The Meaning of Infinity

She got her phone back. She called Will. 

“Somebody came and informed me,” he mumbled through the line, his voice rough with exhaustion. “I started going through your furniture and stuff. You want some of the chairs?”

Her stuff arrived. She found an ivory envelope, carefully slotted between the arm and cushion of her favorite green armchair. There was no note inside- just a blank burner phone and a pack of cigarettes, already open, probably taken straight from her dresser. Carrie felt tears well in her eyes at the thought of Will going to grab them. 

Time marches on, or so they say. Thanks, Tracy Lawrence. 

Carrie made herself at home. First, in her room- rearranging the furniture as her own things were delivered, filling out the closet and then reorganizing her clothes the way she liked them. She slapped posters up on the wall with shitty scotch tape, too stubborn to find Stark and ask him for something better, like tacks or adhesive strips. She clung tight to her pillow, too stubborn to make any copies. Not now, and not here. 

Then, she got used to the kitchen. 

There was almost never anybody else there. Tony had his own penthouse on the floor above, and the other remaining Avengers didn’t actually seem to live in the tower, despite there being an entire floor dedicated to their residence. Well, Carrie thought, she probably wouldn’t have stayed either. Not with all those empty rooms peppering the hallway, the rooms of the dead. Of fallen comrades, to the others. 

How angry Natasha had seemed, Carrie remembered, at the thought of death. Even just her death, the unreal death that came from being one of many. It must have torn her up inside, dying from the snap. The loss of strangers, and even worse, the loss of friends. Maybe even family, who knew. 

Will’s cousin Hansen moved back from Chicago to take over as the landlord of her building, where Will was still living. He sent her updates periodically, just to ease her mind, about the tenants. Miss Josie, the old lady on the first floor with the deaf cat, was doing fine. Now she had another cat, and this one, he said, was blind. Gravy Terrance, a musician who lived in one of the units below the one Carrie had occupied, was still filling Will’s evenings with blues. Marie and Jessa, the young twin daughters of a nurse named Laura whom Carrie had sent copies to babysit for on multiple occasions, had just started out the fifth grade.

The tower was nothing like the apartment. The only people who sometimes hung around the tower, Carrie learned, were Bruce- (and technically, she supposed, the Hulk), and some woman named Nebula- an alien. Carrie isn’t exactly sure who she is or how she got there, although Nebula seems to know all about Carrie’s situation, despite not being present when she was taken in. The one time all three of them were caught in the kitchen together at once, Bruce hung back to mumble out an apology on Nebula’s behalf for a particularly raving comment. Along the lines of “Tony likes to gossip.” 

Nebula started hanging around less- probably preferring to bother Stark on his own floor, rather than run into Carrie. And, for some reason Carrie couldn’t seem to grasp, Bruce turned up more.

She found him brewing coffee in the mornings, sometimes, shooting her a quick glance from behind the corner of his glasses as she stumbled into the room, still groggy from sleep. She found him reading in the living room, notebooks and screens spread out on the coffee table as he worked on some research project, or slippered feet kicked up to replace them, a novel precariously pinched between his hulk-sized fingers. Or he would file in, during the evening, maybe coming up from the labs downstairs, and settle wordlessly onto the opposite end of the sofa, leaning back and fixating his eyes on whatever it was she was watching. He never asked her to explain, or change the channel- he simply joined her. 

In the end, she got used to him too.

***

“Three of a kind,” Bruce grunted. He set his hand of oversized playing cards face-up on the kitchen island. Across from him, Carrie huffed. Her own hand of custom hulk-sized cards is supported by a long, metal stand which they slot into at the bottom- Bruce can’t flip through the normal ones, and she can’t hold all of the big ones, so that was their compromise. 

She glowered at him for a moment, as if bitter, and then turned the whole stand around.

“Ace high,” she grumbled sheepishly. 

Bruce snorted. “Why would you bet on that?”

