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It's almost cold in Fairburn, Georgia during this time of year; more so during the wee hours of the morning. The moon hangs high at 2:26 am, the glittery splatter of stars around it unbefitting the somber air surrounding the lakeside cabin. The green of the trees is beginning to fade into golds and reds by now, the nighttime weather chilling into nearly thirty degrees. Something in the back of Rory's head tells her she should probably go inside and try to sleep, but she can't bring herself to stand from her seat on the top stair of the porch. She hasn't been able to bring herself to do much of anything, really.
She's barely been able to force herself out of bed.
It's been eight days since Thanos, since her father’s death. Six since his funeral, and Aurora (Rory) Stark has barely been able to rest for more than an hour at a time since then. She's startled awake at the image of her father's mangled arm and the burned side of his face, the hollow echo of her own scream in her ears, the ghost sensation of being pulled into Rhodey's chest as the light of his arc reactor finally powered off. In a way it just feels like a bad dream every time; but the bruises along her ribs and arms from the battle are a stark reminder, however. Tony was dead. That’s not a dream at all.
No one else remaining in the house seems to be faring any better.
Steve and Bucky left to go tie off loose ends shortly after the funeral, Thor returned to New Asgard and his people, Clint went back to his family. Bruce and Wanda went back to New York to go gather Natasha and Vision's things from the rubble of the Avengers Compound.
Happy and Pepper busy their hands with Morgan's grieving in attempts to soften the blow of Tony's glaring absence. Once her little half-sister is asleep, though, she hears them cry - the sound of stifled sobs is easy to pick up in the silence of the house. It would be a lie to say that Rory didn't join them in her own room, face buried in her hands, and refusing to look at the picture of her and Tony on the bedside table. Peter's been hiding in the room he'd been staying in for the most part, and Rory can't bring herself to blame him. It's too quiet without the tenor of her father's laughter or the squealing laughs he was able to drag out of her younger sister. It feels like there's a blaring hole in the atmosphere, and she knows he feels it the same way she does.
She's not surprised when the front door opens, knowing already that it's Peter. She knows he's looking over the heap of black hair she's haphazardly tied atop her head, the slouch of her shoulders under her thin blanket, and how her skin is paler than normal. The darkening circles under her eyes. He doesn't look much better. He understands, though. The bite of the cold is better than the numb inside.
"Can't sleep?" His voice has a raspy edge that tells her he's been crying again. His steps are near silent as he takes a seat next to her, and a humorless chuckle escapes Rory as her hazel eyes slowly slide towards the teen that may as well be her brother. He looks so small in this moment, hair a mess and his tear-stained cheeks slightly sunken in from his refusal to eat. She can't find it in herself to try and feel hungry either. It all tastes like ash in her mouth.
He's still so young, not aging a day since he was taken by The Decimation. Still the same sixteen-year-old who used to come ask her for advice about MJ, whose smile could fill an entire room with sunlight. Rory assumes she must look older to him now. She was eighteen when she met him. Nineteen when he disappeared. She's coming up on twenty-four here soon. He's too young to bear so much weight on his shoulders, to go through everything he has, to have seen everything he has.
"Not since the funeral." Her voice is weaker than she anticipated, but she doesn't waste any time adjusting her blanket to sit over his shoulders as well. It's a comfortable silence as both of them let the cold seep into their bones, but Peter's gaze soon drops from the lake to his hands.
"Rory?"
"Hm?"
Her gaze shifts over to him, and he's not sure if it's the angle or lighting, but her resemblance to her father -- to Tony -- in his peripheral makes his heart pang in his chest. They share the same jawline and cheekbones, same stubborn personality. How had he not noticed that before? His next words catch in his throat, and Rory reaches and rubs his back comfortingly.
"How… how are you so calm..? I can barely stand being in the house, I don't understand. He wasn't even my dad, but it still feels like I've lost a giant piece of myself like when Uncle Ben died, and you seem.. so quiet."
There's a long pause as Rory watches him; the way his lip is starting to tremble and how silver is lining his eyes. Her fingers are gentle as they wipe away the tears that spill over his cheeks, deciding to take the long way around this conversation.
"Did I ever tell you how I lost my mom?"
Peter looks a little confused at the change in topic before he shakes his head.
"My mother died when I was fifteen years old. Hydra killed her for refusing to give her talents to their… cause ," she nearly spits out the word in disgust, "I was a sophomore in high school, and got the news by seeing her dead on the kitchen floor." The heartbreak is Peter's eyes near palpable, and Rory gently pets the hair on the back of his head.
"I-I'm so sorry, Rory-"
"Shhh, no. It's alright. It happened a long time ago, Peter. There's no need to apologize." Her smile is soft as she uses the blanket to gently wipe his wet cheeks again before continuing to speak. "It was a rough time. My mom was the only real family I knew. I'd always known about Tony, but my mom was my best friend. Having to go through that with no one to fall back on was… it felt impossible. I was desperate, I had nowhere to go. I didn't want to be put into the system, so instead, I ran and tried to find Tony."
She runs her tongue over her teeth, taking a deep breath before
"Tony didn't want me at first. Did you know that?" Her lips curl into a small smile at Peter's surprise. "He didn't believe me. Thinking back on it, I'm sure I looked kind of crazy, yelling about being his kid. But the one who convinced him to at least try to test whether I was telling the truth was actually Pepper. She could see the resemblance, I'm sure, but even when it came out that I was his and after all the court cases and lawyers and paperwork… he was very cold towards me. He was only forty-five, this was right after the mess with Ultron in Sokovia and during the entire Sokovia Accords with T'Challa. He was in no place mentally to deal with me, and at this point, I don't blame him for shutting me out. Who would want to deal with a random teenage daughter during probably the worst part of his life? I definitely wouldn't."
