#yeah he dies in the end. by steering their ship into the sun in order to lure three mind controlled starformers away

[aecholapis]

Wanna talk a little bit about your favourite little guy?

Always! :-D

This is Helios, the world's most pathetic guy:

A summary of his lore is under the cut.

He has no luck and is cursed with being my favorite OC ...which means I put him through The Horrors™ all the time. He is a small helicopter built for reconnaissance and his Earth alt mode would be an Airbus H135 (formerly known as the Eurocopter EC135).

There are two versions of him (actually, it's three but the first one has become irrelevant): one is the main character of my original Brave (Yuusha) story and the other is a side character in my little TF fan continuity, but he gets treated like a main character by pretty much everyone who knows about him.

His Brave version works for the Space Police Organization and it's his job to capture his former coworker Ironwing who has stolen secret files. After his brother died, he buried himself in his work to forget about the loneliness and misery if even for a while. Helios was given a new mission and a ragtag team of misfits to command. They had to hunt down Ironwing and his team, but that would prove a challenge.

In TF, he was Ambulon once. Then he crossed paths with Proteus and angered him on accident. As it turns out, the senator was so furious that he ordered him to be reframed. With his memories erased and spark planted into a new body, Helios of Polyhex was forced to work for Proteus as his in-house executioner, assassin, guard - if it sounds edgy: you name it, he has done it - and most importantly, Helios was his personal scapegoat.

When he first left the assembly line, he was told that Aegis was his brother (but they are not spark-related) and that if he didn't adhere to his employer's wishes, Aegis would have to suffer for it. However, Aegis was murdered and this made Helios realize that they were not related in any way, and yet he did not seize the opportunity to rid Cybertron of Proteus, nor did he flee.

If he had left, they would have found another poor mech to do his job and they would have ruined their life too.

And so he stayed.

Then the war broke out and Proteus and his subordinates left the planet before the situation escalated and they roamed the universe until one day Helios was sent down to a planet's surface to search for possible Energon substitution. While he was away, Decepticons attacked their ship and killed everyone on board, leaving him stranded on the alien planet which just happens to be Earth. A human rescue team found him and let him stay with them in exchange for his service as a rescue helicopter.

The thing is, he can't fly.

His original contract had a pointless "no flying during working hours" rule that prevented him from ever taking off (because he was always on duty). Due to underuse, the moving parts in his rotor hub become stuck and corrode which damages it beyond repair. No one has the necessary parts for a replacement and while Earth technology is advanced enough to replicate his hub, they are unable to connect it to his systems.

He helped them out in root mode instead.

One day, a neutral ship, the Stellar Observatory, landed nearby and its crew picked up Helios' signal, following it to the hangar he called his home and offered him to join them on their way back to Cybertron - where the war had just ended.

As their new pilot he finally has the chance to experience what it feels like to be respected and loved. And I ship him with Nightjet (the ship's head of security) and Ironwing (one of the Cybertronians who worked as enforcers for the Galactic Council). The three of them make a nice polycule. So soft. *sighs*

I think that's it for now.

[lupismaris]

sorry you’re feeling so crappy 😔 i hope you feel better soon!!

if you’re feeling up to it, maybe silverflinthamiltons on a lake or beach vacation?

SILVERFLINTHAM LAKESIDE HOLIDAY PART 1 with a surprise! and another segment to follow because this is them arriving to the lake!

(this got long so most of it will be under the cut.)

***

It was summer.

Summer meant blistering asphalt and bags of trash stewing on the curb each morning. Hazy sunlight blinding the street, dark cavernous pockets of shade where the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, but the air stayed stale and suffocating all the same. It meant too many people and too much noise and parties in the park that never seemed to end, one just replacing another in an endless cycle of hedonism, and bottles of chilled wine and cheap beer sweating on the fountain walls. It meant long dinners and longer lunches, ice cream trucks and Italian ice carts on opposite corners of the street carrying on an old world rivalry. It meant golds and blues and lush greens wherever your eyes happened to fall, be it on a back alley garden or storefront window display.

Silver loved summer.

He loved the warmth and the sprawling picnics and the baring of skin and the feral energy of a child free from school amplified to suit a city of millions and the heady summer storms that shook the glittering skyline in a kind of holy cleanse. He loved the summer fruits and the sweet aperitifs and the old school white linen shirts and open fire hydrants flooding the streets and the neon lights reflecting in the puddles left behind, still evaporating in the hot night, giving the whole world an ethereal glow.

Though he had to admit it was always better spent on a beach with a frosted drink and not a goddamn thing to do. But, if a beach couldn’t be procured, a big, cool, well air conditioned house that was paid for by someone else was an excellent alternative. His sister’s condo in Chelsea for instance was an excellent place to waste away a summer on parties and sun bathing and a private pool that no one else seemed to have the time to use. He had spent several summers with Max that way, even once the Rangers had become part of the picture, if Silver was on the east coast for the summer, he would drop in and waste away a while.

Now though, it looked like summers were going to be spent in Brooklyn, in the big cool townhouse that Thomas had paid for, with the truly miraculously internal air con that was always kept at a balmy 65 degrees from May to October, and with very little to do outside of whatever suited his fancy on any given day. Oh and sex, a lot of sex. This would be the first summer in a very long time where he could not only allow himself a libido, but he could also satiate it.

Silver was thoroughly content with the new circumstances.

He was less content however, with how the summer months, or maybe just the summer months in the city, seemed to bring out the worst in people as frequently as it did the best.

Flint, for example, did not handle summers as well as Silver did. In part it was due to the heat and the sun and the weird smells coming off the steamy side walks, and Silver understood Flint’s frustration with all that, he truly did. But summer also meant more tourists and more people going out for a good time, more people starting brawls in bars and fights in the street and parties spilling over from one bar to the next, or worse packs of bigots making the rounds and harassing whomever they find, everything the working class service folks of the city dreaded- in short, Flint’s stress levels seemed to just rise with the temperature. And considering an average day in July might easily crack 100, Silver was starting to get a tad worried.

“Is it like this every summer?” Silver had asked one Friday morning in June.

The kitchen was soft with the morning sunlight, Thomas in his silk night shirt and robe as he perused the menu for the cafe on the corner, Silver fixing them each an espresso.

“To a point yes. You know how James is about control,” Thomas said with a fond smile, “when he’s at his best he can combat every threat to his sovereignty without so much as flinching. But the summer gets to him, makes him a bit of a wolf in a cage, so to speak.”

“Was he worse in Manhattan?” the buildings sometimes reminded Silver of a cell block, the slivers of sunlight cutting through as hot as cattle prods.

