Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The low murmur of voices filtered through the thin walls, a constant, unintelligible hum. The click of nurses’ shoes against the hard floors echoed in the hall, rhythmic, endless, like a clock ticking in the background of her thoughts.

Why are these nurses always walking? It’s as if they never stop.

Every few minutes, a soft footstep, a muffled conversation, a door opening and closing.

The light from her father's room leaked through the crack in the door, sharp and cold, casting a thin rectangle of brightness that contrasts with the dimness of the hallway. It was too bright, too harsh. She could see it seeping, a pale line against the tile. It felt clinical—sterile, even when the world outside is fading into dusk. Her father’s room. She couldn’t bring herself to look. To acknowledge.

The tile under her feet felt too slick, too hard, like she was standing on something that was not really meant for standing. There was an unsettling lack of give, no softness, just cold stone beneath her soles. Grey.

Why are the tiles grey? Wouldn’t they get dirty easily?

The scuff marks and scratches were already there, tiny, almost invisible, but they bothered her. They shouldn’t be here, not in this place that was supposed to be pristine, untouched.

And then—the smell. That smell. The smell that filled her lungs with every breath, heavy and undeniable. It was all around her now, pressing in, impossible to escape. The smell of disinfectant, sharp and bitter, mixing with something else—something old, something too familiar. A metallic tang like blood left too long to dry, an undertone of sickness she couldn’t shake.

Why do all the hospitals have this nauseating smell?

It was in the air, in her clothes, in her hair. It was not just here, but everywhere. She tried to shake it off, but it followed her, a constant companion, something lodged deep in the back of her throat. Every breath felt like she’s inhaling more of it. She shifted in her seat, her eyes sliding to the door again, her thoughts swirling—trying not to focus on the inevitable. On the things she didn’t want to face.

Even with Daisy’s best efforts to shut it out, her mind kept replaying the moment she found her father.

Daisy had burst into the Siberian Hydra base to interrupt a fight. Instead, what she saw stopped her cold. Her father was lying on the floor. At first her brain refused to register it. For a heartbeat she thought he might move, that maybe he’d just been knocked down. But then she saw the stillness. The unnatural angle of his hand. The frost clinging to his lips. The blood staining the snow beneath him. His suit’s helmet was lying a few inches away from him.

Her chest locked up. No sound would come out. She couldn’t breathe. She wanted to run to him, but her legs felt like stone. Everything in her screamed that this wasn’t real, that it couldn’t be him. But his face—God, his face—was twisted in pain, his eyes half-closed, his skin cold when she finally forced herself to touch him. That was when the truth carved itself into her heart.

FRIDAY’s voice in her ear was mercilessly calm, listing injuries like lines on a report: multiple broken ribs, fractures in his hand, blunt force trauma all over his body, a ruptured lung, hypothermia. The list went on and on until Daisy’s stomach lurched. She clamped her hands over her ears and choked out a broken plea: “Stop. Please, just stop.”

But the worst was still waiting. Near the exit, she saw it lying there—the shield. That gleaming symbol of justice, carelessly left behind.

Her shock gave way to a burning fury.

Either that arrogant, self-righteous captain had done this to my father… or worse, he had abandoned him here to die.

Daisy’s mind echoed with FRIDAY’s voice, still frantic, still pleading, a lifeline thrown from a far-off world. “Daisy, I’ve lost contact with him. He’s… he's not responding. I don’t know what’s happening. Please!”

The words played over and over in her head, drowning out the cold wind that whipped through her body.

She was supposed to be in the US but fate had twisted things. She was in Berlin, hundreds of miles away, and yet, in that moment, she was grateful for it. If she'd been anywhere else, she wouldn't have been able to reach him. Her father.

The jet, the sleek, silver silhouette that had become their escape, waited outside the base like a lifeline.

But it was too cold.

Daisy stood trembling in her strapless dress, the thin fabric doing nothing to shield her from the biting chill. Her skin was flushed, a stark contrast to the iciness that stole through her body, sinking into her bones. She could barely feel her fingers anymore, but her hands gripped her father’s arm with all the strength she could muster.

"Come on, Dad, just a little further," she muttered, trying to tug him forward.

Her father, slumped against the freezing concrete, was a shadow of the man he'd once been. The once indomitable force now helpless in her arms. She couldn’t understand how things had gotten so bad so quickly. But there he was, unable to stand, unable to move.

"Please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please, just a little more."

But FRIDAY’s warning flashed in her mind, a voice of reason she could barely cling to in her panic. “Don’t, Daisy. If you try to lift him, you’ll only make it worse. He’s injured.”

Daisy paused, her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t lift him. There was no way. The thought of trying left her with a hollow sense of helplessness that sank deep into her gut.

Tears welled up in her eyes before she could stop them, hot and blurring her vision. She could feel them slipping down her cold cheeks, but they didn’t make it easier. Nothing did.

"I’m going to watch my father die," she whispered to herself, the words barely a breath.

Her throat tightened, a sob rising, but the sound of her own breath was distant, muffled, like she was drowning in the very air she tried to suck in. Every inhale was shallow, too quick, too desperate, and each exhale left her more hollow.

Her father’s labored breathing was the only indication that he was still here, still alive, but for how much longer? Daisy didn’t know. And it was a question she couldn’t answer.

The world around her grew blurry, the edges of her vision fraying into darkness. The cold no longer mattered, but the stillness in her chest, the crushing weight of her failure to save him, was unbearable.

There was nothing she could do. And that thought settled in like the freezing wind, consuming her.

Then, like a sudden jolt to her spine, she heard it.

“Ms. Stark.”

The voice—calm, steady, and almost too familiar—cut through the haze. Daisy froze.

Her head snapped up, and there he was.

Vision.

She hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t noticed the way the world around her had shifted. But now, standing before her, Vision was holding her father in his arms like he was weightless, his red-and-green form somehow out of place in the grey cold of the runway.

For a split second, Daisy’s breath caught in her throat. She was too stunned to speak. The realization hit her with a shock. FRIDAY had informed him. She had to have.

“We should leave immediately,” Vision said, his tone unwavering, his posture unyielding.

