Chapter Text
“Mila?”
Such apprehension coats Tony’s lips that when the name spills out he almost attempts to swallow it again.
Weeks composed of debilitating days, and nights which brought nothing close to relief, cups of coffee, created and discarded, periodic texts from concerned family and friends: How are you doing? Are you looking after yourself? We’re sending our deepest condolences to you and Steve; all playing their part in some sick pantomime which saw the ‘genius billionaire philanthropist’ feel less and less like a genius and more and more like a fraud, a failure, a father who had lost his purpose.
What’s left of a father once his baby is gone? Though elementally the logical response would be: who they were before fatherhood, once put into practice, that notion becomes evidently null and void. Fatherhood changes people, whether for the better or worse nobody finishes the first year of parenthood as the same person who started. Year upon year, they learn and evolve as their tiny human grows and develops; it’s a beautiful phenomenon that blossoms and repeats itself over and over like a geometric pattern.
Then the ink bursts from the pen and spatters across the page, or a line is struck in a place where a line shouldn’t be, or you wander the paths so aimlessly that you find yourself lost somewhere near the middle and hope dwindles and your baby is gone. The pattern is ruined and your baby is gone.
No impossible number of condolences could put the lines right, clear the smudges from the page and push Tony back into the blossoming development of his geometric pattern, because his baby is gone.
Or, at least, he thought she was.
They had a funeral and everything, sunflowers littering the church because Pepper insisted that Mila would’ve wanted a bright funeral, sunshine and smiles and songs which urged everybody to celebrate the light she radiated during life. It rained throughout the whole ceremony. As Tony watched soil sprinkle onto the empty casket like sarcastic confetti, he couldn’t help but think to himself that it doesn’t matter what Mila wants, she’s gone.
Except he could swear that she’s stood in the lobby of Avengers Tower, not even ten feet away from him, shivering and soaked to the bone. Her flimsy grey t-shirt clings to her body like a second skin, pasted there by the unforgiving army of raindrops outside which were sent from the sky as a response to some kind of vendetta.
The stagnant weather had previously elicited the sardonic observation that the gods were punishing the world with a vehement fury, pelting them with liquid bullets as retribution for the theft of a life, for seven lives. It’s probable that this was just a reflection of the mechanic’s own numb rage, partly due to the fact that he doesn’t believe in any God which he hasn’t regarded and touched whilst sober. Thor just so happens to be the only being to fall into this category.
She embraces her tiny, trembling frame with pale arms, giving the illusion of attempting quite literally to hold herself together. Her bare legs are what draws Tony’s attention to the fact that she’s wearing the same outfit she was taken in.
It makes sense, why would they give her more clothes? But the prospect of his baby with nothing to protect her except for a leotard and a t-shirt stirs the bile in his stomach.
Dirty, beaten up pointe shoes sit on her feet, the ribbons fraying but still looped and tucked neatly around too-small ankles.
Making eye-contact is the hardest part.
Everything has built up to this one moment, from screaming at Nat to find his kid oh god, fuck, please find her, to lying on the bathroom floor and sobbing because she chose the tiles. All of it, the days, the nights, the texts, it all accumulated an inconceivable amount of desperation and desultoriness, pressing against the cork of a champagne bottle, ready to explode with a tiny bit more pressure.
The moment is so expertly crafted, so fragile, resting on chance and desolation. One wrong word, one breath heavier than the others, one movement too sharp and she could just disappear, vanish into thin air and Tony would be purposeless again.
Her lips are blue, almost matching her eyes and her face has lost it’s beautiful italian glow. If he tries hard enough, he can almost kid himself that it’s makeup. Almost.
Despite her blue lips, pale skin and shaky legs, her curls are as wild as ever, tumbling around her shoulders in the same coils she’s had since she was a toddler, the same curls that Tony adores. As soon as her name leaves his mouth, her face splits into a grin, “You are not going to believe the shit I’ve been through”.
The cork pops.
Too quickly for him to register, Tony has crossed the short distance between them and scooped her into his arms. “Oh my god, oh my god, Mila you don’t- you aren’t, oh my god, baby I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Mila”. He presses his face into her hair and breathes in her scent. It’s clouded by the shadow of blood and smoke, but she smells like her. Her legs wrap around his waist, her arms around his neck, the familiar feeling of her skin against his acting as the only proof he needs that this is his baby and she is alive. The thrum of her heart and the steady intake of breath to her lungs are tactile through his own chest, confirming to her dad that she’s okay, she’s here, and how or why isn’t currently what matters.
