Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They'd thought it was fear.

Well they were right.  Sort of.  Hell, Tony himself would have mocked that reality had it ever been articulated. 

He needed the arc reactor because it kept him alive.  Couldn't get more straight forward.  Nobody questioned that.  Happy didn't question that.  Pepper didn't question that.  Tony didn't question that.

A fact didn't need to be questioned.  It was math.  Equations had only one answer.  They were reliable. 

Comfortable. 

Known.

But, then, some people just couldn't add.

Tony would never have banked on himself being one of those people.  It was unsettling.  No, it was... horrifying.

Yeah, sure, he could blame the PTSD.  Side effect of being a billionaire, genius, playboy...  Distractions were part of the package.  Even if they were distractions from himself.

Later, Pepper would ask him... why.  If the surgery existed... why?  Why wait so many years?  Why?  In all that pain - the added weight and pressure that challenged his breaths and sat like a throbbing beat in the center of his chest - why?  

Lying in bed with her - propped up on pillows while the fresh wound slowly healed.  Impossible to move without screaming pain - drugs could only do so much and it was a balance which he was willing to give up more - his pain or his brain.

In this instance, head would literally win out over heart.

They were both recovering, still.  Yeah, he'd rebuilt that random, drunken flash of genius from his ancient scribblings.  Cure, schmure.  Finding the answer had been easy enough.  Facing the reality of what it would entail... He'd wanted to find the cure that could raise the dead simply to have the satisfaction of watching Pepper vaporize Killian all over again. 

It had been... pain.  What she'd gone through... was going through.  Waiting as the drugs broke down the building blocks of Extremis.  No fair letting her suffer alone, Tony had sat next to her recovery bed.  Sat next to her while she fought through cold sweats, hot sweats, cramping, nausea, and the occasional flare up.  Like, literally, she'd flare up.  They'd had to keep her in a room completely void of flammable objects.  Only lasted a week, that part, but God it had killed him to have contact impeded by a safety suit.

Finally able to touch her again.  Fear in her face all over again - fear of the fire going wild - hurting.  Nothing.  No fire.  Reassuring and touching - rubbing hands against hands.  Tapping his fingers against that circle of life saving metal, glass, and wiring.  "What do you say we get this out, huh?"

Later, recovering together, side by side.  His fingers rested over the bandaged wound.  Absolutely not flashing on a dark cave and waking up to black and pain-pain-pain and attached to a car battery - life cobbled together ala MacGyver.

If the surgery had been possible, years before, why did you wait?  Why?  Why now?  Why?

His math had been wrong.  Answer before, always, "it keeps me alive.  I have no choice.  I remove it, I'll die."  Bullshit.

Rechecking his equations.  Discovering the error.  Waking in the night with nothing to tell him he wasn't in that cave.  Wasn't falling through a hole carved into eternity.

Gasping sobbing terror until hands he knew - trusted - pulled him back from the edge of the bed.

"It wasn't because I had to."  Later, as they were lying there, together.  Surprise, still in his voice, at realizing something about a guy he'd thought he'd known so intimately.  Who could know Tony Stark better than Tony Stark?  Pepper, of course.  Always Pepper.

"I know."  Her smile, even in pain, peeled away the fear still pounding his heart.  And then she'd laughed.  "You're a billionaire and a genius-"

"-and a playboy-" 

She grinned - indulging because, yeah, she did know him.  "Tell you what.  You promise to take me out to dinner - black tie, flowers, the whole bit..."

He kissed her neck - nuzzling against her ear.  "Yeah?"

She kissed his earlobe.  "And I'll get you a Superman night light."

His laugh burst between them - pulled from a place far away from fear and pain.

"Deal." 

Chapter Text

The leg attachments were the last pieces to be removed. Thankful to be the only human occupant of the room, Tony breathed a moment before moving towards the work table.

Four months since the first upgrade had led to lighter yet stronger armor. He'd improved the thrusters and created more flaps for balanced and controlled flight. He'd also adjusted the palm thrusters for sustained blasts. The helmet and torso were stronger as well – able to withstand up to 10,000 psi before experiencing structural collapse. The suit, in and of itself, and for all intents and purposes, was nearly indestructible.

Stiff joints made a challenge in bending his knees – a spear of pain lancing across his back as he sank down on a stool. A hitched moan was bit off – wished he could slump across the work surface while knowing his body wasn't loose enough for reclining.