Daisy blinked, eyes struggling to focus through the blur of tears. She hadn’t even realized she’d collapsed to her knees. The cold ground pressed against her, sharp and biting, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t remember when it happened, only that, at some point, she’d fallen apart completely. But now, now there was no time for that.

Without thinking, she scrambled to her feet. The shock of it made her knees weak, but she pushed herself up and ran behind him, her heart hammering, the rhythm almost deafening in her ears.

Vision moved ahead with a purposeful stride, holding her father close. He didn't look back, but Daisy felt an overwhelming gratitude swelling in her chest. Gratitude for FRIDAY, for making sure Vision was here. Gratitude for Vision, for moving in such quiet efficiency and certainty.

By the time they reached the jet, Daisy’s legs were burning from the sprint, but she barely noticed. She only cared about one thing: getting her father to safety.

She followed Vision inside, the sleek interior of the jet. Without a word, Vision gently placed her father on the med-bay bed. The sight of him lying there—still, pale, but alive—was both a relief and a fresh wave of fear. He wasn’t out of the woods yet.

Daisy didn’t hesitate. The urgency that coursed through her veins couldn’t be ignored. She slid into the pilot’s seat, fingers flying across the controls, heart racing as she powered up the engines. The hum of the jet filled the cabin, a mechanical promise of escape.

In seconds, the jet was airborne, slicing through the cold Siberian air as the ground below receded, fading into the night.

Daisy’s knuckles were white on the controls. The world outside the cockpit window was a blur of city lights, but in her mind, there was only one thing: her father.

“FRIDAY, will the cradle be able to help him?” Daisy asked in a low voice.

There was silence on the other end. No digital crackle. No calculation. No gentle deferral.

Just silence. And that silence was enough.

Daisy understood. There was only one other option.

Extremis.

Her stomach churned. The word alone felt like acid on her tongue.

She wanted to scream. Not this. Not him. Not again. Why is he the one who has to pay for everyone else’s mess? For their arrogance, their failures, their sins? All he wanted was accountability.

Daisy stared down at him—pale, unmoving, the lines of pain etched so deeply into his face it looked like they were carved in stone.

She took a deep breath. A full, shaking inhale. Her fingers trembled, but she forced them still. Forced herself still.

Her father had purged the Extremis from her system years ago—torn it out of her, cell by cell, at the cost of sleepless nights and months of research. He’d called it a "curse masked as a miracle."

He’d hated it—loathed the very idea of it. She could still hear the anger in his voice the last time she brought it up, a quiet rage masked in concern. The disgust in his eyes. The absolute no that brooked no argument.

“I’d rather die than turn myself into that,” he’d said once. “I won’t become something I can’t control.”

But he was dying now. And Daisy didn’t have time to ask for permission.

The moment they landed near the hospital, she had worked fast—modifying the unstable compound with trembling hands, overriding the volatility, stabilizing it enough to reduce the explosive risk. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t safe. But it was the only thing that could regenerate him fast enough to keep him alive until they reached a proper facility. Maybe.

She’d injected it into his bloodstream herself, her hand cold and steady as the needle pierced his skin.

Now, all she could do was wait.

And waiting—waiting without something to do—was unbearable. It clawed at her ribs. Pried her open. Made her feel small in a way that terrified her.

The seconds dragged like years.

Waiting without knowing if he would wake up at all—that felt like hell might actually exist. And she was living in it.

As she sat there in what might be the world’s most uncomfortable chair, looking at the blank, sterile wall in front of her, Daisy’s mind refused to rest. Her body ached, her neck stiff from leaning at the same angle for too long, but it all faded beneath the weight of her thoughts.

And those thoughts were merciless.

Her mind conjured every worst-case scenario it could find. One after the other. A parade of what-ifs wrapped in silence and sterile air.

Her father dying.

Her father living… but hating her for what she’d done. For injecting Extremis against his will.

Or worse—

Her father living, but hating himself for having Extremis in his system.

Daisy swallowed hard, her throat raw, her lungs tight. She needed something—anything—to occupy her. To break the spiral.

“FRIDAY, call…” she started, voice cracking in the dry air.

Then she stopped.

Her heart sank as the name caught in her throat. The person she had almost reached for—the one she once trusted without hesitation—was off-limits now.

She couldn't call him. Not anymore. He had made his stance clear. Crystal clear.

She bowed her head.

The pressure in her chest swelled until it threatened to break her ribs. She wanted to curl into herself.

But she couldn’t.

Her father was in that room, hooked up to machines and still fighting for his life—fighting to live, whether he knew it or not.

And if her father hadn’t given up, then neither could she. The least she could do was wait. Wait and hope. Wait and endure.

A soft chime broke the silence.

“Do you want to see the Accords?” FRIDAY asked gently, her voice edged with concern.

It was such a small thing. A question that barely registered as important. But Daisy clung to it like a spider’s thread stretched over a cliff’s edge.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

A moment later, her tablet lit up, casting pale light on her face. Line after line of legalese unfurled before her eyes. Dense, clinical, impersonal.

But it was something. Something to do. Something to read. Something to hold her mind away from the fear gnawing at her.

And so, for the next two hours, Daisy Stark read.

Every single line. Every clause, every vague phrase meant to be interpreted, every loophole that could be twisted, every stipulation that tore a team apart.

She let the words wash over her like static—draining, dull, but constant. They grounded her, even as her senses remained locked onto the room in front of her.

She didn’t look directly into it. But she didn’t have to.

Every shift in the machines. Every faint beep. Every shallow breath from behind that half-closed door—she tracked it all with laser focus, even as her eyes scanned cold text.

Her heart was in that room. But her mind had latched onto this—this one fragile thread of purpose—because if she didn’t, she would unravel.

And waited.

And hoped.

And tried not to fall apart.           

Chapter Text

The corridor outside the ICU was cold, unnervingly sterile, and much too quiet—except for the low hum of the overhead lights and the occasional murmur of footsteps on the linoleum floor. Daisy sat slouched in a plastic chair just outside Room 217, where her father lay unconscious. For the past two hours, she had buried herself in Accords, her eyes scanning and rescanning the lines, not out of interest, but desperation. She clung to it like a lifeline—anything to distract her from imagining the worst.

Now it was finished. The tablet slipped slightly in her lap as her focus drifted.

