asobouyo | 39th Teddy Bear [voice/action]

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39th Teddy Bear [voice/action]

[Elicia had been sleeping next to Gracia off and on now, after papa had left. She thinks maybe it makes her mama better, that she's close and there. And like so many other days, Elicia gets up and rubs her face, bleary-eyed and ready to start the day. Only, what greeted her was the silence of a empty, blue room; the essence of it—everything that made it her mother's—was sucked out. All she had was a pillow behind her and a blanket clutched in her hands, and for a moment, she doesn't understand.

It takes some time before she finally does.

The house is really quiet. Winry and Ed must be doing the things they do every day. She numbly leaves the bed and goes into the bathroom, stripping down like always, turning on the water and being careful that she doesn't make it hot. She gets soap in her eyes, but it's okay, because it washes out. When that's over with, the clothes come next—it's a dress, and she puts her ties in her hair, trying to make them match evenly on each side; it sort of looks right, she thinks, so she goes to the kitchen and uses a chair to get to the cabinet so that she could get the cereal box. And then the milk. Spoon and bowl. She doesn't make orange slices because the knives are bad and off limits. And then she sets the table and eats fast.

It's all wrong. But she's had nightmares about a day like this, only soothed when she woke up and looked at her mother, or wandered into her room in the dead of night, just for a look. But now nothing's left in her mama's room, and the fog of loneliness pushes on her from all sides as she sits on the couch and waits for something to change.

Over time, she lets herself cry. It builds up like a wave traveling toward sand, gradually peaking as the force carries it. It's okay, she thinks. She'll come back, or papa. They wouldn't just leave her behind for long. Not even the malnosso could change that about them. Right? They'd come back and there wouldn't be any reason to cry.]

[Voice]

Mama—

[She breathes in, voice watery and unsure. Everyone had to do things like this. This was the right thing to do. This is what people here had to do sometimes, for the ones they loved. She inhales a shaky sob.]

Gracia... Hughes... Went home.

[It's weird to say her full name like that. She doesn't like it. But she has to be grown up right now.

Later in the day, she'll be out working on the garden Raine had helped her replant, and has no intention of going inside until the sun starts dipping low. She doesn't really feel like playing today. A lot of her presents from the birthday are left scattered in her room, where she's left them from the night before Gracia had left.]

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[It helps to hear those things. True or not, it helps. Her fingers curl on his shirt, which is probably the unfortunate beneficiary of plenty of tears that she really just can't keep at bay anymore. As long as you don't leave. As long as you do everything you can not to go, she has to find some comfort there, where there is very little to give.

It's not fair. She wishes everything was, but it's not. And Iron Man and Captain America and Sailor Cicada can't do anything, and neither can her unruly pirates, and neither can her intrepid ninjas. And the memories of her father holding her and her mother softly reassuring her haven't left her mind, not for an instant.

Children can't cry as softly as most grown-ups can. Her sobs muffle and she hides her face against her hands, deep breaths shaking her back as she sobs hard. There's no restraint, no quelled grief. People on the journals told her time and time again that it was okay to cry, and so she cries.]

[He appreciates she's said something, even if the words make him tense around his heart--such, such dangerous words. He's seen too many people leave this place to echo what she's said, and what if it wasn't true? If he promised to stay, to save the day and keep an eye out for her until everyone was home and safe, and disappeared ten seconds later...he can't. He can't say that to the girl soaking his shirt, clinging to him like her life depends on it.

And that fear rises up again, the unfamiliar territory suffocating, so he shoots Pepper a cursory glance--and forces it away. This wasn't about him. At all. This was about Elicia. It was about being there for her, and making sure she knew she wasn't alone, if only for this moment. He could do that for her.

He keeps breathing.]

You just--cry. Cry as much as you need to, kiddo.

[They are dangerous, and Pepper isn't sure if she should have said them at all. But what else can she offer to Elicia, who looks so small and so broken as she weeps in Tony's arms, who is asking them for just a little hope? It's not really a lie, even if it's not really the truth either. And even though it makes Elicia sob harder, maybe in this case it isn't a bad thing.

Tony looks at her for a moment, too briefly for even Pepper to know what he's trying to signal. She knows this can't be easy for him, because Tony isn't exactly someone who offers comfort. But when he tells Elicia that it's okay to cry, Pepper nods, presses her lips together in a short-lived smile. He's trying so very hard for her, and Pepper can't help but feel proud of him for that.