Still hadn't worked out the internal buffering. Sure, he could survive being throw through a bus, rocket impacts, and even a fall from a skyscraper... but not without some cost. And yet, it wasn't even the rare super battle that led to his current aches but the day to day stresses of merely using the suit. Though the powered suit felt considerably lighter than its actual weight, his muscles were still under constant strain to aid in his own movements.

He rubbed his fingers – joints cracking as he clenched them into fists. He moved to rubbing his knees, and then his legs – the flesh from mid-calf downward had become grossly swollen in the minutes since crawling from the suit. The smallest movement of his ankles felt like clamps tightening into his bones.

“Fuck.” Tony pushed his thumbs against his temples. He tapped open the schematics for the Mark IV.

“Sir, shall I have Miss Potts reschedule your meeting with the shareholders tomorrow morning?”

Tony's finger stopped over the screen. “I have a meeting tomorrow?” Dragging the image to the projection table, he gingerly rolled from the stool – only to clutch the work table as his back seared like an electric jolt when he attempted to straighten.

“Hunngh... shit, shit, shit...” His knees felt loose and shaky, much like the rest of his joints. He tried to straighten again only to gasp and drop back onto the stool.

“Yeah, reschedule, cancel, whatever... bloodsuckers.” His arms wrapped around his chest in a loose hold – mindful of the hardware embedded in his sternum. Pepper was gonna be pissed – second time he'd rescheduled that month. Okay, second time she'd rescheduled. For him. Never been his strength – meetings. Tended to breeze in late, blink with bored attentiveness during presentations and proposals before offering a “go team” while making for the doors. Obie had always been the go to for handling the shareholders, making the big speeches, accepting the awards. He'd had a rapport that Tony hadn't... well look how that had turned out.

Hunching over the table wasn't helping – actually doing anything but. Stubborn – Pepper liked to remind him of that so-called shortcoming. Tenacious, actually. Driven, certainly. In agonizing pain... fuck yes.

Maybe... just a little something, then. He zombie walked to the small bar in the corner – debating over a beer before grasping the bottle of earthy green refreshment instead.

Even sipping at the bottle hurt as he tipped back his head. The motion found fresh aches through his neck and shoulders, wrists and elbows, and, of course, his back. The projection of his suit still glowed pale blue – hanging only six feet away – enticing.

The walk to the couch was a dragging limp. Frustration couldn't cover the scope of his... pissed off...

Shuffle to the too soft cushions and whining as his unsupported frame seemed to splinter on the brushed leather. “JARVIS, lights.”

The bright eased down to a glow that no longer seared through his eyelids. He didn't want to sleep. He wasn't tired, really. But aching – hurting – it sieved off energy second by second. Being upright sped the rate of dead through his body. Clenching his fingers hurt. Hell, blinking hurt.

It had started before the suit. Afghanistan. That had been a loss of more than freedom. Repeated tortures, when the work had appeared to move too slowly. The torture of working with a malnourished and sleep deprived body. Not an entirely new thing but, then, it wasn't on his own terms and with the opulent surroundings of his mansion and all of its offerings. The sure knowledge that Pepper would force food and caffeine into his system at regular intervals to keep him running. To actually notice his hunger. To thirst and not know when he'd be allowed fresh water. Any water. To be given water only to have his head shoved beneath the surface. Gasping...

Tony jerked and lost the dream – trickling water sliding down his cheeks and echoes - “I want this” - ghosts disappearing in the silent space.

Fuck sleeping too. Knew he'd pay for it and felt it, severely, at the first lift of his hand towards the back of the couch. Stiff was a pipe dream, what he fought with was wrangling creaking and screaming joints to haul him into a sprawling sit. Something that played at upright.

“J, how long have I been out? Any calls? Did Pepper call?” he scrubbed at his face and coughed at the phlegmy build up in his throat. Less than attractive – that. Cleared that sticky with another gulp of his chlorophyll infused drink.

“You have been unconscious for approximately forty-eight minutes. Miss Potts has left three messages. Would you like me to play them back?”

“Yeah-no! No... yes, play them.”

“You're canceling again? Are you kidding me right now? Tony, you can't cancel again. The meeting has already been postponed twice!”

