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Tony wakes up on his fifty-third birthday and it’s raining outside. Things are hard, since it all ended. Losing an arm was an unexpected side effect of wielding the stones, and the nanotech replacement arm is hit and miss in its early stages. He can hardly walk without collapsing, and he’s left this bed a total of five times in the week they’ve been here. And he’s all burned to hell, streaked with the kind of pain that knocks him out from time to time, the kind of pain that would eat right through him if Carol hadn’t jetted back real quick with whatever the hell alien medicine they’ve been giving him.
He feels older than fifty-three. He feels a hundred and twenty seven. He feels ancient, a stone monster, a zombie lying in a bed that’s too white, in some SHIELD facility he doesn’t know.
But at least he’s alive.
And most importantly, and despite everything else, Peter’s alive too.
The kid still seems like a ghost, except now other people are talking to him too, so he must actually be there. He must finally be a real, living being, and not the hallucinations Tony sees out of the corner of his eye in his living room. In his backyard. And more than anything, in the garage, when he’s working. Like they used to do together, in the lab, when Peter’s laughter would carry and the bots would flock to him, like they could tell how important he was.
He’s alive. And that makes it all worth it.
The rain falls harder and Tony turns, his neck creaking and cracking, and he sees Peter asleep over by the window. He’s holding a small, flat box, and he’s slowly slipping to the right side of the easy chair he’s in.
Tony thinks about letting him sleep, but he finds himself speaking anyway. “Pete,” he says, his voice rough and raspy.
Peter immediately startles awake. “Happy Birthday,” he says, almost like he’d fallen asleep practicing it, planning to say it as soon as he woke up. He blinks at Tony, shivering a little bit, and then he smiles. “Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday.”
Tony snorts, smiling back. “Thanks, bud,” he says.
Peter scoots his chair closer, and Tony listens to it drag across the tile before Peter abandons the idea altogether and sits on the edge of the bed instead. He holds the box like he’s trying to hide it, and he smooths his fingers over the corners. “How are you doing?” he asks. “How...how are you feeling?”
Like garbage. Like death. Like I’m goddamn useless. Like I’m wasting away. “Better than yesterday,” he says, because it’s not a lie. “What time is it?”
Peter looks at the clock above Tony’s head. “A little after ten,” he says. “I fell asleep waiting for you to wake up.”
Tony used to wake up at six in the morning. Now, half the time, he can barely stay awake for more than three hours at a time. In the first couple of days he couldn’t stay awake at all.
“Doctor Cho said things were getting better,” Peter says, and Tony sees him glance over at Tony’s right arm, the new one, but there isn’t any judgment or fear in his eyes. Peter always regards things simply, for what they are. It’s one of the things Tony likes best about him. “She was here earlier, for a while. And Miss Danvers, uh, she sent a message, said something about bringing an elixir—”
“Good,” Tony says. “Though that alien ointment or whatever the hell—smelled like burning rubber—”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
Tony huffs. “Well, hopefully the elixir tastes better than the medicine smelled.”
“I’ll contact her,” Peter says. “Put in a request. Green apple flavor. Or key lime pie.”
Tony smiles, a flurry of memories presenting themselves in his mind, from what feels like another life. Him and Peter in that pie shop, trying to find something for May’s company party. They tried so many ‘samples’ that day that Tony didn’t ever think he’d eat again.
“Good thinking,” he says. “Make recovery tolerable.”
Peter laughs a little bit, and Tony meets his eyes. He still can’t believe he’s here. He can’t believe it. It feels unreal.
Peter sighs, chewing on his lower lip. “I know this isn’t….I mean, this isn’t a good birthday. Spending a birthday in bed is—I mean, it could be okay, but this is—I mean—” He sighs again.
“Well, the service here is terrible,” Tony says. “Pillows are like rocks. No one replaces my shampoo bottles. No microwave in my room, no fridge, these are...these are essentials. I leave towels on the ground, they’re still there the next day—terrible hotel, two out of ten. I won’t be leaving a good tip.”
Peter snorts, fighting a smile. “I’m trying to be serious.”
“Don’t. It’s overrated.”
Peter shakes his head, blowing out a breath. He’s still holding the box tight. “I, uh—went out yesterday, finally, with Happy, trying to...find you a gift. But everything was just...so weird, so different, and it feels like just yesterday to me that it...wasn’t like that—”
“You didn’t have to do that, kid,” Tony says. “For real.” He knows what a mess it is out there. He knows they need to get to helping, as soon as he’s back on his feet. Feet that are hopefully steady and won’t keep buckling underneath him. He pushes himself up a little bit, pressing his hands into the mattress. Peter reaches out and grabs Tony’s elbow, helping him and readjusting his pillow behind his head. Tony nods, and he flexes his fingers on the nanotech arm. Strange. But he’s getting used to it.