“I’m drunk, okay?!” Carrie’s nose wrinkled, the skin pulling over her slightly flushed cheeks. Her shot glass was still half-full from the last round, which she had been too weak to finish in one go. It sat, then, next to Bruce’s hand resting on the table, left there after he had pulled it smoothly away from her as she set it back down, distracted by the rough burn of the vodka. 

“I know,” he replied, grinning. She just rolled her eyes. “You gonna pay up?”

Carrie pouted at him. “You guys don’t even pay me,” she whined.

Bruce laughed. “Come on, I’ve seen your bank account. Pay up!”

She got used to poker and shots. She got used to training, once Tony finally seemed to get over whatever grievance he had with her being there and started showing up at her door to lug her down to the gym. She learned how to fire a gun properly- Not into your own eye, Natasha had sneered bitterly as she fixed Carrie’s form- and how to disarm an assailant. She got used to Nebula turning up with a wicked grin, dead-set on beating her into the matts. She learned to beat her back. She got used to charity events, food drives and galas. She learned to text Will when they happened, just so she could see him for a moment. 

***

“Greenwall!” Carrie whipped around, eyes wide and glittering as soon as the voice reached her ears. Even as camera shutters flashed into her eyes, and Stark’s hand tightened around her forearm, she grinned, letting out a short burst of excited laughter. 

“Will!” she cheered, breaking away from Tony to go meet him where he was pushing through the crowd of reporters to the rope blocking off the carpet. “How’s my favorite manager?”

“How’s my favorite Avenger? ” he snarked back. She huffed, but she was still grinning. 

“People are going to harass you. How’d you even get down here?”

“I have a very solid stance,” he beamed, puffing out his chest slightly. “I cut between people with my shoulder. Really, my method is very refined.” Carrie snorted, but her attention was diverted as Will’s eyes widened at something over her head. Just as she turned her own to follow his gaze, she felt two over-sized hands clasp over her shoulders. She relaxed slightly, smiling up at Bruce. 

“Come on, Stark is going to get pissed at you,” he told her, not even glancing at Will. Carrie didn’t seem to notice- she reached up to tug gently on one hand, as if to guide his attention. 

“Bruce! Do you remember Will?” she laughed, tilting her head toward Will, who looked slightly less inflated now that a Hulk-sized Bruce was leaning over Carrie’s back, staring down at him. Bruce flashed a polite smile- a tight one. 

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied, apologetically. (Though Will didn’t think it was quite so ‘apologetically’ as she.)

“I was there when you detained her,” Will mumbled, although the confidence and bitterness he had intended to sow into his words was quickly swept away by the intimidation Bruce struck from stature alone. Still, Bruce winced. This time, it did seem a bit apologetic. Carrie’s smile disappeared for a brief moment before returning. 

“Will,” she protested, her voice slightly strained. Bruce’s hands tightened slightly on her shoulders- though his grip was still gentle. He was always careful with his strength. 

“We need to go,” Bruce repeated, smiling down at Will again. “Nice to meet you.”

Will stared at their backs as Bruce spun Carrie around, leaning down over her shoulder to talk into her ear as he led her away again to catch up to Tony and Natasha. 

“ See you,” he mumbled to himself, his lips set in a grim line. “Nice to see you. We already met.” 

***

“Since when did you have a boyfriend?” 

This time, it was Tony’s voice creeping up from behind her. Carrie glanced over her shoulder, her expression bored. The champagne flute poised between her fingers tilted precariously, but not precariously enough that it might spill. 

Tony sidled up next to her at the bar. His gaze scanned the bottles lined up against the wall behind the counter, all manner of expensive, rich liquors, undoubtedly purchased with his own money and name, though he had been far removed from the actual planning of this event. 

“That kid you were talking to,” he clarified, when it was clear Carrie wasn’t going to give him a good response. She hummed, swirling the prosecco in her glass. 

“That’s not my boyfriend,” she stated blandly. Tony huffed, knocking his shoulder gently into hers. He turned around so that his eyes swept over the party instead of the liquor, leaning back against the bar. 