A commotion broke out beside her.

The door to Room 218 burst open. Nurses and doctors flooded in with quiet urgency, their faces tight with focus. A monitor alarm beeped furiously. Outside the room, a small group had gathered—family, maybe friends—watching with stricken expressions, their breaths held, hands wringing, eyes wide with fear.

Daisy’s stomach twisted.

Her fingers trembled as a wave of nausea washed over her. She set the tablet down gently on the chair beside her, afraid that if she held it any longer, she would crush it. Her legs ached with the impulse to run, to leave, to shut out the panic bleeding through the air like smoke.

But she didn’t move.

Her body refused. Her mind didn’t give the order.

What if Dad wakes up and I am not here?

The thought anchored her like a chain around her chest.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. Daisy sat frozen, watching the storm next door unfold in silence. She couldn’t look away.

Then, slowly, the tension outside Room 218 broke. One of the nurses stepped out, and though Daisy couldn’t hear what was said, the shift was obvious. Relief bloomed across the faces of the waiting family. Tears, yes—but of gratitude. The patient had survived.

Daisy exhaled, long and quiet. A small mercy.

She looked toward her father’s door. Still no movement. Still no word.

He hadn’t woken up.

“I’ve heard that exact sigh so many times,” came a voice from down the hall—steady, familiar, laced with weary warmth.

Daisy turned sharply.

There, just past the curve of the corridor, was Rhodey. He was in a wheelchair, his posture stiff, but his eyes were gentle. Her breath caught in her throat. He looked older—more tired than she remembered—but still unshakably Rhodey. Her uncle in all but name.

Her eyes welled up. The tension in her chest cracked like thin ice.

Rhodey gave her a small, knowing smile.

He opened his arms, and before she realized what she was doing, Daisy was on her feet, falling into his embrace. She wrapped her arms around him like he was the last solid thing in a collapsing world.

It felt wrong—he was the one who was injured, not her. He should be resting, recovering. He shouldn’t be the one comforting her.

But she didn’t care.

And neither did he.

He held her tight with a practiced kind of ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment. Of course, he had. Rhodey had raised her alongside her father. He knew all her tells—the shaky breathing, the silent tears, the way she collapsed into silence when she didn’t know what to say. He had seen it all before. He had soothed it before.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you, Daisy.”

Eventually, the storm inside her quieted. She pulled back slightly, wiping her face, embarrassed—but Rhodey just patted her shoulder like nothing had happened.

That was when she noticed them.

Pepper stood a few steps behind, her face drawn but kind, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she was holding herself together. Beside her was Happy, his eyes darting between Daisy and the closed ICU door like he was trying to figure out how to fix something he knew he couldn’t. And Vision stood silently near the wall, hands folded, expression unreadable—but his presence was steady, grounding.

They were all here.

“What happened?” Daisy asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I only know bits and pieces. Whatever was in the news.”

Rhodey took a long, slow breath. His shoulders tensed, and his fingers curled into the armrests of his chair like he needed to ground himself before diving back into memory.

He began quietly, his voice threaded with exhaustion. “It started with General Ross. He brought in the Accords, told us we had to sign or disband. Steve... he couldn’t agree to it. Said it was too dangerous to be controlled. Then came the bomb blast—killed Wakanda’s king. Bucky Barnes was blamed. Steve went after him. Romania turned into chaos. Bucky ran. Steve ran with him.”

The way he said it was clinical, but Daisy could see it—feel it—in the hollow behind his words. He wasn’t just recounting events. He was living them again.

“And the airport?” she asked, already knowing but needing to hear it.

Rhodey nodded grimly. “The fight. Us against them. Tony... your dad... he didn’t want to go in swinging. But once it started, he committed. Fully.”

There was a pause, long and sharp.

“I don’t know why he went to Siberia,” Rhodey admitted, reading her unspoken question in the air between them.

“FRIDAY would know,” Happy chimed in from the back, arms crossed, eyes troubled.

Daisy gave a small nod. “She does. But she’s not saying anything. Most likely, Dad asked her not to.”

Everyone sighed in near-perfect unison. They all knew Tony Stark too well.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was weighty—thick with what hadn’t been said yet.

“What are we going to do now?” Pepper asked softly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she glanced toward the closed door to Room 217.

The question hovered like fog in the sterile corridor. It took a few moments before anyone dared to answer.

“First, the media,” Daisy said, her tone suddenly sharper, more purposeful. “Pep, can you take care of them? Give them the basics—philosophical differences, a disagreement, a fight... Dad’s in the hospital.”

Pepper nodded slowly. “Yeah. Okay. I can do that.”

“What about the Avengers?” Vision asked, his voice tentative, barely louder than the beep of a distant heart monitor.

“Steve Rogers and the others?” Rhodey clarified.

“No... the team. The idea,” Vision explained, his eyes unfocused, almost lost in the concept.

No one had an answer. Not immediately.

Happy broke the silence with quiet reflection. “Tony believed in it. He never said why—not fully—but he wanted it to work.”

Daisy exhaled slowly, her gaze fixed on a faint scratch in the tile below her. That, she thought. That part I understand.

She could still remember the way the Avengers had swallowed her father’s life whole. How he tried to help, only to be questioned. Mocked. Used. They turned his genius into weapons. They called him selfish when he refused, then ungrateful when he didn’t give enough.

They never thanked him. He tried to change Stark Industries, and they questioned whether he even belonged there.

She remembered their fights. The slammed doors. The silence that followed. And she remembered leaving. She regretted it every single day.

If I had stayed, would this have happened? The question whispered through her like smoke, staining everything it touched.

After Sokovia, everything had spiraled. Tony had cleared his name, shown the world that Ultron wasn’t just his mistake—but the Avengers never seemed to forgive him. And then there was Wanda Maximoff.

She shook her head. Thinking about her won’t help.

“If it’s important to him,” Rhodey said, breaking through her thoughts, “I want to help him rebuild the Avengers.”

Daisy turned to him. Despite the chair, despite the healing injuries, he was still solid—still the man her father trusted most.

Her father was lucky to have a friend like him. But as that thought settled, so did another. A pale face. Pinkish red eyes. She shoved the image away before it could take root.