“Much. Hal has tried talking him into not working as much in the summer, but you know how he is, can’t be told anything once he’s got his mind made up. Not to mention he’s never been good at simply existing. There always has to be purpose in it, work to be done, fields to plow and what not.”

Silver huffed a laugh and brought Thomas’ espresso over, feeling a sense of warmth at the notion that he and Thomas were able to share this, to share flint and all his eccentricities.

“I’m sure a man as clever as you thought of some way to keep his blood pressure down, hm?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. Thomas took the espresso cup without looking away from the menu. He set it aside and pulled Silver in, kissing him sweetly in thanks. Ah, that was also a nice thing to share with Thomas, Silver reminded himself.

“Oh I came up with a few ideas, pet. How about we order breakfast, and I’ll tell you about them.”

By Friday, the three of them were packed into Flint’s old Range Rover heading upstate for two weeks of holiday bliss. It had taken multiple phone calls to Gates to make sure the bar would in fact be alright while Flint was gone and to make sure he barred Flint from being within a dozen yards of The Walrus once it closed on Thursday night. It had also taken coaxing, convincing, bartering, and eventually outright bribery with sex to get Flint to stop scowling about the idea of being away from his “ship” for longer than a weekend. There had been other phone calls as well, placed by Thomas in the early hours of the morning when he thought he was the only one awake. When asked about them he just waved the questions away with a mild, “oh just a little extra surprise for James thats all” and Silver did his best to trust him.

It was a five hour drive from the house in Brooklyn to the house on Lake Cayuga that Thomas had purchased during his recovery, to he and Flint would have a quiet place to heal and make up for lost time without the strain of the city grating on them. Silver had never been upstate, his various clients had always preferred houses in the Hamptons, but from the photos it was a cozy little cottage style house right on the shore, a couple bedrooms, an airy kitchen, lush garden, and a private pier that stretched out into the lake. There was also apparently a boat, a little hybrid sailboat of polished wood and deep blue paint, the name Ariel written in careful golden script. Silver wanted to ask whether Flint had bought it or built it, because he was the kind of high strung man to just build a boat from scratch instead of buying one or scheduling extra therapy. But the scowl on his face as they tucked the suitcases into the trunk told him it wasn’t worth the teasing. Not yet anyway.

Flint insisted on driving the whole five hours himself, scowling silently behind the wheel as he drove them through miles of lush farmland, leaving Thomas and Silver to chat about what they might do once they get settled in. There was plenty of hiking, though Thomas was worried the gorges might be tricky for Silver’s regular prosthetic, ample water falls and countless parks to explore. Lots of quaint small towns with seafood shacks and local fare and more wineries than even Thomas knew what to do with. And of course, most importantly, there was the lake.

Flint kept his silence till the last hour of the ride, the scowl firmly set on his jaw. Silver and Thomas had switched seats so Thomas could stretch out and nap in the back seats, leaving Silver to try and coax a smile out of his partner. Not that he had to do much. As the car climbed yet another rolling hill, Silver watched the horizon, his hand in Flint’s, trying to figure out whether the deep blue streak that had suddenly appeared was a dark patch of sky.

It wasn’t, for the record.

Silver frowned and turned to Flint, planning to ask if it was the lake and exactly how big was said lake- but the question died well before he could even open his mouth.

The scowl was gone, dropped from Flint’s face and replaced by the softest look of wonder Silver had ever seen on the man, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, making his mustache twitch. It was as if something had hooked its line into Flint’s chest and was slowly reeling him in, his whole body sitting straighter, the tension in his shoulders bleeding out until he was leaning into the steering wheel. His hand even held tighter to Silver’s, an unconscious need to keep himself tethered maybe, or to keep Silver close.

“Is that the lake?” Silver managed to ask with a soft smile of his own.

“Yeah. We’ll be at the cabin in half an hour.”

They got there in twenty minutes, not that anyone was actually counting.

The lake stretched out before them, a sea of deep blues and aquamarines, glittering with the hot late June sunlight that danced across it’s surface. It’s shores were patched with wildflowers and thick thatches of wood, little clusters of cabins and boat houses, who’s owners were out skipping across the surface like dragon flies on their small boats and kayaks. The afternoon air was hazy and sweet, the whole scene a postcard from the mythical summers of memory that everyone aspired to, bird song and the low hum of the radio escorting them along the final stretch of route 90. Flint pulled them down a narrow side road, passing a few comfortably sized homes with ample space between them, until they reached the dead end of the street, and the little cottage Silver had seen in the photos, with the shadow of the pier dark across the water, and the Ariel waiting like a loyal dog in her berth.

“Oh good,” Thomas said with a yawn, finally pulling himself back into a sitting position and stretching, as Flint pulled the car into the drive alongside what looked like a rental car. “I was starting to think we were lost.”

Silver looked back at him, ready to tease about old men and naps, but Thomas was looking down at his phone, his fingers quickly switching on the stop watch. “Thomas what-”

The range rover lurched to a sudden stop as Flint hit the brakes and Silver had to cling to the seat to keep himself upright. Thomas seemed completely unfazed, draped across the back seat in his half buttoned linen shirt and designer sunglasses, watching with an air of fond expectation as Flint threw on the parking brake and booked it from the car, leaving the engine running.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Silver asked.

Thomas laughed and reached around the driver’s seat to shut the car off. “Exactly what I expected him to do, though I’ll admit I expected him to at least properly stop the car first.”

“What? Thomas- oh my god he’s going in the lake?” Silver asked, watching as Flint cleared the back fence and striped off his shirt, leaving it on the lawn as he kept moving towards the pier. His boots, socks, and jeans followed, barely breaking his quick stride to strip them off.

“Last time it took him a whole ten minutes to get into the water,” Thomas said, helping Silver, who was too busy staring in shock at the sight of his stern and stoic partner racing across the back patio like a child, from the car. “He might clear five minutes this time.”

A few more quick strides and Flint dove from the end of the pier, breaking the surface of the lake with a thunderous sound and disappearing into the blue.

“He’s in the lake,” Silver said.

Thomas hooked their arms together, the two of them walking leisurely across the lawn. “Every visit, the first thing he does is go to the water. It’s even more dramatic when it’s the ocean, maybe I’ll book us a house on the coast next month.”

“More dramatic than stripping down to his boxers in the back yard?” he asked.

