String Theory

Chapter 4

Between the gray that's beginning to fleck at the edges of his hair and the familiar ache of the reactor, Tony's noticing his own progress slow. A lot, really, compared to what he used to do; he thinks back to the massive lab overhaul he performed manually in a single day in order to create a new element. One example of many. Every time FRIDAY tries to tell him that he should see someone for the arthritis that's threatening to appear in his joints, he mutters "mute," and continues like he doesn't notice it. It's not even that the arthritis is advanced, either. An occasional wince of pain in his fingers, or two extra Advil to cure the seemingly permanent neckache. It's not crippling. He's not old. He's just—

Not young anymore.

The fight with Thanos took more of a toll than Tony would like to admit. The wound in and of itself is bad enough, but that doesn't account for the emotional trauma. He lost everything, despite his preparations. Even when every single person he knew looked him in the eyes and told him that he was insane for getting ready for something that was never going to happen, he kept working. Kept improving. Kept learning.

But it didn't work, and now he's alone, despite the two ex-boyfriends that hover around his house like nursemaids. Yes, he should stop calling them ex-boyfriends, but will he? No, probably not, because it seems like the best description. Rhodes and Rogers fit the same category. The more thinks about it, the worse it gets, too. Both are soldiers. Both have R- names. Both of them were his best friends, at one point in time. Both of them can do that face — the one where their eyes go sharp and their brows pinch together and they look oh so stern — it must be a military thing, he decides, and chooses to ignore the voice telling him that expression would look three times better if one of them was pinning him to a wall while doing it.

God, and that just makes him think about Hart. He tries not to, but he can't help it. The image of him is burned into Tony's mind: Harry, radiant as ever beneath the hot Afghanistan sun, smiling through his explanation of the four cycles of butterflies. The guy really was the definition of a gentle giant. He'd never raised his voice once to Tony, and yeah, he'd only known him for a month, but what army surgeon knows the entire Encyclopedia Britannica listing of every single butterfly known to earth? Why wouldn't you trust a man like that? Someone who's gentle enough to handle delicate insect bodies, but strong enough to haul around an AR-15? That's a solid yes.

He really has a type, doesn't he? Military men that have steel backbones, but melt when they're around him. But as far as Tony knows, Harry's dead, and things with Steve are just... shitty, ever since Barnes came back. That leaves Rhodes, who spends his waking hours handling the national state of emergency, working with the military and the UN to do whatever he can. Even without that, Rhodes hasn't been the same since the accident. The accident that was Tony's fault, by the way, not any of the other ones; the one that left Rhodey partially paralyzed and not fit for active combat. The one Tony's never going to forgive himself for. It was never supposed to happen like that. No, there was no way that Tony could have known or prevented it, but he's not going to stop blaming himself.

Tony couldn't even protect the two people he cared most about. It's like he was just there to watch, both times; first Rhodey, then Peter. Both times, he found himself kneeling over their bodies, watching their life fade away, and both times, Tony couldn't shake the nightmares about what happened. The nightmares aren't about them dying, though. That's the sick part. He dreams about them living. If Tony'd taken the hit, instead of Rhodey. Or if he'd been the one to dissolve, leaving Peter still alive. He can picture them so perfectly — healthy and okay and still breathing. Not just a cold body to kneel over. Not a coffin to visit.

But then he wakes up, and they're still not okay.

He doesn't sleep much anymore. Doesn't feel like he deserves the momentary reprise, the few hours of peace that wash over him when he sees them in his dreams. Instead, Tony works himself to the bone, trying to eke out every last drop of energy he has, delaying sleep until inevitability takes over and drags him under. Last night, he'd passed out from sheer exhaustion - fallen asleep at his workbench and drooled onto his notepad like a little kid.