sixthiterationlogs | [MINGLE] Worried/Sick 1: Symptoms Manifest & Reaction

[MINGLE] Worried/Sick 1: Symptoms Manifest & Reaction

WHERE: Anywhere; multiple locations
WHEN: Apx. 13-18 November
OPEN TO: ALL - MINGLE
WARNINGS: Serious illness and reactions to such

IMPORTANT NOTES: This is the first of two mingles. Please see the timing and general event details here.

Illness Presents and Putting Heads Together will have their own top-levels in this post, but you may make separate top-levels for whatever you like! Anything is welcome, as long as it tangentially relates to the Worried/Sick plot.

Please keep in mind the established plot details, but creative license is welcome and encouraged as long as it doesn't step on toes.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Half the universe.

It was odd how his mind divided at hearing those words. One half felt relief. If the Apple hadn't warned him of that, then there was no way his world was the same as Tony's. Half of his world was not gone.

But that faint relief was easily pushed aside by the thought of half of the universe being gone. It was too large of an idea to fathom. And yet-- And yet, for him...

No, he would not contextualise it with his own life. His own losses, here, now, did not matter. What mattered was that this man was taking a weight that large upon his own shoulders, and that was not a burden he deserved to bear. It wasn't a burden any one man deserved to bear because while he understood that the fate of the Earth could rest on one, the universe was much, much larger. One man could not bear that responsibility.

Altaïr put the cloth aside in favour of shifting how he sat, shifting his hands, and he pulled Tony to him without hesitation. He knew the man didn't like touch, but just then, touch was a necessity. "You did not fail," he said with words as certain as any man could be. "You gave. You did all you could. But all things are possible. This is not a weight for one man. This is not a weight for one, or ten, a hundred, a million. Some things are inevitable, Ibni. Some things cannot be stopped -- but Ibni--" Pulling back, Altaïr looked into his eyes. "All things are possible. Perhaps this could not be stopped. But if it could be done, then there is a chance, even if it is small, that it could be reversed."

Sitting up? Hurts. His muscles ache and his hand spasms at his chest, a moment's panic about the wires, fuck, he can feel it shifting in his torso, what did you do to me, why did you do this to me- up and against and human warmth? Shouldn't feel so cool. He's miserable when he's ill and he shouldn't but it's the one fucking scrap of comfort he has in all the world now- shameless and needy (fine Bruce, you win, he's needy) he presses his face into Yensin's throat to breathe.

It's not- pipe tobacco (a rare luxury when they show promising progress), not the turmeric and clove undertone he knew so well that brightened up the cave and sent a pang through him every time it wafts by- this? Is something else. Unfamiliar but rich, woody, vaguely floral. It makes the next few breaths slightly less painful as he clings, one hand on his chest to hold in his heart, one hand tangled up in Yensin's shirt. "We couldn't. I couldn't. You wasted your life saving me."

What good is he if he can't stop the thing he saw coming for years?

And yet he's held. And yet he's comforted with steady hands and warmth and a sincerity that reaches into the mangled mess of his torso to untangle the bands around his lungs and heart. If it can be done, it can be undone.

It was the only way.

Green and glittering and in play, as infinite and finite as anyone could possibly imagine, something as fluid and fickle and abstract with absurdly concrete repercussions. Shards made whole.

Sins prevented.

For the first time in months, for the first time since he woke in the hospital something sparks in Tony's eyes. Not coherence, not really. Not full on lucidity- but the barest embers of something infinitely more fragile. Hope.

"...you think I can find a way?"

"I think that your mind is sharp and your will is strong. I see no reason why this couldn't be done - especially if you let others help. If you listen to their words and build together rather than apart. People are willing to stand and help, but you have to let them, Ibni. Ideas come from everywhere. All you have to do is listen."

Holding on to Tony this way - a hand on his shoulder, the other at his back. It helped to hide how his thoughts lingered on Sef. On Darim, when he was young, when the journey East brought an illness to all of them but how it had hit Darim the hardest. How Sef died alone, with Swami's words in his ear--

He would not make that mistake again. There was no Abbas here, but he would not let someone put ill words in his mouth again. Especially not toward someone who had just found hope again after too long.

"I have faith in you, Tony," he said, uncaring that the name was still odd to him, that their times were separated by centuries. He needed reassurance. Altaïr could give that without reservation.

"Nine times out of ten their ideas are unreasonable." Tony mutters, hunching in, listing against Altaïr as he settles. But he won't be alone- provided he can make it back to earth. He'll figure something out, probably.

He always does.

For the first time since Thanos vanished off Titan, since he woke up in that tube? It feels possible. This pit of frustrated grief feels...manageable. He'll have people he knows he'll have people. He knows he'll have Rhodey and Bruce and Shuri and that'll be more than enough, probably. Some of the tension in him unspools, eyes slipping shut, cheek tipping against Altaïr's shoulder. Whatever this purgatory is? He thinks he might be able to endure.

The answer to that was a soft chuckle - so soft that only Tony could hear it. The weight of a head to his shoulder was nothing new, and he found it, if anything, comfortable. He could feel Tony slowly relaxing, and he took the weight with a small smile. It felt good to be relied upon again. For too long, he'd had to rely upon Malik the younger and Darim.

"They can be," he agreed, "but I believe some of your talent would be to make the unreasonable reasonable. To find a way. Because do not mistake, Ibni - I know you can."

"...What does that mean? Ibni? I can't-" He huffs, mind twisting and turning around his conversational grasp of Arabic. He can follow a line of thought but- some stuff flips through the cracks. "I can't place that one."

It's a noun, he thinks. Has to be. Everything he's heard makes sense with or without it so- something with emphasis? An endearment. As though he earned the right to endear anyone to his mess of a self.

His hand tightened on Tony's shoulder before he answered, "My son."

He wasn't sure if it would be appreciated. If the thought would be turned away. But if it was, he would accept it - even if he kept the feeling in his heart. This was one feeling he was sure of: that Tony needed something so steady in his life.

That- the effect is pretty instantaneous. Tony's shoulders don't tighten so much as loosen, melting into the contact, the support, the promise of affection and kindness. Listing into the idea like a flower to the sun, starved and fragile and infinitely wary of how fickle such a thing can be- but...

He leans into it all the same, eyes fluttering shut. "Oh...that's- that's nice."

"It is a promise," Altaïr said, easily taking Tony's weight. "So long as you wish it, Ibni, you will be my son."

With carefully light touches, he stroked Tony's hair back from his face. He was still over-hot and sweating, his hair sticking to his skin in damp curls, and Altaïr knew that it couldn't be comfortable. When his sons had been ill, he'd held their hair, pulling it back while their body fought the sickness. And so here, he did the same.

"Don't think I'll ever...not. Wish it." There was more to the thought, probably. Something about asking him not to make a promise- too many broken for him to really trust it but it slides in and out of his mind before he can grasp it long enough to attempt putting it in words. Plenty slips out of his grasp, consciousness ekes out little by little, leaving him boneless and dozing against Altaïr.

This time when he sleeps? The nightmares aren't quite so terrible.

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[MINGLE] Worried/Sick 1: Symptoms Manifest & Reaction

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