“Good,” he replied. “I’d feel kinda guilty if we were keeping you locked away from your prince like Repunzel, or something.” 

Carrie side-eyed him, raising an eyebrow pointedly. “You haven’t been?”

Tony winced. He supposed he’d walked into that one. 

“Alright, yeah. But it wasn't my idea, can I at least have that much credit?”

Carrie snorted. “It’s your tower,” she reminded him. He sighed, looking slightly dejected, and reached across her to pluck her champagne flute from between her fingers. He brought it to his own lips, taking a long, deep sip. 

“Hey,” she protested huffily. He handed it back. 

“I don’t order myself drinks anymore,” he said, by way of explanation. Carrie rolled her eyes. 

“You know that’s still drinking, right?”

“It’s fine,” he waved a hand dismissively. “You know, kid-”

“-Don’t call me that-”

“-I’m glad that we’re getting along like this. It’s really great, great stuff.” 

Carrie raised both eyebrows, now. “We are?”

Tony flashed her a wide smile. “Yeah, that’s what I decided,” he informed her. “We’re getting along now.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “And why did you decide that?” 

Tony grinned. He leaned over the counter and ordered her another prosecco, and then took her glass from her a second time, taking another sip. This time, he kept it as his own. 

“No reason.” 

***

“But why do you think he said that?” 

Carrie lay upside-down across the couch, her knees hooked over its backing and her hair hanging down over the cushion’s edge. Bruce sat cross-legged on the floor across from her, meeting her gaze from the reverse angle as he peered over the top of the printed-out file he had been reading. More lay scattered across the floor, taking up the vast majority of the living room. Next to Carrie, there was a physics textbook lying open on the couch- abandoned in some brief attempt at learning enough to ‘help’ Bruce invent time travel. Really, it was more an excuse to hang around while he worked. 

“Because he wants to get along with you?” Bruce hedged. He was only half paying attention- most of his efforts were directed toward the time travel. 

“Because he was jealous of the guy who came to see you,” Scott snapped his fingers, pointing one out at Carrie, whose brow furrowed and noise pinched. Bruce fully looked up from his file. 

“No he wasn’t,” Carrie scoffed. 

“There’s no way,” Bruce agreed, his tone slightly defensive. “Tony barely tolerated Carrie until recently. It’s honestly weird he even said that.” 

“Bruce!” Carrie huffed, glaring up at him. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying! And you just said it was probably because he means it!”
Bruce had the decency to look slightly sheepish at that. He raised one hand to rub at the back of his neck. 

“Sorry, Care. Just… work,” he apologized, and Carrie’s expression softened slightly. 

“It’s fine. We aren’t bothering you, are we?”

“Uh- no, actually,” Bruce replied, smiling slightly. “The background noise kind of helps.”

“Ouch. Background noise?” Scott joked, but ducked a moment later as Carrie hurled the physics textbook toward him, barely dodging. “Hey!”

“Deserved,” she drawled in reply. 

***

Scott had only been back in the normal, everyday realm of people for one day- Carrie, Tony and Bruce had found him pacing back and forth in the common area of the Avenger’s floor when they had come back from the charity gala, and it had taken several iterations of his rushed explanation of where he had been and what had happened to him before they managed to piece together why, exactly, he was so frantic about the whole ordeal. 

“Time travel,” Bruce had breathed. “Time travel!” Tony repeated. And a moment later, his eyes had flown to Carrie’s. A silent understanding passed between them- the same understanding they had shared a few times, by then- one that seemed to blossom any time Spider-man happened to be mentioned. Now, hope bloomed in the place of that familiar grief. 

Tony and Bruce began working immediately, dragging Scott along to the lab where they could question him and look over some of the pym particles he had in his suit. Carrie had followed along initially, but the science was way over her head. She was beginning to feel despairingly useless by the time the door creaked back open, and Natasha poked her head inside. Carrie met her eyes, and jerked her head to indicate toward the back of the lab where the three men had been standing, huddled, but Natasha shook her head, instead beckoning Carrie to follow her out. 

