Chapter Text

Prologue

Before the fall. Before the suit. Before the scars.

They called her the Stark kid.

Not by name. Never by name.

Even when they smiled, even when they patted her on the back for her latest science fair win or test score or prototype sketch, it was always the Stark kid. Tony Stark's daughter. Howard Stark's granddaughter. A legacy, a shadow, a checklist of expectations she never quite asked for but carried anyway.

Andromeda stood at the edge of the gala's mezzanine, heels pinching at her toes, her borrowed dress clinging in ways that made her skin itch, the heavy scent of expensive perfume and cigars pressing in from every angle. She hated these nights. Hated the stiffness of it, the pretense, the way people looked right through her and only ever saw her father.

She leaned against the cool marble banister, letting her fingers curl against the polished surface, grounding herself in the texture, the chill of it against her skin. From here, she could see the whole room—men in pressed suits and women draped in silk and diamonds, glasses of champagne clinking, laughter ringing too loud, too fake. She could see him, too. Tony Stark. The man himself. Her father. Standing center stage, holding court like he always did, charming, magnetic, larger than life. People hung on his every word, laughed at jokes that weren't even funny, nodded like disciples in a church made of steel and ego.

Andromeda exhaled, slow and steady, letting the bitterness sink into her bones.

Eighteen today.

And she felt invisible.

Like a footnote in someone else's story.

"You're sulking."

The voice came from behind her, light, teasing, but with an edge of truth that made her shoulders tense. Pepper Potts. The only adult in this circus who actually saw her.

"I'm not sulking," Andromeda muttered, still not looking away from the sea of people below. "I'm... observing."

Pepper chuckled softly, stepping up beside her, the glow from the chandeliers catching the red in her hair. "Uh-huh. And what are you observing tonight, Andy?"

Andromeda forced a smile, though it sat crooked on her lips, brittle beneath the weight in her chest. "I'm observing that my father has officially forgotten it's my birthday."

Pepper tilted her head, amusement softening the lines around her mouth, but Andromeda caught the flicker of sympathy underneath. "He didn't forget," she said, but even she sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "He's... occupied."

"Yeah." Andromeda let her gaze drift back to the ballroom, to the swirl of bodies and the orbit they all spun around him. "Story of my life."

For a beat, neither of them spoke. The sound of laughter rolled up toward the mezzanine, the tinkling of crystal glasses, the syrup-smooth music from the string quartet threading through the conversation like a lifeline.

It all felt... distant. Like she was watching it from behind glass. A girl in a display case. Something pretty and hollow.

Pepper leaned in closer, her voice dropping low. "You know, you could just... go down there. Make him notice you."

Andromeda huffed a quiet breath, more bitter than amused. "Yeah, because nothing says independence like gatecrashing your own party."

"You'd make a hell of an entrance." Pepper nudged her shoulder gently, the faintest grin curling at the edge of her mouth. "Stark style."

Andromeda shook her head, the hint of a smile tugging despite herself. "Maybe later."

Maybe never.

Pepper studied her for a long moment, eyes softer now, reading the cracks Andromeda didn't bother hiding anymore. "You don't always have to do it like him, you know," she said quietly. "You don't have to fill his shoes to prove you're more than the Stark kid."

Andromeda's throat tightened, the words hitting places she didn't want to name. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to smirk. "Yeah, well. Tell that to everyone down there."

Pepper smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She squeezed Andromeda's shoulder once—firm, grounding—and then stepped back. "Come down when you're ready. I saved you a cupcake. Real classy. No sparklers this time."

Andromeda snorted softly. "Progress."

Pepper winked, then turned and disappeared into the sea of gowns and suits, her heels clicking softly against the marble as if she belonged to this world in a way Andromeda never had.

She stayed at the railing, the banister cool beneath her fingertips, letting the sounds of the party drift over her like static. She let herself pretend, just for a moment, that this wasn't her life. That she wasn't Tony Stark's daughter. That she was just some girl at some party she could walk away from without consequence.

But she couldn't.

Because even in the shadows, even up here, they were watching her. Measuring her. Weighing her against a legacy she hadn't chosen but still carried like a brand on her skin.

Eighteen.

And she already felt like she was running out of time.

Her gaze found her father again, caught in the glow of a dozen camera flashes, the center of gravity in a room that never even noticed she was standing on the edges, slipping further into the dark.

She exhaled.

Someday.

Someday, she told herself again.

But tonight, she stayed at the edge, heels pinching, breath tight in her throat, waiting for a world that would never hand her anything unless she tore it from their hands.

The music swelled.

The cameras flashed.

And in the shadows, Andromeda Stark stood still.

Chapter Text

IRON MAN

Billionaire industrialist and genius inventor Tony Stark has it all—wealth, brilliance, and the unwavering loyalty of his daughter, Andromeda Stark, a prodigy engineer and his fiercest supporter. Together, they helm Stark Industries, supplying cutting-edge weapons to the U.S. military and living in the fast lane of innovation and acclaim.

But their world shatters when both are kidnapped during a demonstration in Afghanistan. Gravely injured by their own company’s weapons, Tony is forced to confront the brutal reality of the legacy they’ve built. In captivity, Tony constructs a suit of powered armor to escape, while Andromeda, critically wounded and left paralyzed from the waist down, is carried out in his arms, broken but alive.

Back home, their survival sparks a reckoning. While Tony becomes Iron Man and vows to dismantle the weapons empire they created, Andromeda faces her own war—against a body that betrayed her and a pain that won’t relent. Refusing to accept defeat, she channels her genius into herself, designing a revolutionary neural interface and rebuilding her shattered spine with bleeding-edge Stark tech. Andromeda becomes something new: a fusion of human will and machine, unbound by the limits of flesh.

Together, Tony and Andromeda fight to reclaim Stark Industries from the grip of Obadiah Stane, whose betrayal runs deeper than either of them feared. But as they battle to undo the damage of their past, they must face the hard truth that becoming a hero isn’t about the suit—it’s about the heart inside it.

And sometimes, it takes being broken to rebuild yourself into something stronger.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

They always saw Tony Stark first.

At every Stark Industries gala, every press conference, every weapons demonstration—no matter how many times Andromeda stood beside him, no matter how often she spoke with authority about the innovations she spearheaded, the public’s eyes never strayed from him. Andromeda had long since stopped being surprised. Tony Stark was the sun—blinding, hot, impossible to ignore. And she? She was the flicker of brilliance obscured in his burn, the ghost in his shadow.

She let them think that.

Let them believe she was only the billionaire’s daughter, the prodigy playing dress-up in her father’s company. Let them underestimate her. That was always the first mistake people made.

Tonight proved no different.

The grand hall buzzed with the subdued hum of business—sharp suits, silk gowns, glasses clinking against polished crystal. Stark Industries was celebrating another record-breaking quarter, which, in Tony’s world, meant schmoozing investors while Pepper played PR savior and Andromeda tried not to suffocate in a dress that cost more than a car. The air inside pressed too heavy against her skin, thick with expensive perfume and the quiet musk of old money. She nursed a glass of something too sweet, not entirely sure she was old enough to have it, but in a room like this, nobody dared call her on it.

“Miss Stark, is it?”

The voice sliced through the drone of conversation, low, practiced. She turned, already biting back the sharp edge of her irritation, and found exactly what she expected. Mid-fifties. Tailored suit. The slick sheen of wealth cloaking the brittle stink of desperation. Arrogance clung to the man like cheap cologne, layered over the more subtle notes of scotch and something coppery she couldn’t quite place.

“I hear you’re quite the prodigy,” he said, smiling too wide, too polished. “Following in your father’s footsteps?”

Andromeda tilted her head, studying him with just enough steel in her gaze to make him sweat. “I prefer to walk ahead of them, actually.”

She let the words hang between them like bait, sipping from her glass with a laziness that only sharpened the weight behind them. He laughed, but it wasn’t a sound meant for her. It was for the people watching, the ones who would write her off as Tony Stark’s pet project, some novelty act pretending to play in the big leagues.

“Smart girl,” he mused, like she was an exhibit behind glass. “But it must be difficult, working under someone like Tony. He’s a hard act to follow.”

Her grip tightened fractionally around the glass, the chill of it grounding her in the moment. She’d heard it all before. The comparisons. The assumptions. It didn’t matter how many patents bore her name, how many sleepless nights she buried in the lab perfecting tech no one else had dared dream of—she would always be his daughter first.

She forced the smile Pepper had taught her, polished and professional with just enough threat buried beneath it to remind men like him that she didn’t need Tony’s shadow to scorch them. “I don’t follow,” she said, sidestepping him without waiting for a response.

Across the room, Obadiah Stane’s gaze found her. She met it without blinking, ignoring the familiar ripple of distrust tightening her spine. She hated him. Quietly, carefully, in ways that couldn’t be traced back to her. There was something behind his rehearsed smiles, something coiled and slick beneath the surface that made her skin crawl. But Tony trusted him, and that meant Andromeda had to play nice.

She’d learned early that her father hated ceremonies. Not just awards, but anything requiring him to sit still, say something rehearsed, and—God forbid—pretend humility. It wasn’t in his DNA. Tony Stark was a genius, a futurist, a walking disaster of charisma and recklessness, but a gracious award recipient? Never.

So when the lights dimmed and the voice-over swelled across the screens, Andromeda barely flinched. She wasn’t surprised to find Tony’s seat still conspicuously empty, the space a glaring absence even amidst the sea of polished suits and sequined gowns.

“With the keys to the kingdom, Tony ushers in a new era for his father’s legacy, creating smarter weapons, advanced robotics, satellite targeting. Today, Tony Stark has changed the face of the weapons industry by ensuring freedom and protecting America and her interests around the globe.”

Right. Ensuring freedom.

Andromeda swallowed a bitter breath, the taste of it sharper than the overpriced champagne lingering on her tongue. She could tear apart that particular phrasing in her sleep, but tonight wasn’t the time. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the stage, watching as Rhodey approached the podium with his military-perfect posture, the applause swelling through the room—polite, hollow, predictable.

She didn’t bother to clap.

She knew exactly what came next.

“As liaison to Stark Industries, I’ve had the unique privilege of serving with a real patriot. He is my friend and he is my great mentor. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present this year’s Apogee Award to Mr. Tony Stark.”

Rhodey’s voice echoed across the chamber as he cleared his throat, glancing toward the side of the stage.

Silence.

The crowd shifted uncomfortably, the soft rustle of silk and murmuring whispers bleeding into the cracks of expectation. Andromeda stayed perfectly still, arms folded, jaw tight. She could feel the heat of Obadiah Stane’s gaze before she even turned. Beside her, he tensed, the corner of his mouth twitching with something too tight to be a smile, before he plastered on the familiar mask of easy charm.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Stane said, voice smooth as oil as he stepped forward, nodding at Rhodey with the practiced air of someone who’d been waiting for this moment.

“Thanks for the save,” Rhodey muttered under his breath as he stepped aside, his jaw clenched just a little too tight for the cameras to catch.

Andromeda exhaled slowly through her nose, rolling her eyes as Stane lifted the award like it belonged to him, basking in the attention, milking the moment like he was the hero of the hour.

“This is beautiful. Thank you. Thank you all very much. This is wonderful. Well, I’m not Tony Stark. But if I were Tony, I would tell you how honored I feel and what a joy it is to receive this very prestigious award.”

The crowd chuckled on cue, swallowing the performance like it was scripted.

Andromeda didn’t laugh.

She set her drink on a passing tray, grabbed her clutch, and slipped out the side door, letting the heavy air of the ballroom fall away behind her.

Her heels clicked a brisk rhythm across the polished marble of the casino floor as she strode through the labyrinthine halls of Caesars Palace. The sharp scent of champagne mingled with cigarette smoke and desperation, the low clang of slot machines and the distant roll of dice filling the space with a steady, electric hum. She didn’t hesitate. She never had to. Tony wasn’t hard to find.

The VIP lounge—tucked behind the layers of velvet ropes and guarded doors—was a haven for the rich, the reckless, and the egos too large for the main floor. And there, sprawled like a king at the center of his court, was Tony Stark.

Whiskey in hand. Sunglasses on despite the dim lighting. A woman draped over each arm.

Andromeda paused just inside the entrance, letting the scene wash over her like static. Three models clung to him, laughing at jokes he probably didn’t finish. A swarm of businessmen circled the craps table like devout followers, their hunger palpable, their smiles too wide. The dealer looked dead behind the eyes, barely disguising his exasperation as Tony tossed the dice with a flick of his wrist that reeked of practiced nonchalance.

She folded her arms across her chest, her expression flat. “You missed your own award.”

Tony didn’t even glance up, smirking as the dice clattered across the table. “Did I?”

Andromeda arched a brow, letting the silence between them stretch thin as wire. “Yes. Stane accepted it for you.”

That got a flicker. His smirk faltered—barely—but enough. He reached for his drink, masking the crack in his armor behind a casual shrug. “Ugh. He loves doing that.”

“Then maybe stop giving him the chance,” she shot back, voice low and edged.

Tony hummed like he was mulling it over, but Andromeda knew better. She had seen that look a thousand times—the lazy flick of his fingers as he tossed another stack of chips onto the felt, the disinterest threaded into every casual shrug. “That would require me to care about awards, kiddo.”

Without waiting, she plucked the glass from his hand, taking a deliberate sip before handing it back. The whiskey burned on her tongue, sharp and smoky, but she didn’t flinch. “I don’t care about the award,” she said, keeping her voice even. “I care about Stane standing on that stage like he owns the company.”

Tony let out a breath through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like she was giving him a migraine. “How bad was it?”

Sliding onto the edge of the stool beside him, Andromeda kept her posture relaxed even as tension coiled beneath her skin. “Publicly? Fine. Stane played the proud mentor routine, the board members lapped it up, and Rhodey looked like he’d rather be stationed in the middle of the Mojave.”

She tilted her head, her tone sharpening just enough to get under his armor. “Privately? You just handed Stane another reason to start sharpening the knives.”

Tony studied her over the rim of his sunglasses, unreadable. She hated this part—the waiting game, watching him balance the scales between bravado and responsibility, pretending he didn’t care until he decided he did, usually after the damage had been done.

Finally, he sighed. “I’ll handle it.”

Andromeda scoffed, sliding off the stool, already done with the conversation. “Sure you will.”

“That sounded sarcastic.”

“It was.”

Adjusting the strap of her dress, she circled to the other side of the table, planting herself where she could block his next easy escape. “Rhodey’s coming. Try to look slightly less like you’ve been gambling your dignity away for the past six hours.”

Tony chuckled, tossing the dice again, unbothered. “No promises.”

Before he could throw another round, the mood at the table shifted. A familiar voice cut through the din, and Tony, still basking in his streak, grinned like a king holding court. “Work it! Come on! We should just stay till the morning.”

One of the women giggled, draping herself against his side, her tone syrupy sweet. “You are unbelievable.”

Andromeda rubbed at her temples, the pounding in her skull as relentless as the gaudy lights overhead.

Then she saw him.

Rhodey strode toward them, all clipped steps and squared shoulders, the set of his jaw pure military precision. Andromeda knew that look. Tony had pushed him past his limit.

Tony spotted him instantly and, never one to miss an opening, pressed a hand to his chest in a display of over-the-top devastation. “Oh, no! Did they rope you into this?”

Rhodey stopped at the table, his expression carved from stone. “Nobody roped me into anything.”

Tony gasped, clasping his hands together like Rhodey had personally wounded him. “I’m so sorry.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes hard enough to see stars.

Rhodey didn’t bite. He just exhaled through his nose, his patience stretched to a razor’s edge. “They told me that if I presented you with an award, you’d be deeply honored.”

Unfazed, Tony grinned. “Of course I’d be deeply honored! And it’s you—that’s even better! So, when do we do it?”

Andromeda pinched the bridge of her nose, her headache blooming into something vicious.

Rhodey, done playing, reached into his jacket, pulled out the Apogee Award, and thrust it into Tony’s chest. “It’s right here.”

Tony blinked, playing it like this was breaking news. “There it is. That was easy.” He turned the trophy in his hands, studying it like it had fallen from space. With exaggerated solemnity, he cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

Rhodey’s sigh sounded bone-deep. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

Andromeda watched, arms crossed, unimpressed as Tony inspected the award with all the enthusiasm of a man reading tax forms. “Wow. Would you look at that? That’s something else. I don’t have any of those floating around.”

“That’s because you never show up to accept them,” she deadpanned.

Tony, as predictable as gravity, ignored her. He rolled the dice between his fingers again, performing for the room like he owned it. “We’re gonna let it ride!” His grin widened as he turned toward the nearest model, holding out the dice like a stage prop. “Come on, give me a little something-something.”

The woman giggled obligingly, leaning in to blow on them as if it made any difference.

Not missing a beat, Tony pivoted toward Rhodey. “Okay, you too.”

Rhodey’s stare could have stripped paint. “I don’t blow on a man’s dice.”

Tony pouted, dragging out the joke like a child desperate to keep the game going. “Come on, honey bear.”

Andromeda bit down on a laugh hard enough to make her jaw ache. Rhodey, unimpressed and unmoved, swatted Tony’s hand mid-air just as the dice tumbled toward the table. The dealer didn’t flinch, barely glancing up from the felt.

“Two craps. Line away.”

Rhodey shrugged with no small amount of smug satisfaction. “That’s what happens.”

Tony sighed dramatically, stretching out like a man who’d been gravely wronged. “Worse things have happened,” he muttered, waving a hand toward the dealer. “Color me up, will ya?”

By the time Tony finally cashed out, Andromeda had already checked out. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. This was the cycle. Tony played the fool. Rhodey played the clean-up crew. And somehow, at the end of it, Tony walked away with everyone still laughing at his jokes.

And the worst part? They all let him.

Happy stood by the casino entrance as if it were any other Tuesday, holding the door open with the familiar, resigned patience of a man who had long since stopped questioning the chaos that came with the Stark name.

Rhodey exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose like Tony’s behavior had physically manifested into a migraine. “This is where I exit,” he muttered, pivoting on his heel, his shoes scuffing against the polished marble as he prepared to escape.

Tony gave him a lazy, two-fingered salute. “Alright.”

Rhodey didn’t move, narrowing his eyes into something that teetered on the edge of a threat. “Tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

Tony waved him off with all the sincerity of a man promising the moon. “Yeah, you can count on it.”

Andromeda arched a brow, her skepticism needing no words. Sure. Just like every other time.

Rhodey wasn’t buying it either. He jabbed a finger at Tony, emphasizing each clipped word. “I’m serious.”

Tony smirked, already halfway out the door. “I know, I know.”

And then, because of course he did, Tony handed the Apogee Award to the nearest hotel employee without so much as a blink. “Render unto Caesar, that which is Caesar’s. There you go.”

Andromeda groaned, her fingers massaging her temples, but this time she didn’t let him get away with it. She moved fast, snatching the heavy trophy from the stunned employee’s hands before Tony’s ridiculous theatrics could rob it of what little dignity it still held.

“Nice try,” she said, the dry edge in her voice cutting cleaner than any lecture.

Tony raised an eyebrow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips like it lived there permanently. “What? You want a souvenir?”

She shook her head, shifting the award under her arm. “Someone in this family should actually keep track of these things.”

Tony laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders as they stepped into the crisp desert night. “That’s my girl—always picking up my messes.”

“Yeah. Every daughter’s dream,” she muttered, the weight of the award heavy against her hip as they made their way toward Happy, who stood by the sleek black car like a sentinel.

The night air hit her like a balm—cool, sharp, clean in a way the casino never was. It brushed against her overheated skin, slicing through the leftover cling of cologne, smoke, and desperation still woven into her dress. Neon fractured across the glossy black sheen of Tony’s car, the Strip humming at their backs in a restless pulse of lights, engines, and bodies. For the briefest second, Andromeda let herself breathe.

And then, like clockwork, the press found them.

“Mr. Stark! Excuse me, Mr. Stark!”

She didn’t have to turn. She knew that voice. Christine Everhart. Of course it was her.

Beside her, Happy muttered under his breath, “She’s cute.”

Tony, always the connoisseur of distractions wrapped in red-bottom heels and ambition, barely paused before pivoting toward the voice. “She’s all right.”

Andromeda sighed, adjusting the Apogee Award under her arm like it weighed more than it should.

Christine cut through the cluster of reporters with a practiced strut, microphone in hand, her smile as sharp as the heels she wore. “Hi,” she greeted, eyes locked on Tony like Andromeda wasn’t even there.

Tony gave his signature grin, all teeth and deflection. “Yeah. Okay—”

Christine arched a brow, unimpressed. “It’s okay?”

He motioned toward her, dismissive. “Go.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes so hard she thought she might sprain something.

Christine wasn’t here to play nice. She knew exactly where to sink the knife, and her first question came with that cool, journalistic precision. “You’ve been called the da Vinci of our time. What do you say to that?”

Tony didn’t blink. “Absolutely ridiculous. I don’t paint.”

Christine didn’t crack. “And what do you say to your other nickname? The Merchant of Death?”

There it was.

Tony’s smile barely wavered, but Andromeda caught it—the faintest flicker behind his eyes. The tell he thought no one ever noticed.

“Not bad,” Tony admitted, cocking his head. “Let me guess. Berkeley?”

Christine smirked. “Brown, actually.”

He nodded like that explained everything wrong with the world. “Well, Ms. Brown, it’s an imperfect world, but it’s the only one we’ve got. I guarantee you, the day weapons are no longer needed to keep the peace, I’ll start making bricks and beams for baby hospitals.”

Christine gave him a look that could’ve carved granite. “You rehearse that much?”

Tony grinned. “Every night in front of the mirror before bedtime.”

Christine let out a short, knowing breath. “I can see that.”

Tony leaned in, voice lowering just enough to sharpen the tension. “I’d like to show you firsthand.”

Andromeda stifled a groan, gripping the trophy tighter as the weight of the night pressed heavier on her spine.

Christine didn’t budge. She squared her shoulders, letting the silence stretch just long enough to remind Tony she wasn’t impressed. “All I want is a serious answer.”

Tony, still basking in his own charm, shrugged like it cost him nothing. “Okay, here’s serious. My old man had a philosophy: ‘Peace means having a bigger stick than the other guy.’”

Christine’s smile turned razor-sharp. “That’s a great line coming from the guy selling the sticks.”

Tony didn’t miss a beat. “My father helped defeat the Nazis. He worked on the Manhattan Project. A lot of people—including your professors at Brown—would call that being a hero.”

Christine didn’t flinch. “And a lot of people would also call that war profiteering.”

Andromeda hovered at the edge of the exchange, a silent referee, fighting the urge to step between them. She already knew how this would play out.

Tony, unfazed, tilted his head, his grin sharpening. “Tell me, do you plan to report on the millions we’ve saved by advancing medical technology? Or the people we kept from starving with our intelli-crops? All those breakthroughs—military funding, honey.”

Christine’s eyes hardened, but she held the line. “You ever lose an hour of sleep your whole life?”

Tony’s smirk deepened, the kind of look that never boded well. “I’d be prepared to lose a few with you.”

And there it was. The crack in her composure.

Andromeda sighed, turning away, already heading for Happy’s waiting car. She knew exactly how this night was going to end. Christine would get in the car. Tony would charm his way into whatever he wanted. And by morning, nothing would have changed.

Snapping her seatbelt into place with a little more force than necessary, she muttered, “Drive fast. He can get his own ride to the airstrip with Ms. Brown.”

Happy chuckled as the car pulled forward, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “You know that’s not gonna happen, right?”

Andromeda slumped back into the seat, gripping the Apogee Award like it was the last tangible thing in a world made of illusions and sleight of hand. “Yeah. But a girl can dream.”

Behind them, Christine slid into the backseat, all professional polish and perfect posture, but Andromeda caught the shift in her body language—the subtle lean, the too-bright smile. Tony, predictably, soaked it in, his smirk carved deep into his face like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Seriously, kid,” Tony teased, reaching over the seat to tap the award resting in her lap. “What are you gonna do with that? Put it on your nightstand? Stare at it while you contemplate the meaning of life?”

Andromeda tilted her head, feigning mock consideration. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll keep it as a reminder of all the things you couldn’t be bothered to care about.”

Tony clutched his chest like she’d shot him point-blank. “Ouch. That one actually stung.”

Christine chuckled, clearly enjoying the sparring match more than she should have. “So, is she always like this?”

Andromeda didn’t even glance back. “Like what?”

Christine shrugged, amused. “Sharp. Biting. Unimpressed by literally everything.”

Tony grinned, lazy and proud. “Oh, that’s the Stark charm. Runs in the family.”

Andromeda scoffed, turning toward the window as the Strip streaked past in neon blurs, the city’s chaos reflected in the dark glass. “Please. If I had an ounce of your charm, I’d be far worse.”

Tony chuckled, swirling the ice in his whiskey glass like the night was still his playground. “Doubtful. You’re already a menace.”

She didn’t argue. There wasn’t much point.

The rest of the drive to the airstrip settled into an uneasy quiet—or at least as quiet as it could be with Tony and Christine flirting in the backseat, their voices a steady hum of empty charm and practiced wit. Andromeda let them fade into background noise, focusing instead on the steady thrum of the engine, the cold press of the award against her thighs, the sharp tang of metal and leather thick in the cabin.

She wasn’t even sure why she had taken the damn thing. Maybe because it was supposed to mean something, and someone ought to treat it like it did. Or maybe—God help her—a small, fragile part of her still wished Tony would.

By the time they rolled onto the tarmac, Tony was still in full theater mode, hopping out of the car to offer Christine his hand with an exaggerated flourish.

“Welcome to Stark Airlines,” he announced, gesturing toward the waiting jet like it was some grand prize. “Complimentary drinks, gourmet snacks, and questionable life choices included.”

Christine arched an eyebrow but followed him up the steps without hesitation.

Andromeda lingered by the car, watching them disappear inside like ghosts vanishing into the glow of the cabin lights spilling across the asphalt. The laughter echoed back to her, brittle and bright and suffocating.

Beside her, Happy leaned against the car, arms crossed casually. “You getting on?”

She blew out a breath through her nose, staring at the yawning maw of the jet’s open door. “Do I have to?”

Happy chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Technically? No. But unless you wanna catch a red-eye back to Malibu with the common folk, this is your only ride.”

She lingered, the weight of the award grounding her in place as if it could anchor her to something real. Inside, she could already hear Tony’s voice wrapping around Christine’s laughter, the sound of it scraping down her spine.

The idea of spending the next few hours locked inside that flying steel coffin, forced to listen to Tony charm his way through yet another night, made her want to walk the desert back to California.

But she knew better.

Tony was chaos incarnate. He could decide tomorrow to leave her stranded in Vegas just to prove a point. He could rope her into some off-the-books Afghanistan trip without a second’s notice. She couldn’t afford to assume she had options.

Tightening her grip on the award, its cold weight digging into her ribs, Andromeda let out a sigh. “I hate this.”

Happy’s smirk was small, but not unkind. “I know.”

He didn’t push. Happy never did. He always knew when she needed the quiet.

Andromeda had spent her whole life trailing Tony’s wake, pretending she was part of his world while never quite fitting inside it. Eighteen years old. Running R&D at one of the most powerful tech companies on the planet. None of it mattered.

She would always be his daughter first.

A shadow behind the sun.

Drawing a breath sharp enough to steady the ache in her chest, she squared her shoulders and walked toward the jet.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

The sound of waves crashing against the Malibu cliffs drifted faint beneath the soft, persistent chime that echoed through the room—a gentle yet unrelenting reminder from her personal AI. Andromeda groaned, burying her face deeper into the pillow as if she could smother the noise into silence.

No such luck.

“Good morning, Andy. It’s five a.m.” The voice was smooth, warm, feminine—an echo from a past she couldn’t touch anymore, preserved in carefully coded memory. “Time to wake up.”

She groaned again, muffled against the pillow. “You’re evil.”

“I prefer efficient.”

One eye cracked open, glaring at the ceiling where a subtle holographic interface pulsed softly, waiting for her attention. Unlike J.A.R.V.I.S., who Tony insisted on integrating into every square inch of their lives, Eleanor existed solely for her. A guide. A keeper of routines. A voice modeled after the woman who had shaped Andromeda before cancer hollowed her out of their world.

Years of programming, of combing through old recordings, journals, voicemails—pulling every scrap of her mother’s cadence, wit, and relentless persistence into a digital ghost. Eleanor wasn’t just an assistant. She was the tether Andromeda clung to on the worst days. And the mornings when the weight of it all pressed hardest on her lungs, she was the only reason Andromeda got out of bed at all.

“Five more minutes,” she muttered, rolling onto her side.

Eleanor, as always, was merciless. “Five minutes becomes ten. Ten becomes skipping your workout. Skipping your workout becomes regretting it later.”

Andromeda threw an arm over her eyes. “I programmed you, you know. I could just—”

“Deactivate me? Doubtful. You tried once. You regretted it.”

She scowled into the crook of her elbow. “I hate that you know me so well.”

“That’s my job.”

With a resigned sigh, Andromeda forced herself upright, her body groaning in protest after the flight home. The familiar weight of exhaustion hung heavy in her muscles, but she shoved it down, planting her feet on the cool floor.

Eleanor’s voice hummed through the speakers like a warm hand on her back. “Workout playlist queued. Outdoor temperature is sixty-five degrees. Coffee is brewing.”

Andromeda stretched, feeling the pull in her shoulders, the lingering knots from cramped jet seats and a night spent pretending none of it mattered. “You’re my favorite AI,” she muttered.

“I know.”

Smirking despite herself, she padded barefoot down the hall, the chill of the tile bleeding into her skin, waking her up more efficiently than Eleanor’s nagging ever could. The house was still quiet. No trace yet of Tony’s chaotic whirlwind. No humming from J.A.R.V.I.S. running the mansion’s endless systems. Just the low rhythm of waves beyond the glass walls and the subtle hum of tech embedded in every corner of the house.

The home gym waited—one of the few spaces that was hers alone. Where Tony’s workshop was chaos barely concealed beneath layers of genius, this space was clean, orderly, intentional. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along the back wall, framing the endless expanse of the Pacific, the waves painted in slate blues and grays beneath the first brushstrokes of dawn.

She tied her hair back into a loose ponytail as Eleanor’s voice filled the gym’s speakers.

“Starting session. Thirty-minute HIIT with weights. Heart rate monitor engaged.”

Andromeda rolled her shoulders, shaking out the stubborn threads of sleep and lingering tension before sinking into the routine. Squats. Deadlifts. Burpees. The ache in her muscles was sharp, familiar, grounding. This, at least, she could control.

Unlike her father.

“News update?” she asked between sets, breath steady even as her arms trembled from exertion.

Eleanor’s reply was immediate. “Stark Industries stock is up two-point-three percent. Certain media outlets are still circulating headlines about Tony Stark’s absence at the awards ceremony. Pepper Potts has sent three new messages. Would you like me to summarize?”

Andromeda scoffed as she pushed into her next rep. “Go ahead.”

“Message one: ‘Call me when you’re awake. We need to talk about the upcoming board meeting.’ Message two: ‘Tell your father to actually attend this one.’ Message three: ‘Did you take the Apogee Award from the hotel? Please tell me you did.’”

She let out a breath between squats, shaking her head as sweat trickled down her spine. “Tell her I rescued it from Tony’s careless hands.”

“Message drafted.”

Andromeda rolled her shoulders, still untangling the last knots of sleep from her muscles as she padded into the kitchen, pulling a carton of eggs from the fridge. Cooking was one of the few things she still did purely for herself. No schematics. No simulations. No algorithms or negotiations. Just the simple, methodical rhythm of crack, whisk, pour. Movements that asked nothing more of her than presence.

The pan sizzled as she set it on the stove, the smell of butter curling into the quiet air, and for a few blissful moments, it was just her and the kitchen and the hush of waves murmuring beyond the glass balcony doors.

Then Eleanor’s voice chimed back in, softer this time, as if sensing the tension curling at the edges of her calm.

“You have a flight scheduled with Colonel Rhodes and your father at three p.m. for the weapons demonstration in Afghanistan. Would you like me to remind you to pack in an hour?”

Andromeda stilled mid-stir, her hand tightening around the spatula. She’d almost forgotten about the trip.

No—that wasn’t true. She’d been deliberately ignoring it.

The thought of flying halfway across the world to watch Tony flaunt Stark Industries’ latest weapon to the military felt like a colossal waste of her time. She had voiced that opinion. Loudly. Tony had, predictably, waved it off, and Rhodey, ever the mediator, had backed him up, telling her it would be “good experience.”

Andromeda knew exactly what that meant.

It meant Rhodey wanted her there to keep Tony from spiraling into a PR disaster. To play babysitter. Again.

She exhaled sharply through her nose and flipped the eggs with a little more force than necessary. The scent of sizzling butter filled the kitchen, grounding her.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going,” she muttered.

“Tony already confirmed your seat on the flight,” Eleanor replied, calm and unfazed. “Would you like me to cancel it?”

Her fingers hovered over the stove knob. Logic told her she had better things to do. That it was just another demonstration. Another sale. But that prickling feeling at the base of her skull wouldn’t let it go. Over the years, she’d learned to trust that instinct. Something about this trip scraped against her nerves in the wrong way. Maybe it was Tony’s unusually dismissive attitude. Maybe Rhodey’s insistence.

Or maybe it was just the fact that she didn’t trust Tony not to get himself into trouble.

Rubbing a hand down her face, Andromeda sighed. “Don’t cancel it. But set a reminder for noon. I’ll decide then.”

“Noted.”

The eggs were done. She slid them onto a plate, grabbed toast from the toaster, and settled onto one of the stools at the counter. For a few precious minutes, the world held still. The waves kept rolling against the cliffs. The rich smell of coffee drifted through the kitchen. The house—so often alive with the chaotic heartbeat of machinery and Tony’s projects—sat in rare, fragile stillness.

It wouldn’t last.

Halfway through her breakfast, Andromeda heard the telltale shuffle of bare feet against the polished floor.

Tony Stark—disheveled, unbothered, and every bit the walking chaos he pretended not to be—ambled into the kitchen like he owned the morning. Sunglasses were already perched on his face, shielding him from light that barely filtered through the still-gray dawn. His Black Sabbath shirt hung rumpled off one shoulder, sweatpants riding low on his hips, hair sticking up in all directions like he’d lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t care enough to fix it.

Classic Tony.

He didn’t even glance at her as he made a beeline for the coffee, pouring himself a cup like it was the only thing keeping the world from collapsing.

“Morning, kiddo,” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

Andromeda kept her gaze on her eggs, not bothering to match his casual tone. “Morning. Get any sleep?”

“Absolutely not.”

She huffed a laugh, stabbing into her eggs with more force than necessary. “Gross.”

“You asked.” He leaned back against the counter, finally acknowledging her existence with an exaggerated sweep of his gaze. “You look productive. Let me guess—you already did the whole ‘wake up at the crack of dawn and make the rest of us look bad’ thing?”

“Some of us have routines.”

Tony smirked over the rim of his cup, sipping like it held all the wisdom in the universe. “Sounds exhausting.”

Andromeda didn’t waste her breath with a reply. She knew his rhythm too well. Knew that if she gave him an inch, he’d pull the entire conversation off the rails just for the fun of it.

Predictably, he reached over and stole a bite of her toast, grinning like a kid who thought he was being clever. “Make enough for me?”

She gave him a deadpan stare. “Take a wild guess.”

Tony clicked his tongue like she’d personally offended him. “Ouch.”

Not that he was deterred in the slightest. He swiped another slice of toast off her plate, taking an obnoxiously loud bite. “This one already has butter on it. Saves me the effort.”

Andromeda let out a long, weary sigh, setting her fork down and pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re impossible.”

Tony shrugged, as if that were the highest compliment. “So, you packed yet?”

Her movements stilled, gaze flicking up to meet his over the rim of her coffee mug. “You assume I’m going.”

Tony didn’t miss a beat. “Rhodey said if you don’t come, he’s going to personally fly back here and drag you onto the plane himself.”

Andromeda groaned, tipping her head back. “I hate both of you.”

“Yeah, yeah. So you’re coming?”

She exhaled slowly, leaning back in her seat, letting the hum of the ocean fill the space between them. She could still say no. She could stay in Malibu, sink into her lab, bury herself in projects that didn’t require babysitting her father at a weapons demo she wanted no part of. She could pretend the pull in her gut wasn’t there.

But it was.

And she’d learned the hard way to stop ignoring it.

Finally, she met his gaze, letting him see none of the hesitation curling tight in her chest. “Yeah. I’m coming.”

Tony grinned, clapping her shoulder with a flourish that felt more like theater than sincerity. “That’s my girl. I’ll be in the shop.”

But Andromeda wasn’t about to let him escape that easily. She arched a brow, her tone flat. “Is Ms. Brown still here?”

Tony didn’t even blink. He just smirked over the rim of his coffee cup like she hadn’t just jabbed at the open wound of his ego. “That supposed to be a dig?”

“More of an observation.”

He took another sip, utterly unbothered. “She’s still asleep. Figured I’d let her enjoy the ocean view a little longer before she realizes she made a terrible decision.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes, pushing her plate away. “Classy.”

“Always,” Tony said, turning toward the balcony, letting the sharp morning sunlight spill over his face. The wind coming off the ocean tugged at his hair, mussing it even further until he looked every bit the reckless billionaire who’d spent half the night drinking and the other half—well, she didn’t need or want the details.

Leaning back in her chair, Andromeda let her gaze linger on him, studying the way he stood there like the world revolved on his axis. She didn’t know why she asked the next question. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something pettier.

“You actually like her?”

Tony let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, sweetheart. You know me better than that.”

Yeah. She did.

Tony Stark didn’t do serious. He did distractions. Escapes. Women who knew the terms before they ever touched him—nothing lasting, nothing real. Christine Everhart? She was just another name on a list of women who’d be gone by lunchtime.

Andromeda wasn’t sure why it still grated.

She said nothing, lifting her coffee, letting the bitterness coat her tongue as she watched him over the rim of the mug. Tony stayed by the window, his posture deceptively easy, the sunglasses hiding whatever truth might’ve flickered in his expression.

After a beat, he turned, and there it was again—that lazy, knowing smirk that never quite reached his eyes. “You’re staring.”

“You make it hard not to,” she muttered, setting her mug down with more force than necessary.

Tony snorted, stepping closer, ruffling a hand through her already-messy hair like they hadn’t just been sniping at each other over toast and life choices.

“Hey!” Andromeda batted him away, scowling, but he only chuckled, dropping a light, fleeting kiss to the side of her head before pulling back.

“Don’t work too hard, kiddo.”

She huffed but didn’t push him away this time.

He took his coffee and wandered toward the stairs that led down to the lab, already lost in whatever chaos he had lined up for the morning. She let him go, shaking her head as she scraped the last of her breakfast into the trash.

The kitchen settled back into quiet, the rhythmic crash of waves filling the empty spaces Tony had left behind, accompanied only by the soft chime of Eleanor’s voice from the speakers. “You let him off easy.”

Andromeda arched a brow toward the faint holographic interface pulsing patiently above the counter. “And what was I supposed to do? Lecture him about his life choices while he steals my toast?”

Eleanor hummed, almost indulgent. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

She rolled her eyes, rinsing her plate, letting the warmth of the water bleed across her fingers before setting it in the sink. “Yeah, well, I’m picking my battles today.”

“A wise approach. Would you like me to remind you to pack now?”

Andromeda sighed, rubbing the back of her neck as she glanced toward the clock. She wasn’t thrilled about it, but she’d made her decision. Procrastinating wouldn’t change anything.

“Yeah. Let’s get it over with.”

She made her way upstairs, the house still wrapped in the quiet hush of early morning. Her bedroom was flooded with soft, golden light pouring in through the massive windows that framed the endless sprawl of the ocean. The space balanced sleek precision and lived-in chaos—her workstation tucked neatly in one corner, a few sketches pinned to the wall, shelves stacked with books and half-finished tech experiments. Stark-brand madness, but hers.

Crossing the room, she pulled her black suitcase from the closet, flipping it open on the bed with a snap.

“Eleanor, what’s the projected temperature for Afghanistan?”

“Ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit during the day, lows around seventy at night,” the AI replied smoothly. “Dry climate. Minimal cloud cover. You’ll want lightweight, breathable fabrics.”

Andromeda groaned under her breath, already rifling through her closet. She wasn’t excited about packing for a military base in the middle of a desert, but at least she could be practical about it. Blouses in neutral tones. Lightweight slacks. A linen button-up. She tossed them into the suitcase with efficient movements, her mind half on the task, half lingering on Tony’s smug grin still etched in her brain.

She paused, fingers brushing over a long, loose cardigan. She might be landing on an American base, but it wasn’t lost on her that she’d still be in a country where women were expected to present themselves differently. Andromeda had traveled enough to know better than to assume her last name made her untouchable. She knew how to blend, how to move carefully, how to read a room.

“Packing a headscarf?” Eleanor’s voice was gentle. Neutral.

Andromeda hesitated only a beat. “Yeah. Probably a good idea.” She retrieved a simple, lightweight scarf in muted beige, folding it neatly before tucking it into the side pocket. It wasn’t about obligation. It was about knowing when to adapt.

“Smart,” Eleanor noted.

“I know,” she muttered, reaching for her suit next. Navy blazer. Crisp blouse. Tailored slacks. Professional. Appropriate. She wasn’t about to let anyone mistake her for some spoiled rich kid tagging along on Daddy’s PR trip.

Eleanor hummed approvingly. “Would you like your itinerary synced?”

Andromeda stuffed an extra pair of shoes into the bag. “Might as well know what I’m walking into.”

“Colonel Rhodes has scheduled the weapons demonstration for zero-nine hundred local time, followed by a luncheon with select military officials and a closed-door debrief with investors,” Eleanor recited. “Your father, predictably, has no structured agenda beyond ‘make a scene and sell weapons.’”

Andromeda let out a short, humorless laugh. “Sounds about right.”

“Shall I also remind you to pack a first aid kit? You are traveling with Tony, after all.”

She smirked, pulling the small kit from her desk and dropping it into the suitcase without hesitation. Last time, Tony had managed to give himself a concussion doing something as simple as standing on a table during a demonstration. She wasn’t taking any chances.

With a last glance over the contents, she zipped the suitcase shut and set it beside the bed.

“Done,” she exhaled.

“You’re procrastinating,” Eleanor observed. “You don’t want to go.”

Andromeda sat heavily on the edge of the bed, pressing her palms to her eyes. “Yeah, no shit.”

She didn’t want to spend the next few days watching Tony charm his way through rooms of generals, pretending he was untouchable. She didn’t want to sit through another weapons demonstration, pretending she didn’t know exactly how much destruction her father’s legacy could unleash.

But that nagging pull in her gut refused to let her walk away from it.

With a breath that felt heavier than it should, Andromeda squared her shoulders, bracing herself like she always did. “I’ll deal with it,” she muttered. “Like always.”

Eleanor, wisely, didn’t offer sympathy. But Andromeda still felt the weight of her silence, hovering in the air like the quiet disapproval of someone who knew her too well.

Instead of sitting in it, she pushed herself to her feet, grabbing her phone off the nightstand. “Tell Rhodey I’ll be at the airstrip on time.”

“Message sent.”

Andromeda rolled her shoulders, forcing herself to shake off the simmering tension. “Alright. Time to deal with Tony before he tries to build something stupid in the next two hours.”

As she stepped into the hallway, suitcase trailing behind her, Eleanor’s voice followed—soft, wry, familiar. “Try not to let him drive you crazy.”

Andromeda snorted under her breath. “No promises.”

The house was still quiet, the scent of salt and coffee threading through the air as the crash of waves filled the spaces between her footsteps. She hadn’t expected chaos to hit quite this early.

“…I do anything and everything that Mr. Stark requires, including, occasionally, taking out the trash. Will that be all?”

Andromeda froze mid-step, her head tilting toward the sound of Pepper Potts’ voice—precise, sharp, and clipped in a way that only Pepper could manage when she was thoroughly done with someone.

Christine Everhart stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression flickering between irritation and brittle embarrassment. Her red dress from the night before clung stubbornly to her skin, wrinkled and rumpled, her hair tousled in a way that might have looked good on camera but only highlighted that she had overstayed her welcome.

Andromeda didn’t need to look at Pepper to know the woman was standing there with perfect posture, heels clicking softly against the polished floor as she waited for Christine to get the message.

Christine adjusted the strap of her bag, lifting her chin as if she still had the upper hand. “That’s… direct.”

Pepper smiled, polite but razor-sharp. “I try to be.”

Christine turned, her gaze landing on Andromeda like she’d only just realized she wasn’t alone. There was recognition in her eyes, but not warmth. Like she was trying to place her—Tony Stark’s daughter, the one who hovered around the edges of the empire but never quite in the spotlight.

Andromeda arched a brow, unimpressed.

Christine scoffed softly, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Like father, like daughter,” she muttered under her breath before striding toward the door, heels clicking a staccato rhythm that matched the sour twist of Andromeda’s mouth.

The front door closed behind her with a firm, satisfying click.

Silence lingered for only a beat.

“That was unnecessarily fun,” Pepper mused, smoothing the cuff of her blouse as she turned toward Andromeda. “You’re packed?”

Andromeda flicked her gaze to the suitcase trailing behind her, then back at Pepper. “Unfortunately.”

“You don’t have to go, you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

Pepper studied her for a long beat, but there was no argument, only a small nod. She knew the answer before Andromeda had said it.

Andromeda sighed, rubbing at her neck. “At least it’ll be entertaining watching Tony try to sell weapons to people who already decided they want them.”

“Or he’ll be too busy showing off to remember the pitch,” Pepper added, smirking.

Andromeda shook her head. “Honestly? Probably both.”

They both knew the script. Tony would schmooze. Rhodey would clean up the mess. Andromeda would sit in the middle, wondering why she kept signing up for this circus.

Pepper reached out, squeezing her arm with a rare softness. “Try to keep him in one piece?”

Andromeda huffed a laugh. “I’ll try. You know how he is.”

“Oh, I do.”

Pepper glanced toward the lab, the faint hum of machinery leaking into the hallway. Tony was already buried in something—whether it would be brilliance or disaster remained to be seen.

Andromeda followed her gaze, rolling her eyes. “I’m going to check on him. Coming?”

Tony was buried deep in his latest distraction, sleeves shoved past his elbows, grease streaked along his forearm as he leaned over the exposed guts of one of his many, many cars. The workshop thrummed with the hum of machinery and the pulse of rock music bleeding from the overhead speakers, J.A.R.V.I.S. droning diagnostics into the chaos while Tony muttered instructions between sips of what Andromeda was sure had to be his third—or maybe fourth—coffee of the morning.

She stood off to the side, arms crossed over her chest, watching the whole scene unfold with a mix of resignation and mild exasperation.

He’s supposed to be on a plane right now.

Of course, that was wishful thinking. Schedules were suggestions in Tony’s universe. And any shiny, complicated engine would always outrank a flight itinerary.

She opened her mouth to call him on it, but Pepper beat her to it, heels clicking a sharp counterpoint to the music as she strode into the workshop, phone still in hand.