She starts to reach out, hesitates, then puts her palm gently on Elicia's back between her shoulders. She moves her hand in soft circles, just to offer another reassuring touch, the physical confirmation that they're both there with her, and that yes, it's okay for her to cry.]

[She's plenty alright with that. Plenty. And when the painful sobs reside and she finally feels entirely exhausted, she curls up more and starts to drift off, like a small bird in the hollow of a tree. While the red leaves her face, her brow twitches, like she's trying to come back out of it, mumbling low and blearily into his shirt.]

I wish you were here... papa...

[He'd know what to do... He always knows...

And then she's settled, sleeping, giving in to the overwhelming weariness.]

[And it's a little while longer before he says anything, waiting until he's sure she's well an truly asleep. He feels raw, too--especially after her last words...word. It makes him think about things he really prefers to not think about. There were way, way too many threads entangled around that word for him, especially at present and now he's got her sleeping weight curled up against him as a constant reminder.

After a moment, the silence is deafening and his mind is racing too fast, so he finally speaks. Pepper always had a way of slowing him, stabilizing him. His voice is quiet and even, despite his state, as he turns to look at her.]

A sight you probably thought you'd never see, huh. [He glances down at Elicia, a small, sad smile on his face.]

[Elicia's tears eventually stop, and Pepper lightly bites her lip as the girl murmurs, wishing for her father, then drifts off into sleep. She's silent for much the same reason as Tony, not wanting to wake the child now that she's resting. Pepper can only imagine how trying the day has been, and now, with her eyes closed, she looks all the more fragile.

But Elicia isn't the only one enduring, and Pepper watches Tony as much as she watches the girl in his arms. It's not hard to guess just who put thoughts of fatherhood into Tony's mind, and now he's pretty much stuck there, holding her.

It isn't a bad sight, honestly, and when Tony points out how unlikely it is, she mirrors his smile.]

No, not really. [But it's a tricky topic, and Pepper tries to treat it lightly. Somehow.] I should probably take pictures. The PR department would think it's Christmas.

[Treating is lightly is...hard. Very hard. And it was usually so easy for him to not talk about the things he needed to.

He leans his head back against the couch, breathing out and murmuring again.]

Luceti is a small place. I'm sure it'll get around eventually.

[His most well-kept secret. That he's really not as much of a jackass as everyone thinks. He's not sure if that'd be a bad thing or not.

But there are a lot of things he's not sure of at the moment.]

[She means it to be an escape, but Tony doesn't take it, and that worries Pepper all the more. She risks shifting closer to him, moving deliberately so she doesn't disturb Elicia, stopping when her leg is lightly pressed against his. He leans his head back, and Pepper reaches out, gently raking her fingers through his hair.]

I think the people who matter already know. [Like Pepper, and Elicia, who saw so much good in Tony she curled up in his arms and went to sleep. She hesitates, eyes on the girl, then takes a deep breath.]

We could take her in. [God, Pepper wishes she sounded more sure of what she's saying. But this ground is new and treaterous for both of them, and Pepper really doesn't know what to say to make things better.] If the other people who live here can't take care of her.

No, we can't.

[It's an impulsive, instinctive response. He can't let himself consider that. She's not--theirs. They can't raise a kid--there wasn't time, they weren't the right people for it, he could never put a kid in that kind of situation--hadn't they just gone through this? That conversation suddenly feels like it happened yesterday, and he shifts, twitchy, before his hand settles on Elicia's back again.

They couldn't. They couldn't. She had Ed and Winry. Who might still be teens, but capable enough. Winry was exactly the type of girl he'd peg for a mothering type--Elicia would be fine with them. She doesn't need adults. Not like him and Pepper.

He can't slip into another man's position like that. No no no, he won't even think about it, no. How could they--it wouldn't be--she'd--no.

He won't even let himself think about it. Because he knows it won't happen. Because as far as he's concerned, it shouldn't.

Even if the weight of this situation reminds him that a lot of things happened here that shouldn't.]

Pepper--

[--can't just pick up someone else's kid like you're in the middle of a book, it isn't that simple and it'd never be okay and how would he even handle that, this was a bad idea, why had they even come--

His mind continues racing, and now his heart's accelerated, eyes searching for an empty corner of the room to be cast in.]

[Tony replies faster than she expects, the words practically leaping out of him. She looks away from him, away from the child still asleep on his chest, and curls her arms protectively around her front. Yes, they had just gone through this, and it's as much reason for Pepper to hesitate as it is for her to have made the suggestion at all.]