“I got the memo,” she told Carrie as the lab door closed silently behind them. “But there’s no point in you or I keeping ourselves up with work we can’t contribute to.” 

Carrie stared at her. She had never heard such kind or casual words from Natasha, even after nearly four years of technically being her teammate as an Avenger.

 … Four years. Four years and still no freedom. Four years and a team full of strangers. Four years, not even a mission. Four years wasted. Four years wasted in Stark’s ivory tower, wasted with check-ins from Fury, wasted leaving voicemails for Will without even being allowed to go see him. And suddenly, with something to bring them back together, they cared. Did they care? Did they just need her? Did they care now, that they needed her? Did they-

Natasha caught a glimpse of Carrie’s reaction- her wide, almost panicked eyes and the distinct downward turn of her lips. Natasha’s expression hardened slightly, and she turned her cheek away. 

“Just get some sleep,” she grumbled. Carrie smiled, and nodded, knocking her shoulder gently against Natasha’s before she parted ways and split off to her own room.

Carrie returned to the lab later, in the early hours of the morning, to force Bruce to bed, as well. In a way, she thought, it was like she was paying it forward- but really, she just didn’t want him to overwork himself. 

“We need to work on this,” he told her, voice almost pleading as she had marched inside, coming to a halt in front of him and Tony and crossing her arms. 

“It’s time travel, ” she deadpanned. “Does it really matter when you finish it? You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Carrie-”

“ Bruce, ” she cut him off before he could protest. Tony huffed from where he was standing off to the side, leaning against the lab bench. 

“You don’t care if I make myself sick?” he called sarcastically.

“You’re not going to listen to me,” Carrie sneered back at him. “Bruce knows better.”

The look on Bruce’s face screamed that he actually didn’t know better, and very much wanted to keep working as long as he could keep from passing out. But Carrie was right about one thing- unlike Tony, he would listen to her. He sighed, his shoulder slumping slightly. 

“Come on, big guy,” she grinned. “Just a few hours, alright? I’ll make you breakfast when you get back up.” 

***

He went to sleep- to Carrie’s surprise, Tony shuffled out of the lab behind him, clapping her briefly on the shoulder as he moved past her. She kept true to her word, and a massive bowl of pancake batter sat already mixed on the counter when Bruce shuffled into the kitchen four hours later. She grinned at him, pouring out a massive mug of already-brewed coffee and passing it over to him as she turned on the stovetop, spreading butter over the griddle and beginning to pour out portions of batter over it for him.

The smell of the pancakes quickly summoned Tony, as well as Scott, who seemed equally groggy as the other two despite having allegedly gone to bed several hours earlier. Natasha followed a while after, the three men already huddled over the kitchen island and eating in exhausted silence as she did. Carrie shot her a hesitant smile, nudging a plate slightly toward her over the counter as if to invite her to take what she pleased- Natasha did, sidling over silently and forking three fluffy, golden pancakes onto the ceramic before settling onto the stool next to Tony. Carrie poured her out a coffee without asking, and she took it, yet again without a word. 

“I’m going to do some reading on the physics,” Bruce had mumbled to Tony, cutting through the cacophony of forks clinking against plates and long sips of coffee. 

Tony nodded. “I’ll be in the lab.”

That was how they had come to be there, the three of them splayed about the living room. Carrie had followed him there not long after she had finished cleaning up from breakfast, and Scott, who had been loitering around the kitchen chatting with Carrie, followed her. While Bruce poured over physics journals, textbooks, and cross-disciplinary synthesis, Carrie and Scott chatted aimlessly about life- everything from their childhoods to their favorite television series. 

“But really,” she sighed, finally rolling over to sit up properly again and reeling for a moment as the blood rushed away from her head. “Why do you think he said that?”

“I said why,” Scott pointed out cheekily.