“I’m going to try again. Right now,” Pepper announced, her tone tight, the kind of controlled calm Andromeda had learned meant Pepper was already ten seconds away from snapping.

Tony didn’t even glance up. “Please don’t turn down my music.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” Pepper shot back, hanging up with a pointed exhale as she leveled him with a look that could’ve melted steel. “You are supposed to be halfway around the world right now.”

Tony continued working, the smirk practically audible in his voice. “How’d she take it?”

“Like a champ,” Pepper deadpanned, but the tick in her jaw told another story.

Andromeda rolled her eyes, stepping closer, her gaze flicking toward the empty stretch of tarmac Tony was supposed to be flying over by now. “She didn’t like it when Pepper put her in her place for calling her the dry-cleaning lady.”

Tony finally looked up, blinking behind the tinted safety glasses like the world beyond the engine was somehow interrupting his masterpiece.

“That was a mistake on her part,” he drawled, smirking. “Pepper’s terrifying when she wants to be.”

“I prefer ‘effective,’” Pepper corrected smoothly, arms crossing over her chest as she shifted her weight in a way that made the power dynamic in the room tilt instantly in her favor. “Speaking of which, why are you still here?”

Tony gestured vaguely toward the open car hood, like it was a perfectly logical explanation. “I got distracted.”

Andromeda let out a slow breath through her nose, stepping forward to snatch a clean rag from the workbench. She tossed it at him without ceremony. “You’re always distracted.”

Pepper shot her a knowing glance, then turned back to Tony with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. “Your flight was scheduled to leave an hour and a half ago.”

Tony shrugged, unfazed. “That’s funny. I thought, seeing as it’s my plane, it would, you know… wait for me.”

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath that sounded like a prayer for strength. “Tony, I need to go over a few things before you get out the door.”

Already sick of this loop, Andromeda leaned against the workbench, arms crossed as she watched the familiar game play out. Tony wiped his hands—not on the rag she’d tossed him, but on his pants. Of course.

“I mean,” Tony mused, gesturing with the now-filthy rag, “doesn’t it kind of defeat the purpose of having your own plane if it leaves before you show up?”

Pepper ignored him with the practiced ease of someone who’d had this argument a hundred times. “Larry called. He has another buyer for the Jackson Pollock. Do you want it? Yes or no?”

Tony’s interest flickered, the car momentarily forgotten. “Is it a good representation of his Springs period?”

Pepper inhaled through her nose, her patience visible in the tight line of her mouth. “Not spring like the season. The Springs was the neighborhood in East Hampton where he lived and worked.”

Tony waved a dismissive hand, grinning. “So?”

“I think it’s a fair example. And I think it’s incredibly overpriced,” Pepper deadpanned.

Tony didn’t hesitate. “I need it. Buy it. Store it.”

Pepper sighed, already making the note in her phone without further argument. She knew better. “Okay. The MIT commencement speech—”

Tony groaned, rubbing at his face with a grease-smeared hand. “Is in June. Please don’t harangue me about stuff that’s way, way down the road—”

“Well, they’re haranguing me,” Pepper cut in sharply. “So I’m going to say yes.”

Tony flicked his fingers at her. “Deflect and absorb, Pepper. Don’t transmit it back to me.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes, but Pepper didn’t flinch. She’d mastered the art of weathering Tony Stark’s bullshit years ago.

“I need you to sign this before you get on the plane,” Pepper added, producing a sleek tablet and holding it out.

Tony narrowed his eyes, feigning suspicion. “What are you trying to get rid of me for? What, you got plans?”

Pepper’s smile turned just a little smug. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Tony frowned, as if the idea of Pepper having a life outside of cleaning up his messes personally offended him. “I don’t like it when you have plans.”

“I’m allowed to have plans on my birthday,” Pepper replied, not missing a beat.

Tony froze. “It’s your birthday?”

Andromeda sighed. Here we go.

Pepper’s expression didn’t flicker. “Yes.”

Tony blinked, scrambling for footing. “I knew that.”

Andromeda arched a brow, deadpan. “Already?”

Pepper smirked, playing along. “Yeah. Funny how it keeps showing up the same day as last year.”

Tony cleared his throat, shifting like a man trying to claw his way out of a hole he hadn’t realized he’d dug. “Well, get yourself something nice from me.”

“Oh, I already did,” Pepper said smoothly, sliding the tablet back into her bag without breaking eye contact.

Tony nodded, as if that ended the conversation. “And?”

“Oh, it was very nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Very tasteful.”

Tony pointed at her, grinning. “Thank you, Miss Potts.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Stark.”

The smugness returned to his face, but Andromeda wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily.

“Well, I didn’t forget,” she cut in, reaching into her bag and pulling out a neatly wrapped package.

Pepper blinked, caught off guard for the first time all morning, as Andromeda stepped forward and held it out.

Tony made a face. “You brought a gift?”

Andromeda shot him a look over the top of the package. “Because I actually pay attention to the calendar, Dad.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but there was something grudgingly amused in the curve of his mouth.

Pepper took the gift, running her fingers over the crisp wrapping, her smile softening. “Andy, you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” Andromeda interrupted quietly. “Besides, you deserve a gift from at least one Stark today.”

Pepper chuckled under her breath, carefully peeling back the paper to reveal a sleek, minimalist leather notebook, the corner embossed with her initials. She opened it, her fingers brushing the inside cover where a handwritten inscription waited:

For the woman who keeps Stark Industries from burning to the ground. Happy birthday.

Pepper exhaled softly, fingertips ghosting over the words before meeting Andromeda’s gaze, warmth flickering in her expression. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

Andromeda shrugged, but the smile tugging at her lips gave her away. “Figured you could use it to jot down all the ways Dad drives you insane.”

Pepper laughed. “I need more than one notebook for that.”

“I’m still standing here!” Tony protested, gesturing dramatically between them. “The two of you, just ganging up on me in my own workshop. Unbelievable.”

Andromeda smirked, leaning back against the workbench. “You make it too easy.”

Pepper closed the notebook carefully, holding it to her chest like it meant more than she was ready to admit aloud. “Really, Andy. I love it.”

Tony scoffed, because of course he couldn’t let anyone else have the last word. “Thoughtful? I could be thoughtful.”

Andromeda turned to him, deadpan. “You forgot her birthday.”

Tony pointed at her, undeterred. “Irrelevant.”

Pepper exhaled, glancing at her watch. “What is relevant is that you need to leave. Now.”

Tony sighed, finally sensing he wasn’t going to win this battle. “Alright, fine. I’m going, I’m going.” He turned toward the workbench, snatching up his sunglasses and slipping them on with the casual flair of a man heading for a yacht, not a weapons demonstration in the middle of a desert warzone.

Andromeda watched as Pepper handed him a pen and the stack of documents she’d been chasing him to sign all morning. Tony scribbled his signature with all the enthusiasm of a child forced to do homework, sloppily, barely glancing at what he was approving.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., make a note,” Tony muttered as he finished the last page. “Next year, remind me before her birthday so I don’t get ambushed like this.”

J.A.R.V.I.S. responded smoothly, voice dripping with patience only an AI could manage. “Shall I also remind you to actually purchase Miss Potts a gift, sir?”

Andromeda bit down on a laugh, watching Pepper’s smirk bloom like she was savoring a rare victory.

Tony paused, scowling up at the ceiling like he was debating arguing with his own AI. But even he knew better than to pick a fight with code designed by himself. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Put it on the list.”

Pepper took the signed documents, tucking them into her bag with the air of someone ticking off yet another box in the endless list of Tony Stark’s messes to manage. “Happy’s waiting outside,” she said, gesturing toward the exit.

Tony groaned, but didn’t argue. He grabbed his coffee, balancing it in one hand as he finally, finally moved toward the door. Before he crossed the threshold, he turned back, pointing a finger at Andromeda like she was his personal baggage. “You’re riding with me, kid.”

Andromeda gave him an unimpressed look over the rim of her coffee mug. “Gee, thanks for the invite. Like I had a choice.”

Tony grinned, sharp and boyish. “Nope.”

Pepper shook her head, fond exasperation flickering through her carefully composed expression. “Have a safe flight, both of you. And Andy?”

Andromeda raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Pepper’s smile softened, small but sincere. “Thanks again.”

Andromeda gave a tight nod, brushing it off, but there was a warmth beneath her ribs she didn’t want to examine too closely. “Anytime.”

Without another word, she grabbed her bag, the weight of it grounding her as she followed Tony out the door. The plane was waiting. The trip to Afghanistan stretched ahead, and that nagging twist in her gut hadn’t eased.

She shoved it aside, focusing on what was in front of her. Tony. The plane. The checklist of responsibilities she would shoulder, as always.

Make sure he gets on the damn plane. That was her first job.

The rest—whatever storm was waiting for them on the other side of the world—could wait.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The sun was merciless, a burning brand against the cloudless expanse of blue overhead as the transport plane touched down on the desert runway. The moment the wheels hit the cracked tarmac, a plume of dust curled into the air, shimmering in the relentless heat. Even before Andromeda stepped off the aircraft, she could feel it—the dry, suffocating warmth that clawed at her skin, wrapping around her like an unseen vice. The air tasted of sand and jet fuel, a sharp contrast to the crisp, conditioned air inside the plane.

As the hatch opened, a gust of hot wind rushed in, carrying with it the fine, gritty kiss of desert dust that crawled into every crease of her clothes, settled into her hair, and prickled against her already parched skin. She shifted uncomfortably, discreetly adjusting the sleeves of her blazer, cursing herself for choosing a full suit. But there hadn’t been a choice. This was a business trip, not a personal excursion, and in the unforgiving world of military contracts and corporate negotiations, image was everything.

More than that, they were in the Middle East. Andromeda had been raised with an awareness of cultural expectations, and while no one had outright demanded it, she had chosen to wrap her head in a lightweight linen scarf—a subtle nod of respect, a small effort to smooth the edges of their presence here. Rhodey had been adamant: We’re meeting with high-ranking military officials. Look the part.

She cast a glance toward Tony, expecting him to be his usual disheveled self. For once, he wasn’t.

Dressed in a sharp charcoal suit tailored within an inch of perfection, a crisp white dress shirt, and a burgundy tie that added an almost regal touch, Tony Stark actually looked like the billionaire mogul the world thought he was. It was a rare sight—him conforming, at least outwardly, to expectation.

Of course, he ruined the effect with the ever-present sunglasses, the slight smirk that never quite left his face, and the casual way he tucked one hand into his pocket like he wasn’t about to sell weapons capable of leveling cities.

He adjusted his tie with an air of mild disinterest, stepping onto the sun-scorched runway beside her. The desert stretched infinitely in all directions, a sea of golden sand that rippled in the heat like a living thing.

"I feel like I should be holding a briefcase full of cash and making some kind of shady arms deal," Tony muttered under his breath, his voice pitched low enough for only Andromeda to hear.

She arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "That’s basically what we’re doing. Just with paperwork instead of briefcases."

Tony smirked. "Right. Gotta keep things legal. Paper trails and all that."

She sighed, already feeling the headache forming at the back of her skull.

Ahead of them, Rhodey stood waiting, posture stiff, arms folded. Even in full military uniform, his stance made it abundantly clear that he was already regretting this trip. The firm set of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes behind his aviators—Andromeda knew that look well. It was the same one he wore whenever he was bracing himself for Tony’s particular brand of chaos.

"Try not to embarrass us," Andromeda murmured as they started toward the waiting officers.

Tony let out a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over his heart as if she had wounded him. "Me? Embarrass you? Perish the thought. "

She shot him a look that clearly said, Don’t push it.

The heat bore down on them like a living force, waves of warmth radiating off the cracked ground in shimmering mirages. Sweat gathered beneath her collar, but she forced herself to maintain a composed expression as they approached the group of military officials.

Rhodey stepped forward first, his voice crisp, authoritative. "General."

The man in question, a broad-shouldered officer with graying temples and a gaze that felt like it could cut through steel, extended a firm hand to Tony.

"Welcome, Mr. Stark," the General said, his tone polite, but unreadable. "We look forward to your weapons demonstration."

Tony accepted the handshake with the easy confidence of a man who had done this a thousand times before. His grip was firm but effortless, his smile just short of cocky. The perfect mix of charisma and arrogance.

"Thanks," he replied smoothly, flashing that signature grin. "I think you'll find today's show particularly... explosive. "

Andromeda resisted the overwhelming urge to elbow him in the ribs.

She remained silent, offering only a polite incline of her head in acknowledgment. This wasn’t her show. Not yet, anyway. She was here to observe, to ensure that nothing spiraled beyond control.

Still, even as she followed them toward the waiting convoy of armored vehicles, a feeling curled at the edge of her awareness—a whisper of unease, a prickling at the back of her mind.

The desert stretched endlessly around them, vast and empty. But Andromeda couldn't shake the sensation that they were being watched.

They climbed into the vehicles, the thick metal doors sealing with a weighted thunk.

Tony drummed his fingers idly against the window, his gaze fixed on the endless dunes beyond. The rhythmic tapping was the only sound breaking the silence.

And then came the demonstration.

Andromeda had watched Tony give a hundred of these presentations, each one a carefully crafted performance, refined over years of effortless charm and calculated spectacle. She had seen him captivate billionaires in glossy boardrooms, disarm senators with smooth-talking bravado, and command the attention of entire press conferences with little more than a raised eyebrow and a well-timed smirk. But here—out in the unforgiving heat of the Afghan desert, surrounded by men who had spent their lives waging wars instead of debating them—it felt different.

"Is it better to be feared or respected?" Tony’s voice rang out across the arid expanse, cutting through the still air like a blade, his tone laced with the same casual arrogance he carried into every room. It was a game to him, a stage performance where he was both the magician and the showman, turning destruction into something dazzling. "I say, is it too much to ask for both?"

Andromeda folded her arms, shifting her weight against the hot metal of the Humvee as she watched him work the crowd. He moved with effortless ease, like he was selling them a high-tech sports car rather than a weapon designed to annihilate targets with surgical precision.

"With that in mind, I humbly present the crown jewel of Stark Industries’ Freedom Line."

She barely needed to listen to the specifications. The Jericho missile was Stark Industries' newest masterpiece, the kind of weapon that made generals lean forward in their seats and defense contractors salivate at the sheer potential for devastation. A single payload could carve an entire mountainside into dust, its concussive force shattering everything in its wake. A full-scale deployment? Andromeda didn’t want to dwell on the consequences. She had run the numbers herself, traced the blast radii across theoretical maps, seen the simulations of how easily it could turn warzones into graveyards.

The missile launched, streaking into the sky with a whistling ascent before splitting apart midair. A fraction of a second later, the desert was swallowed in fire. The shockwave tore through the sand, sending ripples across the dunes, rattling the bones of every man standing too close. Even with her feet firmly planted, Andromeda felt the impact in her chest, a force that pressed against her ribs like an unseen hand.

The assembled officers murmured amongst themselves, some exchanging glances of approval, others simply nodding, their expressions unreadable behind the reflective glare of their aviators. They weren’t here to be impressed by showmanship alone. They were here to witness power, and Tony had just given them an unforgettable demonstration.

Tony turned back to the group, his smirk easy, his demeanor unchanged despite the raw destruction still lingering in the air behind him.

"For your consideration—the Jericho."

Then, as if he hadn’t just unleashed a force capable of wiping entire battalions off the map, he popped open a cooler and pulled out a bottle of scotch, the ice clinking softly against the glass as he raised it in a toast.

"I’ll be throwing one of these in with every purchase of five hundred million or more," he quipped, lifting the bottle with a grin that belonged more at a gala than on a military test site. "To peace!"

Andromeda exhaled slowly through her nose, barely resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She had learned long ago that picking battles with Tony was an exercise in futility, but this—this brand of reckless, flippant detachment—was the kind of thing that made Pepper drain an entire bottle of wine at the end of the day.

Beside her, Rhodey was rigid, the tight set of his jaw betraying his frustration. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His disapproval was a silent force, heavy between them.

The officers chuckled—some genuine, some polite, some barely more than a scoff. But Andromeda had spent enough time in rooms full of powerful men to recognize the unspoken calculations happening behind their eyes. They weren’t laughing with him. They were measuring him, weighing his charm against the sheer force of the weapons he created. Tony could crack all the jokes he wanted—they didn’t respect humor. They respected power. And today, Tony Stark had just proven beyond doubt that he held it in spades.

Then came the ringing of a phone. Tony pulled it from his pocket, glancing down at the screen, and Andromeda caught the subtle shift in his expression. The smug edge softened just a fraction, his gaze flickering with something close to familiarity.

"Obie," he greeted, tilting the screen toward himself as he answered. "What are you doing up?"

Obadiah Stane’s face filled the display, all warm smiles and easy charisma, the very image of the corporate father figure he had long pretended to be.

"I couldn’t sleep till I found out how it went," Stane said, his voice carrying the smooth, practiced affection of a man who knew exactly how to play his part. "How’d it go?"

Tony smirked, already half in the Humvee. "It went great. Looks like it’s gonna be an early Christmas."

"Hey! Way to go, my boy!" Obadiah’s enthusiasm rang through the line, dripping with the kind of praise that always made Tony lean into his own ego. "I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

Tony, ever the playboy, took a lazy sip of his drink, leaning back as if he hadn’t just sold the military their next favorite weapon. "Why aren’t you wearing those pajamas I got you?"

Obadiah chuckled, the sound rich and amused. "Good night, Tony."

The call ended. The phone slid back into Tony’s pocket.

Rhodey approached, looking unimpressed as usual. “Hey, Tony.”

  Tony barely spared him a glance as he settled into the passenger seat, tipping his sunglasses down just enough to flash Rhodey an exaggerated grin.

“I’m sorry, this is the ‘fun-vee.’ The ‘hum-drum-vee’ is back there.”

Rhodey gave him a long-suffering look, arms crossed over his chest. “Nice job.”

“See you back at base.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes but climbed in after him, pulling the door shut behind her as the convoy lurched into motion. The air inside the Humvee was thick—dust, scorched metal, and the faint, oily bite of gun lubricant clinging to every surface. It wasn’t her first time in military transport, and she doubted it would be her last.

Across from her, Tony popped the cap off his drink, taking a casual sip like he hadn’t just sold the world’s most advanced missile system with a joke and a toast. She folded her arms, leaning back against the scuffed vinyl seat as the Humvee jolted forward, spitting up a fresh cloud of grit behind them.

The tension hadn’t left her spine. It clung there, an invisible weight she hadn’t been able to shake since they’d landed. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the way the officers had looked at Tony—not with respect, but with something colder. Calculating.

Or maybe it was the gnawing fact that she hated watching Stark Industries so deeply entangled in the machinery of war.

“Well, that was a show,” she muttered, breaking the brittle silence. “You planning an encore back at base, or was that enough grandstanding for one day?”

Tony smirked, tipping his bottle toward her in mock salute. “Come on, you gotta admit—it was a hell of a presentation.”

“You mean a glorified sales pitch with pyrotechnics,” she shot back, her tone as dry as the desert outside.

“And it worked,” he countered, unbothered. “The military loves a little spectacle.”

She shook her head, exhaling sharply. “You really don’t get how much they pay attention to the way you carry yourself out here, do you?”

Tony scoffed, lounging back like the desert wasn’t suffocating them alive inside the sweltering vehicle. “They already know who I am.”

“Exactly,” she said, voice tightening. “You’re Tony Stark. Billionaire genius. Weapons king. Ever stop to think about how much weight your words carry? How easy it is for someone to twist them into something you didn’t intend?”

Tony waved her off like she was overreacting. “Relax, Andy. This isn’t some political minefield. It’s business.”

She bit back the retort clawing at the back of her throat. You think everything is just business. Instead, she crossed her arms tighter, jaw clenched until it ached.

The rest of the ride stretched in uneasy quiet, the hum of tires chewing over dirt the only constant, punctuated now and then by bursts of static from the convoy’s lead vehicle. The heat pressed in, turning the Humvee into a rolling oven. Tony didn’t notice—or, more likely, didn’t care—sprawled across his seat like this was Malibu, not a war zone.

Andromeda, though, couldn’t ignore the knot in her gut. The air was too still, the vast stretch of desert outside too quiet. Wrong, in a way she couldn’t quite name but couldn’t shake either.

Tony, oblivious as ever, filled the silence, turning his attention to the soldiers crammed into the Humvee with them.

“I feel like you’re driving me to a court-martial,” he joked, flashing that lazy grin. “This is crazy. What did I do? I feel like you’re gonna pull over and snuff me. What, you’re not allowed to talk? Hey, Forrest!”

One of the soldiers glanced his way, hesitant but grinning. “We can talk, sir.”

“Oh, I see. So it’s personal?”

“No, sir,” the driver—Andromeda noted with mild satisfaction that she was the only woman in the vehicle—answered without taking her eyes off the road. “You intimidate them.”

Tony blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Good God, you’re a woman. I… honestly wouldn’t have called that. I mean, I’d apologize, but isn’t that the point? I thought of you as a soldier first.”

The airman rolled her eyes but allowed herself a faint, begrudging smirk. “I’m an airman, sir.”

Tony grinned wider, undeterred. “Well, you have, actually, excellent bone structure. I’m kind of having a hard time not looking at you now. Is that weird?”

The soldiers chuckled, the tension in the Humvee loosening a fraction. Even in the middle of nowhere, Tony could still pull a laugh from a crowd. It was a gift—or a curse, depending on the day.

Andromeda, arms crossed, stared at him over the rim of her patience. “Really? You’re hitting on the driver now?”

Tony shrugged, all faux innocence. “What? I have a gift for making people feel appreciated.”

“That’s not what I’d call it,” she muttered, leaning back harder against the vibrating seat, fighting the burn of exhaustion clawing up her spine.

One of the soldiers inched forward, curiosity breaking through the haze of heat and boredom. “Sir, I have a question.”

Tony perked up, always game for attention. “Yes, please. Always open for questions.”

“Is it true you went twelve for twelve with last year’s Maxim cover models?”

Andromeda groaned audibly, pinching the bridge of her nose. This again.

Tony, however, looked downright pleased with himself. “That is an excellent question. Technically, yes and no. March and I had a scheduling conflict, but—fortunately—the Christmas cover was twins.”

Laughter broke out, loud and easy, the kind of laugh that filled the cramped, metal cage with fleeting warmth. Even Andromeda couldn’t help the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, despite herself.

Then another soldier—Jimmy, she thought his name was—lifted a hesitant hand, the gesture awkward in the cramped space.

Tony snorted. “You’re kidding me with the hand, right? Go on.”

“Is it cool if I take a picture with you?”

Tony spread his arms wide, grinning like a showman. “Yes. It’s very cool.”

Jimmy fumbled for his camera, handing it to the soldier in the front seat. His excitement was palpable, practically vibrating in the tight space.

“I don’t want to see this on your MySpace page,” Tony warned, flashing a grin as Jimmy threw up a peace sign beside him. “Please, no gang signs. No, wait, throw it up. I’m kidding. Yeah, peace. I love peace. I’d be out of a job with peace.”

The soldiers laughed, the driver shaking her head as Jimmy nudged her. “Come on. Hurry up. Just click it. Don’t change any settings. Just click it.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes, already exhausted by the showmanship, the bravado, the absurdity of all of it. She was just about to say as much when—

BOOM.

The world ruptured.

The blast hit like a sledgehammer, a deafening eruption of fire and metal that split the desert wide open. The Humvee jolted violently, Andromeda’s body slamming forward, the seatbelt snapping hard across her chest as the vehicle fishtailed, tires shrieking against the sand. The frame groaned, metal protesting under the force, the air thick with smoke, sand, and the acrid tang of burning fuel.

Then came the gunfire.

A brutal hailstorm of bullets ripped through the convoy with terrifying precision, the sharp crack-crack-crack of automatic fire echoing off the rock. Each impact punched through steel like it was paper, the brutal ping of rounds tearing into their armor filling the cabin with a horrific, metallic symphony.

“Shit!” Andromeda gasped, fingers scrabbling for anything solid as her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might crack her ribs from the inside out.

“What the hell is going on?!” Tony’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp, ragged, edged with something she’d never heard from him before—pure, unfiltered fear.

“Contact left!” the female soldier barked from the wheel, white-knuckling the controls as the Humvee lurched, swerving desperately as another explosion erupted ahead. A plume of sand and fire roared skyward, turning the air to choking smoke.

Andromeda barely had time to register it before the driver flung the door open and lunged out, rifle raised.

She never stood a chance.

A single, vicious gunshot cracked the air.

The woman crumpled mid-motion, folding in on herself before collapsing into the sand like a marionette with its strings cut.

“Shit!” Andromeda’s breath hitched, a jagged, broken thing tearing from her throat. Panic sliced through her chest like a blade. Her lungs seized, her vision tunneled, and for a terrifying second, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

This isn’t real.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
This isn’t—

“Jimmy, stay with Stark!”

The shouted order shattered the spiral, snapping her back to the now with brutal clarity. The soldier in the front seat vaulted out, leaving them behind as the gunfire intensified, a relentless, teeth-rattling barrage pounding the convoy.

Jimmy turned, his eyes wide, sweat streaking through the dirt on his face, his knuckles bone-white around his rifle. “Stay down!” He shoved Tony lower into the seat, his voice fraying at the edges.

“Yeah, okay, okay—” Tony stammered, but his body was coiled tight, locked in a futile battle between fight and flight. Andromeda saw it—saw the part of him desperate to act, to fix, to do something, anything.

The Humvee rocked again, the metal screaming beneath them as another soldier bailed out into the storm of bullets.

Another shot.
Another body thudding into the sand.

“Son of a bitch!” Jimmy hissed, adjusting his grip on his rifle, his breaths coming too fast, too shallow.

Andromeda’s hands were shaking. She never shook. Not in boardrooms. Not in labs. But this—this wasn’t a meeting gone wrong. This wasn’t Tony mouthing off in front of a senator.

This was war. And they were caught dead center.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! Give me a gun!” Tony snapped, grabbing at Jimmy, his voice rising, fraying, his bravado stripped bare and replaced with naked desperation.

Jimmy’s jaw clenched, panic flickering across his face like a spark catching tinder. “Stay here!” he barked, shoving Tony back hard.

Then he was gone.

Andromeda barely had time to react before another barrage of gunfire ripped through the Humvee, bullets punching through reinforced steel like it was nothing. The windows shattered, a brutal spray of glass slicing through the cabin. A searing line of pain scored across Andromeda’s cheek, hot blood welling fast, but it barely registered.

Not with the rest of the world collapsing around her.

Everything blurred—the roar of gunfire, the suffocating plumes of sand, the stench of metal and smoke. None of it mattered. Not when the scene outside narrowed to one brutal, unrelenting point.

Jimmy.

Sprawled in the sand.

Motionless.

Blood pooled thick beneath him, sinking into the dirt, spreading in dark rivers that glowed black in the harsh desert sun. His eyes stared blankly at nothing, mouth frozen in a silent breath he would never take again. His fingers—the same ones that once ruffled her hair, tapped rhythms on dashboards, made her laugh when no one else could—lay twisted at impossible angles.

Her breath caught—or more like locked—her lungs refusing to draw air, as if the world itself had clenched its fist around her chest. The ringing in her ears rose to a deafening, shrill wail, drowning out the gunfire, the shouts, even the pounding of her heart as it slammed against her ribs, wild and out of rhythm.

This couldn’t be real.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Jimmy couldn’t be—

“Oh my God.”

The words spilled from her lips in a hoarse, broken whisper, shredded by the chaos swallowing them whole.

Her chest heaved. Her body shook. Panic coiled up her spine, cold and relentless, hollowing her out from the inside until she couldn’t feel her fingers, couldn’t ground herself. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but sit there, frozen, drowning inside her own skin.

She wanted to scream, to break free of the choking haze, to fix this—undo it—but her body wouldn’t listen.

Then—hands. Warm. Solid. Anchoring.

They grabbed her face, forced her to look away, dragged her out of the nightmare and into something equally brutal but more immediate.

“Andromeda!”

Tony’s voice. Rough. Frantic. Desperate in a way she had never heard before.

“Dad, I’m scared!”

The word tore from her like a sob, cracked and raw, and it shattered something between them.

Dad.

Tony froze. It hit him like a sucker punch, hollowing him out in a way the gunfire never could.

Dad.

She had never called him that. Not in eighteen years. Not once.

It had always been Tony. Their bond had lived in the spaces between words, in long nights in the workshop, in shared stubbornness and quiet glances that said everything they never did.

But now—now her voice was small and breaking, her eyes wide and glassy, streaked with tears and blood, her whole body trembling like it might shatter to pieces. And she had called him Dad.

Tony swallowed hard, shoving the weight of that down, burying it deep where it couldn’t slow him.

“I know, kid. I know,” he breathed, forcing his voice steady. “But you have to listen to me, okay? Right now. Exactly what I say.”

A bullet slammed into the Humvee, rattling through the metal like a hammer blow, sending shrapnel spinning through the cabin. The gunfire closed in, the roar of it vibrating through the steel floor, bleeding into Andromeda’s bones until it felt like the world itself was screaming.

She clung to Tony, fists twisted into his jacket with desperate strength, like letting go would mean falling into the endless, sucking chaos beyond the walls. She could barely breathe past the suffocating heat, the metallic bite of gunpowder thick on her tongue.

Tony didn’t hesitate.

He shoved her down hard, his voice cutting through the haze like a whip crack. “Stay down!”

She hit the floor with brutal force, the unforgiving metal slamming into her back, knocking the air from her lungs in a ragged, gasping choke. Pain exploded in her ribs, bright and searing, but it was nothing compared to the crushing panic clawing through her chest.

A whimper clawed its way from her throat, raw and small and humiliating. She hated the sound of it. Hated that she couldn’t stop it.

And then—warmth.

Tony threw his body over hers, shielding her completely. His weight pressed her down, anchoring her, holding her in place like he could physically keep the world from falling apart. His pulse pounded through his skin, fast and frantic, his breath harsh against her hair as the chaos raged outside. She could feel the tight tremor in his muscles, the adrenaline crashing through him like wildfire, and she knew—it wasn’t for himself. He didn’t care about the bullets. Didn’t care about the explosions. All he cared about was her.

And then it happened.

The scream of an incoming shell split the air, a pitch so high and sharp it sliced straight through the pounding in her skull.

Tony’s body tensed.

“Oh, shit.”

His head snapped up, eyes locking on the missile as it streaked toward them, gleaming in the harsh sun, the Stark Industries logo painted clean and perfect across the side.

His weapons.
His mistake.

And then—impact.

The world shattered.

The explosion ripped through the Humvee with a force that defied comprehension, tearing the vehicle apart around them, swallowing everything in white-hot fire and deafening pressure. One second, Tony was there—bracing her, holding her, throwing every last ounce of himself between her and the inferno.

The next—he was gone.

Heat and force slammed into Andromeda, lifting her off the floor, hurling her through the air like a ragdoll. For a fraction of a second, she was weightless, suspended between life and death, the world reduced to blinding white and screaming noise. Then the desert rushed up to meet her in a brutal, bone-snapping collision.

Pain detonated through her body.

Her ribs cracked under the impact, a flare of agony blooming beneath her skin. Her wrist folded wrong, the sickening crunch lost beneath the static in her ears. Something sharp pierced her side, biting deep, dragging through flesh and muscle like a blade—shrapnel.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Her lungs locked tight, her body frozen in a vice of trauma and shock. The world spun around her, a disorienting blur of blood, sand, and smoke, her vision flickering in and out, flickering between blinding light and suffocating darkness. The high-pitched ringing in her ears was relentless, drowning out everything else until it became all she could hear.

And then—through the noise.

A voice.

“Andy? ANDY!”

Tony.

She tried to move. To speak. To let him know she was still there. But her body was dead weight, hollow and heavy, useless. Her fingers twitched, barely a breath of movement, and even that sent fresh waves of agony burning through her nerves, so bright and sharp it stole her breath.

Hands found her—strong, shaking, desperate.

Tony.

He was there—his touch frantic, clumsy, desperate—as he dragged her against him, cradling her like he could hold her together with nothing but his arms, as if his body alone could seal the gaping wound tearing her open. His hands pressed harder against her side, fingers slick with blood—her blood—hot and thick, seeping fast through his grip, through his bones, through both of them.

“Stay with me, kid.”

His voice cracked, rasping and raw, breaking on the edges of words he couldn’t control. He was trying to sound calm. She could feel it in the forced steadiness of his grip, the way his breath stuttered through clenched teeth. But she heard it anyway—the terror bleeding through every syllable, clawing at the back of his throat, unraveling him thread by thread.

“No, no, no—Andromeda, keep your eyes open. Look at me.”

She tried. God, she tried. But the world was tilting, slipping sideways and distant, cold and heavy, dragging her down no matter how hard she fought to hold on. Her eyelids fluttered against the pull, weak and slow, her body useless, hollowed out from the inside.

His hand cupped her face, shaking fingers brushing her cheek, smearing blood—her blood—across her skin. His touch was feather-light, trembling, like he was afraid she might shatter beneath it. She could barely feel it anymore. She could barely feel anything.

There was blood everywhere. Too much.

She was bleeding out.

“Dad…”

The word barely left her lips, nothing more than a breath, a ghost of sound. But it was enough.

She saw it wreck him.

Right there. In his eyes. In the way his breath hitched, sharp and ragged, like she’d punched the air from his lungs.

His face twisted—anguish, fury, helplessness all colliding, tearing him apart. “I got you, baby, I got you.”

Baby.

She hadn’t heard him call her that in years. Not since she was small enough to fit against his chest, not since she’d stopped letting him say it, too stubborn, too proud, too much her father’s daughter to admit she still needed him.

But now she wasn’t fine. She was dying.

And Tony Stark—the man who could build anything, fix anything—didn’t have a goddamn solution.

His hands shook as he pressed harder against the wound, fighting a battle he couldn’t win. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just breathe, okay? Just keep looking at me.”

A ragged, strangled sound broke from her throat—more whimper than word. “Hurts.”

Tony’s jaw clenched hard, his eyes burning wild, feral. He knew. Of course, he knew. But he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

“I know, sweetheart.” His voice cracked again, barely a whisper now. “I know.”

She sucked in a shallow, rattling breath, every inch of her body screaming. She had never seen him like this. Not once. Not when deals fell apart. Not when boardrooms turned on him. Not even when they fought their ugliest fights.

Tony Stark was always in control. Always the one with the plan, the escape, the joke that made it all okay.

But now?

Now he looked like a man breaking. A man about to lose everything.

Her father. Her dad.

The words slipped out before she could stop them, quiet, trembling, too small for the roar of war crashing around them.

“Don’t leave me.”

Tony’s breath hitched, sharp and gutting. His face—his whole damn soul—fractured under the weight of it.

Then his grip tightened around her.

“Not a chance.”

It was the last thing she heard before the dark swallowed her whole.

The last thing she saw was his face—terrified, furious, desperate.

And then—nothing.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Pain dragged her back into herself like an anchor, tearing her from the depths of nothingness with vicious, blinding force. It radiated from everywhere—her back, her side, her wrist—but deeper too, more insidious, like every nerve had been peeled open and left screaming in the dark. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. Her throat was sandpaper, her mouth dry as bone, her voice caught somewhere behind her ribs.

Panic surged sharp and suffocating, slamming into her harder than the pain. She tried to shift, but her arms refused to answer. Her legs—dead weight. Heavy. Numb. Wrong in a way that made her stomach twist violently.

Something pressed against her spine. Sharp. Invasive. Moving.

A strangled, broken sound clawed up from her throat—half gasp, half sob.

"She's awake," said a voice from somewhere just behind her left shoulder. Low. Accented. Calm, but not indifferent.

Hands continued moving against her back, nimble and deliberate, sending fresh waves of fire crashing through her body. Metal scraped bone—an obscene, grinding sensation that made her stomach lurch. She wanted to scream. Couldn't. Only a whimper escaped.

"Shh. Don't move," the voice said again, firmer this time. "You're safe. My name is Yinsen. I'm a doctor."

She didn't know that name. Didn't know him. But there was no time for suspicion—only pain. And his voice, however unfamiliar, was steady. Grounding.

"Stay still, Andromeda," Yinsen added, threading her name through the air with a careful kind of gentleness, like he already knew how close she was to shattering. "You'll make it worse if you move."

Stay still. She had no other choice. Her body was a prison—limbs locked, skin trembling, breath scraping ragged through her throat as her cheek pressed into the cold, grit-rough stone.

"W-what..." Her voice cracked, little more than a rasp. "What's... happening?"

"You have shrapnel near your spine," Yinsen said without pause, his hands still moving, still working. "It's pressing on nerves. I have to remove it."

Another wrench. Another jagged pull from inside her. Pain tore through her like lightning down wet wire and she screamed—a raw, broken sound ripped from the very bottom of her lungs.

"It's almost over," he murmured, though the words barely made it past the screaming in her head, past the suffocating fog that wrapped around her ribs and squeezed.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Only Tony surfaced in the chaos.

"Dad..." she rasped, fingers twitching uselessly against the dirt. "Where is—?"

"He's alive," Yinsen answered, cutting her off gently, pressing something sharp and wet against her ribs. Alcohol. It seared through her side like a brand and stole what little air she had left. The scream she bit back still forced its way out—splintered and hoarse.

"Unconscious. But alive. You both nearly died."

Her chest hitched. Useless, shallow gasps. She was shaking now—not from the cold, but from the terror bleeding out of her bones. The kind that made the edges of the world feel too close.

"It... hurts," she whispered, convulsing again as another piece of shrapnel tore free from her side. The pain wasn't something she could rise above anymore. It was her entire world.

"I know." Yinsen's voice softened. Not pitying. Just true. "There is no anesthesia. I cannot stop."

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, cutting paths through blood and grime as her nails gouged into the dirt. Her jaw throbbed with the effort of not screaming, of holding herself together in the only way she could. Every tug, every grind of metal, sent white-hot agony shrieking down her spine, detonating along every nerve like barbed lightning.

Her breath stuttered. Her body bucked. And still, the blackness wouldn't take her.

"I—can't—" The words crumbled on a sob, hopeless and gutted.

"You can." Yinsen didn't raise his voice. Didn't harden. But there was steel beneath the softness. "You must."

Another shard ripped loose. Another scream—high, wrecked, strangled. But the darkness didn't come. Pain kept her tethered, dragging her back every time she tried to flee.

Then something changed.

A bolt of fire surged from the base of her spine, arcing down her legs. Or it should have.

But there was nothing. No reaction. No pain. No heat. Just hollow absence.

The fire still roared through her back, but her legs were—

Gone.

Not physically. She knew they were there. But she couldn't feel them. Couldn't find them.

Her panic surged anew, sharp as a blade beneath her ribs. She gasped, tried to twist, tried to force sensation into the void where her body should have been, but nothing answered.

"Yinsen—" Her voice cracked, splintered with rising horror. "I—I can't feel—my legs—"

The surgeon's hands stilled.

Only for a breath.

But it was enough.

She didn't need him to speak. She felt it in the way the air shifted, in the pause that cut through his composure like a fracture in glass.

When he did speak, his voice was quieter than before, laced with something that ached.

"I know," Yinsen said. "The shrapnel was tangled in the nerves. Some of it... I had to cut away."

The words hit harder than any explosion. They caved something inside her that she hadn't realized was still whole.

She sucked in a breath that didn't reach her lungs. It stayed trapped in her throat, thick and trembling, drowning her as the heat of the cave pressed down from all sides. The pain hadn't left. But now it was grief, too. And loss. A silence that screamed louder than anything Yinsen could say.

No. No, no, no. Her mind rebelled against it, against the suffocating weight of those words and everything they meant, but the darkness was already pressing in, already curling around the edges of her vision, threatening to pull her under.

"No," she rasped, but it came out strangled, a ghost of a word lost to the stifling dark. She couldn't feel her legs. She couldn't feel them. Yinsen's hand pressed against her shoulder, grounding her as much as it restrained her, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered because everything she had fought to hold onto was slipping through her fingers. 

"It is not complete paralysis," he said, and though his voice was steady, there was something in it—an apology he wasn't saying aloud. "You can still feel pain, yes?" 

Pain. That was all there was. Andromeda bit down hard, trying to focus on that, but even the pain felt wrong, detached from the rest of her body, like it belonged to someone else. Her legs weren't gone, but they weren't hers anymore either. They felt distant, heavy, hollow, almost... alien. A ragged sob tore free from her throat, her body convulsing around it as another jagged shard was pulled free, but the agony of the wound barely registered beneath the deeper, more suffocating terror stealing her breath.

This wasn't supposed to happen. This was supposed to be temporary, a nightmare she'd survive, escape, leave behind her. She just had to hold on, just survive, and then she could go home, back to the clean, cold sterility of her life before. Except now, she might not walk away at all. Her stomach turned violently at the thought, bile burning the back of her throat as her vision blurred. She forced her head to turn, muscles screaming in protest, desperate to see something, anything that might anchor her. She needed to see him. She needed to see—

Tony.

He lay a few feet away, barely visible in the flickering yellow light of the cave, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, his face pale beneath the grime and blood. His shirt was torn, stained dark with dried blood, and then she saw it—a hole. A crude dressing barely covered the wound, wires snaking from his sternum to a battery on the ground beside him, humming faintly in the thick, stifling dark. Her heart seized as she realized the truth—he wasn't just injured. He was being kept alive by that machine. She tried to reach for him, but her arm barely lifted, the motion sending another lance of pain down her spine that wrung a strangled cry from her throat.

"Andromeda, you cannot move yet," Yinsen warned, and though his voice was calm, she heard the strain underneath it, the exhaustion, the grimness he tried to hide. She blinked hard, forcing her vision to focus through the blur. 

"What did they do to him?" she rasped, her voice breaking on the words. Yinsen's hands hesitated again, his breath catching before he spoke. 

"He was dying," he said simply, like that explained everything. But it didn't. It couldn't. Not when she could see the wire, the battery, the fragile thread keeping him alive.

Her stomach clenched tighter, the pounding of her pulse drowning everything else out as the weight of Yinsen's words pressed down like a closing vice. "What do you mean?" she forced out, the question tearing itself free even as it lodged sharp and jagged in her throat. Yinsen exhaled slowly, like the words were dragging the strength from him as much as from her, and when they finally came, they shattered her carefully held illusions into pieces too sharp to gather back. 

"The shrapnel is still in his chest," he said. "Too deep. I could not remove it. So I built a device... to keep it from reaching his heart." His words landed hard, landing inside her like shrapnel of their own, suffocating the last fragile sliver of breath she had left. She swallowed thickly, her gaze dragging back to Tony's unconscious form lying only feet away, his body so still, so unlike the man she knew. Still inside him. The words echoed hollow and cruel in her skull, gnawing at her until they were all she could hear.

Her father—her dad—was lying there with a ticking death sentence lodged in his chest, his life dependent on a wire and a car battery. She had never seen him like this. She had never seen Tony Stark helpless, never seen him broken, never seen him laid out like a corpse still breathing. He was always the smartest man in the room, the one with the plan, the one who laughed at danger like it was just another toy to take apart. But this... this wasn't a game. And for the first time in her life, she was afraid for him in a way she didn't know how to process.

Tears burned hot at the edges of her vision as panic wound its way around her lungs, tighter and tighter, suffocating any breath she tried to pull. Yinsen's voice came again, quieter now, pulling at the fraying edges of her focus. 

"You need to rest," he said, the words soft but weighted. "You are not out of danger yet." She wanted to argue, wanted to scream, wanted to fight him on it, but her body betrayed her again, already folding under the weight of exhaustion and shock, her limbs trembling as darkness tugged her back under. The last thing she saw was Tony's face, slack and still and too pale, the faint flicker of light bouncing off the wire embedded in his chest like some cruel joke, and then the world gave way, collapsing into blackness.

The next time Andromeda surfaced, it was to warmth. Not the suffocating, dry heat of the desert or the burning sting of open wounds, but something gentler, steady, cradling her scalp as soft fingers threaded carefully through her hair. She stayed still, hovering in that narrow, fragile space between dreams and the waking world, letting herself drift there as long as she could. 

The pain was still there, dull and distant now, like the embers of a fire that had once burned too hot. Her entire body ached, her muscles heavy, every breath dragging against ribs that felt bruised inside and out, but it was different. The sharp edge of agony had dulled, settling into something deeper, something that seeped into her bones and sat there, unmoving. She tried to shift, to move just enough to test her body, to see if it would listen this time. Her fingers twitched, stiff and clumsy, but they moved. Relief swept through her so fast and hard it left her dizzy, tears stinging her eyes before she could stop them.

But when she turned her focus lower, to her legs, nothing happened. Her stomach twisted into a knot as she willed them to move, to respond, to do something—just one toe, one flicker of motion, anything. Still nothing. Her throat clenched, panic clawing back up through her chest, but before it could drag her under again, the hand in her hair moved once more—soft, deliberate strokes through her tangled curls, grounding her in the present, tethering her to something familiar. 

She knew that touch. Her breath hitched as she forced her heavy eyelids open, blinking past the haze until the dim light of the cave sharpened at the edges of her vision. She was lying face down on a makeshift cot, her body propped at an angle with ragged padding beneath her, her breathing shallow as the ache seeped into every nerve ending. And beside her—Tony.

Her father sat next to her, exhaustion carved into every line of his face, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper than she had ever seen. The makeshift bandage across his chest was stark against his dirt-streaked skin, the faint glow of the car battery humming quietly beside him, casting eerie shadows against the rock. He looked awful. And yet, he was here. Alive. A broken sob tore from her throat before she could stop it, the sound raw, ugly, too loud in the stillness of the cave. Tony's head snapped up at the sound, his bloodshot eyes locking onto hers instantly, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then his lips pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile, his voice rough and frayed as he rasped, "Hey, kid."

It was him. It was Dad. The sound of his voice cracked something loose inside her, and before she could even stop herself, she was sobbing, her breath breaking apart as the tears spilled over, hot and messy and uncontrollable. 

"D-Dad..." The word fractured in the middle, laced not with sarcasm or exasperation, not like the hundreds of times she had thrown it at him with a roll of her eyes or a bite of humor, but raw and aching, stripped of all the armor she usually wrapped herself in. Tony flinched at the sound. Not from pain—but from that. From the way she said it. From the way she shattered beneath it. She saw it in the way his breath caught, in the way his face twisted as if her voice alone had punched the air from his lungs. Before she could fall any further, his hand was there, warm and trembling as it cupped her face, brushing damp curls back from her cheek. His fingers shook, but his touch was solid, grounding, and she leaned into it like it might hold her together.

"Yeah, kid," Tony murmured thickly, his voice cracking just enough to give him away. "I'm here."

Andromeda turned her face into his hand, the touch grounding her even as her body convulsed with silent sobs. Her fingers, clumsy and weak, curled into the coarse fabric of the cot, as if that alone might keep her tethered to something solid. She wanted to move, wanted to haul herself upright and bury herself in his arms like she used to when she was five and thought a scraped knee was the end of the world. But she couldn't. Her legs—God, her legs—her breathing hitched, a sob catching in her throat like a hook tearing through flesh.

"I c-can't—I can't move my legs."

