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Tony wakes with a start, his heart pounding out of his chest. Breaths come in short pants. Blinking the tears out of his eyes, he slips out of his bed, moving in a carefully practiced way so as to not wake Pepper. It’s 4:00 A.M. Good enough.
The mirrors taunt him with a reflection that isn’t quite his. One with gray hairs and heavy eye bags. One with worry-wrinkles and an air of despair. That isn’t him.
He’s Tony Stark, notorious fixer, and yet he can’t manage to put the broken bits of himself together. He can’t even manage to decide if it’s worth all the trouble.
Pepper rolls over in her sleep. A strand of her strawberry-blonde hair sticks onto her bottom lip as she lets out a loud snore. It should be worth the trouble for Pepper, he knows that. For Morgan, too.
But the ugly, selfish part of him wants to let himself fall apart. Drown himself in alcohol, in drugs, in anything – he just wants to forget.
Tony never does get a full night of sleep anymore.
Wishing to, even, just isn’t realistic. But the least he can do is to channel all those negative feelings – all those dawns waking up with dust on his hands – and forge them into something positive. The least he can do for Pepper and Morgan, who rely on him. (The least he can do for Peter, who wouldn’t have wanted this.)
His hands itching to do something, Tony heads to the kitchen and finds the heart-shaped waffle iron he had jokingly bought Pepper a few years ago for Valentine’s Day. He brushes his fingers over the indentations with a smile. That had been a good day. Peter doesn’t - didn’t celebrate the holiday, but they had gorged themselves on chocolate and sugar hearts anyway. Then they laughed until they puked, and even still it was a good night.
God, that day. When Tony’s biggest worries were if Pepper would like the waffle iron, or whether May would erupt at him for getting Peter sick. On that day, and in that year, life was simple. He took it for granted, but his life was even good.
Tony grabs a ceramic bowl from the shelf and sets all the necessary ingredients on the counter. As he cracks, measures, and mixes, he lets his mind wander away from Peter – Peter turning to dust, Peter begging, Peter pleading – and instead focuses on the task at hand. Crack the eggs. Combine the flour and sugar. Don’t think about the way the flour feels on his fingers -
Tony coughs, toppling the container of flour, and grasps at his throat for air. That isn’t Peter. That isn’t Peter’s dust. That is flour, flour that will be put into waffle batter.
Flour.
Tony takes a few more minutes to compose himself. Waits for his breaths to even out, his hands to quit their trembling. And then he sinks his head into those now-steady hands, choking back a sob that bubbles in the back of his throat. He's fine. He's fine. He's making waffles. Fine.
The waffles don’t end up being a suitable distraction, so Tony heads off to the lab to work, tearing into his Iron Man suit plans. Iron Man couldn't save Peter all those years ago, and Iron Man still can't save Peter because Peter is dead, but in the sanctity of the darkened lab, Tony can play out these other scenarios in his mind. Scenarios where Thanos is nothing. No one. Scenarios where Peter is how old Peter should be, and where Peter breathes, drinks, eats, sleeps. These daydreams - because that's what they are, just daydreams - feel realer, better, when he's working on something to protect Mind-Peter in the physical world, too.
He doesn't realize how long he’s been working until he hears a familiar voice cheer: “Waffles!”
Morgan has a weird obsession with batter. Cake batter, pancake batter, brownie batter – you name it, Morgan’ll eat it. Tony, on the other hand, has an obsession with keeping his child healthy and alive, so he sets down his blowtorch, blanks out his mind, and jogs to the kitchen.
The girl has already drenched her hands in the sticky sweet goop by the time Tony arrives. She glances up guiltily, but continues to suck the batter off of each finger.
“Maguna,” Tony chides. “You know you're not supposed to eat that.”
Morgan's lips make an O shape and her eyebrows rise up. “Whoopsies,” she giggles, and then she lunges for the bowl yet again.
“Not so fast, munchkin. How about I cook some for you?”
Deflating, Morgan nods. “Better than nothing, Daddy.”
“Wha - better than nothing? Morgan H. Stark, I’ll have you know that your father makes the best damn waffles in the entire galaxy.”
Morgan shakes her head, familiar by now with her father’s antics, and climbs onto the kitchen stool. She taps her fingers on the counter impatiently.
He laughs, but it's not a genuine laugh because there's still that residual feeling of emptiness. And then he's swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth, bringing the bowl over to the waffle iron, and regarding the batter suspiciously. There's probably a freaking garden of germs in there now. But, nevertheless, Tony plugs the charger into the wall socket and grabs a spoon from the drawer.