Tony's face twisted as he crawled through his memory for confirmation on that. “Twice?”

JARVIS cut in before the next message could play. “The first cancelation was on June 5^th because you were experiencing the after effects of, as you put it, extreme celebration.”

“I stayed home because of a hangover?” His hands dropped from his face to dangle between his knees.

“Well you were in Bali at the time, sir. Shall I continue playing the messages?”

“No, it's fine. I'll, uh, I'll talk to her.”

“Very good, sir. By the way, Miss Potts will be expecting your response no later than 4pm.”

“Got it.”

Fingers dug through his hair and he grunted at the small knot he found at the back of his skull. Still too slow a response with the internal suit environment. The outside was holding up great but not so great when the squishy inside was reduced to cake batter.

Tony lifted his head towards the holoprojection of the Mark IV, still hovering where he'd left it. His body wasn't improving. Workouts gave him muscle mass. Healthy eating made him live longer. Alcohol made him live happier. But his body was... dying. And he felt every scream of that dying with every movement. Every breath. Not just the palladium, no. But the wearing down of self. He was falling apart and soon, the suit would be the only thing giving him the structural integrity to carry forward until...

But he didn't need to think about that now. There was still time. Still enough time.

So with one hand wrapped around his middle and the other seeking handholds to hold him up on his short journey, he abandoned the couch and returned to where he belonged.

He had a mission to complete.

Chapter Text

One long finger tapped the edge of the wheel. Most of the time she was a passenger in the car. Unlike Tony, she wasn't hyper obsessed with being in control. Well, she was beginning to understand that obsession a little more after having her body burned down and rebuilt. After losing all control to someone who'd wanted to make her both pawn and prize. Today... today she'd wanted to drive. Be in control.

A single appointment that morning – early. Afterward, she'd driven.

She was almost to New London before deciding to pull off the freeway at a small overlook. She stayed in the car, still holding the wheel. The water looked like rippled slate under the broken cloud cover. She was alone, for the moment. Too early for crowds and the wrong time of year for most tourists. And it wasn't like this stretch of highway was really a hot spot for vacationers anyhow.

She squeezed the rubber and plastic beneath her hands.

She hadn't noticed it immediately. And why would she, honestly? It had been quite an active week, above and beyond her definition of active which, considering her partner, boyfriend, lifestyle, said a whole hell of a lot.

So maybe it made sense that she'd be in the midst of the most mundane of activities when she'd noticed it. Typing a memo. And nothing alarming or threatening either (which, again, given the company's infamous namesake, those sorts of memos had made their way through the staff before). No, just a simple announcement of an upcoming retirement. She was tapping out the date when her mind clicked on something other than her keyboard. Her wrist didn't ache. Easy to assume nothing from that. She'd worked long hours before without the least little twinges of pain. She hadn't developed carpel tunnel and she didn't have arthritis but she'd gotten accustomed to occasional electric bolts through the joint. Mid-memo, she stopped working to rub at the absence of pain.

She'd known but hadn't really realized. Being told something was never like experiencing it. And wasn't it just so typical that the first reaction to a body that healed so quickly... that no longer gave into the creaks and twinges of life... was fear.

A month ago, she'd started her first round of treatment. Tony had been able to promise it would work but even he hadn't been able to predict what the process would do on its way to stabilizing her. And that had been the crucial word. Stabilize. The way his arc reactor had stabilized him. But the shards of metal had still been inside him.

They'd wanted to keep her in the hospital for the first stage of her treatment. Tony had wanted to keep her there – keep her safe. She'd refused. She'd wanted to be home and away from anything that made her think of smooth voiced doctors and needles and being tied down...

It was her choice even when those around her disagreed. Later, she may wonder if Tony would ever say no to her about anything ever again. For now, though, she was grateful he never attempted to push anything on her. He asked. Sometimes persistently asked. But never pushed. Was he perfect? No. In fact, she was missing the squabbles and playful barbs intended to rile her feminism no matter how transparent his intentions. She missed the real arguments too and how damaged was that? Missed being comfortable because a flare up between them might involve real flames. And it wasn't all him. She was pushing away and he was accommodating and that meant the bubble around her just continued to grow. “Safe distance” as though such a thing could exist. Not when a meltdown could level a city block. Not when she had nightmares of his ashy shadow imprinted on the wall of their bedroom in the dying heat of her anger. And he had nothing left to protect him.