Tony's breath left him in a sharp exhale, his fingers tensing against her temple for just a fraction of a second before he forced himself to loosen the grip, smoothing his touch as if pretending everything was fine might make it true.

"I know, sweetheart," he said, softer now, the words rasping like sandpaper. "Yinsen told me."

Andromeda sobbed harder, the truth crashing into her like the walls of the cave collapsing over her head, suffocating and inescapable. He knew. He hadn't said anything because there was nothing he could do. Because it wasn't something he could fix. Because it was real.

Her body shook against the cot, every breath jagged and fractured as she choked on the words that wouldn't come.

"What if—what if I never—"

She couldn't finish. The thought alone was too big, too monstrous, curling inside her chest until it felt like she might break apart under the weight of it. What if she never walked again? What if this was it? Trapped. Useless. A prisoner inside her own body.

Tony inhaled sharply through his nose, the sound harsh, almost violent, and when he spoke, his voice was steel.

"You will."

Like a promise. Like a vow.

She let out a hollow, bitter laugh, the sound breaking apart in her throat.

"You d-don't know that."

Tony's jaw clenched hard, his thumb brushing along the tears cutting lines through the dirt and blood on her cheek. His touch was unsteady, but his face was anything but. It was fierce, determined, the same look he wore when he stood before a room full of skeptics daring them to doubt him.

"I know," he said, voice low but unwavering. "Because you're my kid. And my kid doesn't give up."

That forced a strangled laugh from her, breathless, broken.

"That's r-rich, coming from you."

Tony huffed, the faintest flicker of worn amusement threading behind the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Yeah, well. Guess I've been a bad influence."

Andromeda pressed her face harder into the rough fabric, forcing herself to focus on the scrape of it against her skin, anything to distract from the pain radiating from every inch of her battered body. She forced the sobs down, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of his breath, the warmth of his hand still resting against her scalp.

"Where are we?" she croaked.

Tony let out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face, the weariness in every gesture almost more frightening than his words.

"Cave. Somewhere in God-knows-where Afghanistan. Yinsen says we're in the mountains, probably close to Gulmira."

Gulmira. The name twisted in her gut. Jesus.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to think through the haze, to process despite the way her thoughts kept slipping sideways beneath the weight of pain and fear.

"And—" She dragged in a breath, trembling as she pushed the words out past her shaking. "And the people who took us?"

Tony's expression darkened, his fingers stilling in her hair, the tension in his body bleeding into the space between them. He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter, dangerous.

"They call themselves the Ten Rings," he said. "Paramilitary. Extremists. And they want us to build them weapons."

The words hit her like a gut punch, settling over her like a block of ice wedged beneath her ribs.

Of course. Weapons.

She closed her eyes, the irony of it crashing down like a hammer. She had spent her entire life fighting this—fighting to prove she was more than Tony Stark's kid, more than the heir to a legacy built on machines of war, fighting to prove she could be something different, something better. And now? Now she was lying broken in a cave halfway around the world because those same weapons had been turned on her.

"They used our own weapons against us."

Tony let out a humorless laugh, brittle and sharp.

"Yeah. That was a fun wake-up call."

Her lashes were heavy with tears, her body trembling from exhaustion and fear and pain, and Tony—her dad—sat next to her looking like he wanted to break something, like if he could just punch the world hard enough, it would put itself back together again.

His fingers brushed over the side of her face, gentle despite the tension thrumming beneath his skin, a fragility she had never seen in him before.

"You scared the hell out of me, Andy."

Her throat closed around the breath she tried to take, the words stuck fast behind the knot in her chest.

"I—"

"I thought I lost you." His voice cracked, just enough that it split her open right alongside him. "You were bleeding out in my arms, and I—" He broke off, dragging a shaking hand over his mouth, pressing hard like he could hold the rest of the confession back, like if he said it out loud it might break him.

Andromeda's chest tightened painfully, the tears burning behind her lashes spilling over before she could stop them. She had scared him. The great Tony Stark. The man who laughed in the face of danger, who turned everything into a joke, who always, always found a way out—she had terrified him. And she didn't know what to do with that. She didn't know how to hold that version of him in her hands.

So she did the only thing she could.

She reached for him. Her fingers, clumsy and weak, brushed his wrist, fumbling until she managed to curl them around him, holding on as tight as her battered body would allow.

"I'm here," she whispered, the words breaking against the tears she couldn't stop.

Tony swallowed hard, his jaw clenching tight, the breath rattling in his chest like he was barely holding it together. Then, slowly, like he couldn't not, he turned his hand over and threaded his fingers through hers, squeezing gently but firmly, grounding them both.

"I know, kid," he rasped. "I know."

Footsteps echoed faintly through the hollow of the cave, accompanied by the soft shuffle of cloth. Andromeda barely had time to register it before Yinsen's voice broke through the thick fog of exhaustion.

"She's awake."

Tony didn't let go of her hand. His grip stayed, strong and steady, like he needed the contact as much as she did.

"Yeah," he said, voice raw from more than just disuse. "She is."

Yinsen knelt beside them, setting down a cloth bundle with quiet care. His face was as composed as always, but his eyes... his eyes held relief. Relief so fierce it nearly knocked her breathless again.

"Good," he murmured, rolling up his sleeves with clinical precision. "Let me see how bad the damage is."

Her throat tightened. The last time she'd been fully conscious around Yinsen, he'd been cutting into her back, pulling shrapnel from her body while she screamed herself hoarse into the dirt. The memory clawed its way up from the dark, sending a violent shudder down her spine.

Tony must have felt it, because his grip tightened instantly.

"He's not gonna hurt you, kid," he murmured, his voice low and steady in her ear, like a tether yanking her back from the edge. "He's here to help."

Yinsen caught her eye, his expression patient but unyielding.

"I need to check your wounds," he explained gently. "The infection risk is high. I must also see if there's been any improvement in nerve response."

Her stomach clenched. Nerve response. The words slashed across her already fragile hope, hollowing her out all over again. Nerve response meant: will I ever walk again? She nodded stiffly, the motion jerky and tight, the weight of it heavier than she could hold.

"Okay."

Tony exhaled through his nose, sharp but quiet, staying close, staying right there as Yinsen leaned in and began unwinding the crude bandages wrapped around her torso and back.

The moment the fabric peeled away, the raw air hit her exposed wounds, and a fresh wave of pain crashed through her, deep and searing, biting through flesh and down into bone. She gritted her teeth hard enough to make her jaw ache, her entire body locking down tight. Tony pressed his hand against her shoulder without hesitation, the silent promise in his touch anchoring her, even as her world spiraled out of control.

Yinsen worked with brisk efficiency, dabbing at the wounds with a cloth dampened in something that burned like hell. She barely noticed the sting. It was nothing compared to the fire screaming along her spine.

Then Yinsen did something unexpected.

He ran his fingers lightly down her back, ghosting along her damaged spine.

Andromeda sucked in a ragged breath. It wasn't pain—at least not the kind she expected—but something else. Dull. Distant. Like feeling through layers of fog. Numb and disconnected, but not nothing.

Yinsen nodded to himself, his voice murmuring low enough it barely cut through the roar in her ears.

"Good. Can you feel this?" Yinsen pressed a little harder, his touch firm against the tender curve of her lower back.

Andromeda swallowed hard, focusing past the fog of exhaustion and pain. There was something there. Not quite touch, not fully numb, but a dull, distant echo of feeling—muted, like hearing a voice underwater.

"Yes," she rasped.

Beside her, Tony's breath hitched. She heard it—sharp, caught halfway between disbelief and fragile hope.

Yinsen moved lower, pressing carefully along the line of nerves at the base of her spine. "And this?"

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to concentrate, to push through the haze of her battered body. The sensation was weaker here, more like pressure than actual feeling, like her body was struggling to remember what it was supposed to do. "Barely," she admitted, her voice rough, but steady.

Yinsen didn't look discouraged. In fact, his lips tugged into the barest flicker of something that almost resembled a smile. "That is a good sign."

Her chest tightened painfully. She couldn't help the question that slipped past her lips, small and aching. "Good how?"

Yinsen rewrapped her bandages with careful, methodical movements, his hands sure, his expression calm. "The nerves are damaged, yes. But not severed. There is still connection. That means, with time, and a great deal of effort... there is a chance for recovery."

She felt Tony exhale beside her, sharp and shaky, like he'd been holding his breath for hours.

"So..." Andromeda swallowed hard, the words catching in her throat. "I can walk again?" The hope in her voice made her want to recoil, like she was afraid to trust it, afraid to let it in.

Yinsen met her gaze without hesitation. "Yes," he said simply. "But it will take time. And it will not be easy."

The words cracked something open inside her. A sob or a laugh—she couldn't tell which—tore from her throat, her body trembling as the weight of it all crashed over her. Relief hit her like a tidal wave, too much, too fast, hot and dizzying as it swept through every aching inch of her.

Tony was staring at Yinsen like the man had handed him a lifeline he never expected. His voice came low and tight, threaded with something fierce, almost dangerous in its intensity. "You're sure?"

Yinsen nodded once, no hesitation. "The fact that she can feel anything at all is proof the nerves are still functional. Impaired, yes, but not beyond repair. With the right physical therapy, she has a chance."

A chance. That was all it was. But it was more than nothing. More than the black, hollow fear that had gripped her since the moment she realized she couldn't feel her legs. The sob that escaped her this time was definitely a sob, and she buried her face in the cot, gripping the rough fabric like it could hold her together.

Tony leaned in close, his hand sliding back into her hair, his thumb brushing over her temple with something unbearably soft. "See?" he murmured, the words thick with an emotion she'd never heard from him before. "Told you. My kid doesn't give up."

She let out another trembling breath, nodding into the mattress, the sound of her own breathing loud and uneven in her ears. "Yeah," she whispered, the word tasting like surrender and fight all at once. "Okay."

Yinsen placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, his grip warm, grounding. "You will walk again, Andromeda. But you will have to fight for it."

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 

The air inside the cave was suffocating, thick with the stale scent of damp earth, sweat, and something metallic—blood, rust, despair. The dim, flickering light from the battery-powered lamp cast grotesque shadows against the jagged stone walls, making the space feel smaller, like it was closing in on them. The faint hum of the generator in the corner provided the only sound beyond their ragged breaths, a constant, low vibration that did nothing to drown out the weight of silence.

Andromeda lay still, face down, her body aching in a way that went beyond pain. A hollow, gnawing exhaustion sat heavy in her bones, wrapping around her limbs like chains, keeping her pressed against the hard-packed dirt floor. Every nerve was raw, overworked, stretched thin. She could feel the deep, searing ache in her back, where Yinsen had carefully cut free the shards of metal threatening to end her life. The wound pulsed in time with her heartbeat, every throb a cruel reminder that she had barely survived.

Her wrist, wrapped hastily in rough, makeshift bandages, was too swollen to move. Her ribs ached with every shallow inhale, fractured and bruised beyond recognition from the blast. Every inch of her body was a battlefield.

It wasn’t the pain that made Andromeda tremble. It was everything else. The way Tony hadn’t let go of her hand since she’d woken up, his grip firm but trembling, as if afraid that loosening his hold might let the universe take her away. The way his fingers, usually so steady, shook when they brushed against hers—a phantom of control slipping from his grasp. The way his breath hitched every time he looked at her, eyes flickering with emotions he wouldn’t voice, as if he were trying to memorize every detail of her face before it was too late.

He was scared.

Andromeda wanted to tell him she was okay. That she would be okay. But the words refused to form, dying on her tongue before they could become a lie. The truth settled between them like a suffocating weight—they both knew better. Instead, she stayed silent, focusing on the warmth of his palm against hers, on the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing. For now, they were alive. And that had to be enough.

The moment was fragile, a glass thread stretched too thin. It snapped before she even had time to brace for it.

Footsteps echoed through the cave—heavy, deliberate, each grinding scrape of boots against stone sending a cold shiver down her spine. Andromeda’s body reacted before her mind caught up, flinching instinctively, her chest tightening as fear coiled around her ribs, sharp and suffocating, the kind that came from too many nights waiting for the inevitable. Beside her, Tony tensed, his fingers tightening around hers in a silent message—hold on.

The entrance darkened as shadows spilled inside, stretching long and crooked across the dirt floor like grasping hands. Yinsen barely had time to stand before they stormed in—soldiers, rifles slung casually over their shoulders, their movements confident, predatory, like men who owned the ground they walked on. Their leader stepped forward, his scarred jaw catching the dim light, his gaze sweeping over them with slow, calculating precision.

“She comes with us.”

The words were thick with accent, but there was no mistaking them. For a breathless second, Andromeda’s mind refused to process the command, refused to let the meaning sink in—but then it did, crashing into her with brutal clarity. Cold, visceral terror flooded her system, stealing the air from her lungs. This wasn’t fear. This was something deeper, something ancient and feral, the kind that rooted itself in the soul.

They were taking her.

Hands clamped down on her arms, rough and unyielding, and she barely registered the pull at first, her mind still staggering beneath the weight of exhaustion and injury. Then pain detonated through her body, so violent it sent fire lancing down her spine, her wounds tearing open beneath the brutal force. Flesh split. Stitches ripped. Her legs, limp and useless, dragged behind her, scraping across the dirt as the agony bloomed fresh and raw. She gasped—a short, ragged sound—before she bit it back, clenching her jaw so tight her skull ached. She wouldn’t scream. She refused. But a broken, guttural whimper still slipped free, betraying her.

And then Tony moved.

He lunged, pure instinct and fury propelling him forward, a snarl ripping from his throat that was all raw desperation and parental rage. “Let her go!” His body moved before logic could catch up, reckless and uncalculated, his entire world narrowing down to the hands on his daughter.

The guard didn’t even hesitate. A boot slammed into Tony’s ribs, the impact so vicious Andromeda swore she heard something crack. Tony collapsed with a strangled grunt, the sound ripped from his lungs as he hit the ground hard, curling inward, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come, every shallow inhale a war against the pain radiating through his chest.

“Dad!”

The word cracked from her throat, thick with panic, her voice breaking apart as she struggled against the hands pinning her. She fought—desperate, frantic—but her body wouldn’t obey, too battered, too broken, her limbs sluggish and weak. Helpless. The word slashed through her mind like a blade, leaving nothing but rage and desperation in its wake.

Tony tried again, his body trembling as he pushed against the dirt, but another boot pressed down hard against his sternum, forcing him back, crushing what little breath he had left. He coughed, his fists clenched uselessly against the floor, his muscles straining against his own failing strength. The silence that followed stretched unbearably long, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on her until the only sound was the rasp of Tony’s labored breathing.

One of the soldiers smirked, and something inside Andromeda snapped. Rage—white-hot and blinding—flooded her veins, surging past the pain, sharper than anything they’d inflicted. She didn’t think. She didn’t plan. She lashed out, her foot connecting hard with the shin of one of the men holding her. It wasn’t enough to break free, but it was enough to make him stumble, to make him hiss out a curse, his grip tightening in retaliation, fingers digging deep into her arms, bruising, punishing.

Tony reacted on instinct, thrashing against the hold pinning him down, a wild, feral snarl tearing from his throat. “You touch her again, and I swear to God—” But the soldier cut him off with a laugh, low and cruel, like none of this even mattered. Then came the fist—fast, brutal, merciless—driving into Tony’s jaw with a sickening crack that echoed off the stone walls, loud enough to make Andromeda’s stomach twist violently.

Her father’s body crumpled, his head snapping to the side, blood smeared across his lip as he sagged, swaying for a breathless second before collapsing completely, his shoulder hitting the ground with a thud that made something inside her fracture beyond repair. A scream tore from her throat before she even realized she was screaming, raw and ragged, splitting the air like a blade.

“STOP!”

She thrashed, panic and fury warring inside her, igniting every shredded nerve, her body shaking as she fought against the hands restraining her. It didn’t matter that her legs were useless, that she was outnumbered, overpowered, drowning in pain. She had to fight. She had to do something. Anything. But before she could land another desperate strike, another soldier stepped in, grabbing her chin in a punishing grip, his fingers like iron shackles, forcing her face up to meet his.

His face hovered inches from hers, impassive, cold, his expression unreadable, the calm of a man who had done this before, who knew exactly how to break someone without lifting his voice. “Stop fighting,” he said, his tone smooth as rusted iron, his grip tightening just enough to make her flinch, to remind her how little power she had.

Her breath hitched, her body locking up as the weight of the threat slammed into her like a punch to the gut. Her gaze flickered to Tony, crumpled and bloodied on the floor, struggling to breathe, every breath jagged, his body trembling. They had already won. They didn’t need to overpower her body—they had him. And that was enough. That was everything.

Andromeda swallowed hard, tears burning at the edges of her vision, rage and helplessness clawing at her throat, but she forced it down. She had to. If she didn’t, if she kept fighting, they would turn it on him. They would hurt him again. And she couldn’t risk that. She couldn’t lose him.

Her jaw clenched so tight it hurt, her whole body trembling with the effort of holding back the scream still stuck in her chest. But she forced herself to still, hating herself for it, for the way they made her choose between her pride and his safety.

The soldier’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Good girl.”

And just like that, they dragged her away. Her feet barely brushed the ground, her body limp between the hands hauling her forward, the roughness barely registering over the sting of torn flesh and the raw ache of everything they’d taken from her. None of it mattered. She didn’t feel it. She couldn’t. Because all she could see was Tony—his face twisted in helpless fury, his mouth forming her name, his hands shaking against the dirt as they pinned him down like an animal.

She screwed her eyes shut as the darkness swallowed her whole, his face burned into her mind, the last thing she saw.

he lost time. It bled away in slow, agonizing increments, slipping through her fingers like sand—gritty, weightless, impossible to grasp. Hours blurred into days, or maybe it was weeks. She wasn’t sure anymore. The world outside her prison had ceased to exist, swallowed whole by a never-ending cycle of pain, exhaustion, and something worse—something colder, something deeper. A hollowing.

It seeped into her bones, a quiet, insidious rot that whispered in the back of her mind, urging her to let go, to stop fighting, to surrender to the dark. She didn’t count the days anymore. Didn’t bother tracking how many times the iron door groaned open, spilling harsh, fluorescent light into the suffocating dark of her cell. She stopped trying to brace for it, stopped cataloging how many times she heard the shuffle of boots against stone before the world tilted again—before hands latched onto her, rough and unrelenting, before pain came crashing back in a suffocating wave that swallowed her whole.

She stopped counting how often she bit her lip until it bled, swallowing down the screams that ripped through her throat. How often she clenched her eyes shut so tight it hurt, gripping the last, fraying threads of herself with white-knuckled desperation, trying not to break.

Once, she had believed there had to be a limit. That pain had a ceiling. That the human body—fragile, breakable—would eventually give out, would shut down, disconnect, retreat into some distant, unreachable place where none of this could touch her. She had been wrong.

Pain had no ceiling. No threshold. It stretched endlessly, mercilessly, infinitely. It was a constant, a slow, festering rot burrowing beneath her skin, into her mind, into her soul, unmaking her, piece by piece, breath by breath, moment by moment. There was no end to it. No escape.

In the beginning, she had fought. Oh, how she had fought. She had sworn they wouldn’t break her. Had promised herself that she was stronger than them, than this. She had screamed, cursed, thrown herself at them with feral, unrelenting fury, even when her body refused to work, even when her legs remained nothing but dead weight beneath her. She had spat at them through split, swollen lips, gritted her teeth through the sharp, splintering agony of fractured ribs. Refused to cry. Refused to give them the satisfaction.

Refused to let them see the cracks.

But they had all the time in the world, and she—she was trapped inside a body that betrayed her with every breath. A body that could not fight back the way her mind wanted to. And slowly, methodically, they took everything from her. Her strength. Her voice. Her defiance. One by one, they peeled her apart until even her rage—her last armor, her last weapon—began to splinter beneath the weight of what they did to her.

They knew she couldn’t fight. They knew her legs wouldn’t obey, that her battered, starved body was nothing more than a vessel for their cruelty now. And they used that knowledge with precision, with calculation, with a sick, methodical patience that stripped her down to raw nerve endings and hollow breaths.

Andromeda stopped remembering what it felt like to stand. To move without pain. To exist without the constant, suffocating ache of violation and humiliation burning beneath her skin. The part of her that was Andromeda Stark—that was fire and fury, stubbornness and steel—grew quieter. Smaller. A flicker beneath the crushing dark.

But it wasn’t gone. Not yet. Somewhere beneath the bruises, beneath the filth and the blood and the numbness, that ember still smoldered. She didn’t know how long it would last, how many more times they could drag her through hell before it went out completely. But it was still there. And she clung to it with what little she had left.

Now, Andromeda didn’t even flinch when the door creaked open. The sound, once enough to send a bolt of ice-cold fear down her spine, had long since lost its power. It was just another part of the routine now, another step in the endless, suffocating cycle of suffering that had become her world. She didn’t react when their shadows spilled across the stone floor, stretching long and distorted in the flickering lamplight, reaching for her like clawed hands. She didn’t bother lifting her head when they seized her arms with bruising, practiced efficiency, dragging her up from the dirt like she was nothing more than a broken doll. Her body resisted only in the way dead weight did—limp, unresponsive, heavy—but there was no real fight left in her. Not anymore.

The dim glow from the overhead lamp barely reached where they dumped her, her battered form stretched out against the cold, packed earth. Shackles bit into her wrists, the rusted metal cruel against flesh rubbed raw from endless weeks—months?—of restraint. The skin there was permanently torn, so used to reopening that it no longer bled properly, just seeped dark, sluggish fluid that stained the dirt beneath her. Her arms hung heavy, exhaustion pressing down on her bones like lead, dull and unrelenting, so ingrained now that it felt like part of her marrow.

She heard them before she saw them. Boots scuffed against stone—slow, deliberate. Not the rushed shuffle of faceless guards come to collect and discard her. This was different. The pace was measured, purposeful, and her body registered it before her mind could catch up.

She didn’t move. Didn’t even try.

The steps halted beside her, and the air shifted, thickening, pressing in until it felt like the cave itself shrank to nothing but that moment. Something coiled low in her gut, instinctive, primal, but she forced it down. There was only one man who moved like this. Only one whose presence weighed on the room before he even spoke.

Raza.

A long, suffocating silence stretched between them. He didn’t touch her at first. He wanted her to feel him there, to know, to let the weight of his shadow sink into her bones before he broke it with words. This wasn’t about hurting her—not yet. Not physically. He was here to see. To gloat. To peel her apart from the inside.

His fingers brushed against her temple, the touch disturbingly light as they swept filthy strands of hair away from her face. Almost gentle. Almost tender. A mockery of care. Andromeda didn’t react. She didn’t have the strength to recoil or the pride left to pretend to fight him off. She just existed, her breath slow, shallow, detached.

There was a chuckle—a low, smooth exhale of amusement that slid against her skin like oil.
"You're still alive," Raza murmured, his words dripping with idle curiosity, as if her survival was an unexpected inconvenience, as if he had been waiting for her to finally rot away like the waste he considered her.

She kept her eyes shut. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Wouldn’t look at him.

He didn’t push her. Didn’t demand anything. His hand drifted away, fingers tapping idly against his knee, a slow, deliberate rhythm, calculated in its boredom. He wanted her to feel small beneath the stillness, beneath the silence he controlled like a knife to the throat.

"Your father is stubborn," he said finally, his tone edged with something almost resembling admiration, though it was laced with cruelty, sharpened to wound as much as it entertained him. "He refuses to work until you are returned to him."

He let the words settle between them, savoring the weight they carried, letting them soak into the silence like poison. He was watching her, she realized—not with expectation, but with curiosity, like she was some experiment under glass, something he was dissecting slowly, methodically, testing the limits of what was left inside her.

Then, with a slow, calculated shift of weight, he murmured, "It seems you are useful for something after all."

Something twisted deep in her chest, too faint to name, buried beneath exhaustion, resignation, and the relentless ache that had settled into her marrow. But it was there. Distant. Flickering. Tony was still fighting for her. They hadn’t broken that. They hadn’t taken it away.

Raza studied her reaction—or rather, the lack of one. His gaze, dark and dissecting, drifted over her face, lingering, searching for the cracks, for the weakness he could exploit. When she gave him nothing—not even the flicker of an eyelash, not the faintest muscle twitch—he hummed softly, the sound threaded with disappointment, an exhale laced in feigned regret, like a child bored with a broken toy.

"You do not beg for mercy," he observed, the words curling from his lips as if the idea intrigued him, as if he found her refusal to crack beneath him an unexpected puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. "You do not cry. You do not ask me for anything."

Another chuckle. Quieter this time. Almost contemplative.

"You are already gone, aren’t you?"

She didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t change her breathing, didn’t flinch, didn’t grant him the satisfaction of seeing even a flicker of response. And that, more than any scream she could have given him, seemed to please him. He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a whisper, brushing against the shell of her ear like the slow stroke of a blade against flesh.

"Your father is a smart man," he breathed, the words thick with mock affection. "He knows his place. And he will build what we want."

His fingers ghosted over the back of her skull, light, mocking, condescending. A touch that barely registered, but was meant to remind her how little control she had, how thoroughly they had stripped away everything that made her human.

"But you?" His tone shifted, the last shred of warmth bleeding away, leaving behind something hollow, sharp, and brittle, like the edge of a cracked blade. "You are already dead, aren’t you?"

Still nothing. No reaction. Not even a flicker of breath to give him purchase.

He exhaled a long, slow breath, something between amusement and frustration, before he finally straightened, brushing invisible dust from his hands in a gesture of bored dismissal, like she was no longer worth his time.

"They will take you back to the cave soon," he said, his tone almost indifferent now, like this was just another transaction. "He will see what is left of you. And he will know there is nothing left to save."

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

The return to the cave was not gentle. They carried her like cargo, one soldier gripping her beneath the arms while another hauled her legs, her body sagging between them like dead weight, her head lolling sideways until her cheek pressed into the coarse fabric of a uniform that stank of sweat and gunpowder. She didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch. The pain—once sharp, screaming, visceral—had dulled into background noise, an endless, suffocating hum she no longer registered beyond the edges of her fraying consciousness.

The cave’s cooler air brushed over her ravaged skin, but it brought no comfort. The stench of blood, sweat, and filth clung to her like a second skin, thick, sour, inescapable. She heard Yinsen’s voice somewhere distant, sharp and urgent, but the words were blurred, slipping past her like smoke.

And then—Tony.

“Put her down.”

His voice cut through the fog, sharp and raw, filled with something she couldn’t quite name. Not the cocky arrogance he wore like armor, not the brittle humor he used to hide the cracks. This was something else. Something stripped bare.

They didn’t listen.

Her body was dropped like garbage, hitting the ground with a dull, jarring thud. Her breath escaped in a ragged exhale, ribs screaming from the impact, but no sound followed. She didn’t have it in her. Not anymore.

The footsteps retreated. The soldiers left without a word, their laughter echoing down the stone corridor until it faded into silence so thick it pressed against her ears.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rustle of movement. Then—hands. Familiar hands. Careful, trembling, hesitant, like he was afraid she might shatter beneath them, as if she hadn’t already shattered.

“Andromeda.” Tony’s voice barely sounded like his own.

She blinked, slowly, the world swimming into blurred, unfocused light. She should have felt something at the sound of his voice, at the knowledge that he was here, that she was back. But there was nothing. Just an empty hollow where those feelings used to live.

His hands hovered above her, twitching with the effort to touch her, to pull her close, to do something. Anything. But he hesitated. As if he knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

“I’ve got you, kid.” The words were a whisper, broken, helpless.

Yinsen was there, kneeling beside them, his face drawn tight with worry. “She needs water. And I need to check her injuries.”

Tony moved first. His hands shook as he grabbed the canteen, the cap slipping once before he got it off. He lifted her just enough to press the rim to her lips, the gesture jerky, desperate. The water hit her tongue, cold, metallic. She swallowed with effort, her throat raw, scraped dry from screaming into the dark. Some of it dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t wipe it away. She barely noticed it at all.

Tony’s grip on her shoulder tightened briefly, his fingers digging into bone. “You’re okay,” he murmured, but the words rang hollow, empty. They both knew she wasn’t. And pretending otherwise felt like a cruel joke.

Yinsen moved quickly, his hands working over her with a medic’s efficiency, his touch practiced, clinical. He peeled away the torn fabric, fingers pressing along her ribs where the stitches had split, blood leaking sluggish and dark down her side. Andromeda didn’t react. She didn’t even blink. And that, more than anything, made them both worry.

“She’s lost more weight,” Yinsen muttered under his breath, his tone heavy with something close to despair. “They didn’t feed her properly.”

“No shit,” Tony bit out, his frustration cracking through the fragile veneer of control he had left. He exhaled sharply, trying to pull himself back from the edge. “What else?”

Yinsen didn’t answer right away. His hands moved to her wrist, unwrapping the soiled cloth, revealing skin so swollen and discolored it looked alien, wrong. He frowned, his brow furrowing deep. “This should have been set immediately,” he said, voice clipped. “I will do what I can, but it might be too late.”

Tony scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion dragging at every line of him. “They really did a number on you, didn’t they, kid?”

Andromeda didn’t answer. She hadn’t spoken since they dragged her back into the cave.
And Tony was terrified.

He shifted closer, his hand still wrapped tightly around her good arm, his thumb brushing absently over her skin in a quiet, grounding gesture that felt both desperate and hollow. He kept telling himself it mattered. That maybe if he held on tightly enough, she wouldn’t slip further away.

Then—she moved.

Barely. Just the smallest twitch of her fingers.

But it was something.

Tony’s breath hitched, his chest tightening painfully around the fragile spark of hope that flared, unsteady and raw.
“Hey,” he whispered, his grip tightening just slightly. “You with me?”

Slowly, sluggishly, her fingers curled—weak, shaky—around his own. It was barely a grip at all, more instinct than intention, but it was there. Real. Present. Tony swallowed hard against the knot climbing into his throat, the relief crashing over him like a tidal wave. He didn’t let go.

And then—finally—she stirred.

Her head turned, slow and heavy, and her eyelids dragged open just enough to reveal the dull, unfocused haze in her gaze. Her eyes drifted, sluggish and lost, as if the effort of holding them open was almost too much. Until they landed not quite on him—but on the faint, steady glow radiating from the center of his chest.

Her brows twitched, the tiniest flicker of recognition breaking through the fog of exhaustion and pain.

Tony froze, breath lodged somewhere between his lungs and his throat, as her trembling hand moved. It wasn’t much. Her fingers barely responded, shaking violently as they reached, slow and uncertain, toward the arc reactor embedded in his chest. The pads of her fingertips brushed against the cool metal, tracing its edges with a reverence that was hazy, absent, but achingly familiar.

The glow pulsed softly beneath her touch, steady and alive.

Tony exhaled, slow and shaky, something fracturing behind his ribs as the moment carved itself into his bones.
He covered her hand with his own, curling his fingers over hers, grounding them both.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, ragged from the weight of it all. “I’m here, baby. I’m going to get us out of here.”

Her fingers pressed just a little more firmly against the arc reactor, tracing its shape, clinging to the faint pulse of artificial life beneath her touch like it was the only thing tethering her to the world. Her skin was cold, the tremor in her hand almost too faint to notice now, but she was still moving. Still reaching. Still trying.

A shuddering breath rattled through her chest, the first real sign of life since she’d been thrown back into the dirt. Her hand drifted weakly, brushing the reactor’s glow with something between disbelief and comfort, like she was trying to convince herself it was real. That he was real.

Tony barely breathed, eyes locked on her face, willing her to stay with him.

“That’s right,” he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. “I’m still here, kid.”

Her eyelids fluttered again, heavy and sluggish, her gaze not quite finding him—but not completely lost either. She was still there, buried beneath the bruises, the pain, the hollow exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin. She was still his girl.

And then, the faintest motion. The corner of her lips parted, her breath barely more than a rasp of air—so soft, so fragile, that for a moment Tony wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it.

“…cool.”

The word cracked something wide open inside him, something he hadn’t realized had been held together only by sheer force of will. A strangled sound punched out of him—half laugh, half sob—his head dropping forward as his shoulders shook under the weight of pure, gut-wrenching relief.

“Yeah, kid,” he whispered, gripping her hand tighter, anchoring both of them. “It’s cool.”

Beside them, Yinsen let out a long breath, his voice thick with quiet relief. “She’s still in there.”

Tony nodded, his throat tight, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He couldn’t trust himself to speak, not yet. Not when everything inside him was unraveling all at once. His thumb traced over her knuckles again, the repetitive motion grounding him as much as it was meant to soothe her.

Andromeda’s eyelids fluttered once more, heavier now, but this time, her gaze—bleary, unfocused, broken—almost found his. It was enough. Enough to shatter him all over again.

“Hurts,” she rasped, her voice barely more than the scrape of breath over bruised vocal cords.

Tony swallowed hard, forcing back the lump rising in his throat. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, the softness in his voice slipping through before he could stop it. “I know.”

Yinsen moved closer, his hands steady but his expression grim as he checked her pulse, the pressure of his fingers gentle against skin too pale, too fragile. “She’s dangerously weak. We need to get something in her system.”

Tony blinked hard, pushing past the chaos in his head. “Water first,” he said tightly, his gaze never leaving her face. “Then we’ll figure out food.”
He didn’t miss the way Andromeda’s breathing hitched, the faint tremor that passed through her like the thought of food alone was enough to make her stomach twist. He didn’t blame her. God only knew what they had done to her.

Yinsen passed him the canteen, and Tony moved carefully, slipping an arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her just enough to bring the rim of the canteen to her lips. Her body tensed at the movement, her breath catching sharply.

“Hey, easy,” he murmured, keeping his voice low, soft, steady—the way he used to when she was little and feverish, scared of storms. “It’s just me, kid. You’re safe.”

Safe. The word tasted hollow, a lie in a place like this. But he needed her to hear it, to believe it. Even if he didn’t.

Andromeda’s head lolled weakly against his arm, her weight barely more than a whisper of warmth against him. Her throat worked as she took in a few slow, shaky sips of water, the effort alone seeming to drain what little strength she had left. She turned her face away after just a few swallows, exhaustion dragging her back down.

Tony didn’t push. He just held her, his arm wrapped carefully around her back, his other hand still tracing slow, steady circles into the back of her hand, as if he could keep her tethered to him through touch alone.

“Rest,” he murmured, his voice thick, his chin tucked against her hair. “We’ll figure out the rest later.”

He wasn’t sure if the words were for her anymore—or for himself.

The days passed in slow, suffocating agony. The sharp edges of pain dulled into an ache that never really left, a constant, unwelcome reminder that she was still alive. That was the worst part. Survival wasn’t a mercy. It was a sentence.

She didn’t speak. She barely moved. Every breath felt like an obligation she had to force into existence, every moment an act of endurance she couldn’t bring herself to care about. The cave pressed in on her, familiar in a way that made her skin crawl. Even though she wasn’t chained anymore—even though she knew, logically, that she wasn’t in that other place—she still felt bound. Trapped in the hollow weight of her own body.

Her legs remained deadweight, limp and useless no matter how many whispered commands she fed them through gritted teeth. At first, she had tried, mouthing the words in the dark—move, damn it, move—but nothing changed. The betrayal of her own flesh became just another layer of torment, another reminder of what had been stolen, of what might never come back.

She should have cared. She should have been angry.

But anger took energy. And she had none left.

Tony never left her side. If he did, it was only for minutes—long enough to grab water, to argue softly with Yinsen, to tinker obsessively with circuits and metal scraps. He talked to her, filling the silence with a constant stream of words. Sometimes it was about the suit he was building. Sometimes it was nonsense—memories of Malibu, of Pepper nagging him about cholesterol, of cheeseburgers and car engines and the most ridiculous ways to hack a coffee machine.

He never said it aloud, but she knew what he was doing. He was trying to pull her back. Trying to remind her of the world beyond these walls, to anchor her to something real, something familiar.

She wanted to tell him it wasn’t working. That she wasn’t there anymore. That whatever part of her he was talking to was buried too deep, locked behind walls she couldn’t tear down.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Then, one night, something shifted.

She had been lying on her side, facing the cold stone wall, unmoving, unseeing, her breath shallow and mechanical. She wasn’t asleep, but she wasn’t truly awake either. She drifted somewhere in between—lost in the numb gray fog where time didn’t matter and nothing hurt because nothing could reach her.

And then Tony sighed.

Not the familiar sigh of frustration when his designs failed or when Yinsen lectured him about his eating habits. This one was different. Softer. Frayed at the edges.

“I don’t know how to fix this, kid.”

His voice barely broke the quiet, raw and stripped of everything he usually wrapped around it—no sarcasm, no bravado, just a man unraveling at the seams.

He was sitting behind her, close enough that she could feel the faint heat of his body through the thin blanket. His knees were drawn up tight, his fingers fumbling with a scrap of metal that clicked quietly against his palm in an endless, nervous rhythm.

She didn’t move.
Didn’t acknowledge him.
Didn’t even blink.

“I can fix machines,” Tony continued, the words hollow, meant more for himself than for her. “I can break them apart and build them into something new. But I don’t… I don’t know how to fix you.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Andromeda didn’t answer. But she felt the words settle over her, seeping into the fragile corners of her mind that hadn’t yet shattered completely.

His fingers clenched tighter around the piece of metal in his hand, the edges digging into his palm. “They did something to you,” he murmured, the words fraying at the edges. “And I can’t take it away. I can’t undo it. I don’t know how.”

Her throat tightened.

But still, she said nothing.

Tony let out a humorless breath of air that might have once been a laugh. He scrubbed a hand down his face, the sound of it rough in the quiet. “I just… I need you to come back, Andy.” His voice cracked, brittle and thin. “Even just a little.”

Part of her wanted to.
Part of her didn’t know how.

She lay there in the dark, still and silent, her heartbeat a sluggish thing in her chest, her breath shallow and mechanical. She didn’t move. She didn’t react.

But—

Her fingers twitched.

It was the smallest thing. Barely more than a shift against the coarse blanket beneath her hand. But Tony noticed. He froze, his breath catching sharp and quick.

She gasped, her body tensing instinctively against the flood of pain, breath catching hard in her throat.

Tony was there in an instant. His hands bracketed her carefully, one at her shoulder, the other hovering near her waist, cautious, almost trembling. He wasn’t quite touching her, like he was afraid too much pressure might break her all over again.

“Whoa, whoa, easy,” he murmured, his voice tight with something she didn’t recognize—fear, maybe, or something worse.

Andromeda clenched her teeth, forcing her body through it anyway. Through the agony, through the trembling weakness that made her feel like a stranger in her own skin. Her breath shook, ragged and shallow, but she kept going. She had to.

“Kid—” Tony started again, voice sharp with concern, but she cut him off with a look. There was no strength behind it, no signature Stark bite, but there was stubbornness. Enough that Tony huffed out a breath, running a hand through his tangled hair like she’d already worn him down.

“Okay, fine,” he muttered, adjusting his position so he could help her better, his movements gentler this time, more sure. “But you’re gonna kill me at this rate, kid. Pretty sure my blood pressure’s never coming back from this.”

Her lips twitched.

It wasn’t a smile. Not really. But it was the closest she’d come to one since they’d dragged her back here.

Tony noticed. She could feel it in the way his touch steadied, the way his hands no longer hovered but supported her with quiet, patient strength. He didn’t say anything about it, but she felt the shift between them like a thread tugging loose from the knot that had wrapped tight around her chest.

Together, they got her onto her back. The effort took longer than she liked, every small movement setting off a chain reaction of pain that left her breathless and shaking, but she didn’t stop. She refused.

By the time she settled against the thin cot, her breath came in ragged gasps, her entire body trembling from the sheer weight of the effort.

Tony exhaled, running both hands through his hair as if to ground himself. “Jesus, kid,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

She blinked slowly, her breathing still uneven, her heart pounding too hard in her chest. And then, before she could think better of it—before the exhaustion won—she lifted her arm. It was weak, shaking violently from the effort, but she reached for him anyway.

Tony froze.

For a beat, he didn’t move. He stared at her outstretched hand, then at her face, like he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it. His expression—always so easy to read—was shuttered now, caught between disbelief and something painfully raw.

Then he swallowed hard and shifted closer. He moved with care, like she was made of glass, easing her forward, pulling her carefully against his chest. She was dead weight in his arms, her legs limp and useless, but she tried. And that was enough. Tony wrapped his arms around her, holding her like he’d never let go again. His breath shuddered against the side of her head, his grip fierce but steady, grounding them both. She was upright—barely—but upright.

And then she leaned forward. It was awkward, unbalanced, more of a collapse than anything else. But Tony caught her without hesitation, his arms coming up immediately, one bracing her back, the other curling securely around her shoulders, locking her in against him like he could hold her together by sheer force of will alone. His body was warm, solid, real in a way nothing else had been in weeks. Andromeda buried her face into his shoulder, the sharp scent of sweat and metal filling her nose, grounding her in the present even as everything else inside her tried to float away. She squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing uneven, shaky, like she’d forgotten how to do even that.

Tony was stiff at first—probably shocked—but then, slowly, he relaxed into the embrace. His arms tightened around her, no jokes, no deflections, just him holding her like she was the only thing that mattered in this godforsaken cave. Andromeda clung to him like he was the last tether to the world beyond these stone walls, because maybe he was. She felt his hand slide up her back, careful but firm, his fingers curling slightly against her shoulder as he pulled her closer.

“You’re okay,” he murmured against her hair, his voice thick, trembling at the edges. “I’ve got you, Andy.”

And that was it. The dam broke. It started as a single, sharp inhale, a tremor ripping through her body as she clung to him, her fingers weak but desperate in the fabric of his shirt. Then another breath, more ragged, more uneven, until the weight in her chest—the pressure, the endless suffocation—fractured under the pressure of it, and before she could stop herself, she was crying.

Silent at first. Just a shaky breath, a tremor against Tony’s shoulder. But then it grew, swelling like a storm she had kept caged behind her ribs for too long. It broke free in a choked sob, muffled against the warmth of him, her whole body shaking as everything she had buried bled out in uneven, shuddering gasps. She couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to. The tears came in waves, breaking over her until she was drowning in them, breathless and shaking and raw.

Tony didn’t let go. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t rush her. His arms stayed locked around her, grounding her as everything she had tried to keep buried came spilling out in the space between them. He rubbed slow, steady circles against her back, his fingers firm, sure, a silent reassurance that she wasn’t alone.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again, voice rougher this time, like it hurt him to say it. “I’ve got you.”

Andromeda curled further into him, her hands clutching the front of his shirt with what little strength she had left, like if she let go, she’d fall apart completely. The warmth of him, the solid weight of him, was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality, keeping her from slipping back into the black, hollow numbness that had devoured her for so long. Her ribs ached from the force of it, her breath coming in shallow, painful gasps, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Every suppressed emotion clawed its way to the surface—weeks of terror, pain, humiliation, rage, despair—relentless, unstoppable.

Tony let her. He didn’t say anything else. He just held on, his hand sliding into her tangled hair, cradling the back of her head like she was breakable, like maybe she already had. She didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Minutes. Maybe more. Eventually, the storm inside her dulled, the sobs tapering into shaky, uneven breaths, the tremors in her body settling into exhausted stillness. The tears faded into ragged gasps, the raw tightness in her chest loosening just enough to let in something resembling breath. Her muscles ached from the effort, her body spent, but she didn’t let go. She kept her face pressed into his shoulder, breathing in the worn scent of grease and sweat and Tony, grounding herself in the one thing that still felt real.

“That’s…” Her voice cracked, more rasp than words, but she forced it out anyway, a breathless sliver of something that almost tasted like her old defiance. “…the last time I come with you on a business trip.”

Tony let out a choked laugh, the sound brittle, caught somewhere between humor and heartbreak. His breath shuddered against the side of her head, his hold on her never loosening. “Jesus, kid,” he murmured, his voice thick, scraping raw at the edges. “You always gotta get the last word, huh?”

Andromeda exhaled shakily against his shoulder, the remnants of her sobs still trembling through her, but there was something different now. Lighter, maybe. Or maybe just… not as suffocating. She shifted, the movement clumsy, sluggish, but determined, lifting her head enough to look at him. Her eyes were swollen, rimmed red, her face blotchy and streaked with dirt and tear tracks, but beneath the mess, something flickered. Something that felt like her. Tony met her gaze and for a second, neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to.

Then, with a tired, lopsided smirk, he reached up and wiped at the tear stains on her cheek with the pad of his thumb, his touch rough but gentle in the way only he could be. It was absurd, really—this man whose hands were built for forging weapons, now carefully brushing tears from his daughter’s face like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

“Well,” he drawled, forcing a casual bravado into his voice that didn’t quite hide the cracks beneath. “That’s the last time I let you come on a business trip. You’re a terrible assistant, by the way. Zero survival instincts.”

Andromeda huffed, a sound dangerously close to something that might, one day, resemble a laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“Hey.” He pointed at himself, mock-offended despite the wreckage in his eyes. “I’m a genius. I survive by sheer force of intelligence and charisma.”

Her lips twitched, the motion unfamiliar, rusty. “Your charisma didn’t exactly keep us from getting kidnapped.”

Tony gasped dramatically, pressing a hand over his chest as if she’d mortally wounded him. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second, I’ll have you know my charisma is legendary. It’s just… a little harder to work its magic on terrorist organizations.”

The snort that escaped her startled them both. It wasn’t much—weak and breathless—but it was real. Tony’s eyes lit up like she’d handed him a goddamn Nobel Prize.

“That’s two, kid,” he teased, a grin tugging at his mouth despite the exhaustion in every line of his face. “If I get you to a full laugh, I’m counting that as a win.”

Andromeda shook her head faintly, the motion slow, every limb still heavy, but the crushing weight in her chest felt… different now. Still there, but not suffocating her completely.

Then his voice softened, serious now, quieter. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She froze. The question hovered between them, thick and heavy, weighed down by all the things they weren’t saying, all the fractures and wounds too raw to name yet. She didn’t know how to answer. No. Yes. Maybe. Her throat tightened, the words snarled somewhere deep, tangled in the hollow, raw places inside her that still felt too exposed. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay in the moment, to feel the solid weight of his hands still holding her steady, his patience anchoring her like a tether she hadn’t realized she needed.

Tony didn’t push. Didn’t press. He just waited, giving her space—space she hadn’t been allowed for weeks, space that was hers and hers alone. For the first time since they’d dragged her into that cave, since they’d taken everything, she realized this was something they hadn’t stolen. Her choice. Her voice. Her.

And that, more than anything, made her feel safe enough to whisper, her voice frayed, fragile, but undeniably hers, “Not yet.”

Tony nodded, the relief in his eyes immediate, quiet, steady. “Okay, kid,” he murmured, the words soft, almost reverent. “Whenever you’re ready.” No rush. No demand. Just… space.

She swallowed again, the lump in her throat still stubborn, still threatening to rise, but she forced herself to take a breath, to hold onto the small, unfamiliar lightness of the moment instead of letting it drown her. Her gaze flicked past his shoulder, drawn toward the cluttered worktable. The scattered metal. The tangled wires. The scratched, half-finished blueprints marked onto scraps of paper and old food wrappers. It was different than before. More deliberate. Less about weapons. More about… something else.

