stopping doombots was considered a tantrum now.” Tony snarled back.
“Going off without the team is! That’s not how we do things and you know it. You pull this shit again and I will bench you!”
Steve had stepped forward, surging into Tony’s space furiously. Tony tilted his head up slightly to meet Steve’s eyes; they were so close he could feel the short puff of air from Steve’s laboured breathing landing on his skin. Another inch any there wouldn’t be any space between them at all.
Steve exhaled unevenly, and closed his eyes for a long moment, the anger draining out of him. When he looked at Tony, his eyes roamed across Tony’s face as if searching for something. “I’m worried about you, Tony. I know you’re not sleeping lately; you barely eat anything. And half the time you’re completely zoned out. It’s like you’re not with us anymore. If you tell me what is going on, I can help.”
“Nothing is going on. And even if it was, it’s none of your damn bus-
Tony choked, the last word of his sentence suddenly dropping off his lips. He frowned, surprised by himself, and Steve mirrored his expression, confusion spreading across his golden features like clouds across the sky. Tony tried to speak again, but this time pain rocked through him, sharp ice blades seemed to rip up from his stomach. He glanced down uncertainly. Cradled against his chest, the doombot arm was glowing once again, faint red and blue circuity sparking to flickering light. From the tangle panel of its forearm, a blade had popped out, propelled by a final pulse of power. The blade which was now protruding from Tony’s gut.
“Oh, that explains it,” Tony tried to say as his knees crumpled beneath him. Steve called his name, catching him before he could hit the ground. Tony’s head lolled, dizzy with pain and he found himself cradled, neck resting in the crook of Steve’ elbow. Steve’s other hand was pressed against his stomach, holding the blade in place. It was burning now, a deep, painful ripping, and Tony could smell the metallic scent of his blood, feel it seeping through the thin layer of his t-shirt.
“Tony, Tony. Stay with me. Come on Tony.” Steve was frantic, his face pale and contorted with fear. Tony wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Steve look scared before, not really.
“I’m fine.” Tony tried to say, but the words came out garbled, wet sounding. Steve looked sick, colourless.
“Sorry,” Tony gasped; forcing the word out. It was important that Steve heard him, that Steve knew. So, he said it again. And again. Continuing until the creeping shadows at the edges of his vision swallowed him.
“Is this the Stark kid?”
The words were quiet, lost in the shuffle of doctors and nurses entering the operating theatre. Tony tried to turn, to look over his shoulder but a hand pressed him down, biting into the sharp ridge of his collarbone.
“It’s just the doctor, sweetie.” The nurse holding him still said, her tired eyes and fading, peeling lipstick wavering into his line of vision. She had been using the same voice all morning, an affected coo that grown-ups used when they were uncomfortable with children. It didn’t fool Tony for one second, there was a warning firmness to her hands, a disinterest in her face that threatened to verge into irritation. Tony went limp in submission, not wanting to annoy the only familiar face in the room, no matter how unwelcoming she might be.
The nurse holding him down had been with him all morning. She had greeted Tony and his mother when they had arrived at the hospital, ignoring Tony’s silent, wide-eyed confusion as they were taken through the maze-like building. Tony had thought they were going back to Doctor Carter’s kid-friendly office and had been cowed by the never-ending windowless hallways and the stark, bleached waiting room. What seemed liked hundreds of people moved around them, uninterested and purposeful and Tony had spent the morning clutching at his mother, trying to hide behind her.
The nurse had taken them to a private room with a little attached bathroom. Tony’s relief at the privacy of the room hadn’t lasted long as the nurse had given Tony laxatives. Tony hadn’t known what a laxative was until the little pink pills had left him curled up in tears on the hospital toilet, his guts twisting and spasming in agony as they emptied. Later, the nurse had returned to take his clothes and shoes and Tony had been left to wait in a thin paper gown, shivering and stiff with cold and embarrassment. Tony’s previous paediatricians often lifted his t-shirts to feel his tummy and listen to his breathing and heart but they had never stripped him completely. Tony felt small and horribly scared. He had wanted to ask why they had taken his clothes, to ask what was going to happen next but hadn’t quite dared.
The nurse told Maria that she couldn’t enter the operating theatre and would have to wait outside until it was over. Unlike most of the other staff in the hospitals, the nurse had seemed unmoved by his mother; indifferent to her wringing hands and tear sparkling eyes. Maria had watched as Tony was wheeled into the theatre, a slender figure in a sunflower yellow dress, silent but almost vibrating. Tony had almost forgotten his worries about what was about to happen to him, his attention focused on his mother’s bright, feverish eyes. She had smiled at the nurse easily, her expression pleasantly vague and Tony knew she was furious.
“How old is he?” The doctor behind his back asked.
“Six.”
“He looks younger, don’t those rich people feed their kids?”
Tony stiffened, and the stern nurse frowned in warning at him. “Remember the position.” She told him.