“That’s not why,” Bruce grumbled. Carrie huffed down at him. 

“Hey, I’m pretty cute, you know. Why wouldn’t Stark like me?”

Bruce’s expression seemed to halt in place for a moment, before he wiped it away and replaced it once again with an impassive disinterest as his gaze flicked back down to the stack of papers in his hand. 

“Because he’s married,” he reminded her. “He has a kid. ” Carrie just snickered. 

“Tony has a kid? ” Scott hissed in surprise. Carrie laughed. 

***

One copy each, they decided. It was a pretty high-stakes mission to be her first, but Carrie didn’t complain. One copy for each team, just in case. Just in case. 

Natasha didn’t seem happy when Tony said that, but she let it go. Carrie didn’t seem to care much about it either way, just shrugging and agreeing even as Natasha glowered on her left and Bruce tensed visibly on her right. The image of her impassive face, all of those five years ago, as the massive army of her suffered loss after loss, flickered back through his mind. 

For the second time, Carrie is met with the other faces of the Avengers. Captain America, Hawkeye- even Thor and the talking Raccoon, who had apparently gone off with Nebula to retrieve him from New Asgard. For the first time ever, it began to really sink in where she was- who she was, and what she had become a part of. She was an Avenger, and she’d never even been on a mission. Of course, she had four years of training. Of course, she had her power. But still, she thought, she was surely too out of her depth. 

 She didn’t bother taking her phone with her, when they actually got on with the thing. She left it on her nightstand- her new nightstand, now that they’d all been living at the compound rather than the tower for a few weeks. Her screen sat unlocked for a moment, after she placed it there and left- her messenger still sitting open on its main menu. 

HANSEN || [Sent]: Going to be MIA for a bit, so if there’s any problems

you’re in charge. Put some extra money in the business account JIC

WILL  || [Sent]: I’m visiting soon.

SPIDER-KID || [Sent]: If you get this, don’t worry. We’re coming to get you.

***

The battle was hard.

***

The battle was hard. It was bloody. 

***

People were crying- Bruce was crying. Natasha, even, was crying. 

Peter was crying. Peter was sobbing. Tony was with him, he might have been crying. Hard to tell. 

“Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark-” Peter choked viscerally on his own voice. He coughed- no, no, he wheezed . “Mr. Stark, she’s-”

***

They don’t think she’s….

Just be patient. She-

Why did you let her take…going to die!

She’s not going to…she has to.

They don’t think …she’s going to die.

They don’t think? Well, I think-!

Bruce. Just calm down-

Since when is everyone so buddy-buddy with…It is the pizzeria girl, right? The waitress?

Just shut your fucking-

Bruce!

…

hey don’t think she’s going to live? Shuri said she’s going to die?

Oh, hey…

Natasha, take Bruce out of…please.

She’s going today.

What?

Come on, Peter. Hey. Don’t say that-

She said it. Today. 

***

The room outside erupted into protests. Maybe, in the end, that was what woke her.

Carrie blinked, staring straight into the similarly confused eyes of a dark-skinned woman wearing a labcoat. She was leant over the bed- the hospital bed?- Carrie was lying on, one trembling hand reaching for a plug on the wall behind it. 

Carrie blinked again. They had met once before. She came to America, came for some- some embassy. Some charity thing.

“...Shuri?” Carrie croaked. Her voice was raspy. Her throat was so dry, it felt like sandpaper as it struggled into motion. She gagged. 

“You-” Shuri’s voice wavered. She clamped her mouth shut, pulling her hand from what she had been reaching for as if it had burned her. She turned and hurried across the small medical room to a sink, filling a paper cup with water and then rushing back. Her hands kept shaking.
Carrie reached to take the water cup and found only one of her hands would close around it. She paused for a moment, her eyes lingering on the grayish tinge to the skin there, darkest at the fingertips and fading slowly back to her normal tone just below the base of her wrist. The other hand had similar shading, though it was lighter, fading as soon as her knuckles. She dropped her more useless hand, and tipped the cup back to her lips, drinking first greedily and then slowly when her throat protested painfully. 