Her brow furrowed slightly, her brain sluggish as it fought through the haze of exhaustion, but curiosity was a muscle she remembered how to flex. It was buried deep, dulled by survival, but it was still there. She blinked slowly, struggling to summon the energy to gesture toward the table, her voice hoarse and raw from crying. “What… what are you working on?”

Tony blinked, caught off guard, like he hadn’t expected her to ask. His features softened, the cocky mask slipping as something older, heavier settled into place. He turned toward the worktable, his gaze flicking over the haphazard collection of wires and crude mechanisms that had consumed every spare moment between tending to her and pretending not to unravel.

He exhaled through his nose, scrubbing a hand down his face, the movement weary but tinged with purpose. “I’m building our way out of here.”

Andromeda frowned, the words heavy in her ears as she pieced them together. He wasn’t just talking about escape. He was building something. Something big. She knew that look—the one that said the idea had latched on so deep he wouldn’t stop until it was done, no matter what it cost him. She’d seen that look a hundred times in his workshop back home. It was him. The real Tony Stark. The engineer. The innovator. The man who never did anything halfway.

Her fingers, weak but hers, curled into the fabric of his sleeve. The motion was small, shaky, but deliberate. A choice. “Show me,” she rasped.

Chapter Text

like an old wound that refused to heal. It pulsed outward in waves, a smoldering fire beneath her skin, familiar in its cruelty. She had learned to work through it, to sit still for hours, her body locking into place as if defying her to move. But the stiffness was creeping up on her now, muscles clenching, legs tingling with the numb, restless ache of disuse. She had been pushing herself harder over the last few weeks—forcing her body to remember what it was supposed to do, what it had once done without question. She exhaled slowly, flexing her ankles beneath the table, testing the limits of nerves that responded too late or not at all.

Her right foot twitched, sluggish and uneven, the movement more suggestion than command. She gritted her teeth, pushing through the static burn in her calves as she rolled the ankle again, stubborn even as her body fought her every step. Then her left—stronger, steadier, but still weak. She curled her toes, straightened them, repeated the motion until the pins and needles bit deep enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Taking a break, kid?” Tony’s voice cut through the quiet, dry but not unkind.

Andromeda glanced at him over the glow of the screen. His hands were coated in grease and dust, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the raw edges of makeshift bandages where he’d cut himself earlier. The arc reactor in his chest pulsed faintly, casting an eerie glow over the sweat and grime smeared across his features. He looked exhausted, but focused, his whole body coiled into his work.

She exhaled a shaky breath. “Something like that.”

Tony eyed her for a moment, his fingers stilling on the piece of armor he was welding. “You good?”

“Yeah.” The lie came out too easily.

He didn’t press, just nodded, but she felt his gaze flicker toward her again and again from behind the protective shield of pretense.

Andromeda inhaled sharply, pressing her palms flat against her thighs. Enough stalling. She gripped her knee tightly, pulling it toward her chest, stretching the tight, rebellious muscles until the ache spiked into a deep, pulling tension that made her grit her teeth. She held the position, counting under her breath, before lowering the leg slowly back down. Then the other, slower this time, more cautious, ignoring the searing protest in her back.

She needed to move.

She needed to stand.

Her hands curled around the edge of the table, grounding herself against the rough grain of the wood, her fingertips raw from overuse, from work, from clenching too hard for too long. She planted her feet on the cold stone floor, forcing them flat, commanding them to hold her weight.

Her legs trembled immediately.

Her jaw clenched tight.

The first attempt ended before it even began—her knees buckled the instant she tried to shift her weight, and she barely caught herself on the edge of the table, breath coming fast and shallow, her knuckles bleaching white against the wood. The second attempt was worse. A vicious lance of pain tore up her spine, sharp enough to blur her vision, her mouth filling with the bitter tang of blood as she bit down hard to keep from crying out.

She squeezed her eyes shut, the burn behind them threatening to spill over, her fists clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms, leaving crescent moons of pain in already bruised flesh. She had never been weak before. Never needed help. Never had to ask.

But now?

Now she was a prisoner inside her own body, trapped beneath skin and nerves that refused to obey, muscles that had withered under weeks of forced stillness, leaving her hollowed out and useless.

Her breath hitched, harsh and ragged.

Tony didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The low hum of the welder filled the space between them, pretending not to notice, pretending not to watch—but she knew better. Tony Stark didn’t miss much. He never had.

The words clawed their way up from the hollow pit inside her, bitter and sharp, scraping against the rawness of her throat before spilling out, quiet but certain.

“Dad…?”

The sound of it cracked through the cave like a gunshot.

Tony froze, the welder still in his hand, his gaze snapping toward her like she’d pulled the floor out from under him. She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. But her fingers trembled against the edge of the table, her voice wobbling with something she couldn’t swallow down anymore.

“Can you… help me stand?”

For a beat, the world held its breath.

Then the welder clattered to the floor, and Tony was moving—faster than she could brace for, his hands already at her sides, steady, solid, warm.

“Yeah, kid,” he murmured, his voice rough, edges fraying in a way she wasn’t used to hearing. “Yeah, I got you.”

He crouched slightly, slipping an arm around her back, his grip firm but careful. “Alright,” he said, softening the edges of the moment, “we go slow. No heroics, got it?”

She let out something that could have been a laugh if it wasn’t already caught in her throat. “You’re one to talk.”

Tony smirked faintly, the expression crooked, worn thin by exhaustion. “Yeah, well. I’m a bad influence.” His hand tightened against her side, grounding her. “On my count, okay? Ready?”

Andromeda swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

“One… two… three.”

She pushed against the table as he lifted her, every muscle locking up, her breath catching as the fire exploded along her spine, nerves shrieking in protest, her knees folding under her before she could stop them. She gasped, her hands clawing at Tony’s arms.

“Easy,” he murmured, adjusting his grip, holding her steady as she leaned into him. “I got you, Andy. Breathe. Just breathe.”

Her jaw locked tight, her breath coming in uneven bursts, but she forced herself to straighten, to push through the screaming pain, to plant her feet firmly against the floor. She was standing. Wobbly. Weak. But standing.

Her heart pounded in her ears, breath ragged, her whole body trembling under the effort, but she didn’t collapse. Tony’s grip never wavered, his hands bracing her without forcing, letting her take the lead, letting her fight through it on her terms.

Her hands clenched the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric between her fists as she shifted her weight, testing, pushing. The pain was unbearable, sharp enough to send black spots swirling at the edges of her vision, but she didn’t stop. She took another breath. Then another, waiting for the worst of it to settle into something she could survive.

Tony was watching her, his free hand hovering near her elbow, not touching, just there, just ready.

“You good?” His voice was soft, careful, like he knew the answer but needed to ask anyway.

Andromeda exhaled shakily, forcing out, “Define good.”

That got her a short laugh, the sound low and worn thin but real, his hand squeezing her side in something like approval.

“Alright,” he said, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the worry in his eyes. “What now, kid?”

She swallowed, breath still shaky, her body heavy with exhaustion. She wasn’t sure what came next. But she knew one thing.

She couldn’t sit back down.

Not yet.

“Let go,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt, the tremble in her body betraying her even as her jaw locked tight.

Tony’s eyebrows shot up, a spark of alarm flickering across his face. “Uh. Not sure that’s the best idea, kiddo.”

“I need to do this.” She didn’t waver. Her voice, thin and scraped raw, still carried steel beneath it.

Tony hesitated. She could see the argument forming in his eyes, the instinct to tell her to slow down, to take it easy, but something in her expression—stubborn, carved from the same grit he recognized in himself—made him swallow it back.

“Alright,” he murmured after a long pause, soft but sure. “But I’m right here.”

And then, carefully, like he was testing fragile glass, he let go.

The second his hands left her, her knees wobbled, threatening to fold beneath her again. She swayed hard, her balance tipping dangerously.

But she caught herself.

Her fists clenched, teeth gritted, breath ragged—but she stayed upright. Her body screamed in protest, her back felt like it was splitting in half, her legs shaking with the strain—but she was doing it.

She was standing on her own.

For the first time in three months.

The cool bite of the makeshift metal pipe braced beneath her hand was grounding, the weight of it familiar now, like an extension of herself. Tony had fashioned it from scraps, rough and improvised, but it was enough. Enough to keep her on her feet. Enough to move.

That was all that mattered.

Four months.

Four months since they’d thrown her into a cell and stolen everything she was. Four months since she’d last stood on her own two feet, since she’d had control of her body, since she’d felt like more than just a shell of herself.

But she was still fighting.

Her legs were stronger now—still weak, still unsteady, but there was strength there. It burned, the ache radiating from her spine into every joint, but she could live with that. She would live with that.

Because they were getting out of here.

She tightened her grip on the pipe, planting it firmly against the floor as she took a step. Muscles screamed, her knees threatening to give, but she forced herself through the trembling, forcing one foot in front of the other. Slow. Steady.

She could feel Tony’s gaze on her from across the cave, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet. He was letting her do this. Letting her have this.

Her breath came uneven, sweat slicking her back, dampening the threadbare fabric of her shirt, but she ignored it. She kept moving, crossing the short distance from the table to where Tony sat, hunched over the half-finished suit.

She came to a stop beside him, bracing against the pipe as she caught her breath. Tony didn’t look up immediately, still focused on the gauntlet in his lap, but she saw the way his fingers stilled over the metal, the way his body tensed like he was holding back.

Andromeda swallowed, her pulse still hammering from the effort, but she kept her voice even. “How’s it coming?”

Tony glanced up at her then, his gaze flickering down to her legs, to the pipe clenched in her hand, then back to her face. She lifted her chin, defiant despite the sweat streaking her temple and the tremble in her stance.

Tony huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus, kid. You never do take it easy, do you?”

She arched a brow. “Pot, meet kettle.”

He snorted, wiping a smudge of grease from his forehead. “Fair point.”

The silence stretched between them, the hum of the cave settling into something almost comfortable. She adjusted her grip slightly, grounding herself. “Seriously. How’s it coming?”

Tony exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he tilted his head toward the armor. “Couple more tweaks. Some final tests. And then we’re good to go.”

Andromeda eyed the suit critically, the crude construction, the patchwork of metal and spare parts. It was rough, sure—but solid. Functional. Stark tech, through and through.

It would work.

It had to.

She flexed her fingers against the pipe, the ache in her muscles making the movement stiff, deliberate. “And the software?”

Tony’s smirk was faint, but it was there, warming the worn lines around his mouth. “If you’re asking whether your genius coding has single-handedly saved our asses…” He paused, leaning back against the wall with mock casualness. “The answer is probably.”

Andromeda huffed, exhaustion tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You really know how to stroke an ego, huh?”

“Hey.” He pointed at himself, mock-offended. “I learned from the best.”

She rolled her eyes, but it felt easier this time. Less like a reflex. More like herself.

The silence stretched again—but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t suffocating. It was familiar. Comfortable in a way that felt like something old, something tethering them both back to the people they used to be before this cave, before the suits, before everything had been torn apart.

Then Tony set the gauntlet down, wiping his hands on his filthy shirt. “Alright, kid,” he said, nodding toward the far side of the cave. “Let’s see what else you got.”

Andromeda blinked, her grip tightening slightly on the pipe. “What?”

Tony gestured vaguely at her legs, his smirk lopsided but his tone serious. “You’re walking now. That’s good. But if we’re getting out of here, you need to be faster.”

She narrowed her eyes, suspicion prickling beneath the exhaustion. “You want me to train?”

Tony shrugged like it was obvious. “More like… test the limits. You need to know exactly what your body can and can’t do before we’re in the middle of a firefight.”

Andromeda hesitated. Her back ached, her muscles burned from just the short distance she’d forced herself to walk. She knew he was right—she had to be ready. But the idea of pushing herself further, of failing in front of him—

“Andy.” His voice was softer now, not coaxing, not pitying. Just steady. “You can do this.”

Something in her chest clenched tight, but she exhaled sharply, nodding once. “Okay.”

Tony grinned, pushing himself up from the workbench, brushing off his hands. “Alright then. Let’s see if you can keep up, kid.”

She rolled her shoulders, adjusting her stance. Time to find out just how far she could go.

Andromeda was running.

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t graceful. And it sure as hell wasn’t painless. But she was running.

Six months.

Six months of agony. Six months of forcing her muscles to remember, of swallowing frustration every time her body failed her. Six months of pushing through the fire burning up her spine, of fighting against the weight of what they’d done to her.

But she was running.

The cave floor was uneven, small rocks and jagged edges biting into her bare feet, but she didn’t stop. The torchlight flickered along the walls, shadows dancing wildly around her. The metal pipe was gone. She didn’t need it anymore.

Her breathing was ragged, sharp pulls of air that burned in her lungs, but she pushed harder. Her strides were uneven, her right leg slower to respond, her muscles screaming with every step. Sweat dripped down her spine, soaking her threadbare shirt. Every impact sent a dull, throbbing ache up her legs, through her back, into her bones.

But pain was her companion now.

She had learned to live with it.

“Faster, kid!” Tony’s voice echoed off the stone, sharp and tinged with pride. “You planning on letting me outrun you, or what?”

Andromeda gritted her teeth and pushed harder, ignoring the fire in her legs, the tremor in her limbs. If she could do this now—if she could run through the pain—then when the time came, when their one shot at escape finally arrived, she wouldn’t fall. She wouldn’t slow him down.

A jagged rock caught her foot, pain ricocheting up her ankle. Her balance wavered for a split second, but she didn’t stumble. She adjusted. Shifted. Kept going.

Because falling wasn’t an option anymore.

Tony was grinning when she skidded to a stop near the workbench, her breath coming in harsh, uneven gulps. He was still hunched over the suit, tightening plating, running diagnostics—but his eyes flicked toward her, the grin tugging at his mouth tinged with something warmer. Something that looked suspiciously like pride.

“Not bad,” he said, smirking. “Still a little slow, though.”

Andromeda glared at him, dragging a hand through her sweat-drenched hair. “I’d like to see you do better after being paralyzed for half a year.”

Tony arched a brow, unimpressed. “I got my heart ripped out, kid. We all got problems.”

She huffed, but there was no heat behind it. “Yeah, well. I’ll be faster when it actually counts.”

Tony’s smirk softened just a little, the teasing fading under something quieter, something heavier. “I know.”

She didn’t need him to say the rest. She knew. She had known even when she was stuck in that chair, when her hands shook as she clung to that pipe like it was the only thing keeping her upright, when she stumbled and fell and forced herself to get back up again. He had never doubted her. He had always known she’d get here.

Andromeda let out a slow, unsteady breath, rolling her shoulders as the fire in her back dulled into that familiar throb she had learned to live with. The pain would never leave her entirely. She knew that now. But she could move. She could run. That was enough.

Tony exhaled through his nose, wiping his hands on a rag before tossing it carelessly onto the table. “Alright, kid. Since you’re feeling so high and mighty, let’s see you do it again.”

Andromeda groaned but was already shifting on her feet, adjusting her stance, her grip tightening on the pipe. “Again? I just did three laps.”

Tony smirked. “Yeah, and if you can do three, you can do four. Unless you’re tired.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gestured toward the far side of the cave. “Clock’s ticking, Andy.”

She huffed, rolling her shoulders again, letting the ache settle deep into her bones where it belonged. She was sore. Her nerves were screaming. But she wasn’t going to let him win. Not this time. Not ever.

She braced herself.

Then she ran.

Her strides were uneven, the nerve damage in her back making her right leg lag just slightly, but she adjusted, adapted, didn’t think about the pain. Her arms pumped at her sides, her breath came quick and sharp, the torchlight flickering across the jagged rock walls, painting the shadows like ghosts chasing her heels. One more lap. Just one more. She forced her legs forward, the pounding of her feet filling her ears, the ache in her body burning like gasoline on open wounds—but she didn’t slow down.

She skidded to a stop near the workbench, bending at the waist, hands braced on her knees as she gasped for breath. Sweat dripped from her hairline, her pulse a drumbeat against her ribs, but she did it.

She stood upright, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Happy?”

Tony tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Eh. Seven out of ten. Little slow.”

Andromeda straightened fully, glaring at him. “I swear to God—”

But the cave swallowed the rest of her words.

The heavy clatter of boots echoed off the stone, cutting sharp through the haze of adrenaline. The cave stilled around them, the air shifting, tension crackling like a live wire drawn too tight. Andromeda felt it first—felt them before she saw them—the shadows bleeding into the edges of the chamber, the flicker of movement where there should have been none. Then came Raza, his presence filling the space like smoke and poison, his men fanning out behind him in silent formation, rifles loose at their sides, though the threat didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

She didn’t move. She didn’t sit. She wasn’t broken this time.

Raza’s gaze flicked toward the suit, his lips curling into something cold, something sharp-edged and amused, but it was fleeting. Then his attention landed on her. And for a heartbeat, she saw it—the flicker of surprise, the calculation slipping beneath the mask as he took in her stance, the way she stood taller now, the tension in her frame not born of fear but defiance.

He realized.

She wasn’t just walking. She had been running.

His jaw ticked, a tightening she might have missed if she hadn’t been watching for it, the only crack in his mask of control. “I must say,” he murmured, his voice smooth but edged like broken glass, “I didn’t expect this.” He stepped closer, his shadow bleeding over her feet, swallowing the space between them. “After all, last I saw you, you could barely hold your own head up.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw, her muscles locking, her spine straightening even as her heart pounded against her ribs, but she said nothing.

Raza stepped in closer, looming, suffocating, towering over her with the ease of a man who believed his dominance was absolute. She didn’t back down. She kept her chin high, her breath even, her gaze locked on a point just past his shoulder, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flinching.

Then his hand moved.

Too fast to brace, his fingers tangled into the back of her hair, yanking her head back hard enough to wrench a gasp from her throat, her scalp screaming in protest, the pain radiating down her spine like fire.

Tony moved immediately, his chair scraping back hard as he surged forward. “Hey!” But two of Raza’s men raised their weapons, cold and efficient, halting him mid-step.

Raza didn’t even spare him a glance. “Relax,” he drawled, tightening his grip in Andromeda’s hair until her scalp burned, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I’m just admiring your work.”

His eyes dragged over her face, lingering too long, invasive, dissecting her the way one might examine a crack in glass, looking for the perfect place to shatter it completely. “You should be dead,” he whispered, his voice slithering over her skin, brushing his fingers lightly against her scalp before curling them cruelly. “No one heals from what we did to you.”

Her pulse thundered, her breaths sharp, but she gave him nothing. She would not flinch. She would not look away.

Raza leaned in closer, his breath curling against her ear, his tone dropping low, too soft for anyone else to hear. “Tell me, little Stark—are you a miracle?” His fingers flexed, nails scraping against her tender scalp. “Or did you lie about how broken you were?”

Andromeda’s heart hammered against the cage of her ribs, her entire body locked in place, but she didn’t recoil. She didn’t blink. Instead, she smiled. A slow, sharp pull of her lips, calculated and cutting.

“Guess you’re not as good at breaking people as you think,” she murmured.

His grip tightened, jerking her head back harder, sending a fresh spike of pain flaring down her neck, a warning, a promise.

But still, she didn’t react. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a sound.

For a beat, silence stretched between them, taut and suffocating.

Then—Raza laughed. Low, dark, edged with something she couldn’t quite name. “Interesting,” he said, amusement curling through the threat in his voice, smooth but brittle beneath the surface. “Very interesting.”

And then—just as suddenly as he had grabbed her—he let go.

Andromeda swayed slightly, her body still tense, her scalp throbbing where his fingers had gripped too hard, but she didn’t let herself stumble. She wouldn’t give them that. She wouldn’t look weak.

Raza stepped back, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with deliberate care, his expression cooling into something sharper as his gaze slid to Tony. “You have until tomorrow to assemble my missile,” he said, his tone infuriatingly casual, like they were negotiating over coffee instead of survival.

Tony’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight, but his voice stayed level. “Right. Your missile. Sure.”

Raza tilted his head slightly, studying him for a long moment before his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “A word of advice, Stark.” His voice was smooth, the edge beneath it unmistakable. “Keep your little miracle on a leash.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Andromeda sat cross-legged on the floor, her back pressed to the cool stone wall, a small knife balanced between her fingers as she rolled it idly, the familiar weight grounding her more than she’d admit. The heavy taste of Raza’s parting threat still lingered in the air like smoke, but fear wasn’t what churned in her gut anymore. She wasn’t afraid.

She was furious.

Her gaze flicked to Tony, hunched over the suit, tightening the last bolts into place, his shoulders tense with the burden of finality. The soft, rhythmic hum of the arc reactor filled the space, a hollow, steady reminder of how little time they had left. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would make their move. And there was only one suit.

Andromeda inhaled sharply, closing her eyes, forcing herself to focus, to run through every scrap of information she had hoarded about the camp outside—guard rotations, vehicle placements, weapons caches, patrol routes. She hadn’t had the luxury of scouting, but she had been watching, listening, memorizing. They still thought she was broken. Still thought she was nothing more than a cripple, something to toss around when they needed leverage.

That was their first mistake.

They thought she was still broken.

Tony let out a slow, measured exhale, the hiss of the arc reactor filling the tense space between them as he adjusted one of the gauntlets with hands that never stopped moving, never stopped fixing. Andromeda watched him from the corner of her eye, the weight of the knife rolling easily between her fingers, familiar and grounding. Then—finally—she broke the silence.

“You take the suit.” The words cut through the dim quiet like a blade, steady, certain, leaving no room for argument.

Tony’s hands froze mid-adjustment. His head snapped up, the narrowing of his eyes sharp, immediate. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She flipped the knife lazily, the motion calculated, her gaze locking onto his without flinching. “You’re the only one who can fly it. You’re the one they want. You need to get out of here.”

Tony scowled, frustration pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, right. And what? You’re just gonna stroll out of here like you’re taking a goddamn morning walk?”

She smirked, the expression edged with something dangerous, feral in its defiance. “More like steal a car and make a dramatic getaway.”

He blinked at her, clearly struggling to decide if she was serious. “Are you actually serious right now?”

“Dead serious.”

Dragging a hand down his face, Tony exhaled hard, the weight of the plan settling into his bones like lead. Every line of his posture screamed protest. “Andy—”

“This isn’t up for debate.” Her voice was steel now, hard and unyielding, cutting through his argument before it could take shape. “If we try to put two people in that thing, it won’t work. You need full mobility to fight your way out. It has to be you.”

He let out a breath, harsh and reluctant, his jaw tightening until it looked like it might crack. “And you?”

“I’ll be fine.” She tapped the blade against her thigh, ignoring the ache that never fully left her back. “Yinsen and I will take a vehicle. But first, I’m going to make sure every other vehicle is out of commission.”

His frown deepened, his brain already working the angles, the risks, the unacceptable gaps in her plan. “How?”

Rolling her shoulders, she tested the lingering stiffness in her spine, forcing the pain back into its corner. “I know where they’re parked. Seven or eight by the main gate, two more near the storage building. If I get to them first, I can slash the tires, maybe cut some fuel lines. That way, when you make your grand exit, they won’t be able to follow.”

Tony’s expression shifted, the hard set of his mouth betraying the reluctant acceptance he hated showing. She saw the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing the odds. Calculating the loss.

“We’ll need a distraction,” he muttered.

“I’ll handle it.” She didn’t hesitate.

Tony raised a brow, skeptical. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

Andromeda grinned, the wild spark behind her eyes returning with brutal clarity. “Chaos.”

Tony groaned, dragging both hands down his face like she was giving him a migraine. “You and your obsession with unnecessary explosions.”

“They’re very necessary.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You really are my kid.”

Her grin widened, a flash of teeth in the low light, but she didn’t argue.

He exhaled hard, the sigh heavy with the weight of inevitability, staring at the suit for a long, loaded moment before finally turning back to her, resignation darkening his features. “Alright. Walk me through it.”

She leaned forward, the steel creeping back into her tone, layered beneath the exhaustion and stubbornness. “You take off at first light. By the time they figure out what’s happening, I’ll already be outside. I’ll start with the vehicles near the main gate—slash the tires, cut fuel lines, whatever I can do to make them useless. Then I’ll move to the others.”

Tony nodded, the strategist in him taking over now, following her line of thinking, his expression sharpening into something harder, more focused. “If they can’t chase me, they’ll scramble to secure the camp.”

“Exactly.” She ran her fingers over the worn hilt of the knife, the familiar feel of it grounding her. “That’s when Yinsen and I slip out. There should still be one or two working vehicles near the storage area. We hijack one while everyone’s scrambling.”

Tony’s glare could have melted steel. “You get one scratch—”

“Tony, I get scratches from breathing at this point.”

He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face, the exhaustion bleeding through the cracks in his bravado. “I’m too tired for this.”

Andromeda’s grin faded as she shifted closer, her tone dropping into something quieter, stripped of humor now. “It’s the only way,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the knot tightening in her chest. “You know it.”

Tony didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking hard enough she could see it from where she sat, his fingers twitching against the edge of the table like he was still searching for an alternative neither of them had. Finally, after a long, suffocating beat, he exhaled hard through his nose and gave a sharp, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” he grunted, his voice rough. “But if this goes to hell, you run.”

Andromeda tilted her head, offering him a look that was half exasperation, half affection. “I am running.”

“You know what I mean.” His eyes pinned her, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them.

She held his gaze, her throat tightening, and nodded once. “Yeah.”

Tony stared at her a beat longer, his scowl softening into something grim but fond, the corners of his mouth tugging upward like he couldn’t quite help it. “Goddamn stubborn Stark genes.”

Andromeda smirked, stretching her aching legs out in front of her, the knife still balanced loosely between her fingers. “Love you too, Dad.”

Tony snorted, but it was softer this time, worn at the edges. “Yeah, yeah. Now go get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”

Andromeda exhaled, glancing toward the cave entrance where the faintest sliver of dawn crept across the jagged horizon. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, they were getting out of here.

One way or another.

The cave buzzed with frenetic energy beneath the dim pre-dawn haze, every sound amplified by the tight press of the walls and the crackle of tension that thickened the air until it was suffocating. Andromeda knelt near the battered laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard as the interface flickered to life, diagnostic bars crawling steadily across the screen. Each line of data confirmed the calibration, the sync, the systems. There wouldn’t be a second chance if anything failed. They were out of time.

Tony was already strapping into the suit, his movements sharp and efficient, the kind of controlled urgency that left no space for doubt. Yinsen worked alongside him, securing the last bolts with quick, practiced hands as the arc reactor’s hum deepened into a steady, mechanical heartbeat.

Andromeda didn’t glance up, her voice flat but steady, masking the frantic pulse thundering behind her ribs. “Initializing power sequence.”

Tony exhaled hard, rolling his shoulders against the weight of the suit as the joints groaned to life. “Tell me something good, kid.”

Without lifting her gaze from the screen, Andromeda smirked faintly, the flicker of old defiance slipping through the cracks of exhaustion. “You look ridiculous.”

From behind the gauntlet, Yinsen let out a low chuckle. “She’s not wrong.”

Tony shot them both a look that might’ve been a glare if the desperation wasn’t creeping into his expression. “I meant about the system.”

Her smirk lingered, but her focus never wavered from the scrolling diagnostics. “Systems are green. Power flow’s stable. Weapons…” She tapped the keyboard, watching the output stabilize. “They should work.”

Tony arched a brow, unimpressed. “‘Should’ isn’t exactly the comfort I was hoping for, kid.”

Andromeda clicked her tongue. “Welcome to field testing. Now shut up. I need to finish your calibration.”

He grunted but complied, lifting his arms as the servos whirred louder, the metal exoskeleton syncing to his body. Yinsen moved quickly around him, double-checking every connection while Andromeda fine-tuned the control parameters, the arc reactor’s glow casting harsh, skeletal shadows across Tony’s face, etching the lines of exhaustion and something harder into the planes of his features.

“You ready?” she asked after a beat, forcing calm into her voice even as her chest tightened.

Tony flexed his hands, the suit’s heavy metal fingers curling into fists. “Yeah, kid. I’m ready.” He turned slightly toward Yinsen. “Let’s do it again.”

Yinsen nodded, voice steady, reciting the memorized route like a mantra. “Forty-one steps straight ahead. Then sixteen from the door. Fork right, thirty-three steps, turn right.”

Andromeda nodded along, the layout engraved into her mind like a brand. Every inch. Every turn. This was their one shot.

The moment shattered like glass under the crack of raised voices.

Shouting.

Boots thundered down the corridor, pounding against the stone, the sound reverberating through the cave like a war drum. The guards were closing in.

Andromeda stiffened, her hands flying across the keyboard as Tony pivoted toward the entrance, his entire frame snapping tense inside the suit. Yinsen glanced at her, then moved toward the doorway with the calm, rehearsed composure they had drilled into him.

“Yinsen! Yinsen! Stark!” The guards’ voices bounced through the jagged walls, harsh and urgent.

Tony’s eyes snapped to Yinsen. “Say something. Say something back.”

Yinsen blinked, panic flashing for a heartbeat. “I—I don’t—”

“Speak Hungarian!” Tony barked.

“I don’t speak Hungarian,” Yinsen stammered, shaking his head.

Tony let out a breath of pure frustration. “Then speak Hungarian.”

Yinsen exhaled sharply, nerves finally catching up to him. “Okay, okay. I know.”

Tony’s jaw clenched. “What do you know?”

The voices drew closer, footsteps pounding. Andromeda’s pulse kicked into overdrive as she typed furiously, the system still booting the final sequences. They needed more time. She met Tony’s gaze across the room—a silent demand.

Yinsen caught on and rushed toward the door, calling out something in Hungarian, his voice carrying strong and loud through the chaos.

A tense pause.

Then—BOOM.

The explosion rocked the cave, the blast slamming through the narrow corridors as smoke and debris rained down. Andromeda flinched against the shockwave, her hands briefly lifting from the keyboard before she forced herself back into focus. The air filled with the sharp crack of gunfire, shouts of confusion rippling through the compound.

Tony pivoted toward Yinsen, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the chaos. “How’d that work?”

Yinsen grinned, breathless but triumphant. “Oh, my goodness. It worked all right.”

Tony rolled his shoulders, his expression hardening into something lethal. “That’s what I do.”

Yinsen moved quickly to secure the last of the armor plating while Andromeda pressed the final sequence into the computer, the software responding with a steady pulse as the arc reactor kicked fully online, the hum vibrating through the floor.

She looked up, locking eyes with Tony, her voice cutting clean through the noise. “Power sequence initialized.”

The suit roared to life, metal plating locking into place, shifting with a fluid precision that made Tony look less like a man and more like a weapon forged in desperation. The cave trembled with the weight of distant gunfire, smoke curling through the narrow corridors, thickening the already suffocating air. They were out of time.

Andromeda snapped the laptop shut, forcing herself upright, the familiar scream of pain radiating through her back as her legs trembled beneath her. She swallowed it down, biting hard against the weakness clawing at her edges. There was no room for it now. Gunfire echoed again, closer this time, the chaotic scramble of men rushing to block their escape.

Yinsen backed up, hands lifted, his chest heaving. “They’re coming,” he said, his voice tight, breathless.

Tony adjusted his stance, the suit syncing to his every movement, his metal-clad hands curling into fists. “Make sure the checkpoints are clear before you follow me out,” he ordered, glancing at Yinsen, his tone clipped, hard.

But Yinsen hesitated. His fingers flexed at his sides, his face tight with something Andromeda couldn’t quite name yet, something that made her stomach clench a beat before the truth slammed into her.

“We need more time,” Yinsen said suddenly, too calm, too steady.

“What?” Andromeda snapped, her breath catching as Yinsen turned toward the cave’s mouth.

Tony’s voice cracked, his fear bleeding through the command. “Stick to the plan! Stick to the plan, dammit!”

But Yinsen was already gone.

Andromeda’s heart lurched painfully as she watched him snatch a gun from the ground, his grip unwavering as he sprinted toward the entrance, firing into the shadows. The sound of bullets ricocheting against the stone was deafening, drowning out the pounding of her pulse in her ears as the guards scattered, ducking for cover.

For a moment, it worked.

But only a moment.

The echo of gunfire gave way to a brutal, smothering silence.

Andromeda clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached, forcing herself to move, forcing the grief down into the hollow place inside her chest. The progress bar on the laptop blinked its final, mocking completion. The suit was ready. Powered. Alive.

The arc reactor pulsed inside the armor, casting harsh light over Tony’s face as he turned, rage etched deep into the lines around his mouth. His fists clenched, and the suit moved with him, locking tight, shifting into place like a predator ready to strike.

The cave erupted again as more men flooded the entrance.

Tony didn’t hesitate.

He charged forward, his first strike slamming into the chest of the nearest guard with bone-crushing force, sending the man flying into his comrades, bodies collapsing like dominoes. Bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the suit’s plating, the men scrambling to regroup, shouting orders lost in the roar of chaos.

Andromeda moved with him.

Her body screamed in protest, her legs faltering beneath the weight of exhaustion and old injuries, but she ignored it, snatching up a discarded rifle from the floor. She chambered a round with a sharp, metallic snap, the weapon trembling in her hands as she forced herself forward.

A guard lunged from her blind side.

She pivoted hard, her balance slipping—but instead of retreating, she threw her weight into him, bracing on instinct. Her shot rang out at point-blank range, the recoil jarring through her arms as the man crumpled, his body dropping at her feet. She barely spared him a glance before she pressed on, pulse pounding in her ears, scanning the smoke-choked chaos for her next target.

Tony was a wrecking ball, tearing through the guards with brutal, mechanical precision, every movement efficient, unstoppable. Every punch left men sprawled in his wake, every step pushing them closer to the exit.

Andromeda caught a glimpse of a guard aiming for Tony’s exposed flank and fired without hesitation, the shot slamming into the man’s shoulder and sending him spinning into the dirt. The burn in her arms from the recoil was sharp, but she gritted her teeth and pushed harder.

“Keep moving!” Tony’s voice thundered from inside the suit, distorted by the comms, layered with urgency.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

She sprinted toward the mouth of the cave, breath ragged, lungs burning, every step sending agony flaring up her legs and into her spine. She didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. If she hesitated for even a heartbeat, she wouldn’t make it.

The second she burst into the open, the sunlight slammed into her like a hammer, stealing her breath, blinding after so many months in the dark. She staggered, blinking hard against the assault of heat and brightness, disoriented, her pulse thundering in her ears. Then—Yinsen’s voice cut through the haze like a gunshot. “Watch out!”

Her head snapped up, heart seizing as her gaze locked onto him—and behind him, Raza. He was waiting. His gun already raised.

The shot cracked the air before she could react.

Yinsen shoved her hard, the force sending her sprawling into the sand, her back slamming against the ground. Pain flared hot and sharp up her spine, stealing the breath from her lungs as the world spun, ears ringing, the sky blurring into sand and smoke. She blinked hard, forcing her body to cooperate, to focus—but when her eyes found Yinsen again, the breath lodged in her throat.

He stood there, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged bursts, blood blooming across his shirt in a slow, widening stain.

Tony roared, the sound pure fury, ripping through the chaos as he raised his arm. A missile streaked from his gauntlet, slamming into the ground near Raza. The explosion sent him flying, his body crashing against the rock wall with a sickening crack as smoke and sand swallowed the battlefield in a choking cloud.

Andromeda scrambled to her feet, heart pounding, lungs burning. She stumbled toward Yinsen, her hands clutching his shoulders as he sagged to his knees. “No,” she breathed, panic fraying at the edges of her voice. “No, no, no, you idiot, why would you—”

Yinsen’s gaze found hers, glassy now, but steady. “You have to go,” he rasped, each word jagged with effort. “Both of you.”

Tony was there in an instant, ripping off his helmet as he dropped to his knees beside them. His expression was thunderous, furious, but underneath, there was something shattered. “No. No, you’re gonna see your family. Get up, Yinsen. Get up.”

Yinsen gave him a weak, almost peaceful smile. “My family is dead, Stark. I’m going to see them now.”

Andromeda’s throat closed, her vision swimming. Tony shook his head, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscles twitch beneath his skin. “We had a plan,” he ground out, voice cracking under the weight of everything they were losing. “This wasn’t it.”

Yinsen reached up, his bloodied fingers gripping the edge of Tony’s armor, his strength already fading. His voice was barely a whisper now, breath a ghost of itself. “Don’t waste it, Stark. Don’t waste your life.”

Then he was gone.

Andromeda felt the moment he left them, the weight of his body sagging into her arms, lifeless. She gripped him tighter, her fingers curling into the fabric of his blood-soaked shirt like she could hold him here, keep him from slipping away—but it was too late. It had only taken a second. One heartbeat. And he was just... gone.

“Dad…” she whimpered, tears spilling over, her voice breaking on the edges of grief.

Tony’s face was carved from granite, his fists clenched so tight the servos in his suit groaned in protest. The glow of the arc reactor reflected off his expression, harsh and cold, but she could see it in his eyes—that crack, that raw, unbearable grief clawing up from somewhere deep inside.

“Andy.” His voice was rough, frayed. He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his gaze fixed on Yinsen’s still body. “We have to go.”

Andromeda swallowed hard, her throat raw, her chest aching like something inside her had splintered apart. Her hands trembled as she forced herself to release Yinsen’s body, every part of her rebelling against it. But they couldn’t stay. They couldn’t let his sacrifice be for nothing. She grabbed her rifle, shoving herself upright, her legs burning with the effort, her back screaming. She didn’t care.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

They weren’t safe yet.

The heat of the desert wrapped around them, heavy and suffocating. Smoke and sand swirled in the air, thick with the acrid scent of burning metal and gunpowder.

Tony moved first.

He turned toward the rest of the camp, lifting both arms, the servos in his suit whining as the repulsors charged with a sharp hum. Then—BOOM. Twin streams of fire erupted from his gauntlets, engulfing the tents and weapons caches in an inferno. Guards scrambled, their shouts twisting into panicked screams as the camp ignited in chaos.

But the gunfire didn’t stop.

Bullets rained down on the suit, ricocheting off the armored plating, some finding the weaker seams, denting the metal, jamming the joints until Tony forced them back into motion with brute stubbornness. “Shit—okay, that hurts,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as another wave of bullets slammed into his shoulder.

Andromeda ducked low, sprinting toward the line of vehicles, her breath ragged, her vision swimming. She shoved the grief down, buried it in the pit of her stomach. She could mourn later. Right now, she had to move. The vehicles were lined up in disarray, smoke curling from slashed tires, engines choking on the fuel she had already sabotaged.

But there—through the haze—one jeep. Still intact.

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs as she bolted for the jeep, ignoring the screaming protest of her legs, the raw ache clawing up her back. None of it mattered. There was only the single, urgent command pulsing in her mind—get to the jeep, get Tony out, get them both out.

She pushed forward, gripping the rifle tight as she reached the driver’s side door. Movement caught the edge of her vision—a guard, shouting in rapid-fire Urdu, weapon already rising. She twisted fast, leveled her gun, and squeezed the trigger twice. The first shot hit his chest, the second his head. He crumpled before his body even registered the first hit.

No time.

She yanked open the door, hauled herself inside, and wrenched the keys from the dash. Please, God, just work.

The engine roared to life beneath her trembling hands.

Adrenaline flooded her veins as she jammed the jeep into gear, slamming the accelerator to the floor. The tires spat sand as the vehicle lurched forward, cutting a reckless path through the carnage. Smoke coiled thick around her, the fires Tony had started raging in every direction—beacons of chaos in the wasteland.

Somewhere ahead, Tony was still fighting, still burning everything to the ground. She just had to reach him before he took to the sky.

A glance in the mirror confirmed what she already knew—she wasn’t alone. Two trucks, battered but functional, had survived her earlier sabotage and were barreling after her, engines screaming, dust pluming in their wake.

“Shit.” The curse ripped from her throat as a sharp ping snapped against the jeep’s frame. Bullet.

She gritted her teeth, yanking the wheel hard to the left as another round shattered the back window, shards spraying across the seat, slicing into her arms. One of the trucks kept pace behind her while the other veered wide, boxing her in.

Too close. No margin.

Her rifle sat useless on the passenger seat—dead weight in a high-speed chase. She couldn’t shoot and drive, not now, not at these speeds. She needed something else.

Her fingers clenched tighter on the wheel, mind racing.

Then—there.

Ahead, the terrain dipped into an old, dried riverbed. Jagged and uneven. A deathtrap at this speed. If she could lure them in, make them follow at full throttle, maybe—just maybe—she could turn the ground itself into a weapon.

She slammed the jeep into a higher gear, pushing the engine harder than it wanted to go. The stink of burning oil filled her nose, but she ignored it. This was her shot. One chance.

The trucks thundered closer.

Almost.

At the last possible second, she yanked the wheel to the right, the jeep careening over the riverbed’s edge, suspension shrieking in protest as it slammed down onto the fractured earth. The jolt rattled her teeth, the whole frame groaning under the impact.

Behind her, the first truck wasn’t as lucky.

It hit the drop-off at full speed, the front end plowing into the jagged dip, momentum sending the entire vehicle airborne. Andromeda had only a split second to glance in the mirror before she saw it—metal tumbling end over end, landing in a twisted, smoking heap.

One down.

The second truck swerved, managing to avoid the same fate, but it lagged now, slowed by the chaos she’d left in its wake, giving her a precious sliver of distance.

Not over yet.

Andromeda pushed harder, her breath tearing out in ragged bursts as the jeep shuddered beneath her, the steering wheel slick in her grasp from a mixture of sweat and blood she couldn’t afford to notice yet. Her back screamed with every jolt, her legs ached with the constant pressure on the pedals, but she shoved it all aside, locking her gaze on the distant horizon.

And then—through the dense curtain of smoke and searing glare of the midday sun—she saw it.

A thick, black column spiraling skyward, cutting through the pale desert blue in an unmistakable trail.

Tony.

The suit had flown. It had held.

Relief punched the air from her lungs, but she didn’t have time to celebrate. Not yet. She twisted the wheel, veering the jeep toward the rising smoke, willing the battered engine to hold.

But the desert had other plans.

The sharp crack of a rifle split the air. Pain followed instantly—searing, hot, brutal. The impact ripped through her right shoulder, lancing fire down her arm. She lurched forward, nearly losing the wheel, her breath choking off in a ragged gasp.

They’d hit her.

Her vision blurred. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to keep the wheel steady, her fingers slippery against the grip as blood soaked into her sleeve.

Then the second shot found the jeep.

A violent shudder rocked the vehicle as the bullet punched through the hood, the engine coughing once—then again—before dying altogether, sputtering out in a final wheeze of smoke and oil.

“No, no, no—come on,” she snarled, slamming her fist against the dash, but it was over. The jeep rolled a few more meters, jerking forward with a guttural whine before coming to a dead stop in the sand.

She wasn’t making it out of the desert in the jeep.

But—she had made it far enough. Far enough to reach him.

Andromeda sucked in a breath sharp enough to scrape her lungs raw. She shoved the door open, stumbling out into the suffocating heat, her legs barely catching her weight. The truck behind her was closing in fast, its engine roaring, tires grinding over the dunes like a beast hungry for blood.

She had seconds.

Her rifle was still in the seat.

She dove for it, dropping hard to one knee as she snatched the gun from the passenger seat. No time to think. She turned. Fired.

The first shot cracked through the windshield, spidering the glass.

The second tore into the front tire.

The third—straight through the driver’s chest.

The truck swerved violently, the driver’s body slumping over the wheel. It veered sideways, momentum carrying it into a wild, uncontrolled spin. For a breathless moment, Andromeda thought it might hold, that the sand might spare them both.

It didn’t.

The vehicle tipped, slow at first, then faster, flipping end over end, throwing up a storm of sand and metal until it finally slammed into the dunes, a twisted, unmoving wreck.

Silence swallowed the battlefield.

Andromeda stayed on one knee, rifle trembling in her grip, her breath rattling like a loose screw in her chest. Pain ground at her nerves, sharp and raw. Her shoulder throbbed, bleeding freely down her side.

But—she was alive.

Again.

She blinked hard, the edges of her vision pulsing as the weight of it all slammed into her like a collapsing wave. She’d done it. She’d survived.

Her fingers curled tighter around the rifle as she sucked in a breath, forcing herself to stay upright. In her head, she could still hear Happy’s voice, sharp and unrelenting from every endless drill he’d ever put her through.

Always aim center mass first, Drom. If they keep coming, go for the head. Breathe. Fire. Move. Don’t freeze. Keep going.

She had done exactly that. And she was still here.

But Tony—where the hell was Tony?

Her head snapped toward the trail of black smoke still painting the sky, a dark smudge against the fragile blue. The suit had held long enough to get him out of the camp, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Not forever. Not with the damage he’d taken inside. Somewhere out there, he had crashed.

Panic clawed at her throat.

She had to move.

Turning back to the wreck of the jeep, she staggered toward it, breath hissing through clenched teeth, her body trembling from the adrenaline crash already threatening to drag her under. If she was going into the open desert, she needed cover—needed every scrap of advantage she could scavenge.

Her hands tore into the back seat, rifling through the abandoned supplies—spare ammo, a cracked radio, a half-empty canteen. Useless.

Then—there.

A thick jacket, sun-bleached and stiff from weeks under the punishing heat. A scarf, frayed but intact.

She grabbed both, slinging the rifle over her back as she yanked the jacket on over her good arm, biting back a ragged gasp as it pressed against the still-bleeding wound in her shoulder. The scarf she wrapped around her head and lower face, shielding what she could from the worst of the sun and the grit swirling in the rising wind.

The heat was already creeping in, soaking into her clothes, saturating her skin, but she forced herself to ignore it. One breath. One step.

She adjusted the rifle’s strap across her chest, sucked in a shallow breath, and started running.

The desert did not forgive hesitation.

Heat pulsed down on her in relentless waves, the sand reflecting it back into the soles of her boots until it felt like she was running over a furnace. Every breath she took scraped against the inside of her throat, thick and dry, her lungs ragged and raw. Her legs screamed. Her back pulsed with fire. Her arm was slick with blood. But she kept going.

Because if she stopped, she wasn’t sure she’d get back up.

She followed the smoke trail, stumbling over uneven dunes, sand slipping out from beneath her boots with every breathless, desperate step. The pounding in her head drowned out everything but the frantic drum of her own heartbeat. Her ears still rang from the firefight, her vision blurring at the edges, dehydration turning the endless stretch of desert into a shifting, shimmering mirage.

But then—she saw him.

The wreckage of the suit lay twisted and broken in the sand, blackened metal gleaming under the punishing sun. And beside it—Tony. Sprawled half out of the shattered armor, struggling to push himself upright, every movement sluggish, pained.

Relief slammed into her like a fist to the ribs, stealing her breath, leaving her dizzy and trembling.

“Dad!” The word ripped from her throat, hoarse, ragged, but it was enough.

Tony’s head snapped up, his expression sharpening the instant his gaze found hers.

“Andy?” His voice was rough, barely more than a rasp over the static hum in her ears, but the panic threading through it cut through the haze like a blade. “Jesus, what the hell are you doing here?”

For a split second, she almost laughed, the sound choking in her throat.

Here? Where the hell else would she be?