“I want to help too,” she said, voice steady now.

“It’ll be hard with Ross still lurking around,” Pepper pointed out.

“I will help with that,” Vision offered.

Daisy raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“I believe he’s... not the cleanest public servant,” Vision said delicately. “I can find evidence. He’s crossed legal lines before. We only need to expose one.”

Daisy nodded. “Take Uncle Rhodey’s help.”

“Absolutely,” Rhodey said with a tight smile, some fire returning to his voice.

Then Daisy turned to Happy. “If we’re doing this, we’ll need the Compound. FRIDAY told me it’s in bad shape.”

“I’ll get on it,” Happy replied, already pulling out his phone.

As the others turned to go—each with something to do—Daisy was left alone again, the sounds of shoes against the linoleum fading behind her.

But this time, the silence didn’t suffocate. She knew what she needed to do.

She picked up her tablet—her fingers steadier now—and opened Document A again. This time, not as a distraction, but with purpose. She scrolled until she reached the section on underage enhanced individuals. Her father had never believed in treating them like threats.

She began making changes. One clause at a time.

Her phone vibrated. FRIDAY’s voice chimed in: “This call was to the boss’s phone. I diverted it to you. It’s Spider-Man.”

Daisy blinked. She remembered the boy in red and blue—the way he moved during the airport fight, more acrobat than soldier. She accepted the call.

Immediately, a voice exploded into her ear.

“Mr. Stark! I’m glad you picked up. I was getting worried—I mean, I saw the news, and then there were all these rumors, and you hadn’t called, and I—”

“I am not Mr. Stark,” Daisy cut in gently.

There was silence on the line. Then a much smaller voice asked, “…Who is this?”

She chuckled, despite herself. “I am Daisy. Daisy Stark.”

A pause. “Oh! Ms. Stark! I’m sorry—I didn’t know it was your number. I just wanted to talk to Mr. Stark…”

“No, it’s my dad’s phone. FRIDAY routed the call to me—he can’t answer right now.”

Another pause. This one heavy.

“Ms. Stark… is Mr. Stark okay?”

Daisy hesitated.

He’s not. The boy deserved the truth.

“He’s in the hospital,” she said, leaning back so her head touched the wall behind her.

A sharp gasp cracked through the line.

“I don’t have more than that. He hasn’t woken up yet. The doctors can’t say anything for sure until he does.”

More silence.

Then, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it: “Is it because of me?”

Her heart dropped.

“What?” she said.

The voice cracked. “He told me to web them—to stop them. If I’d done it better, maybe he wouldn’t have had to fight.”

Daisy stared ahead, frozen. Guilt. It clung to the kid like a second skin. She knew that weight. She carried it too.

She closed her eyes, thinking of what her father would say at that moment. Not the sarcastic quip. The real Tony Stark. The one most people never got to hear.

“Listen to me,” she said gently but firmly. “You are not responsible for this. Whoever hurt him is. That’s it. That’s the truth. Remember it.”

A soft hum came through the line. Not agreement—just... acknowledgment.

She asked a few more questions, made sure he was safe, that he was healing. He was. He was scared, but healing.

After she ended the call, she looked down at her tablet.

The guilt would still be there. It didn’t go away that easily. But her father was still alive. And that meant there was still work to do.

She took a breath.

One step at a time.

Chapter Text

The world came back in pieces.

At first, there were only sounds — distant, muffled, like voices echoing through water. Someone was barking clipped, urgent commands. Another voice — softer, more measured — was responding, explaining something Tony couldn’t quite catch. The words slipped past him, but their tones carried meaning: tension, concern, focus. Something was wrong.

Tony tried to open his eyes.

Nothing.

His eyelids felt like lead — immovable, uncooperative. He gave up trying. Darkness stayed with him, quiet and thick. But then he felt something else: a hand, wrapped gently around his. Warm. Familiar. Comforting in a way that pierced the fog clouding his thoughts.

That hand… he knew that hand.

His daughter.

No — that couldn’t be. Daisy hadn’t spoken to him since the fight. Why would she be here now? Why her? He tried to think. Tried to remember where he was. What he was.

Then the smell hit him.

Antiseptic. Bleach. Sterile linens. The sharp bite of medicine and the dull undercurrent of despair. Hospitals always smelled the same — like places that held life and death in the same breath.

Tony’s heart kicked harder in his chest. He forced his eyes open — sheer will cracking through the haze — and the room came into focus, slowly, painfully.

The dim light hummed above him. Pale blue curtains framed the hospital bed, pulled half-closed for privacy. Monitors beeped in a steady rhythm beside him, their lights blinking like artificial stars in a too-quiet night. 

He was in a hospital.

Then — like a sudden flood — the memories returned.
Siberia.
The tape.
His mother.
Barnes.
Steve.

The betrayal. The fight. The rage. The pain.

Tony clenched his jaw, shutting the door on those thoughts before they could swallow him whole. He couldn’t go there. Not yet. Not now.

He shifted his gaze.

The hand still held his.

A figure sat slumped in the chair beside his bed — her head resting on the edge of the mattress, her hair falling across her face. Her fingers were laced with his. Not just holding — anchoring.

“Daisy,” he whispered.

His voice was raw. Rusted with sleep and strain.

Tony didn’t think he would see her again. And yet… here she was.

Fingers woven through his. Head tucked down, resting on the mattress like she had been there a while. His heart felt full in a way it hadn’t in a long time — not with pride, not even with relief. Just something quieter. Warmer. Like hope.

He could sit there and watch her sleep. He had done that before. Many times.
When she was five, and afraid of the dark.
When she was ten, and insisted she wasn’t.
He used to lie on the carpet next to her bed, listening to her breathing even out, eyes watching the shadows shift on her walls until he knew she was fully gone to sleep.

She always looked peaceful when she slept. He used to wonder how he got so lucky — how someone like him had a daughter like her.

That night — the night — felt so far away now, like a scar under his skin. He could still remember it perfectly.

She had been in a gray T-shirt and soft pants. He remembered thinking she looked older than she should have. Wiser. He had been too tired to say so. Forty-two hours awake. Half a dozen crises in a single day. Cleaning up after Natasha and Steve had cracked the world open and spilled SHIELD’s guts onto the internet like a threat they didn’t have to live through.