“Are you hurt?”, he queries softly, rubbing a hand up and down her back.
She shakes her head as Tony sets her back on the ground, smiling tearfully at her one blood relative, “No, but I am really freaking cold so can I go change please?”.
The billionaire smiles softly at the typical Mila response, assured for a third time that this is her (and she is still her), though his hands are still shaking and a distant part of his brain keeps warning him that he could vomit at any given moment, “Come on sunbeam”. He places his hand on her back, desperate to keep up the physical reassurance, and guides her towards the elevator, wrapping his arms around her once they’re inside and the metal box begins to ascend.
Mila gladly reciprocates the notion, resting her head on her father’s chest and appreciating the steady inhales and exhales which move it rhythmically.
This is the contact they’ve both mourned for weeks. Both Starks have wept for it on nights when they just wanted to be held and nobody else would do.
For this moment, they have everything they need.
Then the elevator doors ping open and Mila is back in her home, back on the floor she shares with her dads and their big fluffy dog. It’s where they play piano, and cook weird experimental food (which almost always ends up being disgusting but Steve eats anyway because waste not want not) and argue over which Disney film is god tier.
Tony’s half eaten takeaway lies abandoned on the couch, his fork discarded on the rug. The moment that Jarvis had informed him that Miss Stark is in the lobby he’d dropped everything and practically threw himself down the stairs to get to her.
Only to freeze upon eye contact.
Mila pauses as her eyes scan the room, confirming to herself that she is actually home. With a contented sigh, she sits down on the floor, ignoring the aborted “wh-“ from Tony.
“I am never wearing pointe shoes again”, she rolls her eyes dramatically as she tugs at the ribbons and removes the shoes and pads from her feet.
Tony winces at the sight of them. He’s used to her feet being bruised and bloody, but never to this extent, “oh miele”.
His daughter stares at them for a second, “aaannd as soon as I get socks on my feet, I’m never taking them off”. One of her hands idly pushes the offending shoes to the side, never to be touched by her again.
“Bruce will sort them out, Bambi, I want him to check you over anyway”, the mechanic offers a hand to help his child off of the floor.
Mila snorts, though accepts his assistance in standing up, “Dad, I’m not having Uncle Bruce touch my feet, I can sort it”.
“I’m still having him check you over”, he eyes her warily as she crosses the room, determined that if there is any sign of discomfort or pain he’ll catch it; unfortunately, she’s much too like him in that she has a talent for suffering silently, “and I can’t say I’m the biggest fan of that blue tint you’re sporting there Mila Moos”.
She chuckles, shaking her head, “Let me go get changed and I’m sure I’ll thaw out”.
As if sensing her father’s discomfort, she sends a reassuring smile over her shoulder as she exits the room smoothly, as though she hadn’t been dead five minutes ago. “Give me literally thirty seconds and then I’ll be back, I promise”.
He returns the sentiment, “I’ll be right here”, resuming the position on the couch that he had come to adopt over the past couple of weeks, tumbling into a bottomless pit of self-pity and mourning. The only reason he’s bothered to eat a microwave meal in the first place was that Steve locked him out of the lab and wouldn’t let him down there unless-
Oh.
Steve.
“Jarvis call Steve, right now, don’t let him reject it”.
“I do not believe that will be necessary, boss, Mr Rogers is currently in the elevator”.
The innovator whips his head around just in time to see his boyfriend exit the elevator, Dotty in tow. They’re both drenched, dirty rain water dripping onto the floorboards; a shiver shoots down Tony’s spine as he is suddenly thrown back to the lobby and the eerie tension which coats the tower.
And how the fuck is he meant to explain this? ‘Hi babe, did you have a nice walk? Funny story, I know that we watched our daughter die over and over again but actually she just turned up on the doorstep’.
Steve opens his mouth, probably to ask if Tony’s okay (the question is ridiculous and Steve knows the answer already, but he asks it all the time) but the words never come. Instead of her usual (disgusting) shake, spattering mud and dirty water all over the pristine walls, Dotty lets out a sudden bark.
Steve stares down at her in surprise, but the mongrel is gone, shot down the hallway like a fluffy bullet.