The back lawn of the house was a mix of a large patio and and a short green, with a fire pit and a grill, a small dining table and some cozy chairs, and what silver hoped was a hot tub. A woman was stretched out on one of the long beach chairs in a deep green bikini, her dark hair cut short and a magazine across her lap, though she was watching the water, where Flint had just resurfaced for a moment before diving again.

“Miranda?” Silver called, aware that Thomas was beaming behind him but not at all surprised to see his ex wife. That explained the phone calls, and the rental car out front.

“I believe our husband is in the lake my dears,” Miranda called with a laugh, getting up to come greet them. “God he’s like a little boy at a swimming hole.”

“I’d ask how you got here but that seems almost silly,” Silver said, letting her pull him into a tight hug. They had taken to each other from the first, which had left Thomas and Flint a little uneasy. Miranda’s humor matched his, her wit sharp and familiar, and Silver had learned very quickly why Flint and Thomas were both still in love with her. He wasn’t far from it himself.

“Thomas called, said James needed an intervention,” She said, letting him go to kiss Thomas hello and hug him tight. “I’m on break from teaching this summer and the fall concert season hasn’t started yet, could I come out and join you for a couple weeks? Which was a silly question, I was buying a ticket the moment he suggested it.”

Thomas kissed the top of her head, smiling brightly. “I had hoped you might be his surprise before he jumped in the lake, I’m sorry my dear.”

Silver watched them, feeling a bit dizzy. They were were a perfect pair, Miranda dark and elegant under Thomas’ arm, the cool dusk sky to Thomas’ golden hour sun.

“Don’t be, I’ll go down to him, maybe join him in the water for a bit.” She kissed his cheek, then Silver’s. “There’s some snacks laid out in the kitchen and dinner will be delivered in a couple hours, why don’t you get the bags inside and then come join us. Maybe we can even take Ariel out before dinner.”

“Oh now there’s an idea,” Thomas agreed, moving to go back and fetch the bags from the car. “Tell our husband we’ll join you in a moment. If you can manage to get him up for air.”

Miranda laughed, a bright sunny sound that always reminded Silver of how she played piano, and made her way down to the pier. He watched as she sat down on the edge of the pier, as the surface of the water broke and Flint emerged, staring up at her in shock. Silver heard her laughing, saw her reach out and watched as Flint reached up and pulled her into the lake with a joyful shout of her name. They were lost for a moment to the water, kicking up waves as Flint held her tight and danced them around, clumsy and free. Behind him Silver could hear Thomas laughing, felt his hand as it came to rest warm and sure on his lower back, pulling him in close, as he said something about wishing they’d gotten that on film.

For Silver, it was one of those moments where suddenly he remembered what all those old love songs were written about. He understood it.

And it was finally his.

[godseyegalaxy]

Candle and the Wax Flame- 2 - The Start

“You’re wish is futile, how hard is that to explain?” The mermaid’s silver tail kicked up water directed towards the pirate standing on the rocks. Then, she added, “Now, stop pestering me. It’s been a week, Icora, take your crew and leave this island behind.” 

The pirate, Icora, took off her hat and shook off the water droplets. The thin smile on her face never leaving. Cere pushed her tail through the water again and thought about leaving the pirate alone in the outlet, she probably would have, if the bitch wasn’t dangling her sister’s necklace just out of arms reach. With any other bastard she would have killed them and taken back what was hers, but Icora was a benefactor, and Cere had no intension of losing an asset.

Shards of red and green light bounced brightly off the neckless as it dangles casually midair. The lights flashed in her eyes and painfully reminded the mermaid how trapped she really was. Cere watched the neckless sink as the bastard woman knelt to her level.  

“Come now, Cere, ‘Futile’ is a harsh word-”

“Because you don’t know what it means?”

Icora paused mid-sentence, then started to laugh. She had a whole-hearted laugh, one of a seasoned mother or a well traversed clerk, not one typical for a pirate. Cere always hated the sound.

“No, no, my friend, oh my... Simply because I know it’s not futile. With your help and my crew, I’m sure we can find the remains of the city.”

Cere scowled, with her narrow face, it took up the majority of space. Icora always found it cute. With Cere’s big pitch-black eyes and boney features, Icora always thought the mermaid was cute. As cute as an ugly fish from the sea can be.  

“What makes you think there is anything left of Manora? Huh?”

“Oh, there is always something left.” She stood, taking the accessory with her. “If not proper things, say pieces of artwork, tools, and of course, metals… then ideas, traditions, and more.”

Cere snorted. “Since when do you deal in ideas? It’s always been about trinkets and gold with you.”

“Cus it seemed to be the only thing that kept you interested.” Icora gestured to all the gold and copper decorating the mermaid’s body. That is to say, she gestured to all of the mermaid, right down to the tail. Bangles, piercings, hair beads, rings and everything in between covered the creature, at it all was gifts from the buccaneer. Payments for previous jobs. “Life on land isn’t a concern for you, but for many of my crew, it is.” She continued. “Life on the islands is getting more difficult, and what would happen to my business if everyone on land moved or died?”

Icora rarely spoke about the troubles on the lands with Cere – as she said, why would the mermaid care?— however, when she did, the pained look in her eyes were bluntly apparent. Either she did care about the islands, or that was her puppy dog face. Still, it was off putting, just enough for her guard to be let down.  

The land dwellers were not the only ones being affected poorly, but not many land dwellers cared about the happenings under the waves outside the fishing industry. Eventually, the sea folk would have to leave the water surrounding the islands. But, that would be long after the humans, elves and whatnot left. Still, if the fearless Icora was worried, maybe there was something to the whole thing.  

Shit.  

Cere met Icora’s eyes to see that ugly smile spread across her face; the smile of someone who know they had won. The same smile she had seen as she captained her ship out of a harsh take over or a storm, the kind where the wind would pick up and the sun would shine in beams across the sky.  

Cere snarled at the woman. “I’ll meet you at your god damn fucking ugly ass ship.”

Icora laughed, full like the moon, or the vary waves that crashed on the rocks. “I should have never let my crew teach you curse words.”

“And you shouldn’t have fucking tracked me to a god damn random island, but here we are, Icora.” The mermaid brushed the sides of her shaved head and gathered up her hair before diving back into the turquois blue water.  

A wave of warm salty water came crashing down on the pirate captain, successfully soaking her. She wiped her face and brushed back her wild hair, turning around just in time to see Maritime break through the foliage shielding the lagoon from the rest of the island.  

“Martie, just in time, what is it?”

“Just looking for the captain, have you seen her?” She cocked her head to the side, “About this tall, old as shit, likes to wander off and leave the crew to her ship alone on a random island to find a mermaid with just a ‘gut feeling’ to guide her?”  