Tony-- [She starts when he does, stops and swallows. They have to be careful, because Elicia is right there, and she doesn't need to hear this. So when she tries again, Pepper keeps her voice purposely low, trying to whisper so she won't wake the girl.]

We're not going to just leave her. Not if she needs us. [Because even with all the reasons why it's the worst idea, Pepper won't turn away. She will not abandon Elicia, even with everything that implies. But Pepper isn't thinking of Tony taking the place of Elicia's father, or of Elicia as the child they'll never have.

She's thinking of a little girl who cried, and begged them not to abandon her.

Who looks at Tony and sees a hero. That's why they came.]

She still has family.

[Maybe not a literal one, but he's heard her refer to them so affectionately as Big Bro and Big Sis. They'd get the job done, Elicia would be fine with them, not as fine as with her real parents but at least finer than with them.

He was comfortable with the idea of never having that. He'd told himself he had come to terms with it, in his own way. But each time he did, it seemed to creep back up on him. First Rogue--her, multiple times, then this. Howard. God, he can't take two steps in Luceti without being assaulted by family on some front. He'd laugh at the irony if he had any desire to.

"So you're a man who has everything, and yet nothing."

It wasn't something that was meant to be his. He knew that. But it keeps coming up, and now Pepper...]

I--can't. Just--of everyone who could take care of her...not me. Not us.

[Tony isn't wrong when he says Elicia still has family, but Pepper doubts he's including himself in that number. Maybe he doesn't want to see it, or maybe he just can't, but Pepper can, so very clearly, in the way Elicia trusts him to hold her while she sleeps.

But it's a hypothetical argument anyway, and one Pepper won't risk continuing there. If Elicia wakes up and hears Tony saying he won't take care of her, she'll be crushed. Pepper won't let that happen, and if it means relenting for now, then so be it.]

Fine. [She sighs and shakes her head--but there's one more thing she needs to say before she can let it go.] But I think you're selling yourself short. I honestly do.

[It's not that he wouldn't take care of her--of course he would. But he can't. He wouldn't be able to. He didn't know the first thing about this gig, and it took a certain kind of person, didn't it? Being a fake parent to Rogue hardly qualified him for that. He wasn't that person. That wasn't his life.]

Would you really tell me otherwise?

[His voice is strained, one part of him wanting very much to believe her, another refusing to even let himself think about it.]

I would if it were true. [Her eyebrows lift at that question, and the obvious implications. That Pepper is biased, her view tainted because of her relationship with Tony. And maybe from the outside looking in, someone would see it that way, especially someone who doesn't understand Tony Stark the way Pepper does.

But that's just it. He's so much more than a playboy or an overgrown child. She sees the man, definitely flawed, but good in so many ways.]

If I really thought you'd do her more harm than good, I wouldn't have brought it up at all. [But no matter where Elicia lives, or who takes over the role of primary caretaker, Tony can't just pretend that he doesn't have an influence too. A responsibility.] She already sees you as family, you know.

[The words make him start, and he looks at her pointedly. No, that can't be right. He's her superhero. She's a fan. He watches out for her and cares about her. She took care of him when he was injured. But that wasn't family. That was--something strange. Not friendship, exactly. Something more and different and--not family. Family were people who no matter how far you took yourself, catapulted your own life and did your own thing wheedled their way into your heart, for better or for worse. Family was a relation you couldn't escape. He knows that doesn't always mean bad things for everyone--he'd seen enough of Elicia's family to know that--but it usually did. For him.

But he wasn't forced to care about Elicia because he was related. It was because he chose to.]

I'm her superhero. That's it.

[Pepper shakes her head, not at all surprised by Tony's answer. She doesn't flinch away from his gaze though, because she is completely certain of what she's told him.]

That is not it at all, Tony Stark. She adores you, just as much as she would any blood relative. [Tony was the one Elicia went to when she needed to be held. He's the one she asked not to disappear, and the one she trusts to be there when she wakes.] She's as much your family as I am, even if you don't see it.

[That leaves him silent for a moment. And his voice is even quieter when he finally speaks again.]

We're--you and I--family?

[And he's practically holding his breath, chest tight. The implications of that are vast and he isn't sure how to begin processing it.]

[Pepper doesn't get it at first; the sudden quiet and the shock. Then he asks, and it's her turn to stare in disbelief. It's such an obvious notion to her, one that crept into her mind a long time ago.