He had tried to question them, to make some sense of their recklessness. Steve had responded in that infuriating, fake-apologetic tone: “Tony, we didn’t know who to trust.”
Translation: Not you.

Tony wanted to scream. You trust the guy who jogged next to you a few times over me? Really?

Then Natasha had twisted her mouth into that bitter smirk and said, “Do it. This is what you're good for.”

God, that one had cut deep. He hadn’t had it in him to argue. Not then. Not when his exhaustion had him shaking and his brain felt like static.

And then Daisy had walked in. And he remembered how her eyes had narrowed at him — at the bruises under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged.

“Are they going to live here?” she had asked.

He had hesitated. But answered honestly. “They don’t have anywhere else to go.”

She had raised an eyebrow. No words. Just that look. Do you actually believe that?

But all she said was, “Okay. But I thought if you want to live on someone else’s money, you should at least respect them.”

Tony had flinched. She wasn’t yelling. She wasn’t angry. Just disappointed. And somehow, that was worse.

“You taught me that if I need something from someone, I should ask. Politely. Not demand it.”

“It’s not like that,” he had said — small, tired.

“Then what is it like?”

He had tried to repeat the same excuse he gave himself every time. “They’re teammates. We have to support each other.”

And Daisy — his girl, so sharp, so honest — didn’t even blink.

“Teammates? You weren’t selected for the Avengers Program. As Romanova keeps reminding you.”

That one landed like a punch to the chest. He didn’t even know she had heard any of those comments. Didn’t think she had been listening.

She had. And she remembered everything.

“Support each other?” she went on. “When have they ever tried to help you? When Killian nearly killed you, and everyone thought you were dead — where were they then?”

He had no answer. He should have been the one teaching her right from wrong. He was the parent. She was the child. But he had failed her. In too many ways to count.

So all he could do was deflect. “Daisy, you worry too much. Just enjoy your college years.”

She had huffed. “Worry too much? I don’t know about that.”

Then she had hesitated.

That had startled him — Daisy didn’t hesitate. Not even when she was six and standing on the edge of the pool for the first time. She jumped. No questions. No fear.

But that night — she paused. Like she wasn’t sure if she should say it.

“I heard you’re in a relationship with Steve Rogers.”

He had blinked. Totally unprepared for that one.

“No. I mean… if sex is the only requirement for a relationship, then sure. But otherwise? No.”

She had looked at him like she saw right through him. Like she knew.

And then, even more quietly: “Then why is Romanova giving him tips on how to keep you under control?”

Tony hadn’t even flinched. It didn’t shock him anymore, the way they saw him. But what did shock him was that Daisy knew. He had wanted to get her out. Away from all of it. Protect her, in the only way he knew how. So he had asked:

“Do you want to live somewhere else? Away from the drama that comes with the Avengers?”

He didn’t realize how it sounded. Not until her face had frozen. Like he had slapped her.

He tried to explain. Fumbled it. Fumbled her.

And she left.

Now she was here.

Her hand in his. Her head by his side.

He must have moved too much. Something — maybe the twitch of his fingers or the change in his breathing — stirred her.

Daisy shifted beside him with a soft groan, rubbing her face against her arm like she always did when she woke up too quickly. She was still a little grouchy, just like when she was a kid getting dragged out of bed for school. That same scrunched nose, that slow blink — adjusting to the world as if it had personally offended her by existing before noon.

Then her eyes met his.

Those eyes. Tony felt the breath catch in his throat.

So blue. So impossibly, heartbreakingly familiar. Not just because they were her mother’s — though they were — but because they were Daisy’s. And her eyes had always told him everything before her mouth ever could.

He watched it happen. That dawning shift. Confusion fading into recognition.
Then: shock.
“Dad!” she gasped — half shout, half sob — and before he could brace himself, she had thrown herself at him.

Pain flared across his chest and shoulder. Tony winced, breath catching, his muscles tightening instinctively as he flinched away.

Daisy pulled back instantly. “Sorry!” she said, wide-eyed and horrified, hands hovering near him but not touching. 

“It’s okay,” he managed, through gritted teeth.

Her hand flew to the call button and she pressed it with controlled panic. Within seconds, a nurse entered — calm, efficient, already scanning the monitors.

“He’s awake,” Daisy said, like it was a miracle she still didn’t quite believe.

The nurse nodded, checked his vitals, jotted down something on a tablet, and thankfully adjusted the morphine. Cool, chemical relief started to chase away the worst edges of pain, and Tony sagged into the bed with a shallow breath.

Daisy hadn’t looked away once.

Even with the nurse there. Even with the pain. Even through the silence. Her gaze stayed locked on his face, like if she blinked, he might disappear again.

And when the nurse left, and it was just the two of them again, she said it — softly, reverently.

“Dad.”

He turned his head toward her slowly. His body still ached in too many places to count, but for the first time, his heart didn’t.

And then she smiled.

It lit her face like sunrise — dissolving every shadow of worry, guilt, and fear. For a second, she looked like the girl who used to fall asleep with her face pressed to his arm on the couch after too many episodes of MythBusters.

“You’re awake,” she said again, in an awed voice.

Tony blinked — because he couldn’t believe it either.
Not that he was alive.
But that she was here.

The door opened again. This time, it was the doctor — middle-aged, professional, and trying too hard not to look surprised that Tony Stark was awake and coherent.

They went through the usual protocol: name, date, location, how many fingers am I holding up. All the standard checks, like Tony’s brain could be measured in bullet points.

Through it all, Daisy stood to the side, silent, eyes on the floor. It wasn’t until the doctor casually mentioned it — in that clinical, detached tone — that the full weight of it landed.

"You have been unconscious for two weeks, Mr. Stark."

Two weeks. Tony’s breath caught. His eyes darted to Daisy, who still wasn’t looking at him.

No wonder she was scared.

But then the doctor kept talking. And the real news came.

Extremis.

They had used Extremis. Tony’s gut twisted. He blinked once, slow — as if the word itself had physically knocked the wind out of him. His heart began to race. His breath quickened, shallow and ragged. A low hum of panic rose behind his ears, deafening.