“Alright, Alright, Maritime.” Icora jumped to the shore, ignoring the helping hand from her apprentice. “But you’ll be happy to know that I found our guide.”

“Really?” the girl started to follow her captain back through the trees. “How’d ya convince her to help us?”

Icora had already put the neckless in her cloth belt before Cere left. “You know me, I have a way with words.”

Martie snorted and rolled her eyes. She had been recruited, or adopted as the crew put it, as Icora’s first and only apprentice when she tried to pickpocket her in the market place. She was maybe ten at the time, but, with no memories of her name, parents or her home island, that didn’t stop the captain from extending her hand. Nothing, she learned, stopped the captain.  

In the six years Martie has spent with the crew, she had learned an infinite amount of skills and tricks, not only to be a successful pirate, but also a business person, crafter, and navigator, but still she knew next to nothing about the woman who adopted her. She wasn’t cruel, wasn’t liked by those on the outside, but wasn’t hated either. She told impossible stories that happened years in the past like they were resent happenings, she spoke of gods as friends, monsters as things that really existed. Something, Martie knew, was off about her dear captain, after all it was obvious, yet that didn’t deter the crew from loyalty. They loved her just as much as Icora cared for them. Any secrets didn’t seem to matter.  

“If you say so, cap’t.” Martie shrugged. “The ships next to the beach. Brinkley went around the island like you ordered, but there’s a sand bar on this side, so we couldn’t get that close.”

Icora nodded and continued to push through island flora. “I’m glad that at least one of my subordinates can follow directions.” She said slyly, glancing behind her.

Martie groaned. “Ok fine, I got bored just waiting. I wanted to see Cere too.”

Martie and Cere had grown to be what someone might call friends. Pair a child’s persistence and open mind with a creature of superior intellect but little skill in land language and there was bound to be some sort of connection. Icora enjoyed their partnership, as before it was only she that Cere would deal with, but now Cere acknowledged the other members of the crew and even worked with some of them. It benefited everyone involved, just considering the knowledge transferred.  

“And what if you gave her an excuse to disappear huh?” Even though the captain was still smiling, Martie knew that she was legitimately annoyed with her.

“My apologies, Captian. I wasn’t thinking.” She frowned; she hatted apologizing, but knew when it was necessary.  

That was another fun thing about their friendship; they had some of the same mannerisms.

“I’m not angry.” That much was true, “But I will have you clean all the buckets before we pull of, yeah?”  

They broke through the forests into a plain of tall yellow grass and crooked palm trees. The ship could be seen a few leagues off of the shore.  

“Yes, ma’am.” Martie pulled ahead and walked to the rowboat she tied to a palm close to the beach.  

Icora took her time, gathering the odd coconut and flower, before settling down beside Martie and picking up an oar.  

Neither of them spoke on the way back to the boat. They breathed in tandem and rhythmically rowed through the midday waves. The water grew from glacier blue to black, then back to light blue as they passed over the sand bar. Sweet beaded and dripped down their faces and backs, for a few seconds Icora thought about pealing of her leather jacket, but when she looked back to check how far the ship was, she found it looming over her.  The shadow passed over the tiny boat, granting cool refuge.  

Two crew men looked over the edge of the ship and down at them, they waved and Icora waved back.  

“Welcome back captain!” Bo, one of the men, shouted down.

“Not back yet! Throw down the ropes!” Icora shouted back.

The men disappeared. Martie, who had grabbed the other oar, steered so the boat was almost flush to the barnacle crusted hull and underneath the apparatus. Immediately, ropes came down inches from landing inside and on top of the awaiting two.  

With practiced ease, Icora tied the boat up and soon after they were being lifted out of the water and up towards the deck.  

When she was finally able to see over the railing, she was met with her first mate, Brinkley. He smiled warmly and nodded. Brinkley has a colorful history as a first mate with other ships— interesting enough to catch Icora’s attention—however what really peaked her interest was the fact that all the ships under his proctor would vanish within a year or two. Crew, except for him, included. Many high-end navies lost proud vessels both as victim and while in search of the culprit. What was funny, is that Brinkley never changed his name, so it was a very easy trail to track. But of course, came the mystery of why and how? After all he was just one man.

Icora was prepared to fight him to prove that she was the captain he was looking for, however, according to legend, the moment Brinkley laid eyes on the young captain Icora, he bowed and proclaimed loyalty right then and there. Neither of them ever denied the story, but they never confirmed it either. Either way the results are the same, Icora and Brinkley have been partners in crime for years now, never been caught, and never without something to do.  

Most of the crew agreed; they were as perfect as a captain and a first mate could be.

“Welcome home, Captain Icora.” He extended his hand. “I hope your vacation was well worth it.”

Icora hopped down onto her beloved deck and scanned Brinkley. From the black braids in his hair down to his ink boots, he was soaking wet. His dark skin glistened in the sunlight, he was obviously exhausted, but his demeanor did everything it could to hid it. Icora laughed.

“It seems you already know the answer to that, Brinkley. Tell me, did she climb up and over or did she request a net.” She reached back to assist Martie.

“A net, this time, captain. She was furious that you weren’t already on board, and frankly, Icora, I am too. You know she doesn’t like me very much, and, it's not in my nature to carry sopping wet, naked women around. Tail or no tail.” He turned his attention to the young apprentice. “And you, young lady, I hope you know you will be cleaning –“

“All the buckets before we leave.” Maritime finished his sentence while rolling her eyes. “Icora already told me so buzz off.” She stuck her tongue out before leaving to go below deck.  

Brinkley’s brooding was interrupted by a strong hand landing on his shoulder, he leaned into Icora’s firm frame.

“You and I think too much alike, eh?” She smiled.

“Ey, much too alike. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.” His eyebrows furrowed. As long as Martie has been aboard, Brinkley has tried to somewhat a role model. Icora always joked that it was the proper gentleman coming out of him, and that he wasn’t the father that Martie was looking for. He always denied his role, but it was painfully obvious that he wanted her to like him. At least a little bit.  

“Oh? I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, you’re going to do the same thing that you have been doing for the past six years. Go down to her with some treats, hoping to talk to her, and getting the door slammed in your face.” She jostled him. “Now, before you do that, where has my catch of the day flopped off to?”

Brinkley signed. “Cere’s where she always is when she waits for you, in your office with a bottle of wine and a dagger by her side.”  

The captain laughed, making the nearby crew members smile. “I guess I should give her some company then?”

“Probably, yes. Before she tears up what is left of your couch.” He looked around for a moment. “Are your orders to stay here until we know where we are going?”

