wynnesome

[FICLET] One-Winged Bird
Team Kill fill for the 2022 SteveTony Games ( stevetonygames )
Work Type: Fic (422 words)
Universe: 616
Bingo Square: Dreams
Challenge: Petvengers
Content Warning: Major Medical Event (non-graphic); Possible Permanent Disability

I know just a few basic things about strokes because of small degrees of separation from two people who have had them, and I checked and based a couple of things on information from this web page by Johns Hopkins Medicine. Please pardon any gross medical inaccuracies.

The one-winged bird is based on one of my African Grey parrots, Scarlett. I adopted him three years ago when his owner of 23 years had to be moved into a care home for Alzheimer's Disease. Around fifteen years before he came to me, he went through a terrible infection on his left wing, and despite efforts totaling around 100 pages of vet records that were passed along to me, the end result was a wing amputation. He's a beautiful, brilliant bird, and brings me heaps of joy, and also sorrow that he has lost his birthright of flight. I can only dream of having Tony around to build Scarlett a new wing. If, of course, I wasn't being a mean Team Kill person and leaving Tony in the hospital with prognosis uncertain.

 

---

 "Las' night," Tony slurs out, blurred and mushy and fenced in by the half of his mouth that won't move, "dreamed... 'f a one-winged bird."

Steve's at his bedside; has been for the past six hours, since the terrifying, unintelligible phone call, and the finding Tony collapsed, and the rushing him to the hospital, and the whisking away by doctors, and the unbearable evening in the waiting room hearing no word and being able to do nothing but repeat to himself, over and over again, "No news means he's alive, no news means they're busy making sure he stays that way, no news means it's not the worst."
 
And once they'd had Tony stabilized and settled, damned if Steve hadn't pulled both the "Tony Stark funded this entire wing," and the "I'm Captain America" cards to write himself the open-ended visitor's pass. He doesn't know which had carried the weight to override their rules and protests, and he doesn't care.

He holds Tony's hand, the one on this side, the one that can feel and squeeze and isn't sickeningly still and slack.

"One wing, Steeevh..." Tony forces out again, like it's the most important thing in the world, and Steve doesn't know if it's one of those nth-level leaps of association galaxies beyond 99 percent of human intellect, or a brilliant mind reduced to imbecility. All he can do is speak endless, emptily encouraging words, and repeat Tony's name like if he says it enough it'll keep the seed of Tony's self intact, and use the paper bib attached to the hospital gown to soak up the trail of spit welling from the dead side of his lips.

Tony's good eye falls shut; the other is slitted, the lid slightly open in an unnerving, lifeless stare. They've told Steve that evaluation and therapy sessions will begin as soon as tomorrow; that the first and most important healing is what his body and mind will be working to do for themselves in the next few hours; that there's no predictable time frame for recovery from a stroke.

If there's one single, sure factor, it's that Steve will be here.

He keeps hold of Tony's hand; he brushes back a few strands of hair; he dries the damp from both their faces.

He talks, so Tony knows he was listening.

"Keep dreaming, Tony. That bird, he'll be fine, because if he needs a wing, I know you'll build him a new one. He'll be flying again soon, and we'll have you flying again, too."