No, no, no. He didn’t want this.

He never wanted this.

Not to become something half-human, half-time bomb. Not to have that running through his system, rewriting him at the cellular level.

The doctor was still speaking — rattling off the list of injuries Extremis had saved him from.
Broken ribs.
Compound fracture in the arm.
Severe frostbite.
Hypoxia.
Internal bleeding.

Tony barely heard any of it.

All he could feel was the anger — a flash-flood, sudden and blinding. It surged through his veins hotter than Extremis ever could. He wanted to scream, to yell, to curse them for not letting him die.

He clenched his fist so tight it trembled. And then, quietly, another voice broke through.

"It was the Extremis you removed from me."

His head snapped to the side.

Daisy.

Her voice was steady — too steady — the kind of tone she used when she was holding back everything.

“It was already mapped to my genome, so it was easier to modify,” she continued. “I diluted it as much as I could, just enough to heal you. It shouldn’t have done anything else. But I can’t be sure."

Her face was unreadable. Wiped clean. Carefully emotionless. She was bracing herself — for his fury. For rejection. 

Tony stared at her. He couldn’t speak. Something thick lodged in his throat. The anger was still there — hot, choking, alive — but it couldn’t aim at her. Not her. Not his platypus. His miracle.

But the rage needed a home. It shifted, found a target that had long earned it.

Steve Rogers.

If that lying bastard hadn’t put his friend above everything—then Daisy wouldn’t have had to make this choice.

Wouldn’t have been pushed into a corner. Wouldn’t have been alone in a hospital for two weeks, watching machines breathe for her father.

Before he could say anything — before he could make sense of the war inside him — Daisy stepped back.

“I’ll leave,” she said, voice small, almost robotic. “I’ll let Uncle Rhodey and the others know you’re awake.”

She turned to the door. And panic gripped him like a fist around his chest.

No. No, not now. Not again.

He hadn’t seen her in over a year. He couldn’t let this be the moment she walked out again — thinking he was angry, ungrateful, ashamed. He couldn’t let her carry that.

The realization came fast, quiet, and complete. If Daisy hadn’t used Extremis… he never would have seen her again.

And suddenly — it didn’t matter. The pain, the fear, the genetic violations. None of it mattered.

If this was the cost of seeing her again — of holding her hand, of hearing her say “Dad” in that voice — then it was worth it. Every molecule of it.

“Daisy.”

She froze.

He smiled — small, tired, raw.

“I am so glad you’re here.”

Her shoulders sagged like the weight of the world had just slid off her spine. She turned, slowly, and the smile he gave her broke through the dam. There were no tears yet — but he knew his daughter. Knew every crack in her armor.

She was about to cry.

He opened his arms — carefully, invitingly. And she stepped into them. Collapsed like someone who had been holding their breath for weeks.

She wept — not loudly, not messily — but in quiet, gasping sobs, her face pressed against his hospital gown, her hands fisted into the thin blanket.

Just like she had when he came home from Afghanistan.

Just like she had when she was little and woke from a nightmare.

“I thought you were going to die,” she said, over and over, like she needed to say it to make it real. “I thought you were going to die…”

Tony closed his eyes, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her shoulder gently.

“I am here.”

And as Daisy clung to him, sobbing quietly in his arms, Tony let himself feel everything — the grief, the love, the rage, the relief — but he only held her tighter.

Later, he told himself.
Later, he would deal with Rogers.
Later, he would scream, maybe even break something.
Later, he would face what was in his blood.

But right now?

Right now, he was holding his daughter.

And she was holding him back.

Chapter Text

Tony Stark never truly grasped how long a week was — not until he was ordered to spend every single second of it in a hospital bed.

7 days. 168 hours. 10080 minutes. 604800 seconds.

And each one dragged its feet like a prisoner on death row.

He wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital, wasn’t permitted any outside food, and absolutely forbidden to work — on anything. Not a suit. Not a schematic. Not even a stupid Sudoku puzzle. Just bed rest, supervised medication, and observation. The lights overhead were too white. The air smelled like antiseptic and plastic, and the sheets were somehow both too crisp and too sweaty at once. He counted ceiling tiles until the numbers blurred.

He was afraid he was going to lose his mind. And he would have. He would have left.

If not for Daisy.

“I saw you bloody and beaten,” she had said, her voice trembling with fury barely restrained by fear. “I couldn’t lift you. I couldn’t drag you. I thought I was going to watch you die in Siberia.”

Her eyes, usually bright and bold, were clouded with something heavier — something too old for a seventeen-year-old.

So he stayed. Tony stayed because he couldn’t stand the thought of her waking up screaming again. No ten-year-old should have nightmares of their father dying in a puddle of blood, alone, in a desert.

But that had been her nightmare ever since Afghanistan. And it only got worse after New York — after he flew a nuke through a wormhole to save the world.

Now this.

He wanted to stop. He wanted to stop being this. But he didn’t know how. And deep down, he didn’t think he could. Because something was coming — something no one else seemed to see.

On the other side of that portal, he had glimpsed it. An army. Cold, monstrous, unrelenting.

Earth wouldn’t survive it.

He sighed, the kind of sigh that came from deep in the bones. “I should just quit this whole thing,” he muttered, staring out the window at the New York skyline, gleaming and chaotic beneath his hospital room. “Find some island. Disappear. Maybe Daisy could come. Rhodey, too.”

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

At that moment, he had no plan. No armor. No mission. But he could give his daughter this — a full week of stability. No explosions. No near-death experiences. No trauma.

So he stayed in the hospital. And Daisy stayed with him.

She had demanded her own room.

“The chairs in this hospital are the most uncomfortable ones I have ever seen,” she had declared on Day Two, arms crossed like a tiny executive.

Of course she got her way. She even made them bring in a new reclining chair. Tony found it hilarious watching her bend the entire hospital staff to her whims. Even Pepper couldn’t stop her — and Pepper could browbeat the UN into changing dinner arrangements.

By Day Three, the test results had arrived.

He didn’t want to open them.

Didn’t want to know how much of Extremis was still in him. How far he had changed. How far he had fallen.

But he had to.

Strength enhancement.

