Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

windows, and what's out of them

Spooktober 08: Medicine

a/n: a partner chapter to 'the thing in common with sleep in stars'

Tony Stark died at the young age of fifty-three.

It had previously been a day of average temperature, clear skies, a nice October breeze in the air.

In the blink of an eye, war made the lands warm, the pressing of bodies running close together, the sweat, the unending nebulous blasts, the firing of magic, the burn of lightning and iron; the dirt, the desolation, all sticky with blood, covered in corpses that were still warm to the touch.

He died with the power of the universe at his hands, which was a lot less cooler than it sounded. The thing about power is that it means nothing to those unworthy to wield it— and nobody has the worthiness to hold the universe in the palm of their hands.

For Tony, the universe felt like this:

His bones were shattered, his skin was ash. Static ran across his arm, up his neck, over his skull, splitting each individual hair in two and burning it instantly in a white-hot blaze.

He couldn't see anything, and he could see everything: patterns, textures, colours that don't exist to the human eye are visible on the edge of his vision, and he could reach out and touch them if he wanted, tell you how they felt, all the unearthly things they consisted of.

There was a ringing in his ear that could rival the mightiest case of Tinnitus, and under it all he could hear it knocking at the base of his brain, everything that he fought for: 'Mr. Stark?' and 'Tony?' and 'You can rest now.''

Tony Stark died at the young age of fifty-three.

He began living again at the same age, near the same time, and has been fighting his own body to stay alive ever since. This, as you can imagine, is a massive chore.

It's been a very long few months. He spent a lot of time living in the hospital, and he hated every second of it, and tries his hardest to avoid going back. What this results in is a lot of different doctors, a lot of emergency appointments (but less than there should be), and so much daily changing medication that he can probably run his own drug ring, if he wants to.

Despite all of this, he has little complaints, even though the symptom list is long. He dutifully goes to every PT appointment, every cardiologist appointment, every neurologist appointment, pulmonologist, ophthalmologist, etc. etc., he takes the meds for his heart, for pain, for seizures, for migraines, his lungs, his damaged nerves, etc. etc. etc. — and he does it all with a smile on his face, because that's what they need from him.

They, being his family. He's doing it all for them. It's always been for them. If there's any chance he can pull through this, he's taking it, and it's the first time in a while he's had such determination about surviving on his own accord.

This whole healing thing would be a lot easier if he didn't feel constantly as though he were missing something.

He has a lot of time to think now. His extensive array of medications come with a lot of fun side-effects. They make him wide awake, and while he would just add another pill for insomnia onto his fun little nighttime routine, all of them counteract with something or other he's already taking.

("You have to understand how ridiculous that is," Tony said tiredly, his eyes boring into the fourth doctor he's seen that day. "I can't sleep because you're taking me off a drug for more drugs. Sleep is supposed to heal you."

"I know," they said sympathetically, "but there's not much we can do with your case being so particular and unique and blah blah blah blah blah—")