“Yup. And to give Maritime the opportunity to clean.” She left Brinkley towards the bridge.  

--

A knife flew through the air and dug itself a few inches into the side of the door. Icora sighed, as it was both a few inches from her face, and the seventh notch in her door. She opened the door all the way, confident that Brinkley said ‘dagger’ and not ‘daggers.’ The mermaid lounged across her couch, tail lifelessly handing over the edge, almost blocking the door. A bottle of wine in one hand, while her other hand now free from the knife, fanned herself.

“You know how much I despise this room; its hot, its humid, and it smells like sex and booze. How dare you make me wait.”

“I’ll have you know that I have never had sex in here thank you very much.” She slipped off her jacket and set it on her chair on the opposite side of the room. Every time Cere was brought in here, she complained about something new. It was actually beginning to be a game. The heat and humidity were always on the high up, to remind Icora that she was dealing with a creature of the frozen deep, but the sex smell was a new one.

“I never said it was your sex. Gross.” She tugged at a clump of still dripping hair and pulled it over her body. right now, her long black hair was the only thing keeping her cool. Icora didn’t think that was the intention of mermaids having long hair, but it was a feature.

Icora ignored her guest’s comment and went through the stacks of miscellaneous things on her shelves. Mostly mapping equipment, keys, photographs, but also special items that she kept just for Cere’s visits. And by special; a fan, piece of patterned cloth, two cups and a canteen with the ocean’s water.

She wasted no time with idol chit chat this time around, which put Cere on edge. She had seen Icora in tense moments before, times where one on one became one on four or ten, times where the storms howled its loudest. This was not that close, but playtime was over. Icora carefully placed each item on the table before her and went back to her desk. Cere poured wine for the two of them and gladly helped herself to the oriental fan.  

She came back with a large scroll of paper, trading the wine cup for the map, she rolled out the map. Tons of markings cluttered the once pristine paper, red circles and tiny holes riddled the paper, marking all the old expeditions that the pirate had been on. Cere glanced over the map, the hand drawn islands and dark stains reminded her of all the time they used to spend together, and the time Icora herself tossed the mermaid over her shoulder and dove face first into an uncharted jungle. It was all ridiculous, Cere doubted the shenanigans would end soon.  

Icora placed one final pin through the map and sat down. A total of 8 pins marked places that she, personally, has not explored. If Cere was anyone else, it would have been impressive, given the thousands of archipelagos throughout the sea, but it was Cere.  

“Well.” She took a sip of wine. “These are all the places a hidden civilization could be. Not visible with regular trade routes, not in the dead zone, and were all the surrounding islands can support life. What do you think.”

Cere leaned in to study the islands closer. They did meet all of Icora’s standards. A place to hide, supported by life, not protected or colonized by other countries and, of course, not explored. However, there were a few problems.

She picked a pin out of the map and set it down. “This island is in the Witch Nagga’s territory. She would not let anyone live there.”

“What if Nagga moved there after the city was established?”

“Nagga has not moved since the beginning of the islands’ creation. Her territory has never grown nor shrunk and she has never let anyone stay more than a few passing days. She would not let people thrive.”  Annoyance shrouded her words. Every sea dwelling person knew about the great witch, telling someone was like stating the obvious.

“Aright, then. Next.”

If Cere had irises, she would have rolled her eyes. Instead she growled and returned her attention to the map.

“This one.” she grabbed another pin on the opposite side of the map. “Sirens frequent this area, it acts like a hub of sorts.”  

Sirens hated people. Hated the touch of people, and usually killed them off immediately. Much like flies or lice. They would never congregate if the island was tainted, and never let them in either.

Icora sighed. “I wish you would tell me this stuff before.”

“Not your business, Land-Lover.” She smirked. “Don’t want you messing up other people’s lives like you have mine.”  

“Oh please, your life has been enriched by me and you know it.” She took another sip of wine.

More pins were pulled out as Cere studied the map, she explained why each time and, Icora tried to remember each reason for the future. Icora knew some of the DeepSea trade route, just by Cere mentioning it in passing, but its extensions were still foreign, and truth be told, it didn’t concern Icora. It was, however, important to the merfolk and apparently, they and the members of the fae had outposts on islands far beyond the reach of others. Just that detail alone took out three from the running.  

And then there were two pins left. One in the upper left at the edge of a key, just outside the dead zone, and other one by itself in the June Sea, right outside mermaid territory.  

The captain set down her empty cup and leaned into the map.

“These are it? There are no more places that only you know of?”

“I’m done wasting time, Icora, these two places are the only ones a civilization like the stories depict could be. If it did exist at all.”  

Icora furrowed her brow, thinking hard about any other detail that could open up other areas. There was nothing.

“Alright then.” She tapped the one at the edge of the key. “This one is closer, it has islands close to it so the beings there might have had knowledge of the city. An easy supply and travel route, and as you said, benevolent beings under the waters. Shall we start here?”

Cere shrugged. “I can swim there in less than 3 days.” She started to trace her fingers on the map. “If you travel up this way, I can meet you here.” She tapped the space that was somewhat between the two pins left standing. “And let you know if there’s anything worthwhile there.”

“You and what legs?” Icora asked out of habit.

“Fuck you.”

“Promise to meet me?” She said without skipping a beat.

“You still have my neckless, I have no choice.” Then. “You’ve… Also piqued my interest with this new fascination of yours.”

“Oh?” Icora leaned in, a thin smile stretched across her sun-tanned skin. “Do tell. How does a ‘land-loving’ civilization pique the interest of a selfish mermaid such as yourself?”

Cere let her blank eyes speak for herself. Icora leaned back before deciding to stand.

“Fine fine, it’s not my ‘business,’ I understand.  I like your plan, we will set off as soon as you’re ready.” She held out a hand, adorning a few rings on her finders.  

A hand shake didn’t mean anything to those dwelling under the sea, and Cere made a point to say it every time she offered, yet Icora persisted. She was a business woman and god be damned if they didn’t seal the deal with touching skin. If someone was flaky on a deal then why would a handshake matter?

Cere took her hand anyway and, wiped her hand on the couch right after. Icora laughed, took up the map and brought it to her desk to make some more calculations. While her back was turned, Cere pored another glass and dumped a quarter of the water on her face. The surface was way too hot for any living creature. The fact that there were creatures above water proved that there were monsters out there. Worst of it all, the fan was doing next to nothing to cool her down.  