He should have been relieved. Should have been grateful that he hadn’t gone full Killian. But relief didn’t come. His mind kept circling the same drain.

Later, when he and Rhodey were being wheeled down to another test, Tony whispered, “What if I become like Rogers?”

Rhodey stopped. Turned to face him. Bent low until their eyes were level.

“You’ll never be like him.”

There was a fierceness in Rhodey’s voice — not anger, but certainty. A bedrock belief. And somehow, it calmed the storm inside Tony’s chest.

Rhodey saw the shift in his eyes and nodded. “And you shouldn’t blame her. I would’ve done the same thing.”

Tony shook his head. “I don’t blame her. I know why she did it. And I am glad she did it. I got to see her again.” His voice dropped. “I just wish it hadn’t come to this.”

He paused.

“That must have been hell for her, Rhodey. Seeing me like that. Bleeding. Dying. And knowing she had to make a choice I would have hated. I’ll never forgive Rogers and his crew for putting her in that position.”

Rhodey’s voice was cold steel. “Me neither.”

That evening, Tony found Daisy curled up beside him, half-asleep. He looked at her and said softly, “Platypus, I am sorry.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I know you didn’t like Rogers and the others. I shouldn’t have made them stay at the Tower.”

She sat up and leaned against his shoulder. “Dad, I didn’t like them because of how they treated you.”

Tony closed his eyes. He knew that. But he still wished she never had to worry about him at all.

“Well... from now on, let me worry about the people around you. Not the other way around.”

She chuckled, dropped her head on his arm, and let the conversation drift into silence.

After one long week of tedium, blood tests, meds, sleepless nights, and the occasional jello cup, Tony was discharged.

He went to the Compound first. Construction crews were crawling all over it. Steel beams. Welding sparks. Drones zipping in and out. Happy was supervising, barking into a walkie.

Vision stood beside Tony, strangely tense. Then he remembered. Barton had come for Maximoff. Damage had been done. But the Compound was being rebuilt.

Tony could see it in Vision’s posture — that understanding. That relief. They moved inside.

Dinner arrived. Then Pepper walked in.

Daisy greeted her. “Welcome back. I saw your press conference.”

Pepper gave a long, exhausted sigh and sank into a chair next to Happy. He immediately began massaging her ankles. Tony raised an eyebrow but said nothing — though he did mentally pin it for future interrogation.

“Everyone wants to know what the future of the Avengers is now that Tony Stark is awake again,” she said with a weary smile.

Tony tensed. But it was Vision who spoke.

“I believe I have enough evidence to bring Ross down. I am just missing something that can unify the message.”

Tony blinked. That had been his first real shock after waking up — everyone out to bury Ross.

Daisy offered, “He has a daughter. Betty Ross. Banner said she doesn’t like him much. Might be useful.”

Vision nodded thoughtfully. “I will reach out.”

Dinner resumed.

But then Daisy asked the question everyone had been avoiding.

“What do you want to do with the Avengers Initiative?”

Tony didn’t answer right away.

He wanted to say: Forget it. Let it die. Let someone else carry the weight.

But every time he closed his eyes, he saw them — the army on the other side of the portal. And the memory was so vivid, so real, it felt like prophecy.

He said quietly, “The world needs protection. Some kind. Something is coming.”

He braced for mockery.

But none came.

Happy nodded. “Compound should be ready in a few weeks. FRIDAY’s got the schematics. Tell us if you want changes.”

Pepper added, “The media will back it — if the new Avengers sign the Accords.”

Daisy smirked. “I have already sent FRIDAY my revisions. See if I missed anything.”

Tony stared at them all, stunned. They weren’t dismissing his fears. They were preparing. His heart felt like it was being pulled in two directions — heavy and light all at once.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t you want to know what happened in Siberia?”

Vision answered. “The other Winter Soldiers were dead. Zemo confessed. Which means you must have fought Captain Rogers. That much is obvious from your injuries.”

Tony looked down.

“It was my fault.”

“No,” Vision said. “The fault lies with Captain Rogers. He couldn’t accept that people didn’t want him deciding for them. That’s arrogance. His friend was implicated in a bombing, and instead of helping him prove his innocence, he tore through a city. He was proving the Accords were necessary — and never saw it.”

Tony listened, quietly. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t defensive. It was just... honest. Daisy looked at him — and he knew from her eyes that she agreed. So did Pepper. And Happy.

Tony smiled faintly. Then he laughed. “You’re all as crazy as I am.”

Daisy smirked. Vision tilted his head in confusion. Pepper and Happy shared a look and a tired, amused smile.

Tony took a breath. A real one. Deep and slow. Then he told them everything.

The portal.

The army.

His vision in Sokovia.

Siberia.

Everything.

And for the first time in a long, long time...he wasn’t carrying it alone.

Chapter Text

The city never slept—but that didn't mean Daisy Stark wasn't exhausted. She gripped the steering wheel of her car like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment. New York blurred past in flashes of steel and light—yellow taxis weaving between lanes, neon signs flickering, pedestrians moving like rivers over cracked sidewalks. The rhythm of the city pulsed around her, but her mind was far from it.

She hadn’t slept. Not really.

Her fingers flexed on the wheel. The glow from the dashboard painted her skin in shades of blue, and FRIDAY’s quiet hum filled the car like a second heartbeat.

“You have been unusually quiet today,” FRIDAY said gently.

Daisy didn’t answer right away. The voice—soothing and ever-present—was like a lullaby she had long since stopped hearing.

“If your driving becomes erratic, I will take over,” FRIDAY added.

She knew FRIDAY would stop the car, reroute traffic, even drive it herself if needed. So there was no need to worry about her lack of concentration. But Pepper hated it.

“You shouldn’t rely on her so much,” Pepper had warned more than once. “There’s a difference between a safeguard and a crutch.”

But Daisy did rely on her. She trusted FRIDAY more than most people. Still, she understood Pepper’s concern.

She exhaled through her nose, a puff of breath fogging the window slightly. Pepper was with Vision today, meeting with Dr. Betty Ross—trying to shore up scientific minds for what might be coming. Daisy told herself not to worry about them.

She’s with Vision. She’s safer than most people.