“You’re dead. You should be. Dead. Your heart just stopped.” Shuri mumbled, shell-shocked as she watched. Carrie drained the cup, and let it fall back to her lap. 

“Wow, thanks,” she deadpanned. This time, she managed to only wince instead of gagging. Shuri ducked her head slightly, apologetic. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just- it doesn’t make sense. You were… you were barely hanging on after…”

***

Carrie was everywhere. Just like last time. Bodies, everywhere, like last time.

They were taking the gauntlet away. Thanos struggled toward it, a conglomeration of identical bodies surging endlessly around his ankles, replacing themselves, throwing themselves together like ants over bread crust. He kicked them off. 

And Carrie was next to Strange, next to everyone. And next to Tony.

She saw the signal. She watched, eyes wide, as Tony rushed forward to react. 

“HELL NO!”

There was a rush. The ants changed course. They ripped at Stark’s armor, dragging him backward. They multiplied, then multiplied more. Pale hands, identical hands, but with knuckles bleeding or palms bleeding or wrists bleeding or fingerpads scraped off, reached desperately toward glittering jewels as the nanotech from Stark’s gauntlet swiped them away. She grappled for them, passing them quickly from one body’s hand to another amidst the crowd of herself, just out of view, holding them until it burned and then sending them out, and then back.

Tony rushed forth. Thanos knocked him back. Thanos snapped. So did Tony. 

His eyes flew wide. His head snapped toward the ever-growing mass of copies standing in a crowd around him and Thanos, their eyes all equally wild as they darted around each other. They grabbed at each other’s shirtsleeves, collars, waistbands, wrists, pockets, thighs, elbows, necks, hair. One of them screamed.

“You have a kid!” Carrie screeched angrily, the one standing directly to his right. Tony’s head whipped around to face her, his face hollow with dread as he caught sight of a stone- just one of the stones- burning holes through her hand. 

***

The snapping echoed. It was a chorus. Heaven’s angels sang between those fingers, countless fingers. The soprano section, the six with the best vibrato, parted up their lips and simply screamed. And then, the others took their que, all just a quarter-rest behind.

***

“Some of them were just… gone,” Tony admitted to her later, his voice hushed and wracked with guilt as he sat  over the side of the hospital bed. His hands were tangled desperately with hers, fingers folded over to hide the gray hue of her own. “Some dried up like mummies- most of them were. And you were the only one who... you were the farthest from the stones.”

Carrie looked down at their intertwined hands. A bit of gray was poking out where Stark’s palm didn’t quite cover her wrist. The skin there felt dry and cracked, if she rubbed it against an unmarred part of her arm or her cheek. The nerves were obviously fried there, but someone- she didn’t even remember who it had been, amidst the flurry of visitors- had told her someone could fix it. The wizard? She didn’t remember. 

“I survived, though,” she told him, as if to ease his guilt. He just stared at her helplessly. “Stark. Lighten up.”

“Lighten up?” he croaked. He was still sitting there, clinging to her hands, well past midnight. Past the time Shuri had made him promise he would leave, citing that Carrie needed rest. He'd barely even blinked, if he could help it, scared that this one might burn, too. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Carrie whispered, squeezing his hand with the one she still had control over. “I’m just down a hand, and it might not even be permanent, alright? Things could have been worse. A lot worse.”

The unspoken meaning hung heavily. It doesn’t need to be voiced- that she might have died, or even worse, he might have died, and would have had she not intervened. Stark hung his head, slumping low over the edge of the hospital bed. 

“You died ,” he insisted bitterly. “You did die.” 

“I didn’t die. I don’t remember dying,” she replied automatically. Then, “Go be with Morgan.”

His expression hardened. He hesitated for a moment, but pulled away in the end, slowly unfolding his legs and moving them off toward the hall.

As she watched the door close behind him, Carrie sagged with relief. 