He sends a shocked look to Tony, probably fearing an intruder, but before he can chase after the dog, his boyfriend places a hand on his chest, “Steve, listen to me, this is absolutely crazy but I swear, Mila is- she’s-“.
Mourning and pity swims in Steve’s baby blues, seemingly boring right into Tony’s soul, he lifts his hands to rub his boyfriend’s upper arms, “Tony”. The sorrow in Steve’s voice makes the mechanic feel physically sick. “Tony she’s- Mila’s gone, baby, I know it hurts, trust me I know and I miss her so much but-“.
“Steve I swear, she was- she was in the lobby and I brought her up here and- and look Steve those are her shoes I swear she’s just getting changed and she promised she’d only be a second and I promised I’d be right here waiting for her I-“.
Assuming that his boyfriend had had another in a long series of nightmares, Steve cuts off his rambling with a hug, his heart twisting when he can feel tears begin to soak his t-shirt. It isn’t the first time that Tony has fallen asleep on the couch, or in his workshop, and woken up having had a dream that Mila was back with them. It kills them both every time.
The super-soldier closes his eyes as he hooks his chin over the top of his partner’s head, desperate to keep him close and safe in the way that he didn’t manage to do with Mila.
For a moment, they just stand in the middle of the living room, heart-broken and grieving and hollow.
“Dot I swear if you don’t stop that right now I might just leave again”.
And when Steve opens his eyes, she’s just there.
Mila Stark is padding down the hallway, light-footed as always, her doggy-companion mouthing at her ankles and causing the teenager to stumble in her attempts to avoid stepping on the mongrel’s head.
She’s warm and dry in a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, the stripy fluffy socks that Steve bought her (after seeing them in the store and just knowing that she’d love them) on her feet.
And she looks so overwhelmingly healthy.
Like, more so than Steve could ever remember her being.
An undeniable glow seems to emanate from her rosy lips and cheeks to the shine in her eyes, even reaching the bouncy curls that tumble behind her.
“Dotty get off my ankles”, the smile that blooms across her face is warm and genuine and as she looks up to meet Steve’s eyes, it brightens even more.
“Oh my god”, he murmurs, letting go of Tony and opening his arms in time to collect her in a hug, “Oh my god”. His hand cups the back of her head, fingers gripping her curls with a hollow kind of desperation to ground himself.
Her arms wrap around his middle, her face pressed into his drenched t-shirt, and although Steve knows this, he can’t quite believe it.
She’s right here, in his arms, breathing and moving and alive.
Another body joins their hug, Steve can tell by his arms and his breathing pattern that it’s Tony and he’s crying.
They’re all crying.
In this moment, Steve’s overwhelmed with the love he has for his family, his daughter and his husband; everything he could ever need is right here in his arms. They may have had each other for a lot longer than Steve has, but at this point there’s no way he could survive without them, not for long anyway.
It’s a good half an hour later that they’ve all calmed down enough for Tony to call Bruce. Despite Mila insisting that she’s fine and doesn’t need medical attention, neither of her dads are taking any chances. They won’t lose her again.
When the scientist sends a message through Jarvis to say that he’s in Medbay (oblivious to Mila’s return), the family head down in the elevator.
Tony can’t stop looking at her - can’t stop repeating to himself that she’s alive.
She’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive.
By the time the elevator doors ping open, the genius’ curiously has begun to get the better of him. Where the hell has she been? Who knew where she was? Where did that video come from? Was she actually kidnapped or did she just decide to dip? No, that isn’t Mila.
In all the years that he’s been alive, Mila is the one important figure that he’s never had to worry will leave him.
She wouldn’t leave him.
“Tony wha- oh. . . Mila”, despite his obvious shock, the scientist’s voice and demeanour are soft. He smiles, his eyes scanning the child for any obvious injuries. In finding none, he relaxes a little more.
Mila grins, “Hi Uncle Bruce”.
The man opens his arms to accept his (apparently alive) niece into them, collecting her in a gentle and so-very-Bruce hug.
Tony’s heart is filled with a little bit of warmth when he considers how surrounded by love his baby is going to be over the next few weeks - personally, he’s planning on never letting her out of his sight again. One glance at his husband and he knows Steve is on the same page.