Cere sunk deep into the couch and sighed. She had to admit though, watching an experienced adventure work was mesmerizing. Icora weaved among piles on the ground to collect all the tools she needed to mark her course. A few minutes later, mostly due to double checking once or twice, she set her tools down and turned on her heels.  

Without a word she left the room, not even glancing at the mermaid that mostly blocked the doorway. In retaliation, Cere poured the rest of the canteen on her tail, letting the salt water spread on the leather.  

A few heat wreaking minuets that felt like hours later, a knock rapped on the door. The sullen face of Brinkley slowly opened the door and peered in.

“The captain has ordered me to take you to Maritime’s room.” He locked eyes with the mermaid and refused to look anywhere else. “Everything set?” He asked, out of political correctness more than anything.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Cere stared at him with equal intensity and distain.

Ever since Icora dragged him on board, Cere never spent longer than she had to with him. She hated him, hated the way the feeling of his gaze got under her skin. Only once did Cere mention it to Icora, ‘it’ being the dark aura around the first mate, but Icora simply waved her off. That was the first sign that Icora knew exactly what she was doing, and Cere hated that. Hated Icora’s confidence and hated every single thing that ‘Brinkley’ ever touched. It was annoying too, why have her around when Icora’s just going to ignore her advice?

One day Cere would find out what made Icora and Brinkly such a pair, and she would wait patiently for that day. But for now…

“Shall I?” Brinkley cleared his throat.

“Do I have a choice in the matter?” Cere sighed and set down her canteen.

She opened her long arms like a child wanting a hug from a pet and allowed the first mate to scoop her up. The most comfortable way to carry a larger almost 7-foot mermaid was, apparently, over the shoulder so, that’s how Cere was carried. Like a sack of rotting potatoes, she was hauled down a level and to the other side of the ship. Neither of them speaking another word. Not even an apology when Cere tripped him up with her tail or when her head hit one of the steep steps.

Maritime was one of the lucky few that got a room to herself, being the captain's first and only apprentice and, of course, being a young girl. She lived alongside the other more important crew members down a narrow hallway, being ever so grateful for one of the cartographers eloping with a cook and them willing to move into the same room together. The rooms were small, smaller than any hidey hole she had ever slept in, but it was home to Martie.  

It was also, in part, Cere’s home too. Whenever she climbed on board this deathtrap of a ship, she always found herself spending at least a few hours with Martie. Maybe it was their hatred of Brinkley that brought them together, or their willing entrapment by Icora, either way, they were friends.

Brinkley politely knocked on the door and waited for a reply. Cere might have waited except her face was against the opposite wall, and it was Brinkley.  

Cere slammed her tail against the door as hard as she could without braking the wood. A startling thump sounded down the hallway, loud enough for other sleeping members to react with a start.  

“MARTIE! OPEN UP!” If people were still sleeping, they were awake now.  

There was a loud thump before the door swung wide open. As quickly as possible, Brinkley entered the room—which was filled with grimy buckets— dropped Cere onto the bed and left, knowing he was unwanted there.

The tiny space was barely large enough to fit Cere’s silvery- opal tail, even when it folded over itself. That paired with the buckets meant that there was little room for Martie herself, so she sat on her desk with a pile of dishrags in her lap. The two looked at each other for a moment before Martie threw a rag at Cere and started scrubbing.

[rudderless-in-an-ocean-of-stars]

even as a shadow, even as a dream

More from my post-IW series, between dust and despair.

Contains spoilers.

Find it here on Ao3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14533974

Summary:

Tony Stark is no stranger to grief.

//

Continuation of the previous work in the series, ‘memento mori’.

“Come back. Even as a shadow, even as a dream.” - Euripides

After his parents‘ funeral, Tony remembers going back to the mansion and sneaking into his mother’s room.

He’d crawled into her bed, buried his face in the pillows, and breathed in the mingled scents of her shampoo and perfume. Lilies and lavender. He was still wearing the suit Jarvis had promised him she would have loved to see.

For the next few days, he’d repeated the same routine, over and over up until the day he realized her sheets no longer carried the smell of her.

He’d cried then, finally.

He hadn’t cried when Jarvis had broken the news to him. He hadn’t cried at the fittings for the suit he would end up wearing to their funeral instead of the opera his mother had planned for them to attend. He hadn’t even cried as he sprinkled handfuls of dirt into their graves.

But he’d cried then, when the smell of lilies and lavender was gone and the reality that his parents were never coming back had finally sunken in.

After Yinsen had died, he’d built himself armor, literally and figuratively, to keep the world at bay. He didn’t need or want anyone else ever getting close enough to see how deep his scars truly ran.

After Obie’s death, he’d locked himself in his lab to work for days at a time, determined to keep himself from ever being so vulnerable again, all the way up until the symptoms of palladium poisoning had become clear. Then he’d sent his life into a tailspin of inadvisable actions to compensate for the time he thought he’d never get.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now, trapped in another ‘after’ where he knows people will expect him to have a plan. Strange had expected it, the cryptic bastard, had given up an infinity stone for whatever solution he expected Tony’s brain to come up with. But right now, Tony’s head just feels like the rest of him, heavy and hurting and in too much pain to properly function.

There’s no Peter, no Pepper, no Happy, no half of the universe.

3.8 billion people have just been left on Earth with nothing but dust and hollow spaces where their friends and family should be.

If May is still alive...

He narrowly resists the urge to slam his fist into the wall.

If.

Tony’s spent his whole life chasing ‘if’s.

If May Parker is still alive, he’s going to have to be the one to tell her the last member of her family is dead. That isn’t even anything left of him to bury. That all of this is a result of the seriously flawed logic of a giant, purple, alien egomaniac who had decided to erase half of the universe’s population at random, and he’d failed to stop it from happening.

He’d failed to keep Peter alive.

There’s a small, sick part of him that hopes he won’t find her when he goes back to New York. That wherever Peter is, death or heaven or whatever, she’d ended up there too.

Shame burns through him at the thought.

Leave it to random probability to spare the shittiest person on the planet, he thinks with no small amount of bitterness bubbling up in pit of his stomach.

Guilt tears at him, ripping him open and leaving him bleeding out on the floor as though he’d never been healed in the first place. He drowns in it, chokes on it, wonders wildly if it’s possible to die from the weight of his regrets alone.

In the end, he drags himself to his feet and stumbles out into the hallway, moving towards the room he knows is Natasha’s, fueled by pure instinct and the desperate need to do something, anything, to keep himself from simply laying down and crumbling into nothing like so many others.

Maybe living isn’t what he deserves, but he can’t let himself go just yet. There are still debts he has to pay.