Pepper had always thought of herself as a practical, well adjusted, and functioning woman. She was well-rounded, fully aware of her privilege as well as the glass ceiling just above it. She ate healthy meals and exercised daily. She listened to classical music while at work because it projected a soothing and controlled image. She listened to 80s rock ballads when she drove because she was usually alone and it allowed her to sing along, loudly and off key, without risk of mockery. She listened to classic country when she was at home because, whatever else she may be and wherever else she may live, at heart she was still that freckled kid from Dallas and what self-respecting Texas kid didn't listen to country music?

She'd begun listening to her 80s rock at work – once she'd been medically clearing to return. Tony had his Beastie Boys and Led Zeppelin; she had her Blondie and Foreigner.

She'd refused to see a psychologist. She had other ways to cope. And then she'd considered that Tony's coping methods had exploded around them... literally and spectacularly. Fuck it, this was her life and her choice. And there was a hell of a huge difference between driving a little too fast on deserted roads and building an army of metal suits and not sleeping for days at a time and occasionally letting an experiment explode in your face; giving someone second degree burns on their hands and forearms because they were too sleep drunk to realize those two compounds should never come into contact...

They'd fought... really fought after that one. She'd been furious – breaking a heel in her crazed dash to the workshop – prompted by the always calm and often condescending JARVIS who'd broken over the speakers with actual tones of alarm. Slamming past the glass doors and seeing nothing beyond the smoke, at first, until the air exchange system had cleared the choking fumes and Tony, hacking and stumbling and bleeding, had poured from his stool to collapse amidst glass and charred plastic.

Later, they had fought. No, not they, and not “fought”, as that suggested it was more give and take when, really, it was a one sided rant birthed from frustration and panic.

“No, Tony! I am not going to be the reason you get up in the morning! I am not your muse, or your conscience, or the only good thing in your life! Because if that's what I am for you, I can't do this! If I'm the only good in this relationship, then we have nothing! YOU had good in your life long before I came along. If you can't remember what that was, then you need to do some soul searching because I will not be that for you, Tony. I can't.”

The first of many rants. When she'd known about the suits but before she'd known the extent. She'd never, truly, understood the extent until she'd seen them exploding above her head while everything around her burned.

Even in her own self evaluation, she couldn't stop turning everything to Tony. Of course, her position at SI was specifically crafted to make everything about Tony. It felt so strange to put her own needs ahead. Sure, things had changed when she'd been made CEO. Things had changed again when her relationship with Tony had gone from friends in business to friends in bed. She still found herself building her day around all things Stark. Whether it was running his company to worrying about his mental and physical health to, now, fielding calls from people with names that all started with “Agent”.

And there was a pang at that.

And she was still thinking about Tony.

She pushed the door open and slid out – tall heels wobbly and crunching on the gravel. Her heels were going to be scratched to hell but she really couldn't care less. A month's worth of lower income meals on her feet – something that would, normally, prod her with guilt. She couldn't think about the world, now, either. Funny, how Tony and the world could be interchangeable like that.

A stone wall protected curious tourists from a sharp plunge of forty feet to the cresting ocean. Wind raced across the water's surface until it hit the wall – roaring straight up and whipping her hair from its sculpted coil. Her eyes watered. She may have the power of almost instantaneous healing but her eyes still watered from the salty wind and late afternoon sunlight reflecting, dazzling white, across the water.

She still got paper cuts but she refused to watch them heal. Sometimes she'd still clench her hand at the minuscule pain. Sometimes, she still pretended she was bleeding. She dreaded a major injury – the horrid sound of her bones fitting themselves back together. The stinging itch of burned flesh building back up, layer upon layer. She never wanted to experience that again.

And there were other changes. No more monthly cramps. She'd actually dropped into her chair at the clinic, however; so relieved that she'd still get her period. Her gynecologist had assured her that she was still able to ovulate and that she was perfectly healthy. She'd been hearing the word “perfect” quite a lot. She wondered what a psychologist would have to say in terms of her health.

She watched the water until the sun started to dip past the horizon. Long shadows ran ahead of her as she turned back towards her car; heels hanging by their straps from her fingers.