Tony nodded. They had laid him on his side and told him to bring his knees up towards his chest as if he was going to hug them. By his head was a cannister, attached to a tub with a nozzle. The nurse has explained that when it hurt, he was to suck on the nozzle. Tony had nodded through this explanation, his anxiety growing as he wondered what exactly was going to hurt.
No one had bothered to explain to Tony what was about to happen. The doctors and nurses had just talked to his mother, and Maria hadn’t given Tony any information beyond instructions to be good and do as he was told. Tony had figured out it was best not to ask too many questions of his mother, that sometimes it made her mad or sad. Besides he had seen loads of doctors and paediatricians – the commonality of it had made him feel numb, uninterested in their prodding and poking, and weighing. He hadn’t even thought of asking her what they were doing today, thinking it would be more of the same.
Tony sniffed, his chest felt tight, his breathing uneven. The bright clinical starkness of the room had stolen Tony’s voice; he felt small, invisible in the busy room. His bare toes curled up; his gown came to his shins but was paper-thin and Tony’s feet and hands felt stiff with cold. The nurse had put a thin cotton blanket over his stomach and legs and Tony clutched at its edges, wanting to wriggle down the bed until he was completely hidden. As if sensing his thoughts, the nurse caught his eye and raised an eyebrow warningly.
“Right, let’s get this over.” The doctor said suddenly, looming behind Tony.
Before Tony could react, the doctor had gripped his blanket and flipped it away, exposing Tony’s back. Then the doctor pulled apart his paper gown roughly. A humiliated protest burned across Tony’s tongue as the air rushed across his exposed backside. He was shocked, completely caught off guard by the unexpected activity. Tony curled up tighter, imagining the room full of people looking at the exposed, goose-bumped skin, the bony ridges of his spine, his bum. Someone laughed in the background, a muffled exchange of words. Tony’s cheeks burned, tears prickling at his eyes.
“He’s too small.” The doctor huffed, sounding annoyed. Something slippery and cold reached between his buttocks and Tony jolted like a live wire in surprise. “Fuck sake, keep him still. I don’t want to rip him apart.”
“Stay still, it will over soon.” The nurse cooed and her hand pressed down hard on Tony’s shoulders. Tony stared up at her, wet-eyed but whatever she saw in his face made her turn away, lips pursed.
There was a prodding, a pressure against and then in his bum, pulling apart the muscle uncomfortably. A whine built-in Tony’s throat and he quivered, tensing – too surprised to do anything else. Then almost as soon as it started it stopped. Fuzzy, limp with confusion and relief, Tony didn’t notice when something small and hard slid back between his buttocks. The first penetration stole his breath, more in surprise than pain. The tube inserted in him pressed forward, and Tony could feel it worming its way forward, a snake slithering through his guts. He panted as the pressure and pain built up, his muscles locking up.
“Breathe,” The nurse ordered and Tony blinked in confusion, sweat dripping into his eyes. The tube inside him twisted, a sharp knife of pain breaking through the pressurized, dizzying ache and he yelped like a dog.
“Take a breath of the gas,” the nurse repeated and pressed the nozzle into his mouth. Tony breathed through the nozzle shakily as another stab of pain ripped deep inside his guts. A tear escaped, sliding down his heated cheek and into his hair.
Slowly, the pain faded. Tony’s head was full of cotton wool; his hearing dulled as if he had slipped under an ocean wave. He felt a bit like he was watching the room through the wrong end of a telescope; everything seemed out of focus, objects wavering and bulging oddly when his eyes tried to move too quickly. Tony didn’t mind, he was glad of it. He felt sick but it was better to feel distant, removed from the reality of what was happened to his body.
Without the abrupt, sickening shock of pain, Tony was able to follow the worming tube more clearly; he imagined he could trace its clumsy path as it curled through his intestines. The sharpest pain seemed to happen when the tube was forced to bend, scraping his insides as it contorted. And there was always the discomforted feeling of being too full, of having the tube bulging through his insides, pulling him apart. His gut clenched, spasming in protest and Tony, feeling strangely disconnected from his body, wondered why they were doing this to him, why his mother had wanted them to do this to him.
Tony wasn’t sure how long it lasted; he thought it took a long time maybe but once he started breathing in the gas, time went unstable.
“Done.” The doctor said abruptly and the worming tube started to move backward. It was a different sensation, a sharper tugging feeling that was offset with relief as it exited his bowels. The final few inches of the tube were removed roughly, harsh enough to make Tony choke at the brief stinging pain. The sudden emptiness left Tony feeling like a deflated balloon and he let himself go boneless, limp against the bed.
“ – well I couldn’t see anything.” The doctor was saying. He stood up and walked away from Tony. There was a mumble of responses from the other nurses, fading as they washed up.
