Three Cheers for the Great Outdoors, Part Four
(In case you missed it: Part One // Part Two // Part Three)
IV
Time passed, a long, unmeasured lacuna.
Typically, Tony’s precise internal clock could track that variable with
near-atomic accuracy — but between the fever, the organ failure, and the
cocktail of drugs they were no doubt pumping into him to keep him stable,
Tony’s most conscious moments were spent in a bizarre twilight space between
slumber and wakefulness, his brain locked in safe mode. He could
think — sometimes. But the process was damnably slow — like starting a windmill
that had sat idle for several centuries.
He hated it. He hated all of it.
When Tony was closest to full lucidity, numerous
irritations made themselves known — loudly. Persistently. His bruises throbbed.
His muscles screamed. He wanted to turn over - to curl up on his side and hug
his pillow to his chest as he would in his own bed - but he was held fast by
something they’d wrapped around his legs. And worst of all? He had to piss. He
had to piss constantly, and there was nothing he could do about
it.
“They’re uh — they’re taking care of that for
you,” Rhodey had said the very first time Tony mustered just enough strength to
bitch about the protestations of his bladder. It took a moment for Tony to
understand what had been left unspoken. But then rusty, ponderous gears clicked
into place, and he shuddered, humiliation burning under his ribs like a
smoldering coal. “Sorry, buddy. I know it sucks.”
Still, that profound indignity was preferable to
what greeted him each time his delirium sucked him back down into sleep, where
his memories unspooled like the world’s worst home movie reel.
One moment, he was back in that cave, gagging as
dirty water flooded his mouth and nose, white-knuckling the battery that was
his only lifeline.
The next moment, a nuclear fireball — followed
by black and stars and existential terror as he dropped to his certain death.
And then? Then the lance - a white-hot agony
slamming into his side - and the unwanted caress of a monster’s enormous purple
hand. Don’t you touch me, you sick asshole. Don’t you dare touch me.
Blood in his throat. Dust on his hands. His
dust. The kid.
All gone. Alone. Alone, like he’d
always foreseen.
Again and again, the cycle repeated. Tony’s days
became defined by the gentle manhandling of his nurses. By his unremitting
nightmares. By his anxiety and frustration and damnable helplessness. It
was torture — and it seemed inescapable.
On one occasion, Pepper tried to comfort Tony
after yet another round of intense flashbacks — and he simply crumbled.
He shook. His chest heaved. Sobs rose up and he couldn’t stop them.
He was done. He was absolutely fucking done.
--*--
And then — then Tony woke up, his mental clarity
restored.
“Welcome back to the world, Mr. Stark. It looks
like your fever’s finally broken.”
The light made Tony’s eyes ache, but by force of
will, he kept them open. Arrayed around the room were the outlines of three
different people. On the left side of the bed, most likely, was a nurse. Tony
couldn’t make out much beyond basic, large shapes, but he could
feel the unidentified individual fussing with his blood pressure cuff, which
seemed to provide confirmation enough as to her occupation. At the foot of the
bed, meanwhile, was Happy; this guess Tony made based on his proportions and
shape of his head. And to Tony’s right? Pepper. The red of her hair was muted
by the effects of the optic neuritis, but Tony recognized it nonetheless.
Tony tried to move his right hand to touch
Pepper’s cheek — but was stopped by a leather restraint. Anger flared. “How
‘bout cutting me loose, Nurse Ratched?” he groused.
Beside him, Pepper laughed in relief. “Sorry,
Tony. You kept trying to remove your IV.”
Once he was freed, Tony massaged both his wrists
and pawed at his face. Ugh. Two weeks of growth, he thought. Give or
take a day. He needed a razor, a toothbrush — and, yes, a couple thousand
years in some boiling hot water. He could feel his hospital gown clinging
uncomfortably to his clammy skin — and more importantly, he could smell it. Gross.
But before Tony could make all of his complaints
and desires known, Pepper - the minx - enveloped him in a tight hug and started
kneading circles between his shoulder blades. For a moment, Tony forgot to be
embarrassed by his own filth, and he planted several chaste kisses along the curve
of his wife’s neck.
“Hey, guys? This is a public
place, you know.”
“Shut up, Hap.” But Tony did pull away to run
his hands through Pepper’s hair, reveling in that tactile reassurance. “I’m
sorry.”
“For what, honey?”
“For forgetting to put on insect repellant.”
“Honestly, Tony,” Pepper replied, and somehow,
Tony knew she was smiling — even if he couldn’t clearly read her expression.
“You’d forget your own head if it wasn’t screwed on.”
Tony closed his eyes, pressing his face against
Pepper’s chest and enjoying the teasing for what it was: a slice of normalcy
for a savant and his exceedingly tolerant and loving spouse. And speaking of
normalcy: “So when can we get out of here?”
“Tony.”
“Please?”
“No. I almost lost you — again.
I’m not signing you out AMA.”
Tony straightened, his jaw clenched. But before
he could say another word, his other visitor intervened. “Don’t be a
jackass, Tony. For once in your life, listen to the doctors.”
Tony glowered at Happy for a good long while —
but eventually relented. “Can I at least go to the can and get a shower like a
grown-ass man?”
“That’s probably not the best idea, Mr. Stark,”
warned Nurse Ratched. Because yep: as far as Tony was concerned, she was
earning the nickname he’d coined. “You’re going to be pretty unsteady on your
feet until you’ve had a few sessions with the PT.”
“Tony and I have been through this before. What
if I helped him?” Pepper asked, bless her. “Would that be okay?”
After several discussions with Dr. Ratchford and
the charge nurse, Tony finally - finally - won this one small
battle. And God, he almost purred the moment Pepper
started working his favorite brand of shampoo through his curls and he caught a
whiff of its distinctive minty fragrance.
If they could just permit him a few key
pleasures - a few essential freedoms - he’d tolerate their boring kidney diet
and their therapists and the rest of their mother-henning nonsense.
At least for a while. At least until his
patience reached its unbreachable limit.
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