Mila is strangely relaxed as Bruce leads her to sit on the table, an easy smile rests on her lips, her shoulders are back. As a baby, Mila had always been calm and soft. Her cries were outnumbered by giggles and Tony had nicknamed her sunbeam for a reason - though as she grew, she naturally lost a little bit of her glow - replaced with a seriousness that her dads loved all the same. And then there’s now, swinging her legs with her head cocked to the side, Mila looks much more like the innocent, curious toddler that Tony hasn’t seen in years, and much less like a fourteen year old who has been missing for two months.
“Okay I know this isn’t going to completely fill you with faith.. but I need you all to not freak out, and preferably not ask questions right now. I just- I need to process everything before I talk about it”.
Tony doesn’t like that at all.
Realistically, he’s aware that there’s no way that she’s navigated the past months without encountering some kind of trauma - but she’s just popped up out of nowhere, whole and breathing and smiling and he’d thought that she was dead.
He doesn’t really want to think realistically.
Despite his frantic thought process, Tony nods along with the two other men in the room, though they all make wary eye contact.
Mila crosses her arms over her body, lifting her t-shirt up and over her head.
And as though they have their own centre of gravity, two bright red, irritated and inflamed scars drag everybody’s eyes towards them. They slice across Mila’s shoulder blades at almost 45 degree angles, stretching from her shoulders to mid-back - appearing to glow against her pale skin.
Almost immediately, fear makes itself known in the form of Tony’s shaking hands. He doesn’t want to know how his baby acquired the scars - he doesn’t want to think about it. The thought of anybody causing his kid pain in any way, shape or form ignites a steady burning in the pit of his stomach. It would be so much easier, so much tidier, to just accept the utter miracle of her turning up on a wednesday evening relatively unharmed and erasing the past months from everybody’s memories.
Tony watches as Bruce’s brows furrow and he places a hand on Mila’s shoulder to steady her as he inspects the scars closer.
“How did this happen?”, the scientist sounds baffled.
Steve’s hand finds Tony’s.
Mila peeks over her shoulder at her back, “Honestly?”, she makes eye contact with Bruce who nods, “I don’t really remember.. I mean it’s a bit more complicated than that but I don’t really.. I don’t remember, I just woke up and they were there”.
Her tone tilts more on the confused side than concerned, which only fuels her fathers’ anxiety more.
Bruce nods slowly - a temporary acceptance of her response - but crosses the room to his computer to make note of it.
“Do they hurt, Mila?”.
She frowns, “Sometimes, I mean, if I move too much they can-“ she lets out a small grunt of frustration and brings her hands up to cover her face, dropping them back down after a moment, “It’s complicated I’m sorry, I don’t know how to explain without.. without describing the whole thing”.
She trails off, and though none of the adults in the room are comfortable with it, Steve puts a comforting hand on her back and the topic is abandoned.
Tony is fully aware that this is an insane situation. His daughter - his daughter who was kidnapped after her dance class, who he searched for relentlessly for weeks, who he watched die on camera - has walked right into her home, largely unharmed, talking to them relatively openly. And that is the only reason that he isn’t demanding straight answers.
“Mila what’s that?”.
Both Bruce and Tony look up at Steve, then follow his eye-line.
There’s a crater in her upper left arm.
Bruce leaps up from his seat on the other side of the room, moving quickly across the lab to inspect it.
And the visage shatters, Mila glances from the exposed flesh on her arm to her right hand, blood and skin built up under her nails, and then she turns a sickly shade of green. In a split second Bruce has a dish under her mouth and she’s heaving bile.
“I’m sorry I- I had to get it out and I couldn’t find it and I’m.. I’m sorry”, tears begin to track down her cheeks and Tony has that primal, instinctual mother-hen sensation that he gets every time she cries, tugging her much-too-small body close to his chest and pressing his face into her curls.
“It’s okay baby, it’s all okay”.
Bruce hands the teen a water bottle with a sympathetic smile, “Mila when was the last time you ate?”.
The frown that makes itself known on his daughter’s face makes Tony uneasy. The fact that she has to struggle to recall the last time she ate makes him burn with rage.
“What day is it?”.
He almost vomits.
“Wednesday, February 12th”, Bruce replies evenly.
She crinkles her nose, the same way she does when it’s her turn to pick the ice cream flavour, “Like.. three days?”.
“Let’s go get some food, Moo”, Steve suggests, placing a guiding hand on her back and making wary eye-contact with his partner.
Tony swallows the lump in his throat, nodding in agreement, “Come on sunbeam, your pick”.