Rory runs a hand through her hair, tugging softly on the roots before rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"It was only after the mess in Germany that he even bothered to try and learn about me at all. Because of you." Peter's head snaps towards Rory, brows furrowed in stark surprise.
"Me? I didn't meet you until after Germany-"
Her smile widens a bit as she continues to speak. "It's true. He took so well to you that he decided maybe kids weren't so bad. You can imagine my surprise when he made me my own Iron Suit." The small laugh that bubbles out of her makes Peter's face lighten a bit, the corners of his mouth pulling up slightly.
"The irony is that I always took after him more than I did my mother anyway. I was an eighteen-year-old version of him. Computer genius with enough arrogance to fill oceans. You should have seen us when I started suggesting possible additions to suits. Thick as thieves, kiddo. And you should have heard how he talked about you." Peter laughs, his eyes locked back on his lap as the very air about him seems to lighten a bit. Rory wraps her arm around his shoulder and pulls him into a side hug, rubbing his arm as his head simply falls onto her shoulder.
"I always got into trouble, but I know he cared a lot about me. He just wanted the best for me, you know? He tried his best. He really did."
Rory kisses the top of his head and squeezes his arm. "Yeah. He did."
"Listen, Peter. To answer your question... I'm not calm at all. I feel like I'm spiraling. The inside of my head feels like a black hole, my thoughts race so fast that I struggle to even comprehend them, and most of the time I think I push myself into feeling numb so I don't have to deal with the hurt of knowing he's gone." Peter doesn't comment on how thick her voice sounds, but instead gently takes her free hand in both of his own and gives it a gentle squeeze. "You come to miss things you didn't realize you loved when people die, you know? The feel of their hands, the fondness in their eyes when they look at you, their hugs, or the smell of weird things like their deodorant, their toothpaste, cologne, or the specific way they take their coffee. Or the smell of chicken soup."
Rory's gaze falls to their clasped hands, and her eyes begin to fill at the memory of the first time Tony tried to help when she was sick. The feel of his lips on her forehead and his hand on her shoulder as she takes the steaming mug from his hands. Get well soon, trouble. We have a project to finish.
Peter feels something wet drip onto the back of his hand, followed by a sniffle.
Rory feels something wet drip onto her forearm.
Their hands tighten around each other.
"But most of all, their voices. It's been so long since I heard my mother's voice, and it horrifies me that the older I get, the more I forget what it sounded like. My father's genuine laugh was one of my favorite things in the world, Peter. And I'm scared that one day I'm not going to remember the sound of it. That somehow I'm not going to remember how it sounded when he said he was proud of me, or how awfully he sang when he was working or trying to embarrass me." Her laugh is mournful, wiping her face as her stomach spasms on a small sob.
There's a beat of silence as the boy sniffles and wipes his face, his lip trembling as he clenches his jaw as if it'll hold back the tears. "I miss him." His voice, while quiet, wavers.
"My father was not a perfect man, Peter. He was arrogant, and a huge pain in the ass. But he was also the most loyal person I think I'd ever met. He wanted to help people. I loved him more than I can say. He loved me. Just as he loved you." Peter shuts his burning eyes, and Rory feels the pulse of him trying to shove a sob back down his throat.
"He was so proud of you, Peter. He might have not really shown it well, but he loved you, you know." Peter finally looks up as her voice cracks, his cheeks shiny as Rory reaches up and takes them in her hands. "I'm so sorry I got five more years with him than you did. You deserved so much more time with him than you got, and I will never hate anything more than I hate that fact." The teen doesn't fight as he's pulled into a full hug, his long arms wrapping tightly around Rory's middle, and his face buried in her shoulder as he finally allows himself to break. Her hand gently returns to the back of his head as the tears stream silently down her face. "I'm so sorry, Peter. I'm so, so sorry."
His sobs cut through the dark like a knife, and Rory feels his hands grab fistfuls of her shirt just for something to ground him. It's not until he pulls back to wipe his face that Rory speaks again. Quietly, like it's just for him. "Loss fucking sucks, Peter. It never stops hurting. It may get easier, you may make your peace with it, and soon, there’s going to be a time when you’re able to laugh like you again. The fact that it hurts means that we were lucky to love something enough to grieve the lack of its presence."
He pauses to absorb the information before he nods, taking a deep breath and staring up at the moon. The silence is comfortable, the air around the cabin seeming lighter for the two, even if just a little bit. It's nearly four before they head back inside, only to be awoken at 8 with the sound of cooking and the familiar sounds of Morgan, Pepper, and seemingly Steve downstairs.
Rory and Peter are quiet as they make their way towards the dining room, sitting next to each other at the table. It's still generally quiet, but a peal of Morgan's laughter from Steve's teasing seems to light up the room.
Peter smiles softly at the sound, slowly reaching forward to put something on his plate. Rory glances at him as she does the same, eyes following as he takes a bite of pancake and then another. It's slow, and he raises his gaze to Aurora as she pops a grape into her mouth. The atmosphere is still heavy. The hurt is still there.
But the food tastes a little bit more like it's supposed to.