Tony had messaged her, earlier, about having Bruce over for drinks. Though Bruce didn't drink alcohol, he'd be able to find plenty of non-alcoholic options. Pepper had also invited Natasha, Maria, and Steve to join them. She still had two hours before everyone else arrived; Bruce having shown up that afternoon only to be dragged away by Tony. “Man talk”, Tony had thrown back at her as they'd disappeared up the stairs. Bruce didn't much care for elevators.

All of her internalized talk about taking this time for herself. And, still, 90% had been concerned with Tony. And so much guilt, both for being angry at herself for thinking about him so much, as well as thinking she shouldn't be thinking about him so much. Plus the guilt of thinking about herself in the midst of thinking about him; God, he was so right about nothing ever being alright. Strange, how that had also been a sweet declaration, at the time.

At least she could still feel pain when it happened. She knew of people who literally had no pain sensation. Sounded like a really awesome condition, from the outside. But just because they didn't feel the pain didn't mean they couldn't be hurt. In fact, they were in far greater danger of a serious injury or disease because their warning signal had been silenced. They couldn't even feel when their bladder was full. Not that there were many things, anymore, that could kill her. Outside of a catastrophic injury and, apparently, many of those were also survivable.

Back in the car but not ready to leave. Cheeks healed of that brief windburn.

She'd wondered, for a terrifying thrilling moment, about her current lifespan. Would her organs ever fail? Could she even age, anymore? Would she...? And then she'd slammed the lid on that before the panic could seep into her chest.

Maybe... maybe something she could talk about with Steve. Captain Rogers. But maybe not. In a way, he was already living that experience – whether or not his biology had made him a permanent fixture.

There was only a dribble of red glow across the horizon, now. Like a paper cut that rapidly healed while she watched. Closing that thin band of broken, indigo skin.

She didn't want this.

She could pretend that this was all a part of a marvelous medical advancement. A cure for, literally, everything. As it had been intended, long, long ago. She could pretend that the formula wasn't buried in Stark's servers – the final key to stability but not an actual cure. Never a cure. She hadn't been sick! She hadn't wanted...!

Red warmth flushed across the skin of her arms – raising the fine hairs while dousing a chilly shiver down the back of her throat. She was working on her anger. At least she had the ability to assert control, now. No accidental burning down of any downtown buildings. Still weighing the pros and cons of intentional arson on days when the shareholders got tetchy about her ability to function as CEO after her kidnapping. Yes, that terrifying kidnapping. Thank God Iron Man was able to pull her ass out of that fire. It burned her that they only knew the story as the cliché rescue of the fairytale princess such as the media had reported it. And weren't the puns just flying thick and fast.

Nobody but Tony knew what she was. That had been her choice, at the time.

Sure, he could be kidnapped for three months, build a super suit, dismantle the company from the ground up, and still hold his position until, basically, he got bored... But give a girl a little fire and suddenly everyone is wetting themselves? Or so she'd thought. Why had she thought that? The irony that she was putting out fires before they could start.

Her fist smashed against the wheel hard enough to crack the skin of her knuckles. A sizzle of ozone and a spark and it was healed before the blood could well.

No.

No!

She wasn't doing this. Yeah, at the time it had seemed like the smart move. The safe move. But safe wasn't on the books for her. It never had been. If she'd been a fan of safe, she'd be an accountant at a quint little office in Nacogdoches.

She didn't have to hide herself! She could tell them who she was.

She was Pepper Potts. She was the daughter of Nathan and Eleanor Potts. She was a Texas native, fan of the Dallas Diamonds, and CEO of Stark Industries. She didn't back down in a fight and she didn't take shit from anyone – least of all her own boyfriend.

And she could come to her own rescue.

Chapter Text

I’ve thought of both of these moments but seeing them side by side just... 

How does one live when their heart stops beating?  Is that why everything inside hurts?  Is it because the body is trying so hard to live or desperately trying to die?

He’d thought his time had come and, really, he’d been okay with it.  Terrified, of course, how the hell wouldn’t he be with that... God, he couldn’t even come up with a euphemism... when Thanos had loomed over him like the physical form of Death.  No sickle, no robes, no bony hand - the exact opposite, actually, of that dated caricature.  That was dread.  No expounding on that emotion - no need to detail it beyond the single word.  But, hey, we’ve got time for exposition, now, don’t we?  Isn’t that right, doc?  Time...  The last inhabitants of a dead world that continues to claim all who visit her.  How long, now, for him?  For the cold creature at his back?