“You okay?” Peter asks.
“Peachy keen,” Tony says, but he knows he’s already sweating from the smallest of movements. At least he’s sitting up a little straighter. “I hope you didn’t torture yourself too much, looking around. Not for me, not for fifty-three. Fifty-five, we can do something huge. I’ll throw a big bash.”
“Every birthday’s important,” Peter says. “Especially this one, for you, because—because—”
“I’m still here,” Tony says. “I know. I know. You’re right.”
“I didn’t find anything because...because everything out there sucks right now and maybe I got kind of weirdly emotional and Happy had to deal with that, whatever, but, uh—when I got back, I had an idea, and—Morgan helped me out.”
Tony’s mouth quirks up and he tips his chin towards the box. My two kids he thinks, and his face goes red.
“Here,” Peter says. “It’s not much. I’ll do better next year.”
Tony takes it with his good hand, and concentrates with all his might to untie the small red bow with his right one. He manages it, drops it in his lap, and tentatively pulls the top off the box.
His breath catches in his throat.
It’s a black and white photo of Morgan and Peter. Their heads are together, and Peter is holding the camera out in front of them. Morgan is laughing like she does sometimes, so hard that her eyes are clamped closed with the joy of it. Peter is grinning too, his eyes cutting over at her. It’s in a wooden frame with gold glitter and, horrifyingly enough, Tony’s eyes are filling with tears. This is something he always imagined, and now it’s here, in front of him. It’s happening, it’s real, this is proof. This image. Them. The two of them.
“Happy has this nice film camera just lying around, for some reason, so Morgan and I had a little photoshoot yesterday. We took like—thirty pictures, I’ve got a bunch of fruit stickers on my face in most of them, she’s wearing a tiger mask we made—I created a dark room in one of the broom closets, developed them all, and finally picked this one. We made the frame together.”
Tony stares at it, for what feels like forever and ever. He tries to memorize it.
“I know it’s not a lot—”
“No, it’s a lot,” Tony croaks. “It’s the most—it’s—it’s the best. The best gift I’ve ever gotten. By far. No contest.” He turns it over with his good hand, and sees the message ‘WE LOVE YOU!’ in alternating letters that clearly belong to Peter and then Morgan, making up the sentence together.
“Morgan and Pepper are actually making cupcakes downstairs right now, red velvet, duh, and I’m only invited to help when it comes to the decorating because of what happened with the cookies on Thursday.”
Tony blows out a breath, nodding. He can hardly focus. He wants all the pictures they took together. He wants to paper the walls with them. “Hey, bud, c’mere. Absolutely necessary birthday hug.”
Peter smiles, leaning in and tucking himself against Tony’s left side. Tony hugs him as tight as he can, closing his eyes. Not a hallucination. Real, solid. Alive.
“I don’t care how fucked up I am,” Tony says. “How insane everything is—this is the best birthday because you’re back. Because I have you back.” He claps Peter on the shoulder and Peter pulls back—thankfully, he’s a little teary now too. Always easier when both parties are crying. “All of this was worth it because my family is safe. You’re here, you’re safe. You’re my family.”
Peter nods, sniffling. “I’m gonna be here the whole time,” he says. “Until you’re better. And after. And always. Until you want me to go away.”
“Which is never,” Tony says. “Except right now. Go tend to red velvet cupcakes, Pepper can’t bake and Morgan eats too much raw batter, and I’m gonna need a couple minutes for a good old manly cry.”
Peter laughs, and quickly hugs him again. Tony holds him with both hands this time, the nano hand curving around his shoulder and, thankfully, not malfunctioning. It’s learning to adapt.
“I’ll keep you updated through Friday, she’s in every room now,” Peter says, pulling back. “Expect lots of singing when we come up. Hopefully not too much fire.”
“Yeah, candles for me is a dangerous blaze,” Tony says. “Or getting there.”
“Not yet,” Peter says, getting up and heading to the door.
Tony watches him go, and can’t stop himself from smiling. Yeah, he feels like shit. Yeah, he lost an arm. He can hardly walk, he has trouble breathing, his hero days might be behind him. But he looks at the photo in his lap—sharp and beautiful, Peter might have a future in photography—and he knows it was all worth it. Every bit of it.
He’s gonna get better. He’s gonna see fifty-four, fifty-five and past that. And Peter will be there to see them too.