Three doors down, to the left.

He just has to make it there and everything will be alright. Natasha will help him. Won’t she?

The door slides open in a matter of seconds after his knock. It jars him again, for a moment, the way almost all the color has been leeched from her hair. But her eyes are still the same.

The words pour out of him in rush, tumbling out of his mouth and onto the floor like a spilled glass of water before he can put them in any semblance of order.

“New York- I have to get to New York. Take me? Will you- please? I just- I need- I have to get to New York.” It takes him a moment to realize how hard he’s breathing, like he’s just run a marathon instead of walking a few feet to get to her room. “Please?”

Natasha tilts her head in response, reaching out to rest a warm hand against his cheek. She does it slowly, her motions gentle and deliberately telegraphed, soft in a way he knows Natasha rarely lets herself be.

“Tony, calm down.” Her gaze never wavers from his, not for a second. “You’re shaking.”

He doesn’t need calm right now. He needs to go to New York.

“Nat-“ It takes more effort than it should to speak.

“I’ll take you,” she soothes, lifting her other hand to wrap her fingers around his shoulder, firm. Solid. “We can take the quinjet, okay?”

He nods, a jerky, sudden movement that pulls his face away from her fingers. She lets her hand drop down to his other shoulder, and he finds himself relaxing under her grip. Natasha would help him. Natasha would take him to New York.

His panic subsides to a low thrum in his chest at her acquiescence, and the fog blurring his brain begins to dissipate.

“Okay.” He breathes out a long, slow breath as the tightness around his lungs eases. “Okay.”

After a few more seconds, some tiny part of his brain dimly notes that his body’s finally stopped trembling.

“We can go in the morning, okay? It’s late right now, and we’ll need authorization to open the barrier.”

Natasha’s right, of course. The thought of dragging Shuri out of bed at this hour, after everything, makes his gut twist.

Let her rest, a tiny voice in his mind agrees. She’s been through enough for today.

Still, the thought of waiting sends a flicker of agitation pulsing through his veins. He should’ve thought of this earlier, realized what he’d had to do the moment the ship breached the atmosphere and gone through with it as soon as he’d woken up.

If May Parker was still alive, he’d just sentenced her to another several hours of fear and uncertainty for a nephew he should’ve already told her had died a hero. He’s all-too familiar with the weight of the awful dread that comes with not knowing.

“Tony?” Natasha’s tightens her grip on his shoulders, not enough to hurt, but enough to drag him back to the present, back to the hallway. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” He sighs, tilting his chin up to meet her gaze as evenly as he can. “Thank you, Natasha. For everything.”

For putting up with me.

For listening.

For helping me, in spite of the fact that you’ve spent the last two years on the run because of me.

There’s a flicker of something he can’t decipher that flashes briefly in her eyes, gone too fast for him to even try.

“You’re welcome.”

Behind her, he can see the sky through her windows, inky black and dotted with stars. A tiny sliver of crescent moon, gleaming. An otherwise innocuous sight if the memory of a battle lost weren’t still playing over and over in the darker recesses of his mind.

The dark, gaping void inside of him gnaws away at another piece of his soul until he finally forces himself to tear his gaze away.

Natasha is still staring at him with those emerald eyes, luminous even in the darkness of the dimmed lights all around them. They almost seem to glow, bright with open, honest concern and he realizes that her hands are still on his shoulders.

He coughs up an admittedly poor attempt of a casual, nonchalant laugh and steps out from under her grip.

“I should, ah, let you get some rest.” He turns away before she can respond, starts moving back towards his quarters. “Good night, Natasha.”

“Night, Tony,” she calls out behind him, barely loud enough to be heard.

When he crawls back into the bed, he’s careful to keep the windows behind him.

In the morning, he prepares. Brushes his teeth, takes a shower, gets dressed, affixes the arc reactor onto his shirt. The routine settles him, somewhat. There’s still an order to the world, to the way things work, even now.

When there’s a knock on his door he answers it robotically, automatically, expecting one person but coming face-to-face with another.

“Tony.” Rhodey’s face is visibly etched with relief. “You had me worried, man.”

He doesn’t resist when the other man pulls him into his arms.

For a moment, he tastes sand in his mouth, feels the scorching heat of a desert sun on his skin. A lifetime ago, Rhodey had welcomed him back to the world of the living with an embrace just like this.

This time, however, he’s painfully aware that there won’t be an airport to return to, or a woman with strawberry-blonde hair who’ll insist her tears weren’t for him with a smile on her face that tells him otherwise. There won’t be a man sitting in the driver’s seat of a limo, acting as a chauffeur in spite of the fact that he’s too overqualified for the job.

It’s only when Rhodey releases him that he realizes he hadn’t moved to return the embrace. He’d just stood there, arms limp at his sides, frozen in place. The worried look on his best friend’s face doesn’t escape his notice.

“It’s good to see you, buddy.” Tony tries for a smile, but the familiar mask of the playboy billionaire is now woefully out of reach.

“What do you say we go get some breakfast together, hm?” Rhodey claps a hand on Tony’s back and begins to steer them down the hall. “I haven’t eaten in hours, and I could use the company.”

The phrasing of his invitation is clever, Tony will admit. But what else does he expect? Rhodes is more than used to coaxing Tony into taking care of himself when he otherwise would push thoughts of things like food and water to the back of his mind.

“Sure, Rhodey.” It doesn’t even feel like he’s the one moving his own lips anymore, but Tony has always been good at figuring out what others want to hear. “I could always use some coffee.”

When they get close enough to the kitchen for Tony to hear gut-wrenchingly familiar voices, it’s too late for him to back out. As if sensing his train of thought, Rhodey’s arm around his shoulder tightens. The gesture is comforting, even if it keeps him from running away and retreating back to his room.

“It’s fine, Tones. Just the team.”

What’s left of it, thinks Tony, and something inside him fractures just a little more.

He keeps his gaze trained on the floor as Rhodey ushers him inside. It’s almost irrationally childish, but maybe, if he tries hard enough, he’ll go unnoticed.

“Tony!”

No such luck.

He looks up just in time to see Bruce clamber awkwardly out of his chair and walk towards him. Behind him, the rest of the team is scattered around the room, some sitting at the table, some standing around the kitchen island. Natasha’s perched on the countertops, Steve standing by her side. Thor is at the table, next to an armed raccoon he can only assume is Rocket. He’s glad Natasha warned him about that the day before, otherwise he might actually wonder how solid his grip on reality really is right now.

The only person’s eyes he can stand to meet is Nebula’s, standing in a corner of the room with her arms folded across her chest. He knows he won’t find anything like pity or concern there.