But that wasn’t who kept her up last night. It was Uncle Rhodey. Discharged before her father, Rhodey had skipped the downtime and gone straight to D.C. to speak with his military contacts.

“If Tony’s worried, it’s big,” he had said. “And if it’s big, we can’t just punch it into the ground. Evacuations. Government cooperation. Worldwide infrastructure. That’s what matters. I’ll start here.”

He was still in his wheelchair. Extremis was off the table—it was bound to her genome, not his. Her father was working on a custom brace for him, but it wasn’t ready yet.

And then there was the dinner. Last night. Daisy clenched her jaw as memory flickered like static. It had been a peaceful meal—until her father, out of nowhere, had asked: “Platypus, why haven’t we seen Sei-chan in a while?”

She had gone quiet. After a long minute, she had only said: “He is not going to come here anymore.”

Then she stood up and walked out. No explanations. No room for questions. She had left early this morning not just to avoid worry—but to avoid her father’s interrogation. 

Now, as the GPS pinged softly, she pulled to a stop in Hell’s Kitchen in front of a worn brick building with graffiti curling like ivy over the lower walls. A cracked sign on the second floor caught the light: Nelson and Murdock: Attorneys at Law.

Inside, the building smelled like old paper, ink, and the faint scent of burnt coffee. She knocked twice on the office door. It swung open to reveal a surprised Karen Page. Her blonde hair was a little tousled, her eyes wide with confusion.

“Hi,” Daisy smiled brightly. “I am Daisy Stark.”

Karen blinked, then regained her composure.

“I know who you are. What are you doing here?”

Daisy gestured to the nameplate with mock innocence.

“I thought this was a law office. Am I mistaken?”

Karen shook herself.

“No, you’re right. Sorry—please come in.”

Inside, the office was cramped but homey—wood-paneled walls, scuffed desks, books stacked like skyscrapers. Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson looked up as she entered.

“Hi,” she said with a casual wave.

Foggy’s jaw dropped slightly. Matt’s head tilted.

“What are you doing here?” Matt asked, voice edged with suspicion.

Daisy chuckled.

“Second time I have been asked that today. I am here for attorneys.”

“Why?” Matt pressed, sharper now.

Before Daisy could answer, Foggy leaned forward.

“Ignore him. He was raised by wolves. Please, sit.”

She did. The silence stretched. Matt’s cane tapped once. Foggy shifted. Daisy leaned forward.

“I don’t want attorneys. The Avengers do.”

Foggy blinked.

“Steve Rogers and them?”

Daisy shook her head.

“No. The future Avengers.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick manila folder. “ You must have heard about the Sokovia Accords.”

Matt nodded grimly. Karen frowned.

“It’s not finalized,” Daisy said. “But it will be. And if we don’t prepare, we will get steamrolled by people like Secretary Ross again. I don’t want that.”

“And you want us?” Matt asked slowly.

Daisy nodded.

“Yes. This document is meant for people from different walks of life. I want the people representing them to be someone who could understand their concerns. I think you all would be perfect for this.”

Karen spoke softly.

“We would need to think about this.”

Daisy stood, handing them folders.

“Of course. These include amendments I am pushing, the draft contracts—initially through Stark Industries, but eventually through the Avengers Initiative directly. Take your time. Call me if you need anything.”

She smiled, then turned to go.

Her next stop was grimmer. The building was borderline condemned—water stains on the ceiling, peeling paint on the walls. A flickering light buzzed overhead.

The door read: Alias Investigations.

She knocked twice.

No answer.

Just as she turned to leave, a muffled curse came from within. The door cracked open to reveal Jessica Jones, in flannel pants and a tank top, holding a half-empty bottle.

“Why the fuck are you here when normal humans sleep?”

Daisy raised an eyebrow.

“It’s after eleven. I think most ‘normal humans’ are awake by now.”

Jessica glanced at the clock, scowled, then walked back inside.

“Fair enough. Still. Stark Princess at my door? Must be serious.”

Daisy followed, uninvited.

“You have heard about the Accords,” Daisy began.

Jessica scoffed and dropped into her couch.

“Not joining your dad’s boy band.”

“Not asking you to,” Daisy replied calmly. “I just want you to read it. If you don’t sign it now, someone else will make that decision for you. At least this way, you get a say in the rules.”

Jessica stared. Hard.

Daisy didn’t flinch.

The silence stretched.

Finally, Jessica muttered, “I’ll read it.”

Daisy left a copy on the desk. As she turned to leave, Jessica called after her. “There are others.”

Daisy nodded. “I know. I am going to see them.”

Her third stop was Harlem.

Claire Temple opened the door, looking tired but alert. When Daisy introduced herself, Claire hesitated before shaking her hand.

“I am glad you’re here,” Daisy said. “That saves me another stop.”

Luke Cage appeared from a hallway.

“Jessica called. Said you were making the rounds.”

Daisy smiled.

“Then I will keep this short.”

They sat. Luke crossed his arms.

“Ms. Stark, I don’t know how to explain but signing government documents hasn't been good for us. This skin and strength was because some crazy guy experimented on me.”

Daisy nodded. 

“I won’t say I understand your concerns. Because I don’t. But I can say that if you could read this and see if this would actually help people like you then that would be great.”

Claire asked, “Is it still open to edits?”

“For now. But that window’s closing fast,” Daisy said as she put the documents on the table in front of her. “This was not just written by the US. 117 countries contributed to this. Most of them aren’t white. They weren’t writing this for you, but they weren’t all writing it against you either. Look at it. Challenge it. Make it better.”

She handed Claire a separate envelope. “That’s for you. A contract to serve as the Avengers’ full-time medical liaison. From Stark Industries.”

Claire was stunned.

Daisy offered a small smile.

Her last stop was Rand Enterprises.

Thanks to Luke’s call, Danny Rand and Colleen Wing were waiting. The conversation was easier. Less convincing. They promised to read and respond.

By the time Daisy got back into her car, the city looked like home once more. The day had gone better than she thought it would. 

Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel. The hum of the engine felt steady. She was steady.

“It went much better,” FRIDAY said.

Daisy smiled faintly.

This wasn’t over. But it was a beginning. Her dad would need more than Avengers. He needed allies. Fighters from every street and every borough. Not just to win—but to survive.