“Frankly, I’m not sure you’re ready for how yummy these waffles are.”
“Gerald-ly, I’m sure I am.”
Tony can’t resist a snort. If Peter could hear her, he wouldn't be able to either, and where did that thought come from? He isn't supposed to be thinking about Peter. Not right now. The memories are still too painful. He wishes they weren't.
Once the iron powers up, Tony sprays it and spoons the batter in, putting a sprinkling of chocolate chips in each one.
“You’re getting the princess treatment right here.”
Morgan ignores him. “Daddy, can you tell me a story about Petey?”
Tony’s breath catches and his arm knocks into the bowl, spilling it over. He catches it just in time with his other hand. Glancing over at his daughter, who senses nothing amiss, Tony digs his fingernails into his palms to stop the trembling, lifting them right before he breaks through a layer of skin.
“Daddy’s making you pancakes?” Pepper asks, entering the room. She yawns and threads her fingers through Morgan’s dark hair.
“He wouldn’t let me eat the batter,” Morgan responds matter-of-factly.
Thank God for Pepper Potts, Tony thinks, as he watches his wife and daughter make casual conversation. He should be able to talk about Peter by now. He should be able to give Morgan the chance to get to know what her... what her brother was like.
Because that’s what he would have been. Her brother.
The waffle iron timer dings and Tony hastily opens it up, using a fork to transport the waffles onto a plate for Morgan.
“Breakfast is served, Milady,” Tony exclaims in a deliberately awful British accent, placing the meal in front of the girl, who immediately bites in.
She hesitates, scrunching up her nose, before announcing: “Good enough,” and polishing off her plate.
Later that morning, Tony drives Morgan to school, smiling tightly as she babbles on about her friend Leo and the game the pair plans on playing at recess.
“Daddy!” She cries, throwing her head against the back of her car seat. “Are you listening?”
“Yep, you’re going to -” Tony clears his throat and scrubs at his nose. “You’re going to play Spider-Man with Leo. I heard you, bambina.”
It's a couple minutes later when he pulls up at drop-off and then he promptly wrinkles his nose. A child is sneezing. Into the palm of her hand.
"Stay away from that one, yeah, honey?"
Morgan purses her lips and gestures to the buckle that secures her into the seat.
"Daddy?"
"Ah. Right." He cranes his neck and, with a click, the straps release. "Have a good day, bambina!"
"Kay, Daddy!" She calls out, already halfway out the door. And then she skips over to Leo and wraps him in a tight hug.
Leo is a cute enough kid, but he’s still a snot-nosed brat. Tony hasn’t yet met a five-year-old who isn’t a snot-nosed-brat, though, other than Morgan. He thinks that there’s no way in hell Peter had been a snot-nosed-brat, but what does Tony know? He’d only been in the kid’s life for two years.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, Tony begins backing up, exhaling slowly as memories of Peter flood to the forefront of his mind.
"Boss,” FRIDAY says, a hint of urgency in her tone. “Morgan’s school is calling for you.”
Tony stops in his tracks. What happened? What happened to his baby? If something happened to Morgan, he would... he wouldn’t be able to be anymore.
“P-Put it through, FRI.”
“Hello, is this, er, Mr. Stark?”
“Where is she?” Tony asks. Straight and to the point.
“Oh, your daughter is perfectly fine, sir.” Tony lets out a heavy breath and feels himself collapse onto the wall. “She appears to have a slight case of the sniffles, is all.”
“She’s sick?” Tony yells. The relief dies out. Now that death is no longer in the cards, this other bad-but-nowhere-near-as-bad thing can start pulsing a vein in Tony's neck. “I pay the big bucks to this school and you send my daughter back sick?”
“Mr. Stark, I understand your anger, but, as I’m sure you know, it’s unhealthy for children her age to not get sick. It's important to build up their immune systems.”
“What, so you want me to thank you? Thank you, thank you so much for -”
“N-No, we’d like you to come pick her up.”
“Yeah, you’re damn right I’m coming to pick her up. FRI, end call.”
Tony blows the air out of his cheeks and massages his forehead.
“Boss,” comes FRIDAY’s voice. “Don’t you think you were a little hard on them?”
Ignoring her, Tony grabs his car keys and heads out the door.