Why did he have to survive?

WHY?

There was a viciousness to that colloquialism, “fate is cruel”.  Fate was monstrous.  Fate was a hollow demon that had a gaping mouth for a head - a dead zone of emptiness that lived only on horror.  And it had just found a soul to sustain it for decades.    

Ash still coated his fingers; remnants of a bright and brilliant life that had so much to offer the world.  Intelligence not encumbered by bitterness or selfishness or self-destructive tendencies... He should have been the one, over all of them, to survive.  If this annihilation had been about creating balance, it had permanently tipped the scales off their axis the moment that astounding kid had crumbled to dust in his arms.  

Movement shifted behind him - another reminder that there was, at least, some sort of life left behind.  Because, really, he wasn’t certain he qualified any more.

“We need to leave this place.”

Tony scrubbed his wrist across his eyes - careful not to dislodge the bits of ash still buried in the creases of his hands.

“Why bother...”  Poison orange sun turned the red earth to blood.  If ever there was a place to finally call it quits... well, this was as good as any...

Metal blue fractured the light as the cyborg moved into his path.

“You really are a fool if you think this is over.  Now, get off your ass, Terran, before I leave you here to rot!”

Comforting.  And all of thirty seconds ago, he’d have been okay with that.  

Except... except...

“We’re in the endgame now...”

There were others.  There had to be.  Rhodey?  Bruce?  Steve...?  His heart tightened to breathlessness.  ...Pepper?

He had to know that they were okay.  

The gleaming figure hadn’t left quite yet; though her feet had shifted against the gritty soil - agitated.  Tony nodded; sucking in a burning breath before holding out a hand.  The cyborg rolled her eyes before grabbing it to haul him to his feet amidst much grunting and gasping.

“You’re right,” he winced - one arm wrapping around his middle while the other remained firmly attached to her shoulder.

“Halftime is over.  Time to get back in the game.”

Chapter Text

His cell chirped a tune in his pocket. He ignored it; focused on his keypad with more determination than he’d had thirty seconds earlier. Ten seconds later, it rang again. And again. Aaand… Shit. He dragged the damn thing from his pocket and, reluctantly, answered.

“Yeah??”

“Why are you bugging my kid?”

Fury rubbed at his eye; already feeling that particular migraine blossom to life.

“Aside from that being none of your business?”

“No, see, you made it my business the second you tried to recruit him! I told you, before, Peter is off limits!”

Sitting up, now, Fury glowered in the vague direction of his window. “That deal fell off the table when you decided to make a Spiderman an Avenger. I was willing to give you some laxity when he was just some free-range local helping little old ladies cross the street. But when you made him a member of our… what did you call it? Our little boy band? That deal fell off the table.”

“It doesn’t matter!  The deal stands, end of story!  You want me to come out of retirement?  Fine!  I can kick ass just as hard with one arm or two!”

“Stark…”

“You can’t have my kid!”

Fingers tapped on the table as Fury listened the other man breathe.  Finally he sank back in his chair.  “I’m doing this to keep him safe.  Because you damn well know your heart can no longer handle the suit.  Right now, Peter is on his own.  He’s an Avenger in name only but he has no team to look after him.  There is nobody to watch his back.  And I know that isn’t what you want for him.”

No response; he’d take that at face value.

“I promise you… I promise you I will take care of him.  I don’t want to see him hurt any more than you do.”  An unbelieving grunt followed but Fury didn’t give the man a chance to verbalize.  “Besides, this is his choice.  I won’t force him in to anything.”

A beat, and then, finally… “If you think you can soothe him into this like some cool uncle, think again.  Pete knows every trick you can bring.  The kid is a hell of a lot smarter than both of us.”

Fury actually smiled.  “Yeah, I don’t doubt that.”

He drummed his fingers while Stark remained silent.  Eventually, though, he heard a long breath.  “Fine; it’s his choice.  But, Fury?  I swear to God, he so much as burns his tongue on your cheap coffee and I’ll give you first hand experience on being an amputee from the waist down.”  Stark disconnected first - somehow managing to work in the ringing bang of a slammed receiver.

Fury slipped his phone back into his pocket; eyes drifting back to the hotel window and the bright sky over the deep blue water of the bay.

“Warning noted…”  He muttered.