Chapter Text
ACT: I
TONY
When the news is delivered, the beginning of the end arrives in the form of Tony Stark's phone display illuminating with an unknown number. It's only when he answers that one of the last few slivers of warmth in his chest withers and dies. Roots strangled by a profound wave of loss, the decay finds the hollows in his ribs and curls in deep.
(It’s hard to understand for him to understand love, real love, when there are so few who have earned it left in the world, hard to hold or even spark a light for others after a tragic and bloodied history of betrayals and disappointments.)
The messenger offers an apology, voice gentle even through the distance provided by the phone. There’s a telltale hiss that tells ears all too familiar with technology that the call is coming from overseas, and that technological song weaves in and out of the very one-sided conversation like a cat.
“Again sir, I am so sorry,” the messenger continues. “I have already sent you the details of the funeral; they have been arranged by the family. However, there has been a request for your presence at the reading of the last will and testament. Will you be able to attend?”
Tony’s hearing whites out for a split second.
(Last will and testament, gods, this is real. It's real and it rips.)
(A practical man who no longer believes in wonder and kindness, but there is child buried so deep behind his heart who whispers a plea to be pinched so they can wake up.)
Taking Tony’s silence as a sign to continue, the messenger keeps his voice low, apology heavy in his tone. “The family understands if you cannot attend and wished to express their condolences regardless of your choice. They simply wanted me to ensure you were aware of the proceedings and that I pass along the request. As their admin, I felt it necessary to inform you of the testament reading in case it was missed in the details I sent you or you didn't have time to read through the package. Myself and the family understand you are a very busy man.”
Blinking his way around the stone that has made itself at home on his tongue, Tony finally finds his words after he clears his throat harshly. “I will see what I can do. When exactly is the funeral and the will reading?” he asks softly, head dropping back to thump against the arm of the couch. Even through closed eyes, he can hear DUM-E and Butterfingers hover next to the shop couch, blinking and beeping in confusion and concern. U has taken up residence behind the nearest workbench, and peers out at his brothers with worry.
(Grief, sharp and icy, drips its way through Tony’s veins, coiling heavy in his chest. This new pain, the new pool of grief, makes itself right at home with the all the old, familiar pain that lives in every waking moment of Tony’s life. It settles in like an old friend, because it is. Grief, and pain, and agony are always there to keep him company. Unwanted yet consistent companions.)
(He's never alone in his pain.)
“The funeral is in two days, at nine thirty in the morning, and the will and testament reading will follow immediately after those proceedings finish. Can I inform Mr. Sousa of your attendance?” the messenger asks gently.
Sighing, Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, fingers shaking so much his nails bite sharply into the soft skin. Biting back a hiss, he shakes out his hand and settles on clenching his fist tightly and pressing it to his collarbone, keeping his eyes shut tightly in a childish effort to shut this moment out. “I’ll have to get back to you,” he admits. “Will I be able to reach you through this number?”
“Yes sir, I have been asked by Mr. Sousa to keep this line available for those who have been informed of the passing so they can be in continuous contact if necessary,” the messenger replies, no note of judgement in his tone, and for that, Tony remains grateful. “If there’s anything else?” the messenger trails off, leaving the question hanging politely.
“No, no, that’ll be all. Thank you for calling. Have a good day,” Tony replies on autopilot, disconnecting only when the messenger offers the customary good bye in response. Dropping the phone to his chest, Tony opens his eyes to see the bots hovering. DUM-E hesitantly shifts back and forth for a long moment, before finally dropping the blanket in held in its claws onto Tony’s chest. The bot chirps in question, arm stalk tilting back and forth in what humans would call concern.
“Thanks buddy,” is all that Tony can offer.
(A fresh roll of grief shudders down his spine.)
(Finds the exhaustion carried there, and joins it.)
Butterfingers beeps sympathetically and bobs its scope up and down.
“FRI?”
“Yes boss?” the young AI responds immediately, having been present throughout Tony’s phone call. There is something hesitant in the young voice.
“Clear my schedule for the next few days. I have a funeral to go to.”
“Yes boss,” FRIDAY agrees immediately, even as segments of code begin whirling at high speed. “Shall I inform Ms. Potts?”
“No, I can manage that,” Tony answers. But he doesn’t move to pick up his phone, nor does he lift himself from the couch.
(Not yet. One more minute. Please.)
Instead, he scrubs a hand down his face, and nearly jolts when U finally creeps out from hiding to lay a gentle claw on Tony's shoulder.
(Oh Aunt Peggy. I’m so sorry.)