“Hey, Bruce.” He makes it a point to react when the other man reaches for him, return the embrace and clap him on the shoulder before he lets go. The look on Bruce’s face when he pulls away is almost expectant. He doesn’t know what else to say.

‘I’m glad you aren’t dead’? ‘At least the end of the world didn’t take you too’?

His skin feels tight, like his body’s too small to hold everything inside it. Like he’s moments away from splitting open into a broken, bleeding mess of raw, exposed nerves on the clean kitchen tiles.

It’s Nebula who saves him, again.

“Terran,” she calls out. “Are you ready to begin our hunt?”

All heads in the room swivel around to focus on her.

“Hunt?” Steve’s voice sends a pang of- of something- through his veins. “What are you talking about?”

“For Thanos.” The smile that stretches across her face is a promise of blood, a promise of pain. Tony shivers, glad that everyone’s attention is too focused on her to see it. “He must die.”

“Count me in,” growls Rocket, standing up in his seat.

Natasha frowns.

“Now,” she says, sliding off of the counter and onto the floor in a neat, fluid motion, “Let’s hit ‘pause’ for a second, shall we? Nebula, I understand you’re eager, but we need to take our time with this. The people of our planet are still reeling from what happened yesterday.”

“Your planet is too green,” Nebula spits back, her words carrying an undercurrent that, it seems, only Rocket understands. The raccoon almost seems to wilt in place, and Tony finds himself doubting that the use of ‘green’ is idiomatic. “Besides, I don’t need your people. I only need him.”

He watches as Steve starts to take a step forward, but Natasha wraps a hand around his arm and drags the supersoldier to a stop before he can get closer to Nebula’s corner of the room.

“I get that you’re angry, but we need time,” she says, and Tony recognizes the calm in her voice for what it is- a quiet, nuanced threat. “Tony needs time. Thanos isn’t going anywhere. We’ll hunt him together as soon as we make sure our world is stable. In the meantime, you can stay here, make preparations. Plan.”

Nebula goes almost unnaturally still after she turns her head to regard Tony with those unsettlingly dark eyes.

Then she shrugs, and some of the tension begins to seep out of the room.

“That sounds agreeable,” she says, slouching back against the wall. She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes at Natasha like she’s seen something interesting in the other woman. “Will you join us?”

Natasha’s gaze sweeps across the room, and it makes Tony all the more aware of all the empty spaces there are between them.

“I think I speak for everyone in this room when I say we all will.”

Nebula’s smile returns, all sharp edges. “Good.”

Thor clears his throat, moving to stand up from his seat at the table. “In that case, we should go see to the ship. Nebula, rabbit, would you accompany me?”

Tony watches them leave. He’s seen a lot of things, but an angry, gun-wielding raccoon stomping out of the kitchen muttering under his breath is still something that makes him pause. Especially with a blue alien and a thunder god in tow.

“I think I’ll go too,” Bruce says, “There’s still some cleanup to be done in the field. Colonel?”

“Sure.” Rhodey pats him on the shoulder one last time. “You okay to eat without me, Tony?”

Tony resists the very sudden, very real urge to run. Why is everyone so intent on leaving him alone with-

He stops, mentally shakes himself, and focuses his gaze on the far wall.

Natasha’s still here, chirps a tiny voice in the back of his brain. She’s taking you to New York. Everything will be fine.

He forces himself to look back towards Rhodey and smile. “Yeah, Rhodey. I’ll be okay.”

And then they’re gone, leaving him alone with Natasha and Steve.

“Coffee, Tony?” Natasha’s already pouring a cup. “Sit, I’ll bring it over.”

He moves to take one of the vacated seats at the table woodenly, every movement bringing him closer and closer to the one person in the world he’s still not sure how to talk to.

It’s stupid of him, really. Just a day ago he’d been prepared to make that call.

But that was before. Before Peter. Before Bucky.

Another person he’d failed to save.

They had been so close- the gauntlet was almost off-

A steaming mug of coffee slides into view.

He looks up in time to see Nat slide into the chair across the table from his, a mug of her own still in hand.

“Thanks, Nat.” He wraps his fingers around the ceramic, relishing the warmth that sleeps into his skin. He’s still so cold. He doesn’t know why.

In the periphery of his vision, Steve lingers by the kitchen island, nursing his own drink in silence. Behind him is the stove, where a still-steaming kettle sits.

Probably for Bruce, he thinks. Bruce always liked tea.

He wonders what it would be like to place his hands on the grill of a lit stove, wonders if that would be enough to chase the chill from his bones.

Do it, purrs a voice from one of the jagged crevices in his chest, smooth and silky-sweet. Burn.

“Tony?”  Natasha tracks his gaze to the kettle. “Do you want tea instead?”

“No.” He tightens his fingers around the mug and lowers his gaze to the table. “Coffee’s fine.”

“Right. Well, I already spoke to Shuri this morning and she says we’re clear to leave whenever you’d like.” She shifts in her seat. “If it’s okay with you, I told Rogers he could come along, stretch his legs.”

“It’s not that kind of trip,” he mutters back, fully aware of the way his skin prickles under the weight of Steve’s gaze. “I’m going to Queens. To see May Par- Parker.”

He hates himself just a little bit more for stumbling over her last name. Peter’s last name, too.

“I have to tell her about Peter,” he finishes lowly, hunching into himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Steve take a step towards the table. He tries not to flinch. Part of him is still angry about the deceit. Still remembers the pain of breathing with a cracked sternum, the line of bruises stretched out across his chest for weeks afterward in a slightly curved shape that would match the edge of a shield. Still remembers how heavy a suit without power suddenly becomes, like he’s trapped in a coffin specially designed for him.

But that flicker of anger feels infinitesimal in comparison to the guilt that cycles through his bloodstream with every beat of his slowly breaking heart.

“You can come,” he blurts, pushing his chair away from the table and standing. His pulse hammers in his chest, loud enough to make the world seem muffled to his ears. “It’s fine.”

“Tony-“ Steve’s holding a hand out towards him, like maybe he wants to make Tony stop retreating, like maybe he wants to hold Tony in place so they can finally talk, really talk, for the first time in two years. But the risk that he’ll only end up pushing him away again is too great for Tony to ignore.

He stumbles backwards towards the doorway. Natasha looks like she wants to reach out to him too. She shouldn’t. Everything he touches turns to ruin. He doesn’t dare look back towards Steve.

“I have to get ready.”

Then he turns and runs walks down the hall and back to his room.