***

"They don’t think she’s going to live," Natasha informed them. The rustling of her clothes as she walked into the room was grating against the silence. The various figures scattered around the waiting room glanced up at her, some peering curiously at the slightly ajar door behind her, which led to the hospital room. 

"Just be patient. She could pull through," T'Challa said softly, following after her. He pulled the door fully shut behind him.

Natasha shot him a dark look. A sharp crash sounded from across the room, and heads whipped to face Bruce where he was sitting on one of the sofas- one of its arms now collapsed in his grip. 

"Why did you let her take the stones, Tony!? She’s going to die!" He hissed. His shoulders tensed in toward his neck. 

"She’s not going to die," Tony replied, automatically. "She has to live, she has to."

"They don’t think she’s going to live," Natasha repeated. She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed. "She’s going to die."

"They don’t think? They don't think?" The sofa scraped backward over the floor from the force of Bruce throwing himself off of it and to his feet. "Well, I think they’re fucking idiots!"

"Bruce. Just calm down," Steve sighed, standing up and taking a step toward him, reaching out tentatively. "You know Shuri’s not an idiot, but-"

"Since when is everyone so buddy-buddy with this chick, anyway?" Bucky cut him off. He was leant back in one of the chairs, his arms crossed square over his chest. "She died plenty the last time, right? And no-one cared. It is the pizzaria girl, right? The waitress?"

"Just shut your fucking mouth, Bucky, are you braindead!?" Bruce snapped, whirling to glare at him and beginning to step forward. "That was different! That was-"

"Bruce!" Steve scrambled to step between Bruce and Bucky, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. His mouth was set in a thin line. For a tense moment, Bruce stood in front of him, shoulders trembling with the effort of each heavy breath. Tony shrunk into his seat. Scott glanced helplessly up at Natasha, still in the doorway, T'Challa a step behind her. 

"… Alright. I’m sorry," Bruce finally sighed. He slumped back into his seat, the sofa creaking under his weight. 

In the commotion, nobody had heard the other door creaking open- the one on the opposite side of the waiting room, leading into the hall. They did hear the soft click of it sealing shut again, though.

"They don’t think she’s going to live? Shuri said she’s going to die?" Peter breathed helplessly, standing stock-still with the frame of the door looming behind him. Tony scrambled clumsily out of his seat, moving toward him.

"Oh, hey… No, buddy, she’s not- there’s still a chance she…" he bumbled, his hands coming to clasp over Peter's shoulders. He tugged him against his chest, if only to stop him from peering back toward the hospital room. Behind them, there was another sharp sound of wood splintering as Bruce's fingers tightened around the front edge of the couch's frame. 

"Natasha, take Bruce out of here. This is too much for him," Steve whispered. "Just- please."

She nodded. Without a word, she gently guided Bruce to his feet. Tony pulled Peter a couple feet off to the side as she tugged Bruce toward the door he had been standing in front of, the large green man drifting aimlessly by her direction.

"She’s going today," T'Challa finally informed them. His voice was solemn but sure, and once again, the heads of the room's occupants snapped up to stare at him- Tony held Peter tighter, but the young vigilante tugged himself half-free, gawking at T'Challa. 

"What?" he whispered, his voice cracking. 

"Come on, Peter, it's alright," Tony begged. "Hey, T'Challa, Don’t say that in front of him-" 

"She said it- Shuri said it this morning," T'Challa repeated. He hung his head. "She's not doing well. Unless something improves...she’s going today. The next time her heart stops, we're giving up."

The heated argument that erupted following that statement only lasted as long as it took for Shuri to stumble out of the medbay, eyes wide. Immediately, everyone was silent, looking up at her expectantly. 

She froze. She straightened up. Hesitantly, she smiled. 

"She is awake," she confirmed softly. The startled laughter, releases of held breath, and eruptive sobs of relief are like an opera, echoing, muffled, across the sea. The coast shines brightly in the distance.