She didn’t waste time answering. She stumbled forward, dropping hard to her knees beside him.

He was a mess. His face streaked with soot and dried blood, his hands blistered from burns, knuckles split and raw from the crash. One arm hung useless at his side, the armor’s joints locked from the impact. But his eyes—his eyes were clear. Still focused. Still Tony.

He was alive.

And that was all that mattered.

She exhaled shakily, reaching for his shoulder, needing to feel the weight of him beneath her hand, needing to know he was still here, still real. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, coughing as he shifted, wincing with every move. “Suit’s dead. Figured that’d happen.”

She swallowed hard, glancing at the smoldering heap beside them—their fastest ticket out of this hell. Gone. Just like that.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the oppressive silence of the desert. Every muscle screamed. Her skin blistered under the merciless sun, and the sting of sweat seeping into the torn flesh of her arm only added to the raw throb at her temple. But none of it mattered.

They were still alive.

That was enough.

For now.

Andromeda dragged a shaky breath into her lungs, forcing herself to sweep the barren expanse again. No landmarks. No roads. Nothing but a stretch of sunbaked sand and an endless, blinding sky that shimmered with heat waves, as if the entire world had been set on fire.

Beside her, Tony was trying—and failing—to look like anything but a man seconds from collapsing. His shirt hung in filthy, torn strips, his face smeared with soot and streaked with blood from a fresh gash across his cheek. His hands trembled faintly at his sides, whether from adrenaline, exhaustion, or something worse, she couldn’t tell.

But he was upright.

That was enough.

She swallowed against the ache clawing up her throat. “What’s the plan?” she asked, keeping her voice as even as she could.

Tony huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if there wasn’t so much ragged defeat tangled in it. “Plan? Oh yeah, sure. I’ve got a great plan. Let me just pull it out of my ass real quick.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes. Okay. He was fine enough to be a smartass. That was something.

“I saw a convoy earlier,” she said, adjusting her weight off her injured side. “Northwest of here. Military. If they’re still close, that’s our best shot.”

Tony rubbed a hand over his face, squinting toward the haze in the distance. “You sure that wasn’t just a mirage?”

“Pretty sure,” she deadpanned.

For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw tight as he stared out at the desolation, calculating their odds. Finally, with a heavy exhale, he nodded.

“Alright.” His voice was flat, heavy with resignation. “We walk.”

Andromeda let out a breath, adjusting the rifle on her shoulder. “We walk.”

She turned to move, but Tony caught her wrist.

Before she could process the movement, he yanked her forward, crushing her against him in an embrace that stole what little breath she had left.

She froze, caught completely off guard.

Tony Stark wasn’t the hugging type. His affection usually came in the form of sarcasm, extravagant gifts no one asked for, or the quiet way he’d tinker with her projects when he couldn’t say the words aloud. But now—right now—he held her like she was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

Andromeda swallowed hard. Her arms hovered awkwardly for a beat, the moment fragile, brittle as glass. Then she let herself lean in, curling her arms around him, pressing her forehead into the grit-streaked fabric of his shirt.

They stayed like that, locked together in the brutal stillness, their ragged breathing the only sound besides the wind howling around them. The desert stretched out in all directions, endless, uncaring.

“I thought I lost you,” Tony muttered, voice rough, cracking at the edges like he hated himself for saying it out loud. “You shouldn’t have come back for me.”

She clenched her jaw, gripping tighter to his torn shirt, grounding herself in the solid weight of him. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

He let out a short, humorless chuckle that held more exhaustion than amusement. “Yeah. Guess that makes two of us.”

Silence stretched, heavier now.

Then, finally, Tony stepped back, his hands lingering on her shoulders just a moment longer than necessary, his gaze raking over her face with a fierce, unspoken promise.

“We’re getting out of here,” he said, low and steady, the kind of vow that left no room for argument.

Andromeda nodded, the lump in her throat too thick to speak.

And then—they walked.

The sun was merciless.

They had no sense of time anymore. Minutes stretched into hours. Or maybe it was the other way around. Sweat plastered Andromeda’s clothes to her skin, salt stinging into every open cut, every raw patch of flesh. Her breath rasped, shallow and ragged, each step an act of sheer defiance against her body’s protests.

The wound in her arm pulsed with every heartbeat, a molten throb that barely registered over the deeper, gnawing ache that had taken root in her spine, in her legs, in her bones.

She had pushed past her limits days ago.

Now she was running on stubbornness alone.

But even that had an end.

She forced one more step. And another.

Her knee buckled.

Pain detonated up her spine, blinding and sharp, stealing the air from her lungs. She sucked in a shaky breath, forcing herself upright, but the numbness was setting in now. Her legs weren’t working right.

“Whoa—” Tony was at her side in an instant, catching her before she could face-plant into the sand.

“Okay. That’s enough of that.”

Andromeda gritted her teeth, shoving at him with what little strength she had left. “I’m fine.”

Tony gave her a look that could have flattened steel. “Oh yeah? You look great, kid. Totally not about to eat sand.”

She glared at him, chest heaving. “I can walk.”

“No, you can’t.” His voice was sharp, final, cutting straight through the bravado she clung to. “Your legs are done. Admit it.”

She clenched her jaw, rage and humiliation clawing up her throat. She hated this. Hated the weakness. Hated the betrayal of her own body. She was Andromeda Stark. She didn’t fall. She didn’t fail.

But when she tried to take another step, her legs simply... gave out.

Tony caught her. Again.

And this time, he didn’t argue. Didn’t give her the chance to fight him.

“Alright. That’s it.” His tone brooked no argument.

Before she could protest, he crouched low, gripping her under the knees and hauling her onto his back in one swift, infuriating move.

“What the—Dad, put me down!” She squirmed weakly, but his grip was iron.

Tony adjusted her weight with a grunt, hooking his arms under her knees, locking her against his back as he started walking again.

“Not a chance, kid. You’re three minutes from blacking out, and I’m not about to drag your stubborn ass across the desert on a rope.”

Andromeda wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to shove it. But the second she stopped resisting, the full weight of it hit her like a freight train.

Her body crumpled into his, boneless, empty, every muscle stripped raw and screaming. Her vision swam with black spots, the sky tilting and blurring as her senses dulled under the oppressive crush of heat and exhaustion. Every breath scraped like glass down her throat, raw and ragged, the air itself turning to fire inside her lungs. Her shoulder throbbed, each pulse of pain sharp enough to make her stomach twist with nausea.

She hated this.

Hated the weakness clawing up her throat. Hated that she couldn’t keep going. Hated that she had to let him carry her. But she wasn’t stupid.

Swallowing what little pride she had left, she let her head drop against his shoulder, breathing out in a hoarse rasp. “You’re gonna drop me.”

Tony scoffed, breath hitching from the effort. “Please. I carried you out of worse messes when you were little.”

She snorted weakly, the sound catching on the dryness in her throat. “I was, like, thirty pounds back then.”

“Yeah, and you screamed a hell of a lot more.” His voice was rough, but threaded with something dangerously close to fondness. “So this is actually an improvement.”

Andromeda huffed, but the fight was draining out of her bones, slipping through her fingers no matter how tight she tried to hold on. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to focus on the steady rhythm of his footsteps crunching through the sand, the ragged cadence of his breathing, the brutal, unrelenting press of the sun baking against her exposed skin.

She was close. Too close to passing out.

But they weren’t alone.

Not for much longer.

It came distant at first, a faint, dull thwump-thwump-thwump cutting through the suffocating stillness of the desert. Her sluggish mind barely registered it—too far gone, too frayed at the edges—but then Tony stiffened beneath her, his body locking up like a coiled wire.

Her stomach lurched.

A helicopter.

Panic clawed up her throat, sharper now, more insistent than the exhaustion strangling her lungs. Her mind snapped, fast and brutal, to the worst possible answer—the Ten Rings. Reinforcements. Coming to sweep up the wreckage, to finish what they started. They had no cover. No vehicle. No suit. Just the open maw of the desert and nowhere to hide.

But then—Tony let out a sound. Short. Sharp. Disbelieving. It cracked at the edges like it didn’t know whether it was a laugh or something closer to a sob.

“That’s not them,” he muttered, voice tight, strained with something she couldn’t name.

Andromeda forced her heavy head up, her body trembling under the effort, her breath ragged in her throat. Her vision swam, the blinding white of the sun slicing through her like a blade. She squinted, shielding her face as the glint of metal caught her eye, cresting just over the dunes.

A helicopter.

Unmistakable against the clear, blistering sky.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she tried to make out the insignia, the shape, the paint. Her thoughts lagged behind her body, sluggish and frantic all at once.

Then—the side door slid open.

And a voice boomed over the deafening roar of the rotor blades.

“STARK!”

Tony’s grip on her legs tightened reflexively, his breath hitching in a sound that cracked wide open under the weight of something like relief. “Rhodey,” he rasped, hoarse and raw.

Andromeda blinked hard, her sluggish brain catching up.

Colonel James Rhodes.

Her dad’s best friend.

Their way home.

The knot in her chest—tight for so long it had almost fused to her ribcage—unclenched all at once. The air punched out of her lungs, cold and dizzy and too thin to fill her properly.
They were saved.

The helicopter dropped lower, and the world dissolved into a violent storm of wind and grit. Sand lashed her skin, filled her throat, clawed at her eyes until they burned and watered. Tony braced against the gale, shielding her with his body, his frame trembling from the weight of her and the wreckage of his goddamn suit.

The rest of the world narrowed to the pulse of the rotor blades, the heat of his back, the suffocating crush of dust and smoke.

Then—boots hit the ground.
Heavy. Rushed. Familiar.

Rhodey.

Tony staggered a step forward before Rhodey caught him, gripping his arms hard enough to leave bruises.
“Jesus Christ, man.” His voice cut through the roar, ragged, sharp, desperate. His gaze flicked from Tony to her, back again. “You’re alive.”

Tony let out a hoarse, broken laugh, adjusting her weight against his back. “Yeah, well. Barely.”

Rhodey’s gaze snapped to her then—eyes narrowing, zeroing in on the blood soaking her arm, the tremor in her hands, the slack weight of her body draped over Tony’s back. She wasn’t fighting it anymore. She couldn’t.

His face darkened.
“What the hell happened to her?” The edge in his voice left no room for anything but truth.

Tony’s breath hitched, the bravado faltering under the rawness in his voice. “Long story. I’ll tell you when we’re not standing in the middle of a goddamn oven.”

Rhodey’s jaw worked. His fingers clenched tighter around Tony’s arm, grounding himself like he didn’t fully believe either of them were standing here. Alive. Breathing.

Then his gaze flicked back to Andromeda, all sharp calculation. She felt it, the way soldiers saw things—assessed damage, logged risk. Her arm. The blood. The way her head lolled weakly against Tony’s shoulder, the world swimming at the edges of her vision.

She wasn’t just exhausted.
She was right at the line.

“Give her to me,” Rhodey said, low, rough, no room for argument.

Tony hesitated—just a beat—but she felt it in the way his grip tightened, stubborn as ever. Andromeda, even in the haze swallowing her whole, managed a weak, half-conscious sound, shifting against him.

“Tony.” Rhodey’s voice dropped lower, more urgent now. “You’re about to drop. Let me take her.”

Tony sucked in a breath through his nose, then finally—finally—nodded.

He crouched, slow, careful, shifting her forward. The second he let go, Rhodey was there, catching her, hauling her into his arms like she weighed nothing at all.

She barely stirred, but when she did, her good hand fumbled for his uniform, curling into the front of it like she used to when she was small and sick and scared.

“Uncle…Rhodey.” Her voice cracked in her throat, barely more than breath, but it was enough.

Something in Rhodey broke at that. She felt it in the way his grip tightened, fierce and grounding.

“Yeah, kiddo. I got you.”

Her body sagged hard against Rhodey, the last of her strength bleeding out into the sand, into him, into nothing. She couldn’t stop the shudder that rattled through her, couldn’t stop the tremors still wrecking her limbs, the aftershocks of too much adrenaline, too much blood loss, too much everything.
She’d been through hell.
And she was still breathing.
Barely.

Rhodey swallowed hard, his grip never loosening as he turned to Tony, who was still swaying like he didn’t trust the ground beneath his feet, eyes locked on her with a desperation that made something ugly twist in Rhodey’s gut.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Rhodey muttered, voice scraping raw.

Tony didn’t argue. Didn’t even crack a joke.

They made their way to the waiting helicopter, Rhodey carrying her with an ease that she couldn’t feel anymore, numbness swallowing the rest of her. Tony trudged beside them, every step like he was dragging the weight of everything they’d lost.

The second they were inside, the cabin erupted into motion—medics moving in fast, reaching for Tony first, but he shoved them off, his voice raw, stripped down to the bones.

“Her first.” His hands were clenched fists at his sides, his stare welded to her like if he blinked, she’d disappear again.

Rhodey lowered her onto the stretcher, carefully, like she was still glass and barbed wire all at once. He brushed sweat-soaked strands of hair off her face as the medics closed in around her. She barely reacted, her body slipping deeper, slipping away, but even through the haze, her hand still clung weakly to the front of his uniform.

Rhodey’s throat clenched.

“Her legs gave out before you got here,” Tony rasped behind him, voice rough and edged like he was dragging it up from somewhere too raw to touch. “She… she took shrapnel to the back when they grabbed us. I don’t know everything—” His hand dragged down his face, leaving streaks of soot in its wake. “They… they took her from me for weeks. She was walking again but… I don’t know.”

Rhodey froze. The words sank in like ice.

They took her from me.

Not just injuries from the escape.
Not just shrapnel or dehydration or exhaustion.

Whatever the hell they’d done to Andromeda had started long before Tony got the suit up and running.

Rhodey swallowed hard, his gaze dragging over her body now with a sharper, heavier eye. Pale, bruised skin under torn clothes. The blood-stiffened fabric clinging to her arm where the bullet had grazed her. The faint tremors still racking her body, like even unconscious she couldn’t shake the weight of it. The way she hadn’t even tried to fight when Tony passed her off.

Andromeda Stark didn’t give up.
Rhodey knew that better than anyone.
So if she wasn’t fighting anymore—if she was letting herself sag into the stretcher, limp, silent—it meant they’d pushed her past the point where fighting even mattered.
His jaw locked hard enough to ache.

What the hell did they do to you, kid?

The medic cursed under his breath, hands moving fast, efficient, but the tension in his face was anything but clinical. “Severe dehydration. Bullet graze on the upper arm. That’s just what I can see, sir. But…” He hesitated, glancing between Tony and Rhodey. “The bigger concern is her legs.”

Rhodey’s stomach dropped straight through the deck.

Tony swayed, dragging a hand down his face, grime streaking deeper into the creases worn into his skin. “Yeah, no shit,” he snapped, his voice cutting sharper than Rhodey had heard in weeks. “She collapsed a few miles back.”

The medic swallowed, bracing himself. “It’s more than that, sir. There’s significant swelling in her lower back. Around her spine. If she took shrapnel—”

“She did.” Tony’s voice cracked through the cabin like gunfire, raw, dangerous. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles bone white, trembling with exhaustion or rage—Rhodey wasn’t sure which. “Months ago. The doctor who patched her up said he got most of it. Not all.”

The medic grimaced. “That might be it. If there’s still fragments pressing on her spinal cord… or scar tissue… she might not be able to walk until we deal with it. She needs scans. Now.”

Tony swayed again, like the ground had finally given out beneath him, but his eyes never left Andromeda. His breath came ragged, uneven, his body thrumming with a barely contained energy that Rhodey recognized for what it was—panic dressed up as fury.

Rhodey clamped a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Hey. We got her. You both made it out. We’ll fix this.”

Tony exhaled hard, his breath stuttering on the way out. He nodded, once, sharp. But the look on his face—the burn of it—made Rhodey’s chest twist in ways he didn’t like.
Guilt.
Ripping through him like a second skin.

“She was supposed to be safe,” Tony muttered, so low it barely scraped above the roar of the helicopter.

Rhodey’s grip tightened. “This wasn’t your fault.”

Tony didn’t answer.

The medic finished stabilizing Andromeda, slipping an IV into the crook of her arm, the fluids dripping fast into her depleted system. She didn’t even flinch. She didn’t move at all. A stillness that settled over her like a blanket soaked in blood and ash.

Rhodey’s gaze dragged down her frame—too thin, skin washed pale beneath the grime and blood, her features slack with the kind of exhaustion that went deeper than just the body.
Andromeda Stark was never still. Never small.
She’d always been a wildfire in human form—defiant, sharp-edged, the kid who ran circles around security just to prove she could, who dared the world to try and cage her.

Seeing her like this—quiet, still, fragile—made something hollow open wide in Rhodey’s chest.

“Sir, ten minutes to base,” the pilot called through the comms.

“Make it five,” Rhodey snapped back, his voice cracking harder than he intended.

Tony didn’t argue. He just slumped hard onto the bench beside her stretcher, his fingers curling into the side of the gurney like he could hold her there by sheer force of will. His gaze never wavered from her face. Like if he looked away for even a second, she’d vanish.

Rhodey sat down across from them, elbows braced on his knees, hands clenched tight as he studied them both—the genius, the girl who refused to break, the family that had clawed its way through hell and come out the other side burned raw but breathing.

Andromeda Stark had survived hell.
Now they had to make damn sure she could keep walking away from it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

Andromeda woke to the sterile bite of antiseptic and the low, mechanical hum of machinery. The air was too cold, too clean—so sharp against her skin that for a fleeting, disoriented second, she thought she must still be dreaming. But the soft press of linen against her back wasn’t sand, and the faint beeping that threaded through the silence wasn’t gunfire.

And then the pain came.

It wasn’t the sharp, immediate kind—the kind she could grit her teeth against and power through. No, this was heavier, slower, something that had sunk into her bones, woven itself into the fragile tangle of her nerves until every breath, every twitch of her fingers sent a deep, burning ache rippling down her legs. Her back pulsed with it, thick and suffocating, radiating out from a knot of agony just above her hips.

Her wrist throbbed, the old, grinding ache sparking to life with every tremor in her hand. Her ribs ached from the inside out, each inhale pressing too sharply against fractures that hadn’t been given the luxury of rest. And the sting in her upper arm—where the bullet had carved a path through flesh—throbbed beneath fresh bandages, raw and angry.

But worse, beneath it all, threaded into the cracks of her skin, was something else. Something deeper. Something she couldn’t touch, couldn’t clean, couldn’t stitch shut. It sat heavy in her chest, in her throat, in the place where fear had long since hollowed her out and left something uglier behind.

Her fingers curled into the blanket, the texture rough against her skin. Too real. Too present. Her breath stuttered, too sharp, too loud.

The door creaked. A shift of movement at her side.

Her body went rigid before she could stop it—fight, brace, don’t let them close.

“Easy, kid.”

The voice, familiar, cut through the spiral. Rhodey.

The steel around her chest loosened, just slightly. She turned her head—a mistake. The motion sent a jagged spike of pain screaming up her spine, white-hot and breath-stealing. She swallowed the sound, locking her jaw tight, breathing through the flare of it.

Rhodey sat beside her, his uniform rumpled, shadows carved deep under his eyes. He looked like hell. He looked like he’d been here a while.

Andromeda wet her cracked lips, the words scraping out of her raw throat. “Uncle Rhodey.”

It came out thinner than she wanted, hoarse and breakable, but it was enough to make his shoulders drop a little, the hard lines of his face easing at the sound of her voice.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said, voice steady, though there was something brittle threaded beneath it. He reached for the cup already waiting at her bedside, the straw bent toward her mouth. “Drink first, kiddo. Then you can tell me how stupid we both are.”

Her lips twitched. The smallest flicker of a smirk, there and gone, brittle at the edges. Her fingers, unsteady despite her best effort, closed around the cup—its weight unfamiliar, the cool plastic almost foreign against her calloused palm. She took the straw between cracked lips, the water dragging down her throat like a thread of ice, sharp and thin, soothing and scalding in the same breath.

It wasn’t enough.

Nothing was.

She swallowed carefully, letting the next few sips settle, bracing against the ache as she let her head fall back onto the stiff pillow. The cool linen scraped against her damp hair, the scent of antiseptic and sweat crawling into her lungs as she exhaled, slow, deliberate, trying to ignore the bitterness that clung stubbornly to the back of her tongue.

“How bad is it?” Her voice came out rough, scratchy, stripped of everything but the edge she couldn’t quite smother. She was already bracing. She’d known before she asked.

Rhodey hesitated.

Just for a second.

But she caught it.

Her stomach clenched, the dread knotting tighter, heavier.

“Surgery went fine.” His voice was careful. Too careful. “They got the rest of the shrapnel out. You’ll keep your mobility.”

There it was.

The but.

She heard it in the gap between words, in the shift of his weight, in the way his jaw clenched before the rest of the truth came out.

Her fingers curled into the coarse blanket, nails biting down into the fabric. “But?”

Rhodey exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before finally meeting her gaze. His expression didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. “There was nerve damage. Pretty bad. You’ll still be able to walk, but it’s not gonna be without pain. Docs say it’s manageable, with the right treatment, with time. But it’s not going away.”

She shut her eyes.

Let it settle.

Permanent.

Not just the wound in her back. Not just the fracture lines running through her ribs or the bullet groove in her arm. This. This was the one that wouldn’t fade, wouldn’t scar over and disappear into the catalog of things she could out-stubborn.

This was forever.

The realization pressed in from all sides, wrapping itself around her throat until she could barely breathe. She swallowed hard, forcing the lump down, the motion scraping raw against her chest. The air tasted thin, brittle as glass.

“Great,” she muttered, dragging the words out on a laugh that cracked before it even reached her lips. “Another Stark with chronic pain. We’re really batting a thousand here.”

Rhodey didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even flinch.

He leaned forward instead, elbows braced on his knees, his weight anchoring him as his gaze fixed on her—too steady, too quiet. Like he could see every fracture line she hadn’t let anyone else see.

“Andy…” His voice dropped lower, quieter, but it landed heavier than anything else in the sterile, humming quiet of the room. “What the hell happened over there?”

Her stomach twisted tight. Her breath hitched, shallow and sharp, the walls closing in despite the clean, wide space.

She didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

Her eyes locked on the frayed edge of the blanket clutched in her fists, her knuckles white.

“I survived,” she said flatly. The words felt hollow in her mouth, stripped of everything except the bare bones of truth.

Rhodey’s jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration working through the lines carved deep into his face. “That’s not what I asked.”

She exhaled sharply, her breath rasping through clenched teeth, fingers curling deeper into the blanket like she could anchor herself there. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Rhodey.” Her voice cracked, softer now, fraying at the edges, worn thin from too many days, too many nights holding it all inside. “They took me. They threw me in a cell. And when they wanted something, they took it.”

Her throat burned.

The rest sat there, thick and bitter, trapped somewhere deep in her chest where the words refused to climb out. She didn’t say how they didn’t care that her body was broken. Didn’t care when she screamed. Didn’t care when she begged.

She couldn’t say it.

Rhodey’s hands fisted against his knees, his whole body going still, his breath stalling. He was already putting the pieces together. She could see it—feel it—in the way his shoulders locked, the tremor threading through his jaw.

His voice barely reached her, a raw scrape of sound that seemed to cost him more than he could bear. “Andy… they said…” He faltered, breath catching, like he was choking on the words before they even formed. Then, on a jagged breath, they forced their way out. “They said you had sexual trauma.”

The words hit her like a punch to the sternum.

Her lungs seized, her body locking so hard it felt like she’d shattered from the inside out. Her fingers fisted deeper into the blanket, the coarse weave scraping against her palms, anchoring her even as her mind rebelled—spiraling back, down, into the darkness of that cell. The suffocating heat. The stink of blood and piss and sweat. Hands that hadn’t touched her like a person, but like a thing. A broken thing. Something to be used, discarded.

Her throat worked, swallowing bile, forcing the memory back, back, back where it belonged. She gripped the now—held onto the clean chill of the air, the antiseptic sting in her nose, the muted beep of machines. Rhodey’s breathing. His voice.

He was real.

This was real.

But she couldn’t look at him.

Couldn’t let him see it.

Andromeda had known it would come to this—that eventually, she’d have to say it out loud, let the words exist beyond the cage of her ribs. She just hadn’t thought it would feel like this. Like the words themselves might choke her. Like they’d tear her apart before they ever left her mouth.

Rhodey didn’t speak. Didn’t push. Just… waited.

She licked her lips, her mouth so dry it hurt. “Yeah.”

The word fractured the silence. Barely a whisper, but it cracked through the air like a gunshot, too loud, too sharp.

Rhodey exhaled—ragged, furious, a sound twisted somewhere between a curse and a breath. His hands had turned to fists, knuckles bone white, trembling with something she couldn’t bear to look at. She knew what was behind it. Knew that if he had a name, if he had a location, there wouldn’t be anything left of them when he was done.

She didn’t tell him that was the only thing that made her feel safe.

“I’m sure they did testing.” Her voice rasped out of her throat, brittle, more breath than sound.

Rhodey sucked in a long, tight breath, his jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked beneath his skin. His gaze darted—her face, the machines, the bruises still marring her arms in ugly, fading blooms. The kind of bruises that told stories. The kind that outlasted the skin.

When he finally spoke, his voice was too even. Like he’d locked every emotion behind iron doors just to get the words out. “Yeah. They did.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Kept her eyes pinned to the ceiling, counting the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Clinging to them like lifelines. Anything to keep from slipping under the weight pressing against her chest, the crushing, suffocating heaviness that wrapped around her ribs and wouldn’t let go.

Rhodey cleared his throat. The sound was raw, like it dragged shards of glass up from his chest. “No STIs. No infections. No—” He stopped. Shook his head hard, like the words tasted like bile. “You’re clear.”

The breath left her lungs in a stuttered exhale she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

It wasn’t relief.

Not really.

Just… confirmation.

It didn’t erase anything. Didn’t undo it. Didn’t make it less.

But at least—at least—there wasn’t something else festering inside her. Another scar she’d have to carry forever.

She swallowed, throat dry and tight.

Rhodey rubbed a hand down his face, his exhale rough and tired. “Andy… you should talk to someone about—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

The words lashed out of her like a whip. Too sharp. Too loud in the sterile hush of the room. They cut through the antiseptic air like a knife, final, unyielding.

Rhodey’s lips pressed into a thin, white line. His jaw flexed, working through something that simmered just beneath the surface, but he exhaled slow through his nose, forcing the tension down. She knew he had expected it. Knew he had braced for this answer the second he sat down beside her.

But it didn’t make it easier for either of them.

Andromeda turned her head away from him, from the weight of his gaze, from the tight coil of sympathy she couldn’t bear to see on his face. The motion was sharper than she intended, and the punishment was immediate—a vicious stab of pain ripping through her spine, stealing the air from her lungs. She clenched her teeth, breath ragged, hands curling into the coarse hospital sheets.

That’s when she saw it.

The cast.

Her left arm was swallowed in thick, rigid plaster, glaring stark and white against the bruised grime of her skin. The military-issue gown barely brushed the edges, the rough fabric a weak disguise for what lay underneath. For a long, disoriented beat, her mind blanked—sluggish, slow—like it couldn’t quite catch up to what her eyes were telling her.

Her wrist.

The last time she’d seen it, it had been swollen, discolored, twisted at an unnatural angle. Left to heal the way they’d broken it.

They’d fixed it.

They’d had to break it again to do it.

Her stomach lurched violently, nausea clawing its way up the back of her throat, thick and suffocating as the realization crashed over her.

Her breath shuddered out in a brittle, uneven exhale. “They re-set it.”

Rhodey followed her gaze, his expression carved into something tight and unreadable. “Yeah.” His voice was lower now. Rough in a way that scraped at the edges of her. “Didn’t heal right. They had to break it again to fix the alignment.”

Her pulse kicked hard against her throat.

Had to break it again.

Like she hadn’t already been broken enough.

Her fingers—shaking despite the numb haze of medication—curled weakly against the cast, brushing the coarse edges, tracing the dull, throbbing ache pulsing deep in the bone. It wasn’t sharp. Not anymore. Just… there. A hollow ache that echoed in places she couldn’t reach.

Her body had been stitched back together.

Again.

She exhaled through her nose, sharp and bitter, the sound scraping against the dryness in her throat. “I don’t even remember it.”

Rhodey shifted beside her, the chair creaking under his weight. He was watching her with the kind of heaviness that settled deeper than the cast on her arm. “You were already under for surgery,” he said after a beat, his voice carrying that measured softness he only ever used when the truth was worse than the words. “They handled it while they were in there.”

Handled it.

Like she was just another broken machine on a workbench, stripped down, patched up, reassembled piece by piece.

Andromeda clenched her jaw, swallowing against the swell of detachment clawing at the back of her throat. That familiar, hollow drift threatened to pull her under, to float her somewhere far from the weight of her body, from the bruises and burns and bones they kept re-breaking to put her back together.

Her back.

Her wrist.

She wondered how many more pieces they’d have to break and rebuild before she resembled something close to human again. If she ever had. If there was even anything left beneath the fractures, the bruises, the hollowed-out places that no stitching could close.

Her gaze drifted lower, to the subtle rise beneath the blanket—bandages wrapped tight around her ribs, binding her breath, pressing in like a cage inside a cage.

“How bad?” The words rasped out, frayed and brittle, barely making it past the dryness cracking her throat.

Rhodey shifted beside her, the weight of his stare landing heavy. “Fractured,” he said finally, softer now, like he didn’t want to admit the word that still hung unsaid between them—broken. Like everything else. “They’ll heal. Hurts like a bitch, though.”

She let out a breath that was supposed to sound like a laugh, but it rattled hollow in her chest, scraping over the ache in her ribs. “No shit.”

Rhodey’s mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. Not really. Not the kind that reached his eyes. His gaze stayed locked on her face, too steady, too sharp, like he was waiting for something to crack. Like he could see the pieces shifting under the surface even if she didn’t say it out loud.

“You took a hell of a beating, Andy.” His voice dropped lower, rough at the edges, scraping over something raw between them. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Lucky.

There it was again.

Lucky.

They kept saying it like it was supposed to mean something. Like it was supposed to make any of this feel better.
Lucky she was alive.
Lucky they’d found her.
Lucky it hadn’t been worse.
Lucky she hadn’t died in that cell. On that table. Beneath hands that never stopped, never heard her scream, never gave a damn that she was still breathing.

Her stomach twisted hard, the memory clawing its way up her throat like acid, thick and bitter and unstoppable.

And then the nausea hit.

Hard. Fast. Scalding.

It ripped through her without warning, brutal and immediate, punching the breath from her lungs before she could brace for it. Her body lurched violently, the thin sheets twisting in her fingers as she fumbled, tried to push herself upright, but her body wasn’t hers anymore—slow, heavy, hollow. Useless.

Pain detonated behind her ribs, sharp and merciless, lancing up her spine and crashing into the base of her skull like a live wire. Air scraped down her throat in jagged, shallow pulls that barely registered as breathing, the room tilting sideways, the sterile lights bleeding into shadow at the edges of her vision.

“Rhodey—” His name fractured out of her, mangled beyond recognition, not even a word—just a strangled sound, a guttural gasp torn from somewhere too deep, too raw, to hide.

But he was already there.

“Shit—hang on.” His hands caught her before she crumpled, steady and firm against her trembling shoulders, anchoring her in the here and now with the kind of practiced ease that told her this wasn’t the first time he’d done this for someone like her. He moved fast, grabbing the basin from the bedside table and shoving it into place just as the sickness ripped out of her.

Everything came up at once—bile, panic, pieces of memories she couldn’t shove back down fast enough. Her body convulsed with each brutal heave, muscles seizing tight, her chest racked with raw, retching sobs that scraped through her throat like sandpaper. She could feel Rhodey murmuring something—words that might have been comfort, might have been nothing—but they dissolved in the noise roaring in her ears.

She was drowning.

Drowning in the press of it—the phantom heat of hands on her skin, the taste of blood and bile, the stench of sweat and dirt and fear crawling back up her throat, suffocating her, swallowing her whole.

Her fingers fisted into the blanket, the cheap hospital fabric bunching in her white-knuckled grip as she shook harder, couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t claw her way out from under it.

She couldn’t get it out.

She couldn’t get them out.

Rhodey’s hand settled on her back—not heavy, not soft—just enough. A tether. A weight that told her, in no uncertain terms, she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t there anymore.

“Breathe, Andy.” His voice cut through the haze, low and solid, a grounding force when everything inside her fractured wide open. “Deep breath. I got you.”

She tried. God, she tried. But every inhale scraped like glass, her ribs flaring, her throat burning from the violence of it all. The tears came hot, spilling over before she could stop them, streaking down her grime-smeared face, unwanted, unwelcome, another failure she couldn’t contain.

She was shaking so hard it rattled her teeth. She couldn’t tell if it was the pain, the memories, or both bleeding into one long, endless scream inside her head.

Rhodey didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. He just stayed there, his hand steady between her shoulder blades, the only constant thing in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.

He didn’t flinch when she gagged again, didn’t pull back when more bile and nothingness tore out of her. He didn’t let go.

Like he knew.

Like he’d seen it before. Like this was what war did to people.

Or maybe this was just what happened when you clawed your way out of something designed to break you from the inside out and then leave you hollowed.

Her body finally stilled, the tremors dissolving into weak, uneven breaths that barely dragged enough air into her lungs to keep her upright. She slumped forward, her forehead nearly brushing the edge of the plastic bin, the acrid taste of bile coating her tongue, thick and bitter, scraping down her throat like acid. But it was nothing—nothing—compared to the way her chest ached, raw and cavernous, like something had split open inside her ribcage and there was no putting it back together.

Her ribs screamed, her back pulsed in a steady, brutal throb, her stomach clenched and churned like it wanted to revolt again, and her head wouldn’t stop spinning, the room a tilt-a-whirl of lights and shadows that refused to right itself.

She felt hollowed out. Scraped raw. Nothing left but pain and breath and the suffocating weight of being here, being seen.

Rhodey exhaled slow through his nose, the sound too careful, too measured, before he reached for the water bottle on the table. He unscrewed the cap with steady hands, pressing the cool plastic into her shaking grip.

“Rinse,” he murmured. No room for argument. Just the quiet steadiness of someone who knew how to walk people back from the edge.

Andromeda nodded, the motion weak, dragging, and brought the bottle to her lips with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling. The first sip hit too hard, too cold, scraping against the rawness in her throat, but she forced herself to swish it around her mouth, spit it into the bin, and swallow back the rest of the nausea coiled like barbed wire in her belly.

Her hands shook harder.

Rhodey watched her, gaze too sharp, too calculating, his whole body humming with words she could feel sitting on his tongue, thick and heavy. But he didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, he reached over, pressed the call button for the nurse.

She winced, swallowing the burn in her throat, her voice scraping out ragged and low. “Don’t.”

Rhodey’s gaze flicked to hers, unreadable, the line of his jaw tight. “Andy, you just threw up everything left in you. You need fluids. And you’re in pain.”

“I don’t want a nurse.” She forced the words past the tightness in her chest, past the raw knot rising again. “I want my dad. Is he okay?”

Rhodey let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face like the question weighed more than it should have. His expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes—something careful, something she didn’t like.

But after a beat, he nodded.

“He’s okay,” Rhodey said, but the weight in his voice dragged the words down, anchoring them heavy and wrong in her gut. “They had to run tests. Check the arc reactor. Make sure everything was stable. He was pissed when they pulled him away from you.”

That almost—almost—dragged the ghost of a smile out of her. Almost.

Tony Stark didn’t do softness. He didn’t do I love yous. Didn’t do gentle bedside reassurances or words that wrapped you up and made you feel safe. His love was action. Always had been. In the way he made sure she had the best tutors when she was too young and too bored. In the way he kept her close at suffocating charity events where the people smiled too wide and looked at her like she was just another Stark heir. In the way he never told her no when she wandered into his lab, grease-streaked and stubborn, too smart for her own good, and he let her stay—let her touch, build, break, learn—like she belonged there, like she was supposed to be elbow-deep in steel beside him.

And when it really mattered, in the way he never left.

Even now, even after everything—he’d fought to stay.

She swallowed thickly, the ache in her throat scraping raw. “Where is he?”

Rhodey leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, heavy breath. “Next room over. He’s fine, Andy. Just banged up. He’ll be sore for a while, but…” His voice trailed off, hesitation creeping in like a crack in his usual steadiness. “That’s not what’s got him.”

Andromeda frowned, her stomach tightening. “What do you mean?”

Rhodey dragged a hand down his face, the weariness in the gesture heavier than words. “I mean, your dad’s spiraling.” His jaw clenched, his fingers pressing tight together like he was holding something back—and losing. “He’s blaming himself for all of it. For you. For what happened. For everything that went down over there.”

Her chest clenched. Too tight. Too much. She grit her teeth against the rush of something ugly and fierce burning up her throat. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Yeah.” Rhodey huffed, bitter. “Try telling him that. He’s been running on fumes since we pulled you out. And the second he woke up, all he wanted was to see you. They had to sedate him, Andy. Sedate him. Just to get him to sit still long enough for the doctors to check his chest.”

That shouldn’t have surprised her. But it did.

She’d seen it before—that look in his eyes when the world tilted out of his control, when the cracks showed and he thought he’d failed.

Her fingers curled weakly into the thin hospital blanket, the fabric scratchy beneath her fingertips. “Can I see him?”

Rhodey hesitated. She saw it—the argument in his posture, the instinct to say no, to tell her to rest, that she wasn’t strong enough to sit up, let alone face him.

But he knew her. And he knew Tony.

He exhaled hard through his nose, standing. “I’ll go get him.”

She nodded.

But the second he turned toward the door, it hit her—cold, sharp, suffocating. Fear. Irrational. Crushing. It clawed up her throat, tightening like a noose until she couldn’t breathe around it.

“Wait.”

Rhodey froze, glanced back, his brow creasing. “Andy?”

She swallowed, her mouth dry, the words catching in her throat like broken glass. “I—can you just… tell me what he looks like? Before you bring him in?”

Rhodey blinked, confusion flickering across his face—until it shifted. Softened. Realization sinking in like a weight behind his eyes.

She didn’t know why she needed to ask. Maybe because the last time she saw him, he was bleeding, staggering through the desert, falling from the sky. Maybe because she didn’t know what version of him would walk through that door now. Maybe because everything had changed, and she wasn’t ready for more surprises.

Rhodey let out a breath, his expression gentling, the sharp edges softening just enough to be human. “He looks tired,” he said quietly. “Like he hasn’t slept in days. But… he’s still Tony.”

She nodded. Small. Fragile. Her fingers flexed against the scratchy hospital sheets like they could ground her in something that wasn’t spinning.

“Okay.”

Rhodey lingered a second longer, studying her, then finally turned and opened the door. “Stay put,” he said gruffly, like they both didn’t know she could barely move.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Andromeda let her head fall back against the pillow, exhaling slow, shaky, brittle. Her body throbbed, her limbs leaden with exhaustion, but she forced her eyes to stay open. She couldn’t fall asleep. Not yet. Not until she saw him. Not until she knew.

The minutes stretched. Long. Heavy. Then—footsteps. The door creaked open.

She turned her head.

And there he was.

Tony Stark stood in the doorway.

And he looked like hell.

Pale beneath the bruises, the hollows under his eyes dark and sunken, the faint tremble in his hands betraying more than exhaustion. His arc reactor glowed a weak, dull blue through the thin hospital gown, casting harsh shadows up the sharp planes of his face, making him look haunted. Hollow.

But he was here.

He was alive.

His breath hitched the second he saw her. His whole body locked up, like he was afraid that if he moved, if he breathed wrong, she might flicker out like a hallucination.

Andromeda swallowed hard, the lump in her throat rising fast, thick, suffocating. “Hey, Dad.”

Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, inventor of the goddamn century—made a sound that might have been a laugh. Except it cracked apart in the middle, like it couldn’t decide if it was supposed to be relief or agony.

And then—he was there. Beside her. Close. Too close. Not close enough.

His hands hovered above her, trembling, hesitant, like he didn’t know where to touch, what part of her was safe to touch. His eyes flicked over every bandage, every line, every bruise, every fracture, cataloging them like a blueprint he couldn’t fix.

His breath came fast, shallow, ragged.

Finally—his hands landed. One settled over her uninjured wrist, the other barely brushing her knee through the blanket, as if he thought she might shatter if he touched her wrong.

His jaw clenched. His shoulders shook.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was shredded. Hoarse. So goddamn raw it nearly ripped her open.

“I’m so sorry, kid.”

Andromeda blinked, slow, heavy, her entire body aching. But it was her throat that burned the most.

Andromeda swallowed thickly, the words catching behind the lump in her throat, bitter and sharp as glass. Her body ached in too many places to count, but it was nothing compared to the hollow scrape of those words, the way they dragged across her ribs like broken metal. She tried to speak—tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t have to say it—but the words jammed behind the heaviness crushing her chest, too thick, too much.

She let out a breath instead. Shaky. Unsteady. Her throat burned from the effort, raw from crying, from vomiting, from choking down everything she couldn’t say. “You don’t… you don’t have to say that.”

Tony’s fingers curled tighter around her wrist like he didn’t hear her. Or maybe like he couldn’t. His other hand pressed more firmly against her knee, grounding himself there, tethering both of them to something solid—something that wasn’t a fucking nightmare. His jaw clenched so hard she could see the muscle jump beneath the layer of bruises on his face, his breath hitching in short, uneven bursts.

“I do,” he rasped, the words grinding out of him like they hurt to say. “I do, Andy. I should’ve—I should’ve done more. I should’ve gotten to you sooner. I should’ve never—”

“Stop.” The word cracked from her lips, sharper than she meant it to be, slicing through the suffocating weight in the room. She squeezed her eyes shut, a tear sliding free, hot against her skin. She hated that he saw it. Hated that she couldn’t stop it. “Stop blaming yourself. I made choices too, Dad. I stayed behind. I helped build that goddamn suit. You didn’t make me.”

His hands tightened around hers, trembling still, like he didn’t trust the world not to take her from him the second he let go.

“You’re my kid,” Tony said again, the words dragging out of him like they hurt to say, barely more than a broken whisper. “It was my job to keep you safe.”

Andromeda let out a breath that scraped her throat raw, something that might’ve passed for a laugh if there had been anything left in her chest to make it real. “Yeah? Well. Guess we both failed at that one.”

His face twisted like she’d punched him in the ribs. And for a beat, the only thing in the room was the fractured rhythm of their breathing and the sterile beep of the machines—too loud, too sharp, like neither of them had enough lungs left to hold the weight between them.

Tony dragged a shaky hand through his hair, fingers knotting in the tangled strands like he didn’t even notice. He looked wrecked. Worse than wrecked. And then he leaned forward, his forehead resting against her cast like he needed the pressure, the contact, to prove she was real. Still here. Still his.

Andromeda blinked up at the ceiling, the hospital lights blurring at the edges, tears she refused to let fall burning behind her lashes. “You didn’t lose me,” she whispered. “We both made it.”

But God, it still felt like they’d left pieces of themselves buried in that desert sand.

Tony Stark didn’t break like this. He didn’t apologize—not with his voice splintered and his hands shaking and his breath catching like it couldn’t make it past his throat. He was always the master of the smirk, the deflection, the snark that made everything a little less suffocating.

But none of that was here now.

Just him. Just her.

Her father, wrecked and fraying at the edges in a way that scared her more than any of the wounds still healing beneath her skin.

She swallowed hard. “Dad—”

“No.” His voice cracked, the single word rough and desperate. He sucked in a jagged breath like he was trying to haul himself back together, but his grip on her wrist only tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure she couldn’t pull away. Like if he let go, she’d vanish. Like if he let go, he might.

“Don’t,” he rasped. “You don’t have to—you don’t have to say anything. Just… let me say it, okay?”

Her throat locked up, but she closed her mouth.

Tony rubbed a trembling hand over his face, smearing dirt and sweat across skin that still bore the grime of the desert, the faint stink of old blood and burnt metal clinging to him like ghosts he couldn’t scrub off. His knuckles were split and raw, nails chewed to the quick, his entire frame vibrating with a tension that hadn’t eased since the cave. Since the cell. Since he’d failed.

“I should’ve done something sooner,” he whispered, each word landing like a blow. “I should’ve figured out a way to get us out of there before they ever… before they ever touched you.”

Her stomach clenched hard, the words slicing deep, sharper than anything that had come before.

This wasn’t just guilt.

This was blame.

Andromeda’s fingers twitched beneath his. “Dad, stop—”

“I should’ve stopped them.” His voice cracked open, raw and bleeding. His hands fisted in his hair, his whole body trembling now, the rage barely contained, burning him alive from the inside. “They hurt you. They—” His breath broke off, a stuttering hitch like he couldn’t even force himself to say the words. “And I just—I had to sit there and listen—”

His voice shattered completely.

Andromeda froze. She had known. God, she had always known. In the dark. In the cracks between screams. In the places inside herself she had locked down so tight she didn’t even let herself look. There was no way he hadn’t heard. The walls had been too thin, the guards too loud, the screams never small enough to hide. But knowing it in the back of her mind and hearing him say it—hearing him speak it out loud, his voice stripped to something wrecked and raw and strangled with grief—that landed like a blade between her ribs, sharp and cold and merciless, carving out something she couldn’t name. She turned her head too fast toward the ceiling, breath catching, blinking hard against the hot sting that rose behind her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. They weren’t supposed to talk about that. He wasn’t supposed to say it. It was too much. Too heavy. Too real.

Tony’s breath dragged in sharp and broken, the tremor in his fingers betraying everything he couldn’t say as they clenched tighter against her wrist, holding on like it was the only thing anchoring him to the present. “You were screaming,” he whispered, and the words weren’t words—they were wreckage, each one crumbling on the way out, coated in helplessness and rage. “And I couldn’t—I couldn’t do a goddamn thing—” Her breath hitched, the sound sharp and wrong, her chest constricting like she’d been punched from the inside. The nausea clawed up her throat again, but it wasn’t the pain this time, or the meds. It was the sound of his voice, the weight of it, knowing now that her screams had carved themselves into him, into his skin, into his nightmares just as deeply as they had into hers.

She sucked in a ragged inhale, the movement making her ribs scream, her whole body shaking apart under the weight of the moment. “Dad,” she croaked, barely a whisper, the word catching on the broken edge of her breath. “Please… don’t.” His entire body froze, every muscle locking tight, every breath suspended like he was bracing for something he couldn’t stop. Andromeda forced herself—God, forced herself—to meet his eyes. Her father’s eyes. The same ones she had looked into her entire life. The ones that used to burn too bright with brilliance, with fire, with everything that was Stark. Except now… now they weren’t the same. Now they were hollow. Haunted. Shattered in ways she couldn’t fix, couldn’t name, couldn’t even look at for too long without feeling like she might fall into them and drown.

Andromeda blinked, slow and heavy, the lump in her throat thickening until it scraped against every breath. She hadn’t meant to say it, but now it was out there, between them, raw and fragile, and the way Tony’s expression shattered told her he had heard it for exactly what it was—a plea. His throat worked hard around a swallow, his gaze crawling over her face like he was desperate to memorize every piece of her that was still here, still breathing, still his, like he was hunting for something left intact in the wreckage of her. But they both knew better. His next words came rough, hoarse, frayed at the edges. “You’re not okay.”