The drive there is filled with anxiety, but it doesn't last too long. He's at the school and signing his daughter out before he can recite the periodic table, and only once he has does the horror set in.
Morgan is a sight to behold. Her nose is dripping like a leaky faucet, and every now and then, she’ll reach a snot-covered hand up and wipe it clean. Her skin is pale and clammy, and the light has gone out from her eyes. Such a change has come over his daughter in the past few hours, that Tony briefly wonders if she’s been possessed.
God, he hates germs.
(But he loves his daughter more.)
She sniffles pitifully, in desperate need of a tissue.
“Oh, Maguna,” he breathes, brushing a lock of hair away from her forehead. “Let’s get you home, baby, okay?”
“’Ts okay, Daddy.”
Tony freezes. “What’s okay?”
“Don’t need to take care of me. I know you don’t like icky shit.”
His heart plummets to his toes like he’s on a goddamn roller coaster, only there’s a sense of dread in place of the excitement.
“Morgan, that’s Mommy’s word.” Morgan shrugs her shoulders, a ghost of a smile appearing on her chapped lips. “Now, listen, bambina, and this is very important, okay? I will never not be here for you. Never, not in a million years. Even if you’re puking your guts out, I’ll be right behind you, rubbing your back. Alright, Magoo?”
Morgan wipes her nose with the palm of her hand (to his credit, Tony doesn’t even blink), and nods, throwing herself into her father’s arms.
“Okay, baby, let’s go home.”
This drive is filled with silence, and it's almost worse than the drive over. But it still takes no more than ten minutes - ten minutes too long, if you ask Tony - before they reach the cabin. Once he pulls into the driveway, Tony pokes his head up and around his seat to check on Morgan. She’s fast asleep, her head lolled to one side, a train of mucus dribbling down her chin. A shiver wracks Tony’s body, but he pulls out a Kleenex and sits down next to her, dabbing her face clean. At least he's found the cause of her uncharacteristic quietness.
She blinks her eyes open slowly and yawns. “Daddy,” comes her voice – small, soft, and heartbreaking. “Daddy, hurts.”
“I know it hurts, baby, can you tell me -”
His question is interrupted by a disgusting, loud noise. It comes from Morgan’s nose. A beat, and then the nose makes the noise again.
“Magoo,” Tony says, pulling out another Kleenex and swiping under her nose. “Do you know how to blow your nose?” Wide-eyed, Morgan shakes her head. Ah. Delightful. “Alright, bambina, let’s get you out of here and we can make you feel better.”
Getting her out of there isn't too hard, but it does require a certain paternal intuition that Tony happens to posses. He's feeling pretty decent about himself after arranging her limbs on the couch, but then the hard part kicks in. Because apparently, making kids feel better when they’re sick is a process. She needs to be cuddled, to be distracted from her ailment, to be fed, and, for some reason, to be taught how to blow her nose.
Tony holds the tissue and cradles the back of her head. “Try one more time, baby, I know you can do it.”
Morgan’s eyes fill with frustrated tears, but she tries anyway. She ends up coughing phlegm up into the napkin as her father’s nose wrinkles.
“I’m sorry,” he tells her, as they watch Sesame Street. It's the evening, and Pepper should be coming back from SI soon enough. Morgan's been trying to blow her nose for an impossibly long time, and she still hasn't succeeded. There's no way to twist this that doesn't point the blame at Tony. “I’m sorry I can’t take care of you very well.”
Morgan’s puffy red eyes frantically search for his, and she shakes her head passionately. ”Daddy, you’re very good at taking care of me.”
He laughs and starts combing his fingers through her hair. Great. Now he's a sad old man, desperately searching for validation from his five-year-old daughter. (It does feel pretty good, though, even if she's just being nice.)
“Thank you, honey. How about you try to nap now?”
“Kay, Daddy.”
As her eyes close and her head adjusts on her father’s shoulder, Tony can’t help but let his mind wander to how goddamn different everything could have been if Peter had been there. Peter would have been the greatest big brother, Tony knows that. The moment Peter caught wind of Morgan’s illness, he’d have bolted out of school, armed with a bottle of cold medicine and a box of tissues.
If Peter were here, things would be okay.
“Daddy, sing me a song,” Morgan whispers, and she shuts her eyes tightly.
As he rocks her, he sings, “The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Up came the sun and dried out all the rain, and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again.”
(But Peter won't be coming up the spout again. Peter is washed out, gone. Forever.)