And Tony's completely missed it. Being together, living together, and he's never made that connection.]

You know, considering how much of a genius you are, you're also very dumb sometimes. Of course we're family. What do you think we are otherwise?

[But that's just it--he hasn't realized it. Because defining relationships is oh-so-tricky for him. He knew he cared about her more than anyone else, the person he'd do anything for, do all those adjoining things related to that word he doesn't quite know how to say--

And it makes him silent again, and this time, he doesn't know what to say, what to ask. He didn't think of her the way he did Howard. Even Rogue, in that strange, strange way. That was his exposure to family.

And all it does is make him realize he's even worse at this than he realized and how could even ever raise a kid if he doesn't even understand how family works in the first place?]

[Pepper lets out a quiet sigh, not at all liking the look on Tony's face. She doesn't mean the words as an insult, but he's taking them to heart anyway, which is exactly the sort of thing she means when she says he can be dumb.]

Don't. I know what you're doing, and I'm telling you to stop it right now. [Because she knows Tony better than anyone, and his expression is all too telling.] There's a lot of things you can't put words to, and that's okay. You get the important things right--like holding a crying girl even though you're terrified. Or saying you appreciate me, even if you have to make a joke to get it out.

That's what really matters.

I'm not--

[Terrified. But yes, he is. He's so far outside his comfort zone, his familiar circle of behaviors and interactions--that's one of the things Luceti had done to him. It has changed him. He has personal friends here--more than he had back home, certainly. And there were teens and kids he looked out for--why? Was it friendship? His mind refuses to define them, as if labeling them as such would somehow cheapen it, so he doesn't. They were somethings. The people he cared about around here were somethings.

And Pepper was an extra special something. He knows she's right about the things he can't say. Despite his ability to talk and talk, there's so many times when he can't get out what he needs to. It makes him feel vulnerable. Small. Like the situation isn't under his control.

Everything he's feeling right now. It's been out of his control from the second Pepper told him about what happened.

He wishes it was easier. That he didn't so often keep himself from saying the things he needs to. But it makes him feel like he's putting himself out there, even if he's clearly already out there when he's holding a girl who exhausted herself crying because her parents are gone, and she begged him not to leave and is still holding onto him so tightly--

He reaches out, taking Pepper's hand in his free one, and meets her eyes with obvious worry and purpose.]

I appreciate you, Pepper.

[And that's a lot of straightforward for him to be.]

[He starts to argue, but catches himself, and it's for the best. It's one thing for Tony to keep what he feels bottled up, safe inside himself where he doesn't have to see it as real. But he needs to be aware of certain things, so he doesn't risk losing them. That people care about him, and that he cares about them, and that it's okay even if he's afraid of what it might mean.

He slips his hand into hers, and Pepper curls her fingers around his. She's a bit nervous when he looks at her that way, because she can see his determination, and the anxiety that goes with it.

And then he says something she doesn't expect. A feeling she knows he has, yes, but the words are direct, with no humor or snark to soften them. She's honestly shocked, but only for a moment before she smiles.]

I appreciate you too.

[That and so much more, but this is already such a huge step. Pepper squeezes Tony's hand, then leans over, giving Tony a quick and careful kiss.]

[He kisses her back, gentle and direct, before he exhales and wills away the tension still building in his body. There were still things he'd need to say. Sometime. But telling her that much has given him a measure of peace and he feels a little less terrified by this sleeping girl in his arms and her pleading with him not to go.

He's never really held a kid before. It's....

Nice.

And even though now he knows he's got more things to figure out than he initially realized, it doesn't seem so hopeless anymore.]

[Less hopeless is a good way to describe it, and Pepper is glad to see the tension slowly leaving Tony's face. He seems so much calmer now, and while none of this has suddenly become easy, it at least feels bearable now.]

Do you want something to drink or anything? I can see what's in their kitchen. [Tony is pretty much stuck until Elicia wakes up, and that's okay. Pepper doesn't at all mind being his personal assistant during times like these. She wants to make him comfortable, to stretch out this feeling of calm and peace for as long as she can help make it last.

Although she won't be hurt if he says he's fine either. She's just as good sitting with him, holding his hand in hers.]

I'm good. [His mouth is dry, but his stomach is still in knots and the thought of drinking isn't appealing at the moment. Shocker, right? He wonders where the two blondies are--he's pretty damn sure both Ed and Winry would have interesting things to say about his current situation. Even in light of circumstances.

He's still surprised by it, too, after all.]

But--thanks.

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