She flinched. Because he was right. She wasn’t okay. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be okay again. But neither was he. And somehow, that felt worse. Her fingers, weak and trembling, curled over the back of his hand, clumsy and shaking but fierce in their own way, holding him, grounding them both, her skin pale and bruised against the tan of his. “I’m here,” she whispered again, the words softer this time, not a battle cry but something closer to an apology, or maybe a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.

Tony inhaled hard, his jaw clenched so tight she could hear his teeth grind, the sound brittle and scraping through the static-heavy silence between them. And for a long, suffocating moment, he didn’t say anything. He just squeezed her hand back, rough, desperate, like if he let go for even a second, the universe would snatch her away again. She swallowed hard past the lump choking her, and the next words came small, almost childlike, croaked through the rawness still bleeding through her throat. “When do we get to go home? I miss my bed.”

That pulled a sound from him that might have been a laugh—except it wasn’t. It broke somewhere in the middle, fraying at the edges, too raw, too hollow to be real. But it was something. His fingers twitched against hers, and even though the tight lines in his face refused to ease, for the first time since he’d walked into the room, there was something else in his eyes. It wasn’t just guilt anymore. It was exhaustion. It was relief. And maybe, if they both squinted hard enough, it was the flicker of something that might one day resemble hope. “Yeah, kid,” he rasped, his voice sanded down by too many sleepless nights and too much silence stuffed full of ghosts. “Me too.”

Neither of them heard Rhodey step back into the room until he cleared his throat from the doorway. His gaze flickered between them—Tony’s haunted, wrecked expression, Andromeda’s fragile grip on his hand, the gravity hanging heavy between them, pressing down like a goddamn vice that wouldn’t ease even now. He exhaled slow, careful, the weight of it settling across the room like another blanket they didn’t ask for. “They want to keep you both for observation another day or two,” he said finally, the words measured, like he already knew they weren’t going to want to hear it. “Make sure there’s no infection, no complications from the surgeries. After that… you’ll be cleared to leave.”

Andromeda barely processed the words. A day or two. It was nothing. It was a blink. But after months in a cave, after weeks of pain and filth and cold, it stretched in front of her like another goddamn lifetime. She wanted out. She wanted her bed. She wanted her own space, a shower that lasted longer than five minutes, clothes that didn’t itch like sandpaper. She wanted to feel like a person again, like something more than the wreck they’d carried out of that desert. Beside her, Tony let out a long, dragging breath, running a hand down his face, his fingers digging into his eyes like he was trying to scrape the ghosts out, like he was trying to wake up from the nightmare still clinging to them both. “Alright,” he muttered, rough. “Another forty-eight hours. We can handle that.”

But Rhodey’s mouth pressed into a thin, grim line, something flickering behind his eyes that said he didn’t believe either of them. And Andromeda didn’t blame him. She swallowed hard, sinking deeper into the pillows, her fingers still curled tight around Tony’s like an anchor, even as her arms trembled from the effort. “Yeah,” she murmured, her voice stretched thin and fraying at the edges. “We can handle it.” But as she said it, the words tasted hollow. And she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince more—Tony, Rhodey, or herself.

The discharge process stretched into eternity. Or maybe longer. Andromeda couldn’t tell anymore. Time had dissolved into a haze of fluorescent lights, the low murmur of voices she couldn’t bother separating, the endless shuffle of boots on tile. She sat slumped in the wheelchair they insisted on, her body swaddled in the oversized hoodie Rhodey had pilfered from Tony’s duffel bag—soft and worn and still smelling faintly of oil and metal and her father. Everything around her blurred into a colorless smear of motion—military doctors poking and prodding, nurses triple-checking vitals, Rhodey pacing the far end of the room, barking orders into his comm to make sure their transport was secure.

And then there was Tony. Andromeda’s gaze tracked him out of the corner of her eye, the restless, pacing shape of him carved sharp against the sterile white walls. He hadn’t sat once. Refused to. He moved like a caged animal, back and forth, back and forth, his fingers twitching, curling into fists at his sides every time someone came within five feet of her bed. His face was still bruised, his eyes sunken and rimmed with exhaustion, but it didn’t stop him from watching her like he was afraid to look away. Like she might disappear again if he so much as blinked.

She huffed softly, the sound thin and rasping in her chest, her fingers curling tighter into the sleeves of the hoodie. “Dad,” she muttered, tilting her head toward him, every movement still aching down her spine. “You’re gonna burn a hole in the floor.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even acknowledge her at first. Just kept pacing, his jaw tight, his breath coming too sharp, too fast. Then finally—his voice, low and frayed. “We shouldn’t still be here. They’re wasting time. We should’ve been on the plane hours ago.”

From the doorway, Rhodey sighed, arms folded across his chest like he’d been standing there for years, unmoving, watching the both of them unravel. “They’re making sure neither of you drop dead mid-flight, Stark. Let them do their damn jobs.”

“I’m fine.” Tony’s reply was sharp, automatic, brittle.

Rhodey snorted, the sound rough with disbelief. “Yeah, sure. Because passing out in the hallway two days ago screams fine.”

Andromeda blinked, her head jerking up slightly, something flickering through her fogged brain. She hadn’t known about that. Tony hadn’t told her. And now—he was glaring daggers at Rhodey.

“You weren’t supposed to tell her that.”

Rhodey didn’t flinch. He just raised a brow, his voice hard. “Maybe if you stopped pretending you’re invincible for five goddamn minutes, I wouldn’t have to.”

Tony didn’t respond. Didn’t even try. He just turned his scowl toward the nearest nurse instead, arms folding over his chest like a sulking teenager who’d been grounded. Andromeda swallowed what might have been a laugh, though it lodged somewhere in her throat, sharp and hollow. They were both impossible. And somehow—she wouldn’t have it any other way.

The wait stretched on, the hum of machines and the buzz of too-bright lights thickening the air until it pressed down on her chest like a weight she couldn’t shake. Every second dragged across her skin like sandpaper, rough and grating, until even the shallowest breath felt like it scraped something raw. Her ribs still ached, her back throbbed in protest with every shift of her weight, her wrist burned dull and persistent beneath the cast. But she gritted her teeth through it, holding steady, holding still, because it meant they were almost out. Almost free.

Finally—mercifully—the doctor appeared, clipboard in hand, his voice slicing through the static haze around her like something distant, something unreal. “Vitals are stable. Wounds are healing. You’re both cleared for transport.”

Tony didn’t even wait for the rest of the sentence. He was already moving, grabbing his duffel from the floor with the kind of restless urgency that made Andromeda’s stomach knot tighter. She exhaled, letting the breath shudder out of her lungs as relief washed over her like a cold wave. Finally. God, finally.

She knew the road ahead was going to be hell. The next few months—recovery, therapy, the media, the inevitable fallout—were going to hurt in ways she wasn’t ready to think about yet. But at least she was going home. She would sleep in her own bed. She would breathe air that wasn’t laced with sand and blood and the stink of captivity.

Tony turned toward her, his face still too pale beneath the bruises, the tight set of his jaw doing little to mask the cracks spiderwebbing through the armor he wore over his exhaustion. “You ready, kid?”

Andromeda met his gaze, the lump in her throat too thick to swallow. For the first time in months, she let herself believe it was over. She nodded, the smallest tilt of her head, but it was enough. “Yeah,” she rasped. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter 12

The airstrip was too quiet when they landed.

As the massive military transport jet taxied to a stop, Andromeda sat rigid in the wheelchair, staring past the cabin windows toward the faint, hazy outline of the California coastline bleeding into the horizon. The sky was too blue, the air too clean, too open, too free—a sharp, jarring contrast to the endless suffocating stretch of desert she’d been trapped in for what felt like lifetimes. She gripped the armrests of the chair tighter, her fingers curling into the fabric of the hoodie Rhodey had thrown over her shoulders back at the base. It was Tony’s—oversized, worn soft from years of use—but the familiar scent of oil and metal still clung to it, grounding her in a way she couldn’t explain.

The hiss of the ramp lowering barely registered, the shift of bodies and boots moving around her dulled and distant, like she was watching it all happen from underwater. Then—voices cut through the fog.

“Watch it, coming up here,” Rhodey’s voice snapped across the tarmac, sharp and impatient as he steadied Tony, keeping him upright as they maneuvered down the ramp.

Tony scoffed, brushing him off like it was nothing. “Are you kidding me with this? Get rid of them.”

Andromeda didn’t have time to process what that meant before she saw them.

Pepper and Happy.

They were waiting at the foot of the ramp, just beyond the tight line of military medics and base personnel. Pepper stood frozen, her normally flawless composure fractured, her hands clenched at her sides, her eyes red-rimmed and too wide, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. The relief, the disbelief, the devastation—it was all there, written raw across her face. And beside her, Happy Hogan looked just as shell-shocked, his usually steady, grounded presence replaced by something tight, strained, almost brittle. His jaw clenched, his fists curled at his sides like he was holding himself back from running to her, from scooping her up like she was still the scrappy little girl who used to pester him in the garage.

Andromeda’s chest constricted so hard it hurt. She had missed them. More than she’d ever let herself admit. More than she could allow herself to think about when she was stuck in that cell, when thinking about home had been too dangerous, too cruel. Pepper moved first, a sharp step forward like the breath caught in her throat couldn’t be held any longer. “Oh my god—” The words broke loose from her, brittle and raw.

But Tony, oblivious to anything but getting the hell off the plane, reached her first. “Your eyes are red,” he rasped, his voice rough and hoarse around the edges but still managing to land on something that almost sounded like sarcasm. “A few tears for your long-lost boss?” He was trying. Desperately. To be the Tony Stark she knew. The one who deflected, who smirked his way out of every heavy conversation.

Pepper blinked rapidly, sniffed, her composure scrambling to catch up as her hands smoothed down her dress like she hadn’t just unraveled in front of the entire goddamn airstrip. “Tears of joy. I hate job hunting,” she shot back, but her voice shook, barely clinging to its usual crispness.

Tony huffed something that could’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so hollow. “Yeah. Vacation’s over.” His mask was slipping, but he wore it like armor anyway.

But then—Pepper’s gaze snapped to Andromeda.

Andromeda braced herself.

Pepper hadn’t seen the reports. Not all of them. Not the worst of them. She hadn’t seen what Andromeda looked like now, sitting small and hunched in the wheelchair, swallowed by an old hoodie, her bruises fading but still vivid against too-pale skin, the cast glaring white in the California sun. She hadn’t seen the hollowness behind her eyes. The way she carried herself like someone held together by thread and willpower alone.

Pepper’s breath caught audibly, her hand flying to her mouth as tears welled again. Andromeda swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady, thin. “Hey, Pep.”

That broke it.

Pepper closed the distance in a blink, dropping to a crouch in front of her, her hands hovering awkwardly, trembling, like she wanted to touch her but didn’t know how, didn’t know if she could without breaking her. “Oh, sweetheart—” The words cracked, barely above a whisper. 

Andromeda clenched her jaw. “I’m okay,” she lied, because what else could she say? They all knew it wasn’t true. But it was the only thing she had.

Pepper’s lips pressed into a thin, trembling line as her fingers finally settled lightly on Andromeda’s knee—careful, gentle, as if she were made of glass. “You missed your birthday,” she murmured, voice wrecked.

Andromeda let out a soft, shaky huff, something raw curling in her chest. “Yeah. Kinda had a lot going on.” It was easier to joke. Easier to smile through it, even if it felt like her face might crack apart from the effort.

Pepper squeezed her knee, but it wasn’t enough to anchor her, not really. Not when Happy still hadn’t moved. Andromeda turned her gaze toward him, softer now, thinner. “Happy?”

His jaw was locked tight, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole body rigid, vibrating with something she had never seen aimed at her before. That kind of rage. The kind he usually reserved for assholes who crossed Tony or looked at Pepper wrong. But now—now that fury was pointed straight at her, or maybe through her, at the ghosts that clung to her like smoke.

Andromeda’s stomach clenched. She realized in that moment—he knew. Maybe not the specifics. Maybe not all of it. But he knew enough.

Happy inhaled sharply, stepping forward, crouching beside Pepper, his voice low, rough, cracking like it was scraping up from the bottom of his chest. “Kid… what did they do to you?”

Her breath hitched. Pepper’s head snapped toward her, panic flashing across her face, stark and horrified. She didn’t know. She really didn’t know.

Andromeda dug her fingers deeper into the sleeves of her hoodie, the fabric tight against her knuckles, grounding, anchoring, barely holding her together. She couldn’t say it. Not here. Not on the goddamn tarmac with the world watching. Not when she could still feel phantom hands that weren’t hers. She swallowed it down, buried it deep. Forced the corner of her mouth to curl into something that resembled a smirk. “You should see the other guys.”

Happy’s expression didn’t change. His jaw worked, breath shallow, his hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to punch something or pull her into his arms. And before she could stop him—he chose the latter.

He reached forward, carefully, slowly, wrapping his arms around her. She froze. Not because she didn’t want it—but because she did. And that scared her more than anything.

He didn’t squeeze too tight. Didn’t suffocate. Just held her. Warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that hurt. She breathed in the scent of him—old cologne, grease, leather—and it made her eyes sting. She felt her throat close, her jaw lock.

“Don’t do that again,” Happy murmured into her hair, his voice thick, frayed, shaking in a way that cleaved through her chest like a blade. “Don’t ever do that again.” Andromeda’s throat burned, her breath hitching as she clenched her jaw tight enough to ache. “No promises,” she whispered, the words tasting bitter and cracked on her tongue because they both knew they were the truth. There were never going to be promises like that between them. There never had been.

Happy pulled back slowly, just far enough to meet her eyes, and whatever he saw there—whatever shadows still lingered behind the brittle humor and the sharp edges she kept wrapping herself in—it made his expression darken, something heavy flickering behind his eyes. But he didn’t push. Didn’t press. Just exhaled, ruffled her hair in that familiar, rough way that was all Happy Hogan, his hand not quite steady as he muttered, “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

The words cracked something loose in her chest.

Home.

God, she needed it.

Happy wheeled her toward the waiting black SUV, the vehicle gleaming too bright under the Californian sun, so normal, so out of place after the endless haze of sand and filth. He paused beside the open door, frowning down at her, his brows furrowed like he was calculating the best way to do this without making her feel weaker than she already did. She saw it all over his face—the hesitation, the pity he was trying to bury under practicality—and it made her skin crawl.

Andromeda cut him off before the words could leave his mouth. “Happy, if you ask me if I can do it myself, I’ll deck you with my good hand.”

That broke it.

Happy snorted, the sound sharp and familiar in a way that finally cracked through the suffocating weight pressing against her ribs. “Yeah? You and what army, kid?”

She smirked, but it barely lasted, exhaustion dragging at the edges of her face like gravity itself was conspiring to pull her under. She exhaled slowly, her gaze flickering toward the SUV. She could do it. She could force her legs to move. She could push through the pain, the unsteadiness, the hollow ache in her spine that made every breath feel like a goddamn battle. She had done worse. She could—

Her fingers twitched weakly against the armrest of the wheelchair, the tremor in them betraying her.

Happy caught it. He sighed, long and heavy, like he was fighting her stubbornness more than the situation itself. “Alright, kid. No dramatics.” And before she could dig in and argue, he lifted her.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t anything but practical.

And thank god for that.

Because Happy had never treated her like glass, and she couldn’t take it if he started now. He shifted her carefully, one arm steady behind her back, the other bracing beneath her legs, carrying her like it was second nature, like it hadn’t been years since she was small enough for this to be easy. Some part of her—bitter, angry, exhausted—hated how familiar it felt.

The door was already open, the seat waiting like a goddamn invitation back to normalcy she didn’t know if she could accept. Happy maneuvered her inside, lowering her carefully into the passenger seat, adjusting her weight until she was settled just right, his movements gentle but never patronizing. Only then did he hesitate, his hand hovering near her shoulder like he wanted to say something. Wanted to reach for words he couldn’t find.

But he didn’t.

He exhaled hard, like the breath burned his lungs, and finally pulled back. “Seatbelt.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes, letting the weight of the moment slide off her shoulders, just for a beat. “Yes, Mom.”

But Happy didn’t bite back. Didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t give her the teasing shove or the gruff sarcasm she might have expected. He just leaned in, adjusted the strap across her chest with a quiet care that caught her off guard, his fingers ghosting along the bruises with a gentleness that frayed something inside her even more than the pain itself. And then—he stepped back, shut the door with finality, and left her alone in the hush of the SUV’s cabin, where the air felt too thick, the silence pressing in on all sides. Andromeda sat there for a long moment, her breath catching tight in her throat, the ache behind her ribs creeping higher, sharper, as she swallowed hard, the weight of the quiet wrapping around her like a blanket she didn’t want but couldn’t peel off. It still didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like another holding cell, just cleaner, quieter, padded in luxury leather instead of concrete.

They were going home.

And somehow, that was almost harder to wrap her head around than the desert, than the blood and the pain, than the hands and the screams. Home felt too big. Too far away. Too much.

The car shifted as Tony climbed in behind her, silent, heavy in a way that filled the whole space like static. Rhodey stayed behind to deal with the endless circus of debriefings, leaving the three of them—Tony, Andromeda, Pepper—trapped in this too-quiet bubble that smelled of antiseptic and exhaustion and the faint, lingering scent of something that still made her stomach twist. The doors sealed shut. The world outside blurred. Andromeda’s fingers curled into the hem of the hoodie pooled in her lap as the engine rumbled to life beneath them, vibrating up through her bones.

“Where to, sir?” Happy’s voice crackled from the driver’s seat, tighter than usual, strained under the weight of everything none of them were saying.

Pepper didn’t even pause. “Take us to the hospital, please, Happy.” The words cut clean, no room for argument.

Except Tony scowled immediately, crossing his arms with a sharpness that was all reflex, all armor. “No.”

Pepper blinked at him, incredulous, her spine stiffening. “No?”

Tony leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes like the conversation alone was enough to crack him open. “No is a complete answer, Pep.”

Andromeda let her head thunk lightly against the window, wishing she could melt into the seat, wishing she could be anywhere but here, suffocating in their bickering and the fragile glass of their good intentions.

“Tony, you have to go to the hospital,” Pepper pushed, her voice still carrying that practiced PR polish, but underneath it—God, underneath it—there was an edge of raw concern she wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. Andromeda heard it. Felt it.

But Tony didn’t look at her. Didn’t meet her eyes. Didn’t move. “The doctors cleared us, Pep,” he said, his voice too calm, too smooth, that mask he wore when he was ready to dig his heels in. “No more hospitals. Please.”

Pepper’s hands tightened in her lap, her nails digging crescents into the soft flesh of her arms. “Cleared you for transport, Stark. Not for anything else.”

Andromeda scowled deeper into the seat, wishing she could sink right through the leather and vanish into the floorboard. The exhaustion tugging at her bones was suffocating, sharp and relentless, every inch of her body aching in a way that felt woven into her nerves now, something she’d have to carry forever. But the thought of another hospital—another sterile room, another round of strangers poking at her like she was something broken to be cataloged and assessed—made her stomach twist hard enough to bring bile to the back of her throat. She didn’t want to be observed. She didn’t want to be examined. She just wanted to go home.

Tony shifted beside her, cutting through the tension with that infuriating Stark timing of his. “We’ve been in captivity for six months. There are two things I want to do. I want an American cheeseburger, and the other…” His voice was flat, the edge of performance still clinging to him like armor.

Pepper cut in before he could finish, sharp and exhausted and not in the mood for his usual deflection. “That’s enough of that.”

Tony arched a brow at her, smirking faintly, but his eyes stayed dark. “...is not what you think. I want you to call for a press conference. Now.”

Pepper blinked, caught off guard. “A press conference?”

He nodded once, casually, like they hadn’t just been pulled out of hell days ago. “Yeah.”

She stared at him. “What on earth for?”

Tony pointed ahead. “Hogan, drive. Cheeseburger first.”

Andromeda let out a breathless, shaky snort, her voice rough from disuse. “The most Tony Stark thing I’ve ever heard.”

Happy didn’t miss a beat. “On it, boss.” His voice was tight but steady as the car rolled forward.

The rest of the drive settled into a tense, uneasy quiet, filled only by the low hum of the engine, the occasional sharp breath from Pepper, and the heavier silence of things no one wanted to say out loud yet. Andromeda leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, letting her eyes drift shut for a few stolen seconds, her body aching with the kind of bone-deep fatigue that no amount of rest would erase. She didn’t care where they were going, as long as it wasn’t a hospital. She could face anything else.

The drive to Stark Industries felt like it stretched forever, longer than it really was, dragging every mile out into something unbearable. The cheeseburgers helped—sort of. Tony devoured his like a man starved, chewing like it was the first real food he’d tasted in his life, which, she supposed, wasn’t far from the truth. Six months of stale bread, water that tasted like metal, and whatever the hell those guards had shoved at them—it made sense. But Andromeda? She barely managed half of hers before the nausea clawed back up her throat, the greasy weight of the food too much for her hollowed-out stomach to handle.

Still, she didn’t complain. She just wrapped the leftover cheeseburger and clutched it tightly in her lap like it might anchor her, like the weight of it might help settle the queasiness that had nothing to do with food. It didn’t. Normal, she thought bitterly, the word sitting heavy and mocking in her skull. She wasn’t even sure she knew what that meant anymore. Maybe she never had.

She leaned her head against the cold window, letting the vibrations of the SUV hum through her aching bones as the streets blurred past, the familiar skyline of Los Angeles giving way to the looming silhouette of Stark Industries. Of course Tony wanted a press conference. Of course he needed to get in front of the cameras, to control the story, to pretend he was still the one holding the narrative by the throat. Pepper had fought him on it the entire ride, sharp and relentless, but Tony barely acknowledged her protests. He brushed them off like they were nothing, like he couldn’t afford to stop moving long enough to let the cracks show. Andromeda wasn’t sure if it was sheer Stark stubbornness or if it was Tony being Tony. Probably both.

The gates rolled back, the sleek facade of Stark Industries rising like a monument to the life they were supposed to return to. The SUV pulled through, the security detail already scrambling into formation, as if they could shield them from the press. Tony exhaled like a man walking into battle, stretching his legs out slightly with a grim smirk. “Showtime.”

Pepper turned in her seat, her arms folded, her face carved into something brittle and exhausted. “Tony, you don’t have to do this today. You’re not ready. Neither is she. This can wait.”

Tony arched a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging up in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Oh, sure. You think the vultures are gonna wait? You think they’re just gonna sit back and politely not speculate on the fact that the genius playboy billionaire and his kid got snatched out of the sky and held hostage in a cave for half a goddamn year?” His voice was light, but his eyes were anything but.

Pepper’s jaw tightened. “I think you should at least sleep before you throw yourself in front of the cameras.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Tony said, waving her off with a flick of his hand like the argument bored him. “Let’s go.”

Of course. Andromeda sighed, her head thudding gently against the window.

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling like she was swallowing the rest of the fight down hard. “Fine. Hogan, pull around to the side entrance. Low visibility.”

Tony grinned like it was a win, but Happy didn’t say anything. He took the next turn, pulling them up to the staff entrance where they might at least slip inside before the media sharks scented blood.

The moment the car stopped, Tony was already out, moving like he hadn’t spent months in a cell, like his body wasn’t still bruised and stitched together. Andromeda groaned, pushing herself upright with her good arm, careful not to jostle anything that would send another jagged wave of pain screaming through her ribs. She was so damn tired of feeling weak. But her body had other ideas. The second she tried to shift forward, her legs wobbled, the stiff, burning protest shooting up her spine, leaving her breathless.

Happy was there before she could even finish the thought, reaching for her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She scowled, breath catching. “Happy, I can do it.”

He arched a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah? And I can fly. Now shut up and let me help.”

She wanted to argue, to shove him off, to prove she wasn’t as broken as she felt—but her body betrayed her before she could get the words out. Her legs trembled under her, useless, heavy, the pain flaring white-hot across her back, up into her ribs, stealing the air right out of her lungs. Her fingers curled weakly around the edge of the seat, nails digging into the leather, and Happy didn’t wait. He slipped his arms under her like it was nothing, not delicate, not careful like she was glass, but steady. Secure. Solid.

Andromeda hated how much she needed it. Her head rested against Happy’s shoulder for a heartbeat longer than she would ever admit, just long enough for the screaming ache in her body to dull to something tolerable before she forced herself to lift her chin, locking her face into something blank, something flat, something that wouldn’t show the world just how goddamn breakable she felt. Because the press was everywhere. She could already hear them—muffled roars behind the doors, the chaotic swell of voices and cameras and flashing lights spilling into the lobby like a living thing, crashing against the glass like waves. Her stomach twisted hard, bile rising, the familiar crush of panic tightening its grip. She hated this.

Tony had barely set foot on the pavement before Obadiah Stane was there, oozing through the security perimeter like he owned the place, arms wide, voice booming like he was performing for the cameras already. “Look at this! Tony, we were going to meet at the hospital!” His grin was too wide, his tone too bright, too loud, too much.

Tony barely glanced at him, already brushing him off with a shrug. “No, I’m fine.”

Obadiah laughed like it was all a game, clapping a heavy hand on Tony’s shoulder, too familiar, too rehearsed. “Look at you! You had to have a burger, yeah?”

Tony smirked, holding up the paper bag like a trophy. “Well, come on.”

Obadiah gestured, playing it up. “You get me one of those?”

“There’s only one left. I need it,” Tony shot back, already moving, ignoring him.

Obadiah turned back toward the cameras like a man feeding the wolves. “Hey, look who’s here!” The crowd exploded.

Shouts. Questions. Flashes like lightning. Microphones thrust forward like weapons.

Tony didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Like it was just another day in the office.

Andromeda, though—Andromeda wanted to disappear.

Happy’s grip on her tightened, like he could feel the way her breathing had shifted, the way her hands had curled into his jacket, fingers white-knuckled. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He adjusted her carefully, subtly, moving faster toward the side entrance, keeping his body between her and the chaos. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t far enough.

Someone saw them.

“Andromeda! Miss Stark, over here!”

“Miss Stark, what happened in Afghanistan?”

“How badly were you injured?”

“Did the terrorists—”

She squeezed her eyes shut, the voices slicing into her skin, too sharp, too loud, too close. The air tasted wrong, too thick, too heavy, like the cave. Like the chains. Like the dark. Like the hands. Her breath caught, her ribs shrieking, the edges of her vision swimming. She wasn’t here. She wasn’t in Malibu. She was back there.

Happy moved faster, his voice cutting through the roar. “Back the hell up!” His tone cracked through the noise like a whip, sharp and commanding, no room for argument. He didn’t stop, didn’t give them an inch, his pace relentless as Pepper closed ranks behind them, blocking the cameras, shielding her from the worst of it.

Tony, still walking like he wasn’t half-dead, like the stitches and bruises didn’t matter, finally turned, his expression darkening the second he saw the way the press had swarmed.

And that’s when he snapped.

“Hey!” The sheer force of his voice punched through the chaos, the crowd faltering, a ripple of silence cutting through the frenzy. All eyes locked on him.

His jaw was clenched, his entire frame rigid as he stalked forward, voice dropping to something lethal, something cold enough to make even the most aggressive reporter take a step back. “You wanna ask me questions? Fine. But you keep your goddamn microphones out of my daughter’s face.”

The shift was instant. No one dared press forward now. The room held its breath.

Obadiah, ever the opportunist, stepped in with a too-easy laugh, clapping Tony’s shoulder like he hadn’t just threatened to rip the media limb from limb. “Alright, alright, let’s all calm down. Press conference inside, people. Let’s be professionals.”

The second Happy got her inside, he didn’t stop. He moved like a man on a mission, cutting through the back halls of Stark Industries, putting as much space between them and the chaos as possible. Andromeda wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Happy move that fast, his steps quick, efficient, the pressure of his arms still steady and sure. She didn’t complain. She couldn’t. The shouting, the flashing, the swarm had sent her nerves into overdrive, her skin crawling with the aftershocks of too much adrenaline, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could have kept herself together out there. Every breath scraped against her throat like glass, the weight of too many eyes still lingering like ghosts on her skin.

She sagged against Happy’s chest, hating it, hating how much she needed it, but letting herself have it anyway. Just for a minute.

By the time they reached the press conference staging area, her entire body felt weak, trembling from the lingering tension. Happy found a seat near the back, carefully lowering her into it, his arms steady even as her own muscles protested. The second she was settled, he took a step back, but not far—he lingered, standing close, protective. Always.

Pepper was already at her side, her expression a careful mask of control, but Andromeda knew better. She could see the concern beneath it, the way Pepper’s fingers twitched like she wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if she should.

Andromeda exhaled, forcing her fingers to unclench, her muscles to loosen, though the effort scraped against her already thin reserves. “I’m okay,” she muttered, the lie brittle and hollow, not even convincing to herself.

Pepper didn’t buy it for a second. She didn’t say anything, but the look she gave her—soft at the edges, steel underneath—said everything.

Before the silence could stretch, a new voice cut clean through the hum of the room, low, precise, as if he belonged here. “Miss Potts?”

Pepper turned, smoothing her blazer, falling into professional mode like slipping into a second skin. “Yes?”

The man standing before them was composed in the way few people truly were—pressed suit, perfectly knotted tie, posture rigid but not aggressive. Government. But not just another bureaucrat. There was something about him that radiated calm authority. It was in the way he carried himself. The way the room seemed to adjust itself around him.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” he asked, polite but firm.

Pepper blinked, glancing toward the doors, toward the swarm of reporters outside, toward Tony—who was no doubt gearing up to drop some ridiculous bombshell on them all. “I’m not part of the press conference, but it’s about to begin.”

“I’m not press,” the man clarified, offering a clipped nod. “I’m Agent Phil Coulson, with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.”

Pepper’s brow arched, her lips quirking. “That’s quite a mouthful.”

Coulson didn’t so much as blink. “I know. We’re working on it.”

The corner of Pepper’s mouth twitched with something that might have been humor if they weren’t all running on fumes. “You know, we’ve already been approached by the DOD, the FBI, the CIA…”

“We’re a separate division,” Coulson replied smoothly, unshaken, unbothered, “with a more specific focus. We need to debrief Mr. Stark about the circumstances of his escape.”

Pepper nodded, already calculating the logistics in her head, even as the tension in the room continued to thrum louder, the press buzzing just outside, the scent of anticipation and opportunism thick in the air. “I’ll put something in the book,” she said crisply.

Coulson inclined his head, satisfied. “Thank you.”

And just like that, he melted back into the crowd, his presence fading but the ripple of it still hanging in the space he left behind.

The energy in the room ratcheted tighter as the reporters settled into their rows, a simmering anticipation hanging heavy, vibrating through the walls. They all knew Tony Stark was about to drop something big. They just didn’t know what.

Andromeda sat near the back, sinking lower into her seat, her hands curled tight in her lap as she forced herself to stay grounded. Her entire body ached—throbbing, burning, stretched thin—but she bit down on it, swallowed it whole, because she had to be here. She had to see this. She had to see him do it.

The SUV. The press swarm. The shouts. The flashbulbs. The suffocating weight of everything pressing in on her skin like a second layer. It hadn’t stopped. It never stopped. Her nerves buzzed under her skin, every inch of her vibrating with exhaustion, with too much noise, too much movement, too much everything.

She didn’t hear Rhodey approach until a cold water bottle appeared in her line of sight, his hand steady, the seal already cracked.

Andromeda blinked up at him, her lips pulling into something that might have been a smirk if she wasn’t so bone-tired. “Is this an official order, Colonel?”

Rhodey crouched beside her chair, lowering himself to her eye level, his gaze firm but not unkind. “It’s an official ‘don’t make me force-feed you water before you pass out’ order.”

She huffed softly, the motion tugging at her ribs, the sting familiar now, like a shadow she couldn’t shake. She took the bottle, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought it to her lips, the water cold enough to make her throat ache in a way that was almost pleasant. She took a few small sips, not because she wanted to, but because Rhodey was right. She’d drop if she didn’t.

The room swelled with noise around them as the press conference began, but Andromeda stayed where she was, anchored only by the bottle in her hand and the weight of Rhodey’s steady presence beside her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

“Well, let’s get this started, uh…” Obadiah Stane’s voice rolled over the crowd like silk over steel—polished, practiced, too smooth to trust.

Andromeda inhaled sharply, her pulse tightening. Here we go.

Tony stepped forward, but not toward the podium like everyone expected. No. Instead, he sauntered to the front of the stage, all casual arrogance, his smirk lazy, almost bored, as he faced the reporters. And then—because of course—he flopped into a chair like this was just another Tuesday meeting, legs stretched out, burger still in hand.

“Hey, would it be all right if everyone sat down?” Tony asked, not waiting for them to answer. “Why don’t you just sit down? That way, you can see me, and I can—” He waved the cheeseburger in a vague circle before taking a massive bite, mumbling around the food. “A little less formal…”

Andromeda nearly choked on her water. “Oh my God,” she muttered, rubbing at her temple like it might somehow erase the sight of her father giving the world’s media circus a literal cheeseburger-fueled meltdown. “He’s really doing this right now.”

Rhodey, beside her, let out a sigh that sounded like it had been clawed up from his soul. “I hate him.”

“I know.” She took another sip of water, the corner of her mouth twitching despite everything. “Me too.”

Still—she couldn’t stop the flicker of a smirk. Some things never changed.

Tony chewed with exaggerated slowness as the crowd blinked at him, confused, unsettled, before awkwardly sinking into crouches on the polished floor. Pepper looked horrified, exchanging a wide-eyed, helpless look with Obadiah, like they were waiting for the other to put a stop to it. Neither of them moved.

“What’s up with the love-in?” Rhodey called dryly, unimpressed.

Pepper threw up her hands. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know what he’s doing.”

Tony finally swallowed, flashing Obadiah a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good to see you.”

Obadiah, ever the showman, recovered quickly. “Good to see you.”

But the air shifted—Andromeda felt it first in her gut—when Tony’s tone changed. The smirk faded. The bravado cracked.

“I never got to say goodbye to my dad,” he said, quieter now, the edges of the room stilling like the world itself leaned in to listen. “I never got to say goodbye to my father. There’s… questions I would’ve asked him. I would’ve asked him how he felt about what this company did. If he was conflicted. If he ever doubted. Or maybe he was exactly the man we remember from the newsreels.”

The hush that fell over the room was absolute.

Even Andromeda froze, breath catching behind her ribs, watching him.

Tony exhaled, his shoulders pulling tighter as if bracing against the words he was about to throw into the world. “I saw young Americans killed by the very weapons I created to protect them. And I saw that I had become part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability.”

The press exploded.

The dam broke. Reporters surged to their feet, their voices colliding into a wall of noise, questions flying like shrapnel.

“Mr. Stark!”
“Tony! What happened over there?”
“Is it true you—”

Tony didn’t flinch. He lifted his hand, his gaze steel, and the room went still on command.

“I had my eyes opened,” he said simply. Then—finally—he stepped toward the podium, his presence filling the space, the weight of him impossible to ignore. “I came to realize I have more to offer this world than making things that blow up. And that is why, effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark International.”

Chaos.

Reporters exploded again, voices crashing over each other, flashes blinding, the entire room bursting with frenzied, disbelieving noise.

Andromeda barely heard them.

She sat there, numb, staring, her water bottle limp in her lap. She had expected something reckless. Something dramatic. Tony Stark never did anything small. But this? Shutting down the entire weapons division? Just like that? No warning? No lead-in? Just a mic drop of epic proportions?

Obadiah moved fast, standing up with a too-wide smile plastered across his face, clapping Tony on the shoulder like he hadn’t just witnessed the complete decapitation of Stark Industries’ most profitable sector. “I think we’re gonna be selling a lot of newspapers,” he joked, the facade flawless.

Tony didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. His expression stayed carved from granite.

“What direction it should take, one that I’m comfortable with and is consistent with the highest good for this country, as well,” Tony finished, his voice slicing through the noise, before he simply—walked off the stage. No fanfare. No explanations. Done.

Obadiah’s smile didn’t falter, but Andromeda saw it—there, in his eyes—the crack. The fury.

“What we should take away from this is that Tony’s back! And he’s healthier than ever,” Obadiah said, spinning it for the crowd as the reporters descended into chaos once again. “We’ll have a little internal discussion and we’ll get back to you with the follow-up.”

Andromeda exhaled, long and slow, sinking deeper into the chair as the chaos swirled around her. The press kept throwing questions like grenades, and for the first time in days, Tony had nothing left to throw back. He just walked away, leaving the wreckage behind him. The tension in her spine unwound, but only just. She knew the real battle was still coming.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhodey muttered beside her, rubbing both hands over his face, his voice hoarse with disbelief. “He’s out of his goddamn mind.”

She swallowed hard, her throat still dry, her pulse still too fast, the words barely slipping out past the lump there. “Yeah.” She took another small sip of water, forcing herself to focus on the burn of it down her throat, grounding herself in something that wasn’t the roar of reporters or the suffocating pull of memory. “But he’s right.”

Rhodey turned toward her, frowning like he wasn’t sure if she was serious or just running on fumes. “You think shutting down the weapons division overnight is the right move?”

She hesitated. She wasn’t blind. She knew what this would do to Stark Industries, to the board, to the people who worked there and the ripple it would send through the defense world. But after what she had seen—after what she had lived through—it felt less like a decision and more like the only option left. “We built weapons to protect people,” she murmured, her voice soft, hoarse. “But they ended up in the wrong hands. We saw it, Rhodey. We lived it.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t. His face tightened, the weight of those months settling heavy across his features. He had flown into that desert expecting to bring back two bodies. He hadn’t been prepared for survivors. And even now, she wasn’t sure they counted as that.

She shifted slightly, wincing when the motion sent another sharp flare of pain through her ribs. Tony had done it. He’d dropped the bombshell. Now the fallout would come. She could already see the cracks forming in Pepper’s carefully composed expression, the way her arms folded tighter, the edge sharpening in her tone. It wasn’t anger at what he’d said—it was how. No warning. No plan. No armor between him and the storm.

Andromeda felt it settle in her bones before Tony even walked toward them, the shape of him rigid, his stride too deliberate, the glint in his eyes telling her exactly what was coming before he opened his mouth.

Tony stopped in front of her wheelchair, exhaling a sharp, clipped breath, and addressed Rhodey first, his voice low and final. “Rhodey, take her home.”

Rhodey blinked, straightening slightly. “Excuse me?”

Tony’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed steady, too steady. “I have things to handle. And she needs to get home.” He glanced at Andromeda, his throat bobbing, but the words didn’t soften. They pressed down on her like a command, and she bristled under it.

“So do you,” she bit back, forcing herself upright in the chair despite the screaming protest of her body.

But Tony didn’t budge. He crouched in front of her, his hands bracing on the armrests, his fingers drumming lightly against the fabric like he couldn’t sit still, like if he stopped moving, it would all crash in on him. His gaze met hers, steady, frayed at the edges, but gentler now. “I need you to do this for me, kid.”

The crack in her chest split wider. She didn’t want to go home without him. Not after everything. Not to that house without his voice echoing off the walls. Not to that empty space that used to feel like safety and now just felt like too many rooms and too much quiet.

Her fingers curled tight into the sleeves of the hoodie, gripping like she could anchor herself to the warmth still clinging to it.

Tony caught the motion, his expression tightening as he leaned in closer, his voice dipping to something only for her. “I’m not disappearing,” he murmured, and it wasn’t the usual Stark charm. It wasn’t bullshit. This—this was the real him. Tired. Frayed. Honest.

She swallowed hard. “Promise?”

His lips pressed into a thin line before he pulled her forward, careful, cradling, wrapping her in a hug that was solid and grounding, the weight of his arms locking her back into place when everything in her wanted to fall apart. She didn’t realize how much she needed it until she sank into it, breathing him in—oil, metal, blood, and something familiar that still somehow smelled like home.

He had been fighting for her all along. Even before he knew she was in that cave, he had been building that suit, clawing for an escape—for her. He had always been fighting for her.

Her throat burned as she pressed her forehead against his shoulder, breathing him in like she could memorize it, like she could keep it with her when he wasn’t there.

“I promise, Andromeda,” he whispered, and she hated—hated—how much she believed him.

He pulled back first, his hands steady on her shoulders, his gaze cataloging her, making sure she was still breathing, still here. Then, softer, with the barest tug of a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he ruffled her hair. “Go home.”

She clenched her jaw, hating how it made her chest ache all over again, but she nodded.

Pepper crossed her arms tightly, her voice sharp. “You’re making a mess, Tony.”

Tony shot her a look, the ghost of his old arrogance flickering through. “Yeah, well. It’s what I do best.”

Pepper sighed, her gaze softening just a hair as she glanced at Andromeda, before exhaling hard through her nose. “I’ll handle what I can from here.”

“Knew I kept you around for a reason,” Tony murmured, the smirk hollow now.

Andromeda almost laughed. Almost.

Rhodey stepped in, nudging her wheelchair forward, his voice steady but gentler than usual. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get you out of here.”

She exhaled one last time, letting her eyes linger on Tony, locking him into her memory, burning the sight of him into her bones.

Then she nodded.

And let Rhodey take her home.

Rhodey barely had time to kill the engine before Andromeda was already reaching for the seatbelt, the click of it unfastening too loud in the suffocating quiet of the car. She moved like she was about to shove herself upright, ignoring the screaming protest of her body, already leaning toward the door like she could will herself to be fine if she just kept moving.

“Whoa, hold up—” Rhodey reached across the center console, his hand closing firmly around her arm before she could swing the door open. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Andromeda’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache, her fingers curling tighter around the handle. “The lab.”

Rhodey stared at her like she’d lost her damn mind. Maybe she had. She couldn’t tell anymore.

“You just spent weeks in a hospital bed. We just got you home. And your first brilliant idea is to drag your ass down into the lab?” His tone bit, sharp and incredulous, but beneath it—concern, tight and simmering. “Try again.”

She exhaled through her nose, slow, sharp, refusing to look at him, because if she did, she might crack. “I need to see something.”

He didn’t let go right away. His grip lingered, steady and grounding, while his gaze bore into her like he could see the cracks she was trying to plaster over. He took in the stiffness of her posture, the flush of stubbornness in her cheeks, the way her hands flexed like she was already preparing for the pain.

She’d always been stubborn. That was nothing new. But this wasn’t just about proving she could do it. This was something else. Deeper. Harder. About not letting the fear take the last of what was hers.

“Andy…” His voice softened, dipped low enough that it almost caught her off guard. “You sure about this?”

She inhaled, sharp and brittle. She wasn’t sure about anything. Not really. But she had to do this. She had to see if she could still walk into that space, still touch the things that used to make her feel like herself before everything broke.

Her hands curled tighter into fists, her nails biting into the sleeves of the hoodie still hanging loose around her frame. “I need to walk.”

Rhodey’s lips pressed into a hard, thin line. He could’ve pushed. He could’ve told her she wasn’t ready, that there was nothing down there that couldn’t wait another day. But he didn’t. Because he knew her. And he knew better.

So he exhaled, slow, letting the breath drag the fight out of his shoulders, and loosened his grip. “Alright.”

Andromeda didn’t waste another second.

She pushed the door open, ignoring the ache blooming in her limbs, the stubborn weakness clinging to her legs as she gripped the frame of the car and swung her feet down to meet the pavement. The air hit her like a slap—cool and sharp, tinged with salt and the faint, briny scent of the ocean threading through her lungs like something alive, something tethering her to this place. Home.

For a breathless moment, she just sat there, feet planted uncertainly on the ground, fingers flexing against the hard edge of the car seat, her body bracing itself for the inevitable. The weight of reality pressed down, heavier than the fatigue coursing through her veins.

Rhodey stood steady beside her, arms crossed, his stance taut but patient. “Take it slow,” he said quietly.

Andromeda clenched her jaw, a flicker of defiance burning beneath her exhaustion. She didn’t want to take it slow. She wanted to rise—stand tall and walk inside like none of this had ever happened, as if she were whole, unbroken. But that wasn’t her truth anymore.

Her truth was this body that no longer obeyed her will, legs heavy and unfamiliar beneath her. Her grip on the car door tightened, nails digging into the metal frame. The weight pressed down, foreign and merciless, threatening to pull her back before she could even stand.

For a terrifying second, she wondered if her legs would betray her entirely.

With every ounce of grit she could summon, Andromeda forced herself up, shifting her weight onto legs that trembled beneath her. The pain hit instantly—a white-hot blast that shot up her spine like wildfire, stealing her breath and wrenching a sharp gasp from between clenched teeth. Her knees buckled, folding like fragile pillars threatened to give way, but Rhodey was there in a heartbeat. His hands steadied her with firm gentleness, catching her before she could fall.

Her breathing was ragged and shallow, fingers digging into his arm as searing fire spread from the raw wound in her lower back, shooting all the way down to the tips of her toes. “Jesus,” Rhodey muttered quietly, tightening his grip. “You good?”

“No,” she bit out, voice thin and strained, “But I’m doing it.”

He didn’t argue, didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he offered his forearm like a lifeline, and she leaned heavily into him, clinging as she fought to remain upright. There was nothing graceful about it. Nothing strong. Just the barest flicker of motion against the heavy weight of her broken body.

But she was standing.

Her hands trembled against his skin, breath ragged and uneven as she willed her legs to hold firm, refusing to let the pain drag her down again.

The lab was still miles away—beyond a daunting staircase, down an endless hallway—each step a gauntlet of agony between her and where she needed to be. But she didn’t care. She needed this. She clenched her jaw and pushed forward.

Pain stabbed at her spine with every step, sharp and unrelenting. She bit back a frustrated sound, forcing one foot ahead of the other. Her left leg faltered but she adjusted, shuffling forward in an uneven, trembling dance of defiance. Rhodey stayed by her side, quiet and steady—an unspoken anchor she hadn’t realized she needed.

Halfway to the entrance, her breath came in ragged, jagged bursts. The pain was unbearable, a relentless blaze beneath her skin. Still, she pressed on.

When she reached the door, her hand shook as she reached for the keypad. The screen flickered, recognizing her palm print, and the lock clicked open with a soft hiss.

She had done it. Inside, Andromeda swallowed hard, battling her body’s rebellion with every agonizing movement as she made her way to the elevator that would carry her down to the lab. Each step sent sharp pulses of torment coursing through her nerves, a cruel reminder of how fragile and broken she still was. But despite it all, she had come this far—and she refused to stop now.

Rhodey’s gaze stayed locked on her, his jaw tight with concern. “You need help getting down there?”

She exhaled slowly through her nose, shaking her head with quiet, stubborn determination. “I can do it.”

Though his eyes betrayed doubt, Rhodey said nothing more. He stepped into the elevator with her, positioning himself close enough to catch her if she faltered again. The doors slid shut behind them.

The descent was slow and deliberate, every tick of the floor indicator marking a small victory against the fragile body she was determined to reclaim. Her muscles screamed for rest, begging her to collapse, to give in to the exhaustion that threatened to swallow her whole.

But she didn’t.

