Iron Dad's Daughter

Chapter 19

The steady hum of the medical equipment blends with the low murmurs of concern as I drift between moments of lucidity and darkness. The room feels both crowded and comforting, filled with familiar faces all cloaked in worry.

"April, can you hear me?" Dad's voice cuts through the haze, firm yet gentle.

I try to nod, but even that small movement requires too much effort. My body feels heavy, unresponsive. "It hurts," I manage to gasp out, my voice weak and trembling.

Loki's grip tightens around my hand, a silent vow of his presence. "You're not alone, April. We're all with you," he reassures me, though I can hear the strain in his voice.

Bruce continues to adjust the machines, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. "The medications should start to alleviate the symptoms soon," he states, trying to sound confident, but I catch the edge of uncertainty in his tone.

Dad paces at the foot of the bed, his usual composure undercut by his evident anxiety. He stops abruptly, turning to Bruce. "Any changes in the readings? Anything at all that could tell us what's attacking her system?"

Bruce shakes his head, frustration evident. "It's unlike anything I've seen before. Her body is reacting as if fighting off a toxin, but the tests aren't pinpointing anything definitive."

The room falls silent, the weight of unknowns pressing down on everyone. Clint, who has been a quiet support beside me, finally speaks up, his voice steady. "We've faced unknowns before. We'll figure this out, for April."

Dad nods, rallying at Clint's words. "Right. Bruce, let's run another full spectrum analysis. Maybe we missed something. Loki, keep talking to her, anything to keep her anchored."

Loki leans closer, his words a soft whisper meant only for me. "you've got this my love you're going to be okay, before you know it you'll be back causing mayhem in no time."

His words stir a memory, a moment of peace amidst chaos, and I cling to it, using it as a beacon through the pain and nausea.

Suddenly, my body convulses without warning, a sharp spasm that arcs through my spine. Bruce is immediately by my side, administering another injection to help stabilize my condition.

"Stay with us, April. You're strong," Bruce says as he works.

The convulsions slowly subside, and exhaustion pulls at the edges of my consciousness. I'm tired, so tired of fighting, but the voices around me keep me tethered to the present.

"We're here, April. Fight through this," Steve's voice now joins the chorus, a command that brooks no argument.

As the room blurs into shadows, my father's hand finds mine, his grip strong and sure. "I'm here, kiddo. I'm not going anywhere. You're going to get through this."

As the night deepens, my episodes of wakefulness grow slightly longer, marked by the soft beep of monitors and the low murmur of voices keeping vigil. Each time I open my eyes, the room shifts into focus, and I see the unwavering guard of my protectors—Dad, Bruce, Loki, Steve, and Clint—each displaying their concern in silent, steadfast ways.

During one such moment of lucidity, Bruce is adjusting the IV drip, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the monitor. "We're seeing some stabilization in her vitals," he murmurs, more to himself than to anyone else. "The last round of antitoxins seems to be taking effect."

Dad, seated next to me with weary eyes, squeezes my hand gently. "Did you hear that, April? You're fighting it off. Just keep hanging on."

My response is a faint nod, the extent of my ability to interact, but it's enough to draw a small, relieved smile from him.