It took Tony a few long moments before he realised the doctor wasn’t coming back. The medical team had left him hunched over his knees, tense in anticipation, and his backside exposed to the room. The familiar nurse was packing up the nozzle and the canister of pain relief, uncaring to Tony’s searching eyes. Tony’s cheeks burnt, his stomach squirming in a way that felt almost just as bad as the pain of the procedure. Their lack of acknowledgment left him feeling small, his embarrassing position barely human. Tony reached around himself miserably, dragging the cover back over himself; his backside ached as moved, bruised and tender.
“That wasn’t too bad was it?” The nurse said finally, a smile pulling awkwardly at her face. “Let’s get you back to your mother. I’m sure she is worried about you.”
Tony didn’t answer, he felt exhausted, raw and he let himself close his eyes not wanting to look at the nurse as rolled the bed out of the theatre and down the hall into a small room. There were a few minutes of silence between the nurse leaving and his mother entering. Tony almost felt like he’d had more of the gas, not quite part of the world.
“Tesoro.”
His mother’s musical voice brought Tony back to reality and he opened to his eyes as she swept him into the room.
Maria was wearing a dress of pastel sunshine; the hem shimmed her knees in a pin-straight line and the sleeves stopped neatly at her elbows, perfectly tailored to never crease. Despite the wait, she looked as fresh as when they had arrived, her flower sweet scent enveloping Tony as she bent down to kiss his sweaty curls. The familiar caress of affection made Tony flush with a rush of remembered humiliation and pain.
“Mama. Mama,” he repeated, clutching at her hands, unable to order his mind into words.
Maria hummed soothingly, tugging Tony upwards into a sitting position and Tony bite his lip at the sudden spike of pain that curled through his lower abdomen. Something slid down between his thighs, a sticky slickness across his skin and Tony panicked for a second thinking he had wet himself. He shifted uncomfortably realising what it was and a choked, burning tightened across his chest, stealing his breathe.
“Baby, you look so pale,” Maria said, running her hands through Tony’s hair, her face pinched with worry.
“Did it hurt Tesoro?”
Tony stared up at his mother. Her teeth were bright, pearl white and his eyes were prickling, a sudden unexpected threat of tears that he didn’t understand.
“Did you do what they told you?”
Tony nodded, unable to speak.
“Mrs. Stark?”
Maria spun away from Tony, beaming at the doctor who entered the room. Tony recognised the man’s voice as the doctor who had done the procedure and cringed, focusing on his blanket covered knees rather than the doctor’s face. Tony drifted away, letting his thought unravel as his mother and the doctor exchanged pleasantries. The doctor’s brisk attitude had disappeared, worn down into something mesmerised and fumbling in the face of his mother’s beauty. Tony realised he preferred the nurse; at least her lack of interest was consistent.
“Did you find out what was wrong?”
“There was nothing immediately identifiable. However, we will go over the footage in more detail and be in touch with you with the full results in the next couple of days Mrs. Stark.”
“Please call me Maria.” Tony’s mother said softly, reaching one white-gloved hand to rest gently on the doctor’s crooked arm.
Tony found himself staring at his mother’s delicate hand, fingers itching as he remembered the silky, slippery fabric of her gloves. The gloves, his mother had explained completed her ‘look’. Tony wasn’t exactly sure what that meant but he had figured it was mostly about other people looking at his mother. A lot of people looked at his mother, and they all said that she was a beautiful, kind, flawless woman. And yet, Tony found himself thinking of the cigarette burns and the hidden blisters under her gloves. The sores that she popped and picked until they swelled, red and angry.
The doctor ignorant of Tony’s thoughts merely smiled at Maria's words, reaching out to cup her gloved hard reassuring. Maria’s eyes glowed, her mouth curling at the edges.
“It’s been so hard on Tony. He’s been so ill and we’ve had no answers. No one seems to know what is wrong with him.”
“Oh, yes, I can imagine how hard it’s been on you,” The doctor said soothingly, “This was a sigmoidoscopy, it only looked at a small portion of his intestines. Sometimes a full colonoscopy is needed to identify the issue. We can do it if needed.”
Tony glanced up abruptly at the doctor’s words. He didn’t want to do it again, the thought of it made him feel hot and nauseated. His mother’s face was turned up towards the doctor, beautiful and glowing and Tony found for he couldn’t look at her, that he couldn’t bear to look at the bright excited light in her eyes. He
“Oh, before you go.” Maria was saying to the doctor, “Could you take a picture for us.”
Tony was still lost in his head as his mother floated towards him. She tapped him on his arm and urged him to sit up straight, exactly as she always did when they were at home. Tony swallowed compulsively as he let himself be manoeuvred to her satisfaction, feeling distant to the warning tutting she let loose. His mother’s hand went to his shoulder. Her nails were sharp, even though the material of gloves, pinning him in place.
“Smile at the camera,” Maria told him softly after the first flash, “I want us to remember this.”