As the doors opened, she stepped out, gripping the edge of a nearby table to steady herself while she caught her breath. She was here. Standing in her lab. This was where she belonged. This was where she could finally begin again.

Rhodey exhaled, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and reluctant admiration. “You’re going to tell me what this is really about, right?”

Andromeda’s fingers flexed against the cool surface of the table, her gaze fixed on the scattered blueprints spread before her. How could she explain this need? The desperate clawing for something to anchor her mind, something to fix, something to make sense of the chaos that still clawed at the edges of her thoughts? Because if she stopped—if she let herself fall back into that hospital bed, that quiet house, that fractured reality—she wasn’t sure she’d ever find the strength to climb back out.

She swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “I have an idea.”

Rhodey raised an eyebrow, folding his arms as he studied her with a mix of skepticism and concern. “Pain management,” he repeated, the doubt clear in his voice. “Andy, you just got home. Maybe trying to work your way out of nerve damage isn’t the smartest move right now.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening against the edge of the table as a sharp pulse of pain shot through her spine, reminding her exactly what she had lost. “I don’t have time to wait, Rhodey.”

He met her gaze evenly, not unkind but firm. “Yeah, you do. You’re not on anyone’s clock.”

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head with quiet defiance. “Maybe you think that, but I can feel it—every damn second that passes, it gets worse. I can’t—” She sucked in a breath, steadying herself. “I can’t just sit around hoping it gets better.”

Rhodey rubbed a hand down his face, sighing. “And you think the answer’s down here?”

Without looking away, Andromeda turned toward the monitors, dragging up old files with sluggish keystrokes. It had been weeks since she last worked, and already her fingers felt foreign to the process, like relearning something she once knew by heart.

She hated that. Scrolling past blueprints for outdated exoskeleton prototypes and abandoned adaptive tech projects, none of it was what she needed. Then she found it—the neural interface project. A concept she’d started months ago, initially just a theoretical experiment to optimize reaction times in prosthetics. Back then, it had been curiosity. Now, it was necessity.

She pulled up the schematics, staring at them as if they might suddenly hold all the answers. They didn’t. But it was a start.

Rhodey leaned over her shoulder, his voice cutting through the silence. “What am I looking at?”

She inhaled sharply. “A neural interface designed to regulate pain responses.”

He blinked and nodded slowly. “Okay, I’m following. Barely.”

“It began as a project for prosthetics,” she admitted quietly, her voice steady but resolute. “Testing ways to improve nerve connectivity. But if I can modify it—adjust how it interacts with pain receptors—I might be able to dampen the worst of it.”

Rhodey was silent for a moment, watching her closely. Then, slowly, he exhaled. “Andy... you’re not a neurospecialist.”

“No,” she said, “but I can learn.”

He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head with a small, incredulous smile. “You’re really going to research your way out of chronic pain, huh?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a Stark solved a problem by throwing tech at it,” she muttered.

Rhodey huffed softly. “Yeah, except this time, it’s your brain you’re messing with.”

Andromeda turned to meet his gaze, steady and determined. “If I don’t do this, I might never walk right again. I might be in this kind of pain for the rest of my life.” Her fingers curled into fists against the table’s edge. “And I can’t—I won’t—live like that.”

Rhodey’s expression tightened, but he said nothing more. Because he understood. More than most.

She turned back to the screen, scrolling through research papers, blueprints, old medical studies. “I need a way to map the damaged nerve clusters first. Figure out where the worst pain signals are coming from.”

Rhodey leaned against the worktable, watching her. “And then what?”

Andromeda licked her lips, ignoring the ache in her ribs as she shifted. “Then I build something to fix it.”

Rhodey shook his head with a soft, tired chuckle. “You really think you can just… patch yourself back together like a damn machine?”

She exhaled, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “If it keeps me from feeling like this? Yeah. I do.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then—finally—he sighed. “Alright,” he muttered. “I’m staying.”

Andromeda blinked, turning toward him. “What?”

“You heard me.” He crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “You’re gonna need someone to double-check whatever the hell it is you’re doing. Someone to remind you to sleep, to eat, to not literally fry your nervous system by mistake.”

Her throat tightened, swallowing down the unexpected lump forming there. “You don’t have to do that, Rhodey.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice softer now. “I do.”

Hours slipped by unnoticed. Time dissolved into the steady glow of monitors, the persistent hum of machinery, and the endless stream of research papers, blueprints, and medical case studies scrolling across the screen. Every nerve in Andromeda’s body protested fiercely against her being upright, but she pushed through the pain, driven by an urgent need to find answers — to fix what was broken.

Rhodey remained by her side, his gaze flickering between her and the data, shifting in his chair, sighing quietly each time she forced herself through another spasm without complaint. He wanted to say something — she could feel it — but he held back, perhaps knowing she wasn’t ready to hear it. Maybe he was waiting for her to burn out. But she refused to stop.

The deeper she dug, the clearer it became: she was out of her depth. The theoretical models and previous work she had done weren’t nearly enough. Neural mapping, pain regulation, synaptic modification — the knowledge was scattered across disciplines, fragmented like her own shattered body. She needed help. Real help.

One name kept surfacing in every paper, every study, every journal: Dr. Stephen Strange. Renowned neurosurgeon. A genius with a notorious arrogance. Not just a surgeon, but a pioneer in nerve regeneration and synaptic reconstruction. If anyone could help her refine her ideas — or tell her she was about to ruin herself trying — it was him.

Her fingers hovered uncertainly over the keyboard, the hesitation creeping in like cold fog. She couldn’t just walk into his office and dump her problems on his desk. Strange was selective, taking only cases that pushed the boundaries. She needed an in. A reason to be taken seriously.

Rhodey shifted beside her, catching the slight pause. “You look like you just figured something out that I’m not gonna like.”

She exhaled slowly. “I need Strange.”

He blinked, then groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “Andy…”

“He’s the best,” she insisted, already bracing for the pushback. “If I’m going to do this — really do this — I need someone who understands the brain. I can build tech, but I don’t fully get how nerve clusters interact. Or how much damage is too much when I start playing with signal dampening.”

“You don’t need Strange,” Rhodey said, shaking his head. “You need rest. And a medical team specializing in spinal injuries — not some rockstar surgeon with a god complex.”

“He’s more than a surgeon,” she shot back, sharp and unyielding. “He’s a visionary. He tackles cases no one else will touch. If I show him what I’m building, explain the research, he won’t be able to resist.”

Rhodey scoffed, his voice tinged with both amusement and exasperation. “You sound just like your old man.” 

She didn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. “If it gets me what I need, then so be it.” 

He leaned forward, folding his arms across his chest. “Alright, so let’s say you do get a meeting with him. He takes you seriously. Then what? You let some surgeon poke around in your brain? What if he says no? What if he tells you this whole idea’s a bad one?” 

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. “Then I figure out how to do it myself.” 

Rhodey muttered a curse under his breath. “Of course you will.” She held his gaze without wavering. 

“I don’t have the luxury of waiting for my body to heal itself. You saw how hard it was just to walk in here. I can’t waste time hoping it gets better.” 

He sighed, rubbing the back of his head in quiet frustration. “You already have someone lined up to get you an appointment?” 

She hesitated. “No… but I know where he’s working.”

 Rhodey exhaled slowly. “Let me guess — you’re about to do something reckless and Stark-like to get in front of him.” 

A ghost of a smirk flickered on her lips. “You know me too well.” 

Rhodey shook his head, eyes darkening with worry. “That’s what scares me.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

Tony Stark had barely been home for an hour when he found himself standing at the entrance to his lab, staring at the glow of monitors and the chaotic tangle of blueprints strewn across the worktable. Most importantly, there was the stubborn, too-determined-for-her-own-good figure hunched over the keyboard — Andromeda. He should have known. Should have expected it. The moment Rhodey told him she had insisted on heading straight to the lab, he knew exactly where she’d be. She hadn’t even made it to her own bed yet.

Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, Tony exhaled with a half-grin. “You know, most people spend their first night home from the hospital resting. Maybe soaking in a bath, watching a movie, drinking something that isn’t laced with enough caffeine to kill a small horse.” 

Andromeda didn’t look up, fingers still dancing over the keyboard. “Most people aren’t Starks.” 

Tony’s lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “No argument there.” From his spot, he watched the tension tight in her shoulders, the way her fingers hovered uncertainly, caught between exhaustion and relentless drive — the same way he used to sit, running on fumes with a mind racing faster than his body could follow.

The lab was quiet, save for the soft hum of machines and the occasional frustrated sigh from Andromeda. Rhodey, sitting in a chair off to the side, gave Tony a look that said I already tried to talk her out of this—good luck.

Tony exhaled, pushing off the doorframe with a measured sigh. “Alright, kid. Mind telling me what’s so important that you had to skip the whole ‘recovery’ part of getting out of the hospital?” Andromeda still didn’t look at him. Instead, she shifted slightly, revealing the blueprints spread out across the table — the neural interface schematics, the pain regulation mapping, the crude yet wildly ambitious attempt to bridge technology and the nervous system.

Tony’s gaze flickered down to the screen, and for the first time, the easy, casual stance he usually wore shifted into something sharper, more serious. He recognized the design instantly. His stomach twisted at the sight — he knew what this was. Knew exactly what it meant.

A long, heavy beat of silence passed between them. Then, Tony rubbed a hand down his face and sighed, his voice low. “Jesus, kid…” Andromeda’s fingers twitched nervously against the table. “Don’t tell me it’s impossible.” Tony let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Impossible? No. Stupidly dangerous and way too ambitious for someone who just got out of a damn war zone? Yeah.”

Finally, Andromeda turned toward him, eyes burning with a fierce, unrelenting fire. “I don’t care.” Tony sighed again, dragging a hand through his hair. He knew that look — had seen it in his own reflection too many times to count. This wasn’t just about the pain. It wasn’t even just about fixing herself. It was about control.

He exhaled slowly. “Andy, I get it. Believe me, I do. But you can’t just throw tech at this and hope it makes everything better.” Andromeda’s jaw clenched tightly. “Isn’t that exactly what you’re about to do? I know you’re going to try and recreate the suit.” Tony stepped further into the lab, rubbing a hand down his face again. “That’s different.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes sharply. “Bullshit.”

Tony arched a brow. “Watch your mouth, kid.”

Andromeda huffed a sharp breath, her fingers flexing against the worktable. The sharp pain lancing up her spine was relentless, but she ignored it. She had gotten used to ignoring pain. “Don’t give me the ‘watch your mouth’ speech, Dad.” Her voice was steady, measured, but Tony could hear the fire underneath it, the raw frustration she was barely keeping contained. “You’re planning on going straight to work. We both know it.”

Tony exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face before rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. He was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. His chest still ached, the wound from the electromagnet and shrapnel surgery barely starting to heal. But Andromeda? She looked worse. Too pale. Too thin. Too tired. She had been through hell, and instead of crawling her way back to normalcy, she was throwing herself headfirst into the only thing she thought she could control.

He understood. But that didn’t mean he was about to let it slide.

“You’re not wrong,” Tony admitted, leaning against the table across from her. His eyes flickered over the schematics still glowing on the screen. “I’m working on something. But you? You’re trying to do brain surgery on yourself with an engineering degree and a stubborn streak. Not exactly the same thing.”

Andromeda’s fingers curled into fists against the metal. “It’s not brain surgery.”

Tony shot her a look.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Fine. It’s close to brain surgery. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do it.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Andy, just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

Andromeda’s eyes flashed. “So what, I should just sit in my room? Wait to see if I get better? Hope that I’ll be able to move without feeling like I’m on fire?”

“You should recover,” Tony countered, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Your body needs time.”

“I don’t have time.” Andromeda’s voice cracked just slightly, but she clenched her jaw and steamrolled over it. “I can’t—” Her throat worked around the words, and Tony saw the flicker of vulnerability she was desperately trying to shove down. “I can’t just sit there and do nothing.”

And there it was. The real reason she was down here, pushing herself past exhaustion, past pain, past the limits of what her body could handle. Because if she stopped moving—if she stopped doing—then the silence would catch up to her.

Tony’s heart clenched in his chest. Yeah. Yeah, he knew that feeling too.

He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “You think working yourself into the ground is gonna make that feeling go away?”

Andromeda didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Tony sighed. “Eleanor,” he called out, turning toward the nearest console.

“Yes, Tony?” Eleanor’s voice was smooth, warm, unmistakably Andromeda’s mother’s.

The moment Eleanor’s voice filled the lab, Andromeda froze. Her whole body went rigid, breath catching painfully in her throat as the soft, familiar cadence of her mother’s voice washed over her like a ghost from another life. It had been months since she’d heard it. Months since she’d even thought about the AI. Somewhere between the desert, the blood, and the pain, she’d forgotten Eleanor existed. But now—it was everywhere. The gentle hum of the system waking up, the way her mother’s voice carried through the speakers as if she had just stepped into the room.

“Welcome home, Andromeda.”

Her stomach twisted violently—not from pain, not from nausea, but from something sharp and aching, cutting through the fragile barriers she’d been desperately holding in place. Her fingers clenched into fists against the cold edge of the table. She wasn’t sure if she was even breathing.

Eleanor’s voice was gentle, warm—too much like her mother had been. It carried a softness that scraped against the raw edges inside her like an open wound.

Tony must have noticed the way she stilled, because his usual smirk and exasperation faded, replaced with something quieter, something careful. “Andy,” he murmured.

She sucked in a sharp breath through her nose but didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Swallowing hard, forcing the tightness in her throat to ease, she whispered, “Eleanor… run system diagnostics.”

“Diagnostics are fully operational,” the AI responded smoothly. “Would you like me to update your neural interface project files?”

Andromeda exhaled slowly, blinking hard at the screen. “Yeah. Do that.”

Eleanor hummed softly—an eerie sound too close to something human. “Done. Would you like me to display the latest research on neural pathways and pain modulation?”

Her jaw clenched. Her mother’s voice was asking if she wanted help fixing herself, like she was still a kid in this lab, pulling apart machinery with oil-stained fingers, listening to Eleanor guide her through the process. Like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t been torn apart in the worst ways imaginable. Like she hadn’t spent weeks in hell.

She closed her eyes, fingers trembling against the table. This was stupid. It was just an AI. Just a damn program. But it still felt like a punch to the ribs, like something inside her cracked wide open.

She forced herself to breathe, to pull herself together.

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Display it.”

The screen flickered, shifting to a detailed breakdown of nerve clusters and signal dampening theory. Andromeda focused on the science—the numbers, the logic—not on the lingering echo of Eleanor’s voice, not on the tightness in her chest, and not on the unreadable expression on Rhodey’s face as he watched her.

Tony, for once, said nothing. He simply exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the table. “Alright, kid,” he muttered, softer now. “You got me. Let’s figure this out.”

The darkness was alive—thick, suffocating, pressing against her like a living thing with breath and weight and teeth. It curled around her ribs, wrapped tight around her throat, sinking deep into her marrow as if it had always belonged there. The cell walls pulsed faintly, as if they had lungs, shifting closer and closer, swallowing her whole. The air hung heavy, cloying with the stench of sweat, blood, and something far worse. Decay. Something rotten. Someone lost to rot.

She knew that smell too well. Like an old wound, a scar that never quite healed, it had settled beneath her skin, tangled in her hair, lurking beneath her fingernails. She had slept with it, breathed it in until it lined her lungs, thickened her tongue, until the line between where it ended and she began blurred and vanished. Even after escape, it clung to the frayed edges of her mind, a shadow she couldn’t shake.

Her ribs ached with a pain that burrowed deep, latching onto bones and refusing to let go. It wasn’t the fleeting sting that came and went, but a settled poison, old and unrelenting. Each breath rattled, shallow and gasping, as if her body had forgotten how to function beyond the endless ache.

She wasn’t alone.

She could feel them—ghosts of hands, cruel and unyielding, never truly gone. Their grip bruised her even now, sinking past flesh and muscle, pressing into something darker. She could still sense the rough bite of fingers digging into her arms, pinning her down, holding her still.

Taking.

She tried to move, to break free, but her limbs were leaden, boneless, heavy with chains rusted and cold. The weight pulled at her wrists, anchoring her to the dark, dragging her back into the past she swore she’d never return to. Not again.

She twisted, bucked, fought, but the hands only tightened—bruising, clawing, fingertips pressing hard enough to leave marks deep on her bones.

Then came the laugh.

Low, cruel, familiar.

She knew it before the shadow stepped out from the darkness. Broad, looming, moving with slow, deliberate ease, savoring the moment like a predator. The stench of gunpowder and sweat clung to him like a second skin. When he spoke, his voice slithered through the cell—slick, oily, dripping with mockery.

“Did you think you’d forget me?”

Andromeda tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat, strangled by the tightening chains wrapped around her ribs. Hands yanked at her hair, jerking her head back with brutal force that made her neck crack and pop.

She was weightless.

Spinning.

Impact slammed into her back with brutal force as she crashed against the wall, the air ripped from her lungs in a violent gasp. Her chest caved inward, ribs screaming in sharp, relentless protest, her vision bleeding to black at the edges like ink spilled across fragile glass. She clawed for breath—there was none. No air. No escape.

The walls pressed closer, closing in around her like a tightening noose, thick shadows folding in like suffocating hands. The dark was alive, unyielding.

And then—the pain hit.

Seething, searing, blinding. A white-hot agony that branded itself deep into her bones, splintering her from the inside out. They were breaking her all over again. Piece by piece, limb by limb, tearing her down until there was nothing left—until she was nothing.

Andromeda screamed.

Raw and ragged and animalistic, the sound tore itself free from the marrow of her throat, violent and instinctive. It didn’t merely hang in the air; it clawed at the walls, ripped through the silence, sent a piercing, searing shard of agony lancing through her chest. It was a scream that demanded to be heard.

Her body convulsed violently as she surged upright, muscles seized in panic’s iron grip. Her heart hammered erratically against her ribs, frantic and desperate, clawing at her chest as if trying to break free from the cage of bone and flesh. Around her, the world collapsed into a suffocating void of darkness—pressing in from every side, merciless and unrelenting, thick as a shroud. She barely felt the bed beneath her, the tangled sheets wrapping her limbs like cold, unyielding chains, the sudden movement nearly sending her tumbling over the edge.

The room was too dark. Shadows stretched long and thick, swallowing the space whole, pressing in like grasping hands—unyielding, biting, heavy and cold against her skin. Like him. Like the ghosts that still lingered.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t—

“Miss Stark—breathe. You are safe.”

Eleanor. The AI’s voice cut through the panic, sharp and clear as a beacon slicing through the thick fog of terror. Andromeda flinched at the sound, lungs trembling in ragged gasps, her mind trapped between the torment of then and the fragile reality of now. Usually precise, calculated, and unflinching, Eleanor’s voice carried something different tonight—softer, almost tender—an attempt at comfort in the crushing darkness.

“Your vitals have spiked significantly. Initiating calming protocols.”

The room shifted. The oppressive darkness began to peel back as the lights adjusted, fading into a warm, golden glow. Not harsh or sterile, not fluorescent or clinical. It was warm, soft, safe. The chill that had seeped into her skin eased away, replaced by a more familiar, grounding warmth that wrapped gently around her.

But the worst part—the part Eleanor couldn’t fix—was the silence.

The silence between the screams.

The silence where the echoes slithered in, wrapping around her like a noose, whispering, twisting, dragging her down into the depths.

“Miss Stark, you are at home. You are in Malibu. You are not there.”

The words rang clear, firm, spoken with unwavering certainty—a lifeline thrown into the darkness. But Andromeda could still feel it—the chains. The hands. The stench of sweat and blood.

She wasn’t there. She wasn’t.

But her body didn’t know that.

A strangled sob tore from her chest, raw and aching, wrenching through her ribs. Her fingers dug into her arms, nails biting deep into her skin as if she could scratch away the ghosts, claw them from her flesh, tear them from memory.

Then came the footsteps.

Fast. Hard. Rushing.

The door slammed open, nearly ripped from its hinges, and suddenly, he was there.

“Andromeda!”

Tony’s voice cut through the silence, sharp with panic, rough around the edges, laced with something frayed and desperate. It yanked her back—almost. Almost, but not quite enough.

Her lungs were still trapped in that crushing vice, her heartbeat pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The air in her bedroom felt thick, suffocating, hauntingly close to the stifling heat of the cave, the weight of chains, the acrid scent of burning sand and blood.

She barely registered the way he crossed the room in two long strides, how he stopped just short beside her bed, hands hovering uncertainly in midair—hesitating. Uncertain if he could touch her. Uncertain if she was still really there at all.

“Hey—hey, Andy, look at me.”

His voice softened, still urgent but steadier now, like an anchor in the midst of a raging storm. Her eyes snapped up, pupils wide and wild, still lost somewhere deep inside the nightmare—the cave, Afghanistan, the darkness that had tried to swallow her whole.

Tony’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. Anger burned behind his eyes, but not at her—never at her. No, it was fury at something he couldn’t fight, something he couldn’t punch, something he couldn’t fix with money or engineering or sheer force of will. And that killed him.

So instead, he crouched down beside her bed, staying just far enough to let her breathe, to let her remember where she was.

“Andy,” he said again, his voice measured, controlled—but his eyes? They burned. “You’re here. You’re home. You’re not there. You’re safe.”

Safe. The word barely made sense. It felt foreign, unreachable, like a concept meant for someone else—someone untouched by war, by captivity, by the ghosts that never left.

But it was Tony saying it. And he was real. And if he was real, if she could see the way his chest rose and fell, if she could hear the careful rhythm of his breath, if she could feel the weight of his presence grounding her, then maybe—maybe—she wasn’t there anymore.

She sucked in a jagged breath, one that nearly broke on the way in, and her fingers curled into the blanket twisted around her legs—something solid. Something real.

Tony was still watching her, his own breathing slow, deliberate, measured.

“Breathe with me, kid.”

She tried. Failed. Tried again.

The first breath hurt. The second burned. The third was a little easier.

The pressure in her chest didn’t disappear, but it eased—just enough. Just enough to let her register the cool air against her damp skin, the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below the house, the faint glow of the arc reactor beneath Tony’s T-shirt.

She wasn’t in a cell. She wasn’t chained. She wasn’t in hell.

She was in her bed. In Malibu. In her home.

The thought felt foreign, like something she had imagined rather than lived. The sheets beneath her fingers were impossibly soft, the air around her light with the scent of salt and ocean breeze. It should have been comforting. It should have been enough. But her lungs still fought for breath, her body still trembled with the ghostly echoes of another place, another time.

A shuddering breath tore from her lungs—ragged, uneven. But it was hers. Tony saw it. Saw her surfacing, clawing her way back to herself. His shoulders sagged, the tension bleeding out of him in slow, exhausted waves. The relief crashing into him was staggering, a force strong enough to nearly knock him over without a single step taken. For two weeks, he had watched, waited, hovering between hope and helplessness. And now, finally, she was here.

Andromeda pressed her trembling hands against her face, willing the aftershocks to stop rattling through her bones. But they wouldn’t. They never did. The exhaustion was unbearable, but the memories were worse. The ghosts lingered in the spaces between her thoughts, in the silence that should have been peaceful but instead felt like a prison of its own making.

Tony still didn’t touch her. Not yet. Not until she let him. He had learned that about her over the past two weeks—how to wait, how to let her find her way back in her own time, on her own terms. The hands that had once built weapons, that had once worked with reckless precision, now curled into fists at his sides, waiting. Just waiting.

Finally, after a long, ragged moment, Andromeda exhaled and let herself tip sideways—just slightly, just enough.

Tony moved instantly. His arms wrapped around her, warm and solid and steady. His hand settled gently at the back of her head, not pushing, not forcing—just holding. A tether to reality, to safety.

Andromeda let herself break. She folded into him, her shoulders shaking, fingers twisting into the fabric of his T-shirt like it was the only thing keeping her anchored. Her breath still uneven, still wrong, but—

She was here. Not there. Here.

Tony tightened his hold, his jaw pressing softly against her hair, his own breath just as unsteady. “I got you, Andy.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

Morning came slowly, dragging Andromeda from the depths of sleep like a body being pulled from the ocean floor. She resisted at first, her consciousness clinging to the warmth of oblivion, but reality had a cruel way of catching up. The first thing she noticed was the weight surrounding her—the solid presence beneath her cheek, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat thrumming close to her ear. A warmth encased her, grounding and familiar, pulling her back from the edge before she could even open her eyes. The air smelled of salt and sun-warmed fabric, mingled with something sharper—something distinctly Tony. His cologne, subtle but unmistakable, the scent of safety she had known since childhood. And for just a moment, she let herself exist there. Here, there were no expectations, no pressure to fight, to be strong, to endure. Here, she could just breathe.

It was a lie. She knew it the second she tried to move. Pain—blinding, searing, unforgiving—flared down her spine, a molten current twisting through her ribs and splintering into every nerve ending like fire pouring straight into her bones. The agony didn’t just burn; it carved her hollow from the inside, leaving her breathless and trembling. Her fingers twitched involuntarily as the ache in her fractured wrist sharpened, slicing through her with razor-edged intensity. Meds. She needed her meds. A shaky breath hissed between her teeth as she instinctively curled inward, muscles coiling in fierce protest before she forced herself to stop—to breathe. Shutting her eyes tight, she clung to reality, anchoring herself in the present. She wasn’t in a cave. She wasn’t surrounded by cold stone walls thick with rust and blood. She wasn’t in the dark. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t helpless. The bed beneath her was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of clean linen and a hint of Tony’s aftershave. And there was warmth—steady, reassuring warmth pressed against her back

She must have shifted, because Tony stirred beside her, his hold adjusting, breath hitching in that brief moment between sleep and wakefulness. Then, in an instant, he was fully alert—instincts sharpened by months of survival snapping to a razor’s edge. “…Shit.” His voice was rough with sleep but clear, threading through the fog of her pain like a lifeline. “Hey. You okay?”

Her pulse hammered against her ribs—too fast, too erratic. The pain gnawed relentlessly, unyielding, clouding her thoughts with static, while nausea curled tight in her gut like a warning. “…No,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. Tony was already moving before the word had fully left her lips.

The warmth of his arm slipped away as he sat up fully, but she didn’t protest. Even though the loss made her feel colder, emptier, she understood why he moved—because she hurt, and Tony could fix that. His hands were efficient but careful, reaching for the bedside table where her medications were lined up with precise order—a clear sign of Pepper’s influence. Normally, she might have mocked the neatness, but right now, she was too grateful to care.

“Pain’s bad?” he asked, though they both knew the answer. She swallowed past the tightness in her throat, forcing a wry, brittle smirk. “Like a truck hit me. Then backed over me for good measure.” Tony let out a quiet, almost amused huff, but concern still etched the sharp lines of his face. “That’s the Stark resilience talking.”

“Bite me,” she muttered.

“Pass,” he shot back without missing a beat, shaking a couple of pills into his palm before handing them over, along with the half-full water bottle beside the bed. She took them without hesitation, knocking them back quickly. The motion sent violent protests lancing through her ribs like live wires, but she bit down the grimace threatening to surface.

Tony noticed anyway. His eyes flickered across her, sharp and assessing, searching for any sign of distress or damage she might be trying to hide. “I should’ve gotten up before you,” he muttered almost to himself. “Should’ve had this ready.” 

She arched a brow, exhausted but unwilling to let him spiral. “What, you wanna be my full-time nurse now?”

Tony’s expression shifted, lips quirking into something dry and almost amused. “You are my full-time pain in the ass.” A breath of laughter escaped her, even though the ache lanced sharply through her ribs. Tony didn’t join in. He kept watching her closely, fingers drumming idly against the mattress edge like he was holding something back—his tell. She recognized it just before he spoke.

“Nightmare?” His voice was casual, too casual. She hesitated, then nodded.

Tony exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face before letting it drop back into his lap. “Yeah. Me too.” That stopped her. She blinked, caught off guard by the admission. “…Really?”

He gave her a flat, unimpressed look, like she’d just asked if water was wet. “Andy, I had to dig a battery out of my own chest with a pair of pliers in a cave. You think I don’t have fucked-up dreams?”

She swallowed. Right. She wasn’t the only one still bleeding from the desert.

“…What do you do?” she asked after a moment, quieter now.

Tony sighed, tilting his head back against the pillows. The exhaustion settled deep into the fine lines of his face, shadows accentuating the weariness he couldn’t shake. His voice, when it came, was quiet—low and worn, as if he’d carried this conversation a thousand times before. “Same thing you’re doing,” he murmured. “I wake up. I take a breath. I remind myself that I’m not there anymore.”

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken truths filling the silence. Slowly, he turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers, expression unreadable. There was something raw beneath the surface—an ache neither dared to name.

“And when that doesn’t work,” Tony added after a beat, “I build something.”

Andromeda exhaled slowly, shaky, her fingers tightening against the sheets as the familiar burn of emotion crept up her throat. Yeah. That sounded about right.

The pain that had gnawed at her for hours was already dulling, the medication bleeding warmth into her veins, softening the fire rooted deep inside her bones. It wasn’t gone—just distant, hovering at the edges of her awareness instead of crushing her with weight. Manageable.

Her body was still wrecked, bruises and scars telling stories she wasn’t ready to relive. Her mind was just as battered, tangled in memories that refused to stay buried. But she was here. She was home. And she had work to do.

Andromeda pushed herself up, wincing as the movement sent a sharp pulse through her ribs. Tony moved immediately, his hand reaching for her before she could stop him, but she shook him off with a sharp glance. He let out an unimpressed huff, arms crossing over his chest. “Really?”

Ignoring the exasperation in his voice, she swung her legs over the bed’s edge. The world tilted for a fraction of a second before righting itself, but she forced herself to breathe through it, pushing past the lingering weakness in her limbs. “I need to get ready for my flight,” she muttered, reaching for the duffel bag she’d packed the night before.

The shift in the air was immediate. She didn’t need to look at him to know Tony’s posture had gone rigid, the easy exhaustion replaced with something sharper, something ready for a fight. A sharp exhale escaped him, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled subtly against his palm, like he was physically restraining himself from slamming a fist into something. And then, inevitably, the words came.

“You’re serious.”

It wasn’t a question.

Andromeda rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to her skin—the phantom echoes of sand and blood, fire and darkness, and chains rattling in the distance. “Obviously,” she said, her voice level, steady.

Tony dragged a hand down his face, letting out a sigh equal parts frustration and disbelief. “Andy, you just had a—” He stopped himself, jaw working, fingers twitching as if he wanted to gesture but thought better of it. His voice softened, rougher when he spoke again. “You just woke up screaming.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t let the weight of that truth make her waver.

“You threw up your guts last night,” he added.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, but her expression remained carefully neutral.

Tony exhaled sharply through his nose, his tone dipping into something more resigned, raw. “And now you’re telling me you’re gonna hop on a plane like none of that just happened?”

Andromeda lifted her chin, heartbeat steady and sure. “I told you about the trip last week.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up in that theatrical way only he could. “Oh, right! The trip where you, my traumatized, post-surgery daughter, are flying alone across the country against medical advice—yeah, that one.”

Her lips twitched, unimpressed. “You knew about it. You didn’t stop me then.”

“Yeah, because I thought you’d come to your senses.”

“Guess not.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. His teeth clenched so hard she was pretty sure she heard them grind.

“Happy’s going with you,” Tony said flatly.

“No, he’s not.”

Tony ran a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath, low and definitely not suitable for polite company. Then louder, laced with incredulity, “Jesus, you’re impossible.”

Andromeda smirked, finally turning to face him fully, arms crossed over her chest. “And you’re just now figuring that out?”

Tony pointed at her, eyes hard, voice sharp. “You are still recovering. You have nerve damage, a broken wrist, a fractured ribcage, and a ridiculous amount of stubbornness that I can only assume is genetic. You are not going to New York alone.”

Andromeda lifted a brow, completely unfazed.

“Watch me.”

“STARKLING!!” The sharp cry tore through the quiet like a blade, slicing the fragile stillness of the house with the force of a shockwave. It wasn’t just loud—it was frantic, raw, frayed at the edges by something desperate, something breaking apart. A heartbeat later, the rapid thunder of footsteps pounded down the hallway—heavy, relentless—the unmistakable sound of someone running at full speed, fueled by panic and urgency. Andromeda barely registered the voice—familiar but ragged—before the door to her room exploded open, the frame rattling under the impact.

Then, a blur of motion. Dark hair flying wild, a body hurling toward her with reckless abandon.

Her sluggish, still-recovering mind barely had time to react—though how could she, with her body so raw and wrecked? But Tony was faster. Much faster.

Years of navigating chaos had sharpened his reflexes to a razor’s edge. He moved in a flash, intercepting the incoming force just before impact. His arms locked around the smaller figure, yanking her back mid-barrel with enough force to almost lift her off the ground. He staggered, muscles taut as the girl fought like hell against his hold.

“Jesus Christ—” Tony grunted, tightening his grip as she twisted violently in his arms.

“Let me go, you old man!” she snarled, breathless and sharp, claws digging into his forearms like a wild animal caught in a snare. “Let me go! She needs me!”

“She also needs her ribs to stay in one piece, dumbass!” Tony shot back, shifting his stance as she thrashed harder. “And unless you want to be responsible for literally breaking her in half, I suggest you—hey!—cut it the hell out!”

Andromeda blinked against the dim light, breath uneven, her vision sharpening through the haze of pain and sleep to see the scene unfolding before her.

Cassie Bishop.

Her best friend.

All five feet, five inches of raw, unfiltered fury, burning with barely contained panic. She fought tooth and nail against Tony’s hold, a storm barely restrained. Her dark curls framed her face like a wild halo, frizzed by either sleep or sheer emotion. Her eyes—wild, blazing, glassy with unshed tears—were locked onto Andromeda with an intensity that nearly stole her breath.

Cassie’s nails dug into Tony’s arms as she twisted violently, her whole body coiled like a spring, vibrating with desperate need. The laws of physics be damned—she would break through, reach Andromeda, even if she had to fight a damn Iron Man to do it.

The room was suffocating, thick with a tension that crackled in the air like a live wire stretched too tight, ready to snap. Andromeda felt it pressing down on her, a weight settling deep in her chest, squeezing her ribs like a vise closing in slow and relentless. Something raw and jagged clawed its way up her throat—a sensation she couldn’t quite name but knew all too well. Something sharp. Something aching.

She had seen Cassie Bishop angry before. Reckless, unhinged, fiercely protective to the point of self-destruction. But this—it was different. This wasn’t just anger. This was desperation. This was fear.

Andromeda could see it in the way Cassie fought like a wild animal trapped, twisting violently in Tony’s grasp, muscles straining with frantic, raw strength. Tony’s arms locked tight around her waist, his jaw clenched hard with the effort to contain her. He held on like she was a bomb seconds from detonation, a force of nature that could tear through anything if he lost his grip.

“Jesus, Bishop, settle the hell down!” Tony grunted, shifting his hold as Cassie writhed against him. His voice was rough, laced with irritation, but beneath that was something else—something protective, cautious. Like he knew that if he let go, all hell would break loose. “I don’t need a lawsuit because you’re trying to hug my kid to death!”

“You’re a billionaire! You can afford it!” Cassie snapped back, breathless and sharp, barely pausing between struggles.

Tony scoffed, visibly offended despite wrestling with a girl half his size. “That’s not how the legal system works!”

Cassie bared her teeth, a cornered animal daring to fight back. “Let. Me. Go.” The words fell low, dangerous, vibrating with barely restrained fury.

“Not until you promise you’re not gonna tackle her like a goddamn linebacker.”

“That’s a stupid promise!”

Tony rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as if begging the universe for patience. “No, it’s a ‘please-don’t-kill-my-daughter-who-literally-just-woke-up-in-pain’ promise.”

Andromeda let out a sharp exhale, the first flicker of release as she clawed her way free from the tangled nightmare clutching her mind. The room felt too bright, the air thick and suffocating, the weight of everything pressing down on her like an avalanche she wasn’t ready to bear. Her ribs throbbed—a harsh reminder of her body’s fragile limits—but that pain paled next to the storm erupting before her.

“Cassie.” Her voice came out rough, sandpaper against her throat, heavy with sleep and strain, but steady enough.

Cassie froze.

It was as if someone had slammed the pause button on the world itself.

Her entire body went rigid. The frantic, clawing movements stopped so abruptly it seemed she’d forgotten how to breathe. Her chest heaved beneath the taut muscles, arms still locked in a white-knuckled grip around Tony’s wrists. But the wild panic in her eyes—feral and untamed—cracked open like fragile glass.

Raw. Exposed.

Without warning, Cassie spun so fast it bordered on inhuman, her whole frame snapping toward Andromeda as if even a second’s glance away would make her vanish. Her eyes were wide—too wide—shimmering with something raw and desperate, pupils blown open with disbelief.

“Andy.”

The name slipped out fractured, barely a whisper—a breath stolen by raw emotion. A prayer she hadn’t even realized she was saying. It barely reached Andromeda’s ears before Cassie lunged forward.

“Let me go, old man—she needs me!”

Tony sighed, long and worn, the kind of sound born from years of weathering chaos with too little patience. His grip loosened reluctantly, his stance tense but giving way. “Alright, alright, Jesus. You promise not to crush her? Because I’m letting you go—”

Before the words finished, Cassie tore free.

Tony never stood a chance.

Andromeda barely had time to brace herself before five feet and five inches of raw, unfiltered emotional devastation collided with her. Grief and relief tangled in a fierce, overwhelming storm. Cassie’s embrace wasn’t as brutal as it might have been—there was a gentleness beneath the urgency—but it still jolted sharply through Andromeda’s ribs, forcing her to suck in a breath through clenched teeth. Pain rippled through her chest, but it was nothing compared to the tidal wave radiating off Cassie.

She was sobbing.

Not the quiet kind, the hidden, polite sort that fades behind sniffles and forced smiles. This was primal. Shattering. The kind of grief that rips a person apart at the seams, clawing its way from the deepest, most ancient places in the soul. The kind of crying that doesn’t just break—it wrecks.

Cassie’s arms tightened, fingers digging into fabric like she was terrified that if she let go, Andromeda would slip away and be lost again. Desperation hung heavy in that hold—an aching, unrelenting need to anchor herself in the impossible truth that Andromeda was here. Alive. Breathing.

Andromeda froze completely, her body stiffening as every muscle clenched tight, her breath caught in her throat, seizing painfully. Cassie’s arms were crushing her, too tight—too ragged with desperation—and the weight pressing down on her was overwhelming, more than she could bear. The edges of the room blurred and softened, the present moment slipping like grains of sand through trembling fingers. What had started as the warmth of Cassie’s embrace twisted into something cold and suffocating. Her ribs weren’t being held by Cassie’s arms. She wasn’t in this room anymore. She was back there—pinned, trapped beneath an unbearable, crushing weight. The hands holding her weren’t Cassie’s. They were his.

Andromeda flinched sharply, the reflex tearing through her. Cassie must have sensed it because she immediately recoiled, her grip loosening like she suddenly realized how fiercely she had been holding on. Panic flared across her face, her breath catching in a sharp, horrified gasp. “Oh my God—Andy—shit—shit,” she stammered, scrambling to pull away.

But Andromeda caught her wrist before she could escape. “It’s okay.” Her voice was raw and frayed, but steady, unmistakably hers.

Cassie froze, fingers trembling just inches from Andromeda’s skin. She looked like she was terrified to touch her, afraid she might cause more harm even by trying.

Andromeda sucked in a slow, unsteady breath, fighting to shake off the lingering shadows of the past, to anchor herself firmly in the present. Her body ached, and the nightmare still clung like static around her edges, but she was here. Cassie was here.

And Cassie was breaking.

So with every last ounce of strength she could muster, Andromeda reached out for her. Cassie let out a strangled sob, a sound that cracked like glass breaking, and then collapsed into Andromeda’s arms once more. This time, though, her grip was careful—tight enough to hold on but gentle, as if afraid that squeezing too hard might shatter the fragile reality of Andromeda standing there: alive, breathing, whole enough to hold her back. Her fingers clutched the fabric of Andromeda’s hoodie like it was the only tether grounding her, as though letting go would send her spiraling into the abyss of every nightmare she had ever imagined.

Andromeda didn’t flinch or pull away. She simply held her because she understood. She had known this kind of fear before—the gut-twisting, all-consuming terror that clawed through ribs and latched onto the heart, squeezing so tight that breathing became an afterthought. She knew what it meant to hope and grieve in the same breath, to feel the relief of survival tinged with the ghosts of what might have been.

Because she knew it could have gone the other way. If it had been Cassie locked in that cell—left waiting in the dark, drowning in a sea of unanswered questions—Andromeda wasn’t sure she would have survived.

Cassie trembled against her, shoulders shaking with broken gasps, whispering words between sobs that barely made sense. “I thought—God, Andy, I thought—”

“I know,” Andromeda murmured softly, her voice steady and grounding. “I know.”

Cassie sniffled violently, wiping her damp face with her sleeve. Then, suddenly, she whirled around, eyes flashing with something sharp and furious beneath the tears, locking onto Tony. “You should’ve called me the second she got home, you asshole!”

Tony, standing off to the side with arms crossed and a look balancing exasperation and resigned patience, let out a long-suffering sigh. He gestured toward Andromeda, his tone flat but firm. “Hey, you think I didn’t try? You think I wanted her to wait? Your best friend is a goddamn nightmare to deal with when she’s stubborn—which is always, by the way—and I’d love to see you try forcing her to do anything.”

Cassie snapped her gaze back to Andromeda, still raw and bristling with pent-up emotion. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You ignored my calls?”

Andromeda winced. “…I might’ve.”

Cassie folded her arms, her glare intensifying. “Define ‘might’ve.’”

Tony snorted. “She straight-up ghosted you, Bishop.”

Cassie’s expression darkened in real time, her mouth tightening into a thin line. “ANDROMEDA STARK!”

Andromeda groaned, running a hand down her face. “Cass—”

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through? I thought you were dead! I thought they were gonna send me back a goddamn body bag!” Cassie’s voice cracked, but she steamrolled forward, pushing through the vulnerability. “I called everyone! I harassed Rhodey, I harassed Pepper, I harassed people I didn’t even know, and you just—ghosted me?!”

Andromeda exhaled heavily, her chest tightening with something cold and insidious. Guilt. It curled around her ribs like barbed wire, threading through the exhaustion she had barely kept at bay. “I couldn’t,” she admitted softly.

Cassie’s breath hitched, her anger wavering for the first time—a crack in the armor.

Andromeda swallowed hard, struggling to push the words past the weight in her throat. “I couldn’t, Cass. I didn’t know how. I was barely holding it together, and I didn’t—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I wasn’t ready.”

For a long moment, Cassie just stared at her. Then—without warning—she reached out and smacked Andromeda lightly on the arm.

“Ow—what the hell?”

“That’s for making me think you were dead, you absolute asshole,” Cassie sniffled, rubbing her sleeve over her face one last time. Her voice softened, raw and uneven. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Andromeda exhaled, lips twitching into something small and tired—a ghost of a smirk. “…I’ll try.”

Cassie snorted. “Wow. That’s comforting.”

Then, as if remembering she wasn’t done being pissed off, she turned back to Tony, pointing an accusatory finger. “And you—”

Tony groaned, already pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, what now?”

“You should’ve tried harder.”

Tony’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” He gestured wildly toward Andromeda, who had the audacity to look vaguely entertained. “Have you met my daughter? Have you met me? You think I don’t know stubborn? We invented stubborn.”

Cassie folded her arms. “And yet, you failed.”

Tony threw his hands in the air. “Unbelievable.”

Andromeda, now thoroughly amused, glanced between the two of them with a smirk. “You two done?”

Cassie huffed. “Not even close.”

Tony scoffed. “I’m not dealing with this. I need coffee.”

Andromeda chuckled. “You always need coffee.”

Tony pointed at her without looking back. “Yeah? And you always need therapy.” He turned, already making a beeline for the kitchen, grumbling under his breath. “I swear to God, I am so tired of emotionally constipated people—”

Cassie watched him go, unimpressed. “He’s more dramatic than I remember.”

Andromeda sighed, rubbing at her temples. “He’s been stressed.”

Cassie gave her a pointed look. “We all have, Starkling.”

Andromeda flinched slightly. “I know.”

Cassie studied her for a beat, then nodded to herself, as if making a decision. “So. New rule.”

Andromeda sighed, already resigned. “Do I have a choice?”

“Absolutely not.”

A wry smirk curled at the edge of Andromeda’s lips. “Alright. Hit me with it.”

Cassie leaned in, dead serious. “Next time you get kidnapped by terrorists, you call me first.”

Despite herself, Andromeda laughed, shaking her head. “Noted.”

Cassie sniffed, finally settling back, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. “Good.” She nudged her gently. “Now tell me everything.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

The early morning air bit gently against Andromeda’s skin, carrying with it the faint, sharp scent of jet fuel as Cassie maneuvered her wheelchair steadily across the smooth expanse of the asphalt runway. The low hum of the plane’s engines filled the background, a steady, familiar drone that underscored the gravity of their departure. This was no longer just a conversation; this was real.

“When you said ‘tell me everything,’ I didn’t think that included a damn plane ride to New York,” Cassie grumbled, tightening her grip on the wheelchair handles as they drew closer to the waiting jet. “I thought we were having some ‘let’s sit down and talk about our feelings’ moment—not ‘pack your bags, we’re flying cross-country.’”

Andromeda smirked, though it was a tired, fragile thing, the edges shaky and worn from weeks of pain and exhaustion. “Trust me, if this was about my feelings, I’d be avoiding it like the plague.”

Cassie let out a short laugh but wisely didn’t press further. Instead, her eyes flicked downward to the sleek, reinforced equipment case resting across Andromeda’s lap—jet-black, custom-built, titanium-plated, sealed tight with biometric locks. This wasn’t just any case. It held everything. Her life’s work. The neural interface. The spinal implant. The cutting-edge tech she had designed before her body was reduced to a battlefield. Now, it was all she had left.

Cassie’s gaze lingered warily on the case. “So… is this the part where I ask what kind of Frankenstein tech you’ve got in there?”

Andromeda shifted slightly, a dull throb curling down her spine in response. The meds dulled the worst of it, but the ache lingered—an insidious, constant reminder from Afghanistan that refused to fade.

“It’s not Frankenstein tech,” she muttered, tightening her grip on the armrests just as Cassie guided the wheelchair toward the jet’s waiting staircase.

“It’s—”

“—the reason we’re flying to New York at the crack of dawn,” Cassie cut in, eyes narrowing as she studied the steps ahead. Her lips pressed into a thin line before glancing back at Andromeda. “You good?”

The question hung heavy between them, layered with meaning. Physically? No. Emotionally? Not even close. But Andromeda nodded anyway.

“I’ve got it.”

Cassie didn’t argue. She locked the chair’s brakes before stepping around to Andromeda’s side, her stance casual but alert, ready.

Andromeda braced herself, curling her fingers tight around the armrests as she pushed upward, forcing her legs to bear the weight despite the sharp sting of overworked nerves shooting up her spine. Her breath hitched with the effort, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to falter. Refusing to let Cassie see how much it still hurt.

One step. Then another.

She had to move slower than she wanted—careful, deliberate—but she made it. Gripping the rail tightly, she steadied herself before stepping into the jet’s cool, air-conditioned interior. Cassie followed close behind, wheeling the chair up the small ramp before carefully settling the reinforced equipment case into the storage compartment beside their seats.

As soon as Andromeda lowered herself into the seat, she let out a slow, exhausted exhale, muscles in her back spasming from the effort. Her palm pressed against her forehead, grounding herself as she forced deep, steady breaths to ride out the ache.

Cassie said nothing, sliding into the seat across from her, eyes flickering briefly to Andromeda’s trembling hands before shifting to the window as the pilot initiated the pre-flight sequence. She settled back, one leg crossed over the other, her expression a blend of concern and curiosity.

“So,” Cassie drawled, voice light but deliberate, “are you gonna tell me why we’re actually doing this? Because I don’t think this is just some casual meet-and-greet with a world-renowned neurosurgeon.”

Andromeda’s gaze drifted to the sleek case beside her—the container holding everything. The work that had consumed her nights and days since leaving the hospital, the technology meant to reclaim control over a body that now felt more like a cage than her own.

She exhaled, steadying herself before the words spilled out. “I built a device to help with pain management,” she admitted, quieter now, as if saying it aloud made it real in a way she wasn’t quite prepared for. “My body took a lot of damage over… there. And I need it to be more manageable.”

Cassie arched a brow, eyes flicking briefly to the case before returning to Andromeda. “Manageable how?”

Andromeda hesitated—this was the moment to explain, to translate what she’d created without sounding like she was rewriting medical science.

“It’s an interface,” she said, gripping the armrest tighter. “A neural implant designed to bypass damaged nerve pathways. It syncs directly with my biometrics, modulating pain responses, stabilizing motor function, even compensating for neurological misfires.” She tilted her head, considering. “Think of it as an advanced prosthetic, but for my nervous system instead of a missing limb.”

Cassie’s eyes widened, surprise flickering through them. “Okay, that’s… not what I was expecting.”

Andromeda smirked faintly. “Yeah, most people hear ‘pain management’ and assume I’m just talking about better meds.”

Cassie huffed. “Well, forgive me for assuming you weren’t out here playing God with your own nervous system.”

“Not God,” Andromeda muttered, looking away. “Just… fixing what’s broken.”

The private jet touched down at Teterboro Airport just after noon, the landing smooth enough that Andromeda barely felt it. The painkillers she’d taken before the flight still held sway—mostly. A dull, persistent ache lingered in her spine, a constant reminder of why they were here.

New York was crisp and overcast, the skyline both familiar and distant beyond the runway. Andromeda hadn’t been here in years—not since her teenage days tagging along with her father to Stark Industries board meetings. Back then, she spent most of her time holed up in hotel suites, tinkering with half-built prototypes while Tony schmoozed with executives.

Now, she was back for something far more personal.

Cassie helped her descend the steps, maintaining a cautious but respectful distance as Andromeda moved carefully—slow but steady. She refused the wheelchair once they reached the car waiting on the tarmac, even as her legs screamed in protest. She could do this. She had to.

They slid into the backseat of a sleek black SUV, and as the doors closed, the driver pulled away, merging onto the freeway toward Midtown.

Cassie crossed her arms, glancing sideways. “So, straight there? No food? No coffee? No last-minute ‘what the hell am I doing’ detour?”

Andromeda huffed quietly. “No detours.”

Cassie’s eyes flicked to the case between them. “Alright. Does this Strange guy know we’re coming? Or are we just showing up with a box of Stark tech and a medical mystery?”

Andromeda smirked faintly. “I called ahead.”

Cassie arched a brow. “And he just said ‘sure, come on over’?”

Andromeda tilted her head. “Well… I might have left out some details.”

Cassie groaned, rubbing her face. “Fantastic. We’re just showing up at the world’s most famous neurosurgeon’s office asking him to shove some experimental Stark-tech into your nervous system. This definitely won’t be a problem.”

Andromeda grinned. “Technically, I’m asking him to help me install it. I already built it.”

Cassie gave her a flat look. “That doesn’t make it better.”

Andromeda just smirked.

Cassie exhaled, shaking her head. “Alright, genius. Let’s go meet your miracle worker.”

—

Dr. Stephen Strange’s office was housed in a sleek, ultra-modern high-rise medical complex just off Fifth Avenue—an unmistakable beacon of cutting-edge medicine and wealth.

Andromeda had expected sterile and impersonal. Instead, the waiting area was minimalist yet warm, bathed in soft lighting and rich wood tones, with walls lined not by framed degrees but by shelves of real books. The scent of expensive coffee mingled with a faint hint of rain drifting in from the city streets.

The receptionist—a no-nonsense woman in her fifties with sharp eyes—barely glanced up as they approached. “Miss Stark. Dr. Strange is expecting you. Exam room three.”

Cassie blinked. “No waiting? Just like that?”

The woman shot her a look. “Dr. Strange does not take waiting room patients.”

Cassie muttered under her breath as they moved down the hallway. “Of course he doesn’t.”

Andromeda ignored her, tightening her grip on the case handle as they reached the room.

She stepped inside first.

Dr. Stephen Strange was already there.
Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a crisp navy button-up with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands—the very hands that had earned him a reputation as one of the best neurosurgeons in the world—rested casually on the countertop as he studied the chart before him.

He didn’t look up immediately, flipping a page with the practiced ease of someone who had already reviewed every detail, formulated theories, and found the holes in her logic before she even spoke. That sharp, analytical mind had likely dissected her work long before she stepped into his office, and Andromeda braced herself for the inevitable skepticism.

“I hope you didn’t fly all the way out here expecting me to tell you that self-experimentation is a good idea,” he said at last, lifting his gaze. His blue-gray eyes were sharp, assessing, with just a hint of irritation, as if already regretting agreeing to this meeting. He wasn’t seeing a patient—he was sizing up a challenge.

Andromeda met his gaze with equal measure, refusing to be the first to blink. “If I was worried about that, I wouldn’t be here,” she countered, shifting her grip on the case, the weight grounding her. She hadn’t come for a lecture—she’d come for the one person who could make this happen.

Strange tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the truth in her words. He set the chart aside and turned fully to face her. “So. A neural interface designed to compensate for spinal trauma. Biometrically controlled, pain-modulating, laced with Stark-grade microfilaments,” he summarized, gesturing vaguely toward the case. “That’s what you’re bringing me?”

Andromeda exhaled slowly, feeling the exhaustion settle deeper into her bones, but she stepped forward and placed the case on the exam table with deliberate care. “That’s what I built,” she said, pressing her thumb to the biometric lock. A quiet hiss followed as the vacuum seal released and the lid lifted smoothly, revealing the sleek, obsidian-black device nestled within.

Strange stepped closer, and for the first time, his expression shifted—from detached curiosity to something sharper, more intrigued. He reached out, his hands hovering over the implant as if wanting to touch it but waiting for permission.

“Go ahead,” Andromeda murmured, arms crossed over her chest, watching him carefully.

He didn’t need to be told twice. With the precise touch of a surgeon, he lifted the main interface from the case, turning it over in his hands. His fingers ghosted over the delicate framework, the embedded biometric sensors, the adaptive microfilaments woven through the structure like veins. He traced the implant’s outer rim, calculating, already mapping its function in his mind.

“This isn’t just a standard spinal interface,” he murmured to himself, voice low. “These microfilaments—” He glanced up at her. “They’re adaptive?”

Andromeda nodded. “They weave through my damaged nerve pathways, forming an artificial bridge to regulate misfires. The AI in the external panel syncs with my biometrics and can make real-time adjustments.” She tilted her head, watching his reaction. “Think of it as an advanced prosthetic—but for my nervous system, instead of a missing limb.”

Dr. Strange hummed softly, eyes flickering with something—approval, maybe, or at least grudging respect for her skill. “This isn’t just neural engineering. This borders on biohacking.”
Cassie, silent until now, let out a sharp huff. “Told you. Playing God.”

Andromeda shot Cassie a look before turning back to Strange. “Can you do it?”

Strange didn’t answer right away. He carefully placed the implant back in the case and folded his arms. “Have you run tests?”

Her fingers twitched against the metal case, but her voice stayed steady. “Extensively.”

His brows lifted. “On animals?”

She exhaled, jaw tightening. “Simulations, models, stress tests. Everything but live human trials.”

Strange let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as if already feeling the weight of what she was asking. “So, in other words, you want me to open up your spine and install something that, to my knowledge, has only been tested in theoretical space.”

Cassie snorted. “I told you it was insane.”

Andromeda ignored her, shoulders squaring. “It works.”

Strange arched a brow. “You think it works. And while I admire your confidence, Miss Stark, I’m not in the habit of implanting untested devices into anyone, especially someone with your medical history.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw, fighting back the frustration curling in her chest. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t absolutely sure.”

Strange studied her long and heavy before stepping closer. “If you want me to consider this, I need proof this won’t make things worse. So, let’s start small.”

Her stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

He tilted his head toward the implant. “We test it externally first. We see how it interacts with your nervous system in a controlled setting. No permanent implantation—just temporary connections. If it stabilizes your pain and improves motor function without side effects, then we move forward.”

She hated it. The delay, the waiting, when all she wanted was immediate results. But she wasn’t stupid. Strange was right. To do this properly, she had to prove it.

Her fingers curled into fists before she forced them to relax. “Fine,” she bit out. “How soon can we do it?”

Strange smirked slightly. “Now.”

Cassie protested loudly, throwing up her hands. “Jesus Christ, what happened to ‘months of testing’?”

Strange shrugged. “Months for live trials. But this? This is an external test. Minimal risk, high reward. If it fails, we scrap it and reassess.”

Andromeda inhaled sharply, pulse quickening. “Let’s do it.”

Strange nodded once, turning to pull sterile gloves and equipment from the cabinets. “Alright, Miss Stark. Lie back. Let’s see what you’ve built.”

Andromeda tensed as she reclined against the sterile exam table, the cold surface biting through her clothes. The gravity of the moment settled heavily—this wasn’t theory anymore. It wasn’t a blueprint or simulation. It was real. She was about to let someone probe her nervous system, test a device that, if it failed, could leave her worse off than before.

Cassie hovered nearby, arms crossed, brows furrowed. “You sure about this?” she asked softly, the usual sarcasm gone. “I know you’re sure, but… are you sure?”

Andromeda exhaled, forcing her body to relax against the stiffness of the table. “It’s this or a lifetime of meds that don’t work,” she murmured. “So yeah. I’m sure.”

Cassie nodded, stepping back to give Strange room.

He moved with clinical efficiency, rolling a tray of gleaming equipment closer. Electrodes, calibration nodes, a sleek silver control panel that matched the facility’s high-end aesthetic.

“I’m going to place temporary leads along your spine,” Strange explained, snapping on surgical gloves. “The electrodes will connect the implant externally to your nerve pathways. No cutting, no drilling—yet. We’re just seeing how well this integrates before considering permanent implantation.”

Andromeda nodded, fingers tightening slightly on the table edge. She was ready.

Her breath hitched when Strange reached for the first electrode, his fingers brushing the base of her neck.

Her body reacted before her mind could—stiffening, a sharp jolt flashing through her consciousness. Metal cuffs. Cold steel restraints. Rough hands forcing her down.

Not here. Not now.

Strange caught the shift in her breathing, pausing with his fingers hovering just above her skin. His sharp gaze met hers—unreadable, yet perceptive. “You good?”
She forced her muscles to relax, shaking off the ghost of old horrors. “Yeah,” she said, voice steady though her fingers twitched against the table. “Just—tell me before you touch me.”
A brief pause, then a nod. “Alright.”

The tension in her shoulders eased slightly as she focused on the rhythm of her breathing. Strange resumed his work, carefully placing the first electrode at the base of her skull. A cool sensation spread across her skin as he methodically attached conductive patches down the length of her spine. Each placement sent a subtle tingling current through her nerves—faint, but enough to remind her how fragile this process was.

Once all electrodes were in place, Strange reached for the control panel, his fingers gliding over the screen with the practiced ease of a man who’d spent a lifetime manipulating nervous systems. “Activating initial sequence,” he murmured. “You’ll feel a slight pulse. Let me know if anything feels off.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw as the first signal surged through her spinal column. It wasn’t painful—just strange, like phantom touches moving through nerves dormant for months. Her fingers twitched involuntarily as a sharp burst of sensation sparked through her legs, the implant mapping her neural pathways.

Cassie leaned forward, watching intently. “That supposed to happen?”
Strange hummed, eyes fixed on the monitor. “It means the connection is live.” He adjusted a setting and the pulse intensified slightly. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Andromeda inhaled slowly, focusing inward. “There’s… a hum. Like static in my lower back. My legs feel—” She frowned, flexing her fingers. “Lighter. Less sluggish.”

Strange nodded, fine-tuning the modulation. “Good. Increasing signal strength. Let’s see how your pain response adapts.”

The next pulse hit deeper, threading through her spine like electric currents chasing old pathways. A sharp spike lanced through her lumbar region, but it faded quickly, smoothing into something more manageable. The constant companion of pain dulled—not erased, but tamed into something she could endure.

Her breath left her in a slow exhale. “That’s… better.”

Strange glanced up. “Better how?”

She shifted her hips slightly—a movement that would normally have sent stabbing jolts through her spine. This time, the pain barely flared, dissipating before it settled. “It’s not gone,” she admitted, flexing her fingers again. “But it’s different. Less raw. More pressure than pain.”

Cassie’s brows shot up in surprise. “Wait, it’s actually working?”

Strange tapped commands into the screen, adjusting settings. “So far, yes. But we’re not done yet.”

He directed the implant to send controlled impulses to her motor function regulators. The effect was immediate—her once sluggish, unpredictable lower limbs responded with clarity she hadn’t felt since before Afghanistan.

Andromeda inhaled sharply, staring at her hands as she flexed them. “Holy shit.”

Cassie grinned. “Okay, I’ll admit it—this is officially insane.”

Strange remained unreadable, stepping back, arms crossed as he observed her with calculating eyes. “It’s stabilizing,” he admitted, “but it’s not perfect yet.”

Andromeda knew the heaviness still lingered in her spine—a weight unnatural and persistent. The external connection meant the implant was still adjusting, still learning. This was just the beginning, not full integration.

Strange met her gaze, his expression serious. “The real test is full implantation. External integration is one thing, but internal—your body has to accept it fully, or this is all for nothing.”

Andromeda swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the table. She understood. This was the easy part. The real challenge was surgery.

She looked up, steel in her voice. “So, when do we do it?”

Strange exhaled, glancing once more at the screen before setting the control panel aside. “Two weeks,” he said finally. “I want you monitored in the meantime. If there are no adverse effects, then we move forward.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

Andromeda lay face down on the operating table, her body strapped into place, the cool sterility of the room pressing in around her. The bite of the restraints at her wrists wasn’t tight, but they were firm—standard protocol to prevent any unconscious movement during surgery. Still, the sensation made something in her chest tighten, a cold sliver of memory creeping beneath her ribs. She forced herself to exhale, focusing on the rhythmic beeping of the monitors instead.

The operating room was colder than she expected, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and steel. The overhead lights gleamed harshly, bright and unyielding, bathing the surgical team in a stark glow. Machines hummed in the background, their soft whirs punctuated by the steady, methodical sounds of medical preparation. Strange stood at her side, his gloved hands moving with deliberate precision as he checked the final calibrations on her implant.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmured, though there was no real expectation in his voice. He knew she wouldn’t.

Andromeda huffed weakly against the cushioned headrest. “You think I went through two weeks of being poked, prodded, and analyzed just to chicken out now?”

Strange didn’t smirk, didn’t indulge in a quip. Instead, he studied her with that sharp, assessing gaze of his—the kind that saw too much. “Just making sure you know what’s about to happen. Once we do this, it’s permanent.”

Permanent.

She had designed this. Built it with her own hands. Spent months tearing apart every possible failure point, every risk, every consequence. And now she was about to let someone slice open her spine and fuse her creation into her nervous system.

She swallowed hard. “I know.”

Strange gave a curt nod, his face unreadable beneath the surgical mask as he turned to the anesthesiologist. “Put her under.”

A cold sensation seeped into her IV line, creeping up her arm like icy tendrils, dulling everything in its path. The last thing she registered was the distant sound of Cassie’s voice somewhere outside the sterile curtain, sharp with worry. Then the lights above her blurred, darkened—

And the world disappeared.

Andromeda drifted through a weightless darkness, untethered from time, her mind skimming the edges of awareness. The deep, encompassing blackness was broken only by flickers of sensation—pressure along her spine, distant murmurs of voices, the cool bite of metal against exposed skin. She wasn’t fully awake. Not really.
But she wasn’t gone either.

A pulse—sharp, electric.
Then—something shifted.

Her body stirred at the edges, nerves sputtering to life like a machine rebooting. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but a deep, aching awareness crawling up her back and settling into her limbs like a foreign presence. Her mind struggled to surface, to latch onto something real.

Then she heard him.
“Andromeda.”

The voice cut through the haze, pulling her toward wakefulness.

She wasn’t supposed to be awake.

Her pulse surged—a sluggish, disconnected thump echoing in her ears. Panic clawed at her chest, but her body didn’t respond the way it should have. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted, uncooperative. Something pressed in her throat—an endotracheal tube, keeping her airway open, ensuring steady breaths. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

She was trapped.
Not here. Not now.

A gloved hand touched her wrist—not harsh, not restraining—just grounding.

“You’re okay,” Strange’s voice cut through the fog, low and calm but firm. “You’re waking up exactly as planned.”

Planned?

A sharp hum pulsed through her spine again, sending a ripple of sensation down her legs. It wasn’t pain, but it was something.

Strange’s voice came again, quieter this time. “I need you to listen to me, Stark. You’re still under anesthesia, but I need you conscious enough to respond.”

Her mind clawed for clarity, dragging itself up from the depths of unconsciousness. The world around her remained blurred, edges softened by the weight of sedatives coursing through her system, but she understood enough.

This was the test.
The moment of truth.

Strange was meticulously checking to make sure she wasn’t paralyzed. His voice shifted slightly, directed more to the team than to her. “Stimulus is reading positive. Let’s check motor response.”

Another pulse surged through the implant—soft and probing—sending sensation rippling down the length of her spine. The dull pressure in her legs sharpened, as if the sluggish nerves were slowly reconnecting pathways long damaged, beginning to stir from a deep slumber.

“Move your toes, Stark.”

The command was crisp, clinical, slicing through the lingering fog that still clouded her mind.

She tried.

At first, nothing happened. Her body remained heavy with the remnants of anesthesia, unresponsive as if caught beneath an invisible weight. Panic started to swell—sharp and biting—but she clenched her teeth, at least mentally, focusing with all the strength she could summon.

Come on. Move.

A flicker.

Not much. But enough.

Strange’s eyes darted to the screen, watching the neural readout spike with life. “There it is,” he murmured, the tone tight with cautious optimism. “Do it again.”

She pushed harder, willing her foot to obey.

It twitched.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t strength, not yet. But it was movement.

Strange exhaled, the sound low and controlled, though there was a trace of approval beneath the clinical exterior. “Good. Signal pathways are holding.”

Relief washed over her, heavy and deep, like a long, steady exhale she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

It worked.

She wasn’t paralyzed.

“Alright,” Strange said, his voice dropping lower, now addressing the anesthesiologist nearby. “She’s responding appropriately. Put her back under.”

The sedation surged through her veins again—cold, swift, swallowing her consciousness once more.

The last sensation she registered was the faint awareness of her own body, a fragile connection she hadn’t felt in months.

Then—nothing.

A sharp inhale dragged Andromeda back to the surface.

The first thing she felt was the air—cool against her skin, settling in the space where fabric should have been. She wasn’t entirely bare, but her torso was exposed, the crisp sterility of the sheets barely brushing the edges of her ribs. A faint chill ghosted over her spine, the wound still fresh, the implant vulnerable to the open air.

She tried to move, but the weight in her limbs was crushing. Every muscle felt disconnected, sluggish, as if her body hadn’t yet caught up to the fact that she was awake. There was a dull, throbbing ache radiating through her back, an insistent pulse buried deep beneath layers of skin and metal. It was different from the pain she had lived with for months—not sharper, not worse, but deeper. Like her body was still trying to decide if it belonged to her.

A quiet hum of machines filled the room, the steady beep of a heart monitor keeping time with her sluggish pulse. Somewhere to her left, the soft scrape of a chair shifting against tile cut through the silence.

“Andy?”

Cassie’s voice—hoarse and exhausted, like she had been sitting there for hours.

Andromeda swallowed, her throat raw from the intubation tube that had been removed at some point while she was out. She blinked slowly, willing her body to cooperate as she turned her head just enough to catch a blurry outline of Cassie slouched forward, elbows braced against her knees. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her usually sharp, defiant posture was replaced by something weary, something drained.

“Mmhm,” Andromeda managed, though it was barely more than a croak.

Cassie exhaled, rubbing a hand down her face before leaning closer. “Jesus, Stark. Took you long enough.” Her voice was rough, but the relief bled through.

Andromeda swallowed again, working through the dryness in her mouth. “How… long?”

Cassie frowned. “Since the surgery? ‘Bout sixteen hours.” She nodded toward the monitors. “Strange says everything went fine. No complications, no nerve damage. You even passed his little ‘can she wiggle her toes’ test mid-surgery.” Her expression darkened slightly. “Which, by the way, was fucking horrifying to witness.”

Andromeda’s brows knitted together. Her memory of that moment was hazy—flashes of sensation, Strange’s voice anchoring her, the weight of her body sluggishly responding to commands. She hadn’t processed it in the moment, but the idea of waking up, even briefly, on an operating table sent a shudder through her that had nothing to do with the cold.

Cassie must have caught the flicker of unease in her face because she leaned back, crossing her arms. “Yeah. Welcome to my nightmare. Watching them wake you up to make sure you weren’t permanently paralyzed? Super fun experience.”

Andromeda huffed a breath, the sound closer to a wheeze than an actual laugh. “At least it worked.”

Cassie rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite to it. “Yeah, well, let’s hope it keeps working. Doc says they’ll start functional tests once you’re more stable, but considering you look like you just got hit by a freight train, I think that’s a ‘later’ problem.”

Andromeda shifted slightly—just enough to test the weight of her body against the mattress. The movement sent a sharp, electric sting up her spine, not the same kind of pain as before but something raw, something new . Her breath hitched, and Cassie was on her feet in an instant, one hand hovering like she was afraid to touch her.

“Easy,” she warned. “You’ve got a literal hole in your back. Don’t get any ideas about moving yet.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw, her muscles tightening involuntarily against the sensation. “Feels… weird.”

Cassie gave her a flat look. “Yeah, no shit. They cut you open and installed a computer in your spine. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t feel weird.”

Another shallow breath. Another wave of dull pain rippling through her nerves.

She could feel the implant. Not just in the ache of fresh sutures or the weight pressing against her vertebrae—it was deeper than that. Like a presence embedded into her very core, a shift in her body’s equilibrium that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t something foreign. Not exactly.

But it wasn’t quite hers yet, either.

She let her eyes drift shut for a moment, adjusting to the sensation. Beneath the pain, beneath the exhaustion, there was something else—something that hadn’t been there in months.

Stability.

It was faint. Fragile.

But it was there.

Cassie let out a slow breath, rocking back on her heels before sinking into the chair again. She rubbed her temples before shooting Andromeda a sidelong glance. “So. What’s the first thing you’re gonna do once you’re back on your feet?”

Andromeda cracked one eye open, exhaling against the dull ache. “Figure out how to upgrade it.”

The sterile hum of the machines continued its steady rhythm, a reminder that she was still in one piece, still breathing. Andromeda shifted against the crisp sheets, her muscles sluggish, her spine aching, but it wasn’t the same kind of pain as before. It was surgical pain—deep, raw, but temporary. That distinction mattered.

Footsteps echoed against the tile, deliberate and measured. She didn’t have to turn her head to know who it was. Strange had that particular way of moving, a mix of precise confidence and underlying impatience.

Cassie leaned back in her chair, watching as Strange stepped into view, a tablet in one hand and a surgical mask still looped loosely around his neck. He looked… composed, but not entirely rested. The dark circles beneath his eyes were faint, but present, the kind of exhaustion that came from performing a high-risk, hours-long surgery and then probably watching over her for the better part of the recovery process.

“You’re awake,” he noted, flicking through something on his tablet. His gaze flicked to the monitors tracking her vitals before landing on her directly. “And coherent.”

Andromeda swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Yeah, well. I aim to impress.”

Strange arched a brow but didn’t humor her with a quip. Instead, he set the tablet down on a nearby tray and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. “I need to check the incision. Make sure there’s no excessive swelling or fluid buildup.”

Cassie made a face. “You’re gonna poke around her spine two seconds after she woke up?”

Strange didn’t look at her. “Unless you have a better way of confirming that she isn’t about to develop complications, yes.”

Cassie huffed, muttering something about bedside manner, but she didn’t stop him.

Andromeda clenched her jaw as Strange adjusted the sheets, exposing her back to the cold air of the room. She felt the shift in the bed as he moved into position, and then—

A single, cool touch at the base of her spine.

She tensed instinctively, muscles coiling beneath her skin, but Strange didn’t press hard. His fingers were clinical, precise, tracing the edges of the sutures with a surgeon’s patience.

The incision itself ran the length of her spine, from the base of her neck to just above her tailbone. The external vertebrae attachments hadn’t been placed yet—Strange had made it clear that her body needed time to heal before they introduced the next step—but the foundation was there. Beneath layers of sutured skin and bioengineered stabilizers, the neural interface was already grafted to her spine, linked into her nervous system in a way that was entirely irreversible.

His fingers skimmed just below her shoulder blades, applying slight pressure at different points, testing for tenderness, for signs of rejection. The sensation wasn’t exactly pleasant—there was a deep, bruising ache in every part of her back—but it wasn’t unbearable.

“No signs of infection,” Strange murmured, more to himself than to her. “Minimal swelling. Good.”

Cassie made a vaguely disgusted sound. “Fantastic. Can you cover her up now, or are we doing a full ‘look how cool my work is’ moment?”

Strange ignored her, shifting slightly as he pulled out his phone. Andromeda caught the faint click of the camera before she even had time to react.

“Did you just take a picture of my spine?” she asked, her voice raspier than she would have liked.

Strange didn’t so much as blink as he held the phone in front of her, the screen illuminating the image with stark clarity. “You need to see what was done.”

Andromeda stared.

The incision was brutal. A long, angry line of stitches ran down the length of her back, dark against the paleness of her skin. There were faint traces of surgical tape and sterilized antiseptic still lingering around the wound, but beyond that, something deeper caught her attention.

Metal.

Beneath the sutures, just barely visible under the tautness of her skin, the faintest hints of titanium and microfilament wiring could be seen where the main spinal attachment had been fused. The implant wasn’t just inside her—it was a part of her now, woven so intricately into her nervous system that her body had no choice but to accept it.

A slow, unsteady breath left her lips.

She had built this. She had designed this.

And now it was real.

Strange studied her reaction with unreadable eyes. “It’ll take a few weeks for the inflammation to go down,” he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Once the external attachments are in place, the interface will have full motor control integration.”

Andromeda forced herself to swallow past the strange, twisting feeling in her chest. “And if my body rejects it?”

Strange was silent for a beat.

Then— “It won’t.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You sound sure.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I am.”

Cassie let out a low whistle. “Okay, but let’s all appreciate how incredibly ominous that sounded.”

Strange exhaled sharply, like he was already done with this conversation. “I’ll be monitoring you for the next few days. No unnecessary movement. No pushing yourself. The last thing we need is for you to tear the sutures and end up back on this table.”

Andromeda sighed, shifting slightly against the mattress—only for a sharp jolt of discomfort to flare along her spine. She bit back a curse, jaw tightening as she forced herself to stillness.

Strange didn’t miss it. His brow lifted just slightly. “Pain level?”

She inhaled carefully. “Seven.”

His eyes flicked toward the monitors before nodding. “I’ll adjust the drip. You’ll be off IV meds by the end of the week.”

Cassie’s gaze snapped to him. “You’re taking her off meds that fast?”

Strange gave her a flat look. “She’s not supposed to be dependent on them. The implant is meant to regulate pain autonomously. We need to see how well it functions without interference.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw, absorbing that information.

Cassie crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “Yeah, well, forgive me if I don’t think cutting her off cold turkey sounds like a brilliant plan.”

“She’s not being cut off,” Strange replied dryly. “It’s a transition.”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “Oh, so the nice way of saying ‘you’re gonna suffer but in a medically supervised environment.’ Got it.”

Andromeda let out a rough breath, willing the ache in her back to settle. “I can handle it.”

Cassie shot her a sharp look, like she wanted to argue, but Andromeda met her gaze evenly.

She wasn’t fragile. Not anymore.

Strange adjusted something on the IV before stepping back, peeling off his gloves. “I’ll check on you again in a few hours. If anything feels off —numbness, burning, abnormal nerve spikes—you let me know immediately.”

Andromeda hummed in vague acknowledgment, already feeling the pull of exhaustion creep back in. The surgery had drained her more than she wanted to admit, her body still fighting to adjust to its new reality.

Strange glanced at Cassie. “Make sure she doesn’t try anything stupid.”

Cassie snorted. “Buddy, that’s a full-time job.”

Andromeda barely had the energy to glare at Cassie for that remark. The weight of the surgery, the pain, the sheer exhaustion pressing down on her was making it hard to do anything but breathe. Every inch of her spine throbbed, not in the old, unpredictable way, but with a new, sharp ache—a post-surgical kind of pain, raw and unforgiving. It was expected, but that didn’t make it any less miserable.

Strange had already turned away, disposing of his gloves with a flick of his wrist before grabbing his tablet again. His movements were precise, efficient—always working, always thinking ten steps ahead. The man didn’t waste time on unnecessary reassurances. Andromeda wasn’t sure if she found that comforting or just irritating.

Cassie, on the other hand, was still watching her like a hawk, her arms crossed so tightly it looked like she was physically restraining herself from launching into another argument about why this entire thing was insane . But she didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Strange stopped at the doorway, glancing back just once. “Rest,” he ordered. “The next forty-eight hours are critical. Your nervous system is adapting to the implant, and if there are going to be complications, we’ll see them soon.”

Andromeda gave him the most unimpressed look she could manage in her current state. “You have a real talent for making people feel optimistic.”

His expression didn’t shift. “I’m a realist.”

And with that, he was gone.

Cassie let out an exaggerated huff the moment the door clicked shut, flopping back into the chair beside the hospital bed. “I swear to God, that man could tell someone they just won the lottery and still make it sound like a funeral announcement.”

Andromeda let out a weak breath of something that was almost a laugh, but her body was too tired for anything more. She let her head sink back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment, focusing on the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

She wasn’t paralyzed.

She wasn’t broken.

But she wasn’t whole yet, either.

Cassie shifted in her chair, resting her elbow on the armrest as she studied Andromeda with a more serious expression. “You good?” she asked, and for once, there was no teasing behind it—just quiet concern.

Andromeda exhaled slowly, letting the question settle. Good was relative. She had survived the surgery. The implant was in place. The worst—at least in theory—was over.

But now came the hard part.

Rebuilding. Adapting. Becoming something more than the broken thing she had been for the last several months.

She let her eyes drift shut, the weight of sleep already pulling at her limbs.

“I will be,” she murmured.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

Six weeks later, Andromeda sat upright on the examination table, her legs dangling just slightly over the edge as she adjusted her grip on the phone in her hands. The screen was angled perfectly to show her father's face, the video feed sharp despite the occasional flicker of bad hospital Wi-Fi. Tony Stark's expression was his usual mix of smug amusement and underlying concern, his sharp brown eyes scanning her through the camera like he was trying to assess the damage himself.

"You look terrible, kid," Tony drawled, leaning back in his chair. "Did they forget to install the 'make her look less like death warmed over' setting in that fancy upgrade of yours?"

Andromeda snorted, rolling her eyes. "Nice to see you too, Dad."

Behind her, Strange was setting up the external vertebrae attachments, his movements precise and methodical. He didn't look up at the conversation happening over FaceTime, but she could practically feel his disapproval radiating from where he stood. He had already made it clear that distractions weren't ideal during a procedure like this, but Andromeda had ignored him in favor of calling Tony. This was his field, too. He had a right to see it.

Plus, she knew him. If she didn't let him watch, he'd hack into her medical records and find a way to access the procedure footage himself.

Tony exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before narrowing his gaze at the screen. "So, what's the verdict? Do we get to keep our girl, or is she gonna start glowing in the dark?"

Strange finally let out an exasperated sigh. "She's not radioactive, Stark."

Tony hummed, unconvinced. "Debatable."

Andromeda smirked but winced as Strange pressed a firm hand against the top of her spine, adjusting one of the connection points. The vertebrae attachments weren't large—sleek titanium pieces designed to fit seamlessly along her spine, each segment locking into place with an audible click. They followed the natural curvature of her back, connecting directly into the implant beneath her skin. They weren't just for stability—they acted as conductors, refining and amplifying the implant's ability to interact with her nervous system.

"Alright, last piece," Strange murmured, placing the final segment just above her tailbone. His fingers were steady, his hands as precise as ever. She knew how much of a perfectionist he was when it came to surgery, but now, feeling every minuscule adjustment against her spine, she could truly appreciate it.

The moment the last attachment snapped into place, a sharp pulse ran through her system. Andromeda inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the phone as her nerves lit up in a way they never had before—like a thousand tiny threads knitting together at once. It wasn't painful, but it was... different. A sensation she hadn't prepared for.

"Whoa," she breathed, eyes widening.

Tony leaned forward on the screen, brows furrowing. "Define whoa, kid."

Andromeda swallowed, flexing her fingers. A ripple of sensation cascaded down her spine, smooth and precise, like every vertebra was finally connected the way they were meant to be. There was no lag, no sluggishness. Just... clarity.

"I can feel everything," she whispered.

Strange watched her carefully, his expression unreadable. "Describe it."

Andromeda took a slow breath, her mind struggling to put words to the sensation. "It's like... before, my nerves were firing in pieces—fragmented, misaligned. But now?" She shifted slightly, rolling her shoulders. "It's seamless. No lag, no misfires. Like my body actually listens when I tell it to do something."

Tony whistled low under his breath. "Damn, Doc. You actually pulled it off."

Strange arched a brow, but there was the faintest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "Of course I did."

Andromeda flexed her feet experimentally, then lifted her knee—just a little, just enough to confirm what she already knew. There was no delay. No hesitation. The movement felt natural.

For the first time in months, her body felt like hers again.

Tony watched her carefully, his usual easy confidence tempered by something quieter, something softer. He knew exactly what this meant to her.

After a long beat, he exhaled. "Well, shit. Guess I'm gonna have to start calling you Robo-kid."

Andromeda huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "God, please don't."

Strange, ever the professional, sighed. "Are we done with the commentary, or do you need another five minutes of unnecessary Stark-brand humor?"

Tony held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just saying—kid's got a billion-dollar upgrade now. You gotta let me enjoy this."

Strange ignored him entirely and turned his attention back to Andromeda. "Your nervous system is adapting to the final connection points well, but you still need to be careful," he warned, stepping back and peeling off his gloves. "No overexertion, no stress-testing your limits until we've run full diagnostics."

Andromeda rolled her eyes but nodded. "Yeah, yeah. No superhero landings. Got it."

Tony snorted. "Give it a week."

Andromeda scoffed at her father's remark but knew deep down he wasn't wrong. She had spent months feeling less than, trapped in a body that refused to work the way it should. Now, for the first time since Afghanistan, she had control again. It was intoxicating. Dangerous, even.

She flexed her hands, rolling her shoulders as the vertebrae attachments settled into place. The cool weight of titanium against her spine was something she could feel, not just as an external addition but as an extension of herself. There was no hesitation, no lag in response. Every movement felt intentional, seamless, hers.

Tony was still watching her closely through the screen, his expression thoughtful now. "Alright, so we're sticking with Robo-kid until you pick a better name," he mused, scratching his chin. "But before you run off and start breakdancing or whatever it is you plan on doing with your fancy new back, tell me something. What's next?"

Andromeda tilted her head, considering. "Well... there is something else I wanted to ask Strange about."

Strange, who had been adjusting settings on the nearby console, sighed like he already regretted being in the room. "Here we go," he muttered under his breath.

Tony, however, perked up. "Oh? Another Stark special on the horizon?"

Andromeda smirked, shifting slightly on the table, testing the ease of movement. God, it felt good to move. "I want to integrate Eleanor directly into my system," she admitted, her fingers twitching slightly around the phone. "Not just through my suit or an external device. I want her with me all the time."

Tony blinked, his usual sharp wit pausing for just a beat before he let out an impressed breath. "Damn. Now that's ambitious. You thinking a neural integration? Direct link?"

Andromeda shook her head. "No. Too risky, especially after this." She gestured vaguely toward her spine. "I don't want to overload my nervous system with multiple competing signals. But I do want her in my head. Or, at least, close enough that I don't need a full HUD to access her."

Tony leaned forward slightly, his brain clearly already firing through possibilities. "Cochlear implant?"

Andromeda nodded, glancing over her shoulder at Strange, who was still standing behind her with his arms crossed. His brows were furrowed slightly, but he didn't look immediately opposed to the idea, which she took as a good sign.

"It's not an insane idea," Strange admitted, which, coming from him, was practically high praise. "But you just underwent an intensive spinal surgery. You really think adding another implant is a good idea?"

Andromeda gave him a look. "I just let you slice my back open and rewire my nervous system. You really think I'm gonna stop now?"

Strange exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose like he could already feel the headache forming. "Of course not."

Tony grinned, clearly enjoying Strange's suffering. "Alright, doc, humor me—what would it take?"

Strange crossed his arms, his gaze flicking briefly to Andromeda before settling on the screen where Tony was watching. "A cochlear implant in the traditional sense wouldn't be enough. What she's talking about isn't just sound processing—it's a continuous AI feed, something that requires more than just a basic auditory nerve connection. It would have to be a hybrid device."

Andromeda nodded, already having thought this part through. "I was thinking a dual-channel implant. One for regular auditory functions—picking up sound, filtering out interference. The other for direct AI integration, allowing Eleanor to interact with me in real-time."

Tony looked impressed. "That's some next-level tech, kid. We'd need a new processor—something lightweight but powerful enough to handle an AI's data stream without frying your brain."

Strange gave him a dry look. "Yes, I'd prefer we not fry her brain."

Tony waved a hand dismissively. "Details."

Andromeda smirked. "I've already started designing the schematics. I was hoping I could run them by you both, see if there are any major concerns before I move forward."

Strange let out a breath, shaking his head. "You don't stop, do you?"

She tilted her head, her smirk widening. "Nope."

Tony chuckled. "That's my girl."

Strange ran a hand down his face. "Fine. Show me the schematics later. But no promises."

Andromeda grinned, victory settling warm in her chest. "Deal."

Tony leaned back in his chair, giving her a pointed look. "You know, kid, when I said you were my greatest invention, I didn't mean you had to literally become one."

Andromeda laughed, a real one this time. "Love you too, dad."

Strange let out a suffering sigh as Andromeda ended the call, setting her phone down beside her on the examination table. She could still hear Tony's parting comment echoing in her head—greatest invention, didn't mean you had to become one. It was the kind of thing he would say without thinking, but it stuck with her in a way she hadn't expected. Maybe because, in some ways, he wasn't wrong.

Her body wasn't just hers anymore. Not fully. The implant, the external vertebrae attachments, the system that now regulated her nervous responses—it was all a part of her now. Engineered. Created. Designed. She had built herself a second chance.

And now, it was time to see what that second chance could really do.

Strange cleared his throat, pulling her attention back. He had already moved to the opposite side of the room, rolling a portable diagnostic station toward her, the sleek monitor casting a soft blue glow across the dimly lit space. His movements were as sharp and efficient as always, every adjustment methodical, every input precise.

"You ready for some tests?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question.

Andromeda rolled her shoulders, feeling the subtle weight of the titanium along her spine shift as she moved. "Been waiting six weeks for this," she said, flexing her fingers before resting her hands against her thighs. "Hit me."

Strange gave her a dry look. "Let's not tempt fate."

She grinned, but the excitement in her chest was real. After months of agony, of struggling just to exist in a body that no longer worked the way it should, she wanted this. She needed this. To feel in control again. To move without the constant reminder of what had been taken from her.

Strange tapped a few commands into the console, and the monitor flickered, shifting to display her neural readouts. "First, let's check fine motor control," he said, rolling his stool over until he was directly in front of her. "Hold out your hands."

She did, palms up, fingers steady.

He reached forward, pressing a gloved fingertip against her index finger. "Resist."

She pushed back against the pressure without hesitation, matching his force precisely.

His gaze flicked to the screen. "Good response time. No lag in transmission." He applied a little more pressure, watching the way her muscles reacted, the way the implant compensated in real-time.

No tremors. No instability. No weakness.

He moved to her other hand, repeating the test, nodding slightly as the results remained consistent. "Now, grip strength."

Andromeda flexed her fingers before curling them into a fist. Strange placed two fingers against the side of her hand. "Squeeze."

She did.

He arched a brow. "Harder."

She complied, applying more force. Strange hummed, checking the monitor. "Strength retention is slightly above baseline. Not bad, considering your body is still adjusting."

She smirked. "I'll take 'not bad' as a win."

Strange didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he gestured toward her legs. "Alright. Stand up."

Andromeda hesitated. Not because she doubted she could, but because of how deeply ingrained the last few months of pain had been. Before the surgery, standing—hell, even shifting wrong—had sent searing pain through her spine, like fire threading through every nerve. Her body remembered that pain, even if her mind knew it shouldn't be there anymore.

Still, she refused to hesitate for long.

With a deep inhale, she planted her hands on the table and pushed herself up.

Her legs caught her instantly. No shaking. No delay.

The implant held.

For a split second, she didn't move. Just stood there, absorbing the sensation, the sheer stability in her stance. There was weight in her spine, a presence that hadn't been there before, but it wasn't dragging her down—it was supporting her, reinforcing her. Titanium and microfilament working in tandem with flesh and bone.

Strange watched her closely. "Any pain?"

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders again, shifting her stance just to test the sensation. "No," she admitted, and for the first time in months, it was the truth.

Strange nodded, expression unreadable as he flipped through a set of readings on the screen. "Balance test next. Step forward."

Andromeda took a single step.

The second her foot hit the ground, something clicked into place within her system. The implant adjusted in real-time, mapping the shift in weight, fine-tuning itself to the new input.

No instability. No misalignment.

She took another step.

Then another.

It was smooth. Natural.

Strange studied her movements, hands clasped behind his back. "Any difficulty coordinating movement?"

"No." She lifted her knee, testing range of motion. "It's—" She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "It's effortless."

Strange didn't react, just jotted something down on his tablet. "Next, resistance training."

He motioned toward a nearby set of parallel bars—something usually reserved for physical therapy patients.

Andromeda arched a brow. "You do know I've spent years training with some of the best combat instructors in the world, right?"

Strange gave her a flat look. "And yet you still managed to get yourself nearly paralyzed."

"I resent that statement." She scowled.

Strange smirked—just barely—but the look in his eyes told her he was more focused on the results than her attitude. "Good. Then prove me wrong."

Andromeda huffed but stepped toward the parallel bars, her bare feet pressing against the cool tile floor. The last time she had attempted anything remotely like this, she had needed a brace, painkillers, and enough stubbornness to override the screaming in her spine. Now, as she moved, there was only an underlying hum from the implant—a presence, but not a burden.

She gripped the bars lightly, not for support, but to center herself. Strange stood off to the side, watching closely, his sharp eyes flicking between the neural readouts on the monitor and the way she carried herself.

"Start slow," he instructed. "Lift your left leg, hold for five seconds, then lower."

Andromeda obeyed, shifting her weight smoothly onto her right foot before lifting her left. The implant compensated instantly, maintaining equilibrium. No wobble, no instability. The familiar ache in her lower back was faint—more from the residual healing process than any mechanical failure.

She held the position for five seconds before lowering her foot in a controlled motion.

Strange nodded. "Right leg."

She repeated the motion without hesitation, the weight shift easier than she had expected. It was a test she knew should feel simple, but after months of struggling just to stand without feeling like her spine was eating itself alive, it felt monumental.

Strange was already making notes, his gaze flicking between her movements and the screen. "Neural relay is holding. No lag. Your nervous system is syncing with the implant faster than I anticipated."

Andromeda shot him a smug look. "So I'm an overachiever. Try to contain your shock."

Strange ignored her. "Next test. Squat, slow descent, then stand."

Andromeda inhaled deeply, planting her feet. This one would have been impossible before—the sheer thought of bending at the knees had once sent burning knives through her back. But now, she was determined to see just how much had changed.

She lowered herself, keeping her back straight, engaging her core as she descended.

The implant adjusted in real-time. No misalignment. No pain.

She held at the lowest point for a moment before pressing back up, her muscles responding immediately, no hesitation.

A slow exhale left her lips as she straightened. "Holy shit."

Strange arched a brow. "Pain?"

She shook her head. "None."

Cassie chose that moment to push open the door, balancing three cups of coffee in her hands. "Alright, nerds," she announced, kicking the door shut behind her. "I bring caffeine and sarcastic commentary. Who's first?"

She barely spared a glance at Strange before locking onto Andromeda, her brows shooting up as she took in the sight of her standing—standing—without hesitation, without pain, without any of the usual strain that had marked the last several months.

Cassie went very still.

Andromeda turned, meeting her gaze, and something in her chest twisted at the expression on her best friend's face. Cassie wasn't the sentimental type. She wasn't the kind of person to get teary-eyed or wax poetic about emotions, but right now? Right now, there was something raw behind her usual dry sarcasm, something fragile in the way she swallowed hard and took a slow step forward.

"You're standing," Cassie said, her voice quieter than usual, like she was afraid speaking too loudly would somehow shatter the moment.

Andromeda huffed a small, shaky laugh, rolling her shoulders, marveling at the simple ease of motion. "Yeah," she said, voice catching slightly. "I'm standing."

Cassie exhaled through her nose, shifting the coffee cups in her hands before stepping closer. "Okay, well, since I only have two hands and I was not expecting this level of emotional whiplash today, you need to take your damn coffee before I drop it."

Andromeda grinned, reaching out with steady fingers to take one of the cups. "Thanks," she murmured.

Cassie handed the second one to Strange without looking at him, still watching Andromeda like she wasn't entirely convinced this was real. "So, what's the verdict?" she asked. "Are you officially a cyborg now, or are we still waiting on some kind of evil villain monologue about how this was all part of your plan?"

Andromeda smirked, taking a careful sip of her coffee. "Still working on the monologue."

Cassie huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Figures."

Strange, for his part, was already sipping his own coffee, flipping through the neural readouts on his tablet with one hand. "Motor function is holding steady. No signs of rejection. Her system is adapting faster than anticipated."

Cassie arched a brow. "Translation?"

Strange sighed, setting the tablet down on the counter. "She's fine."

Cassie's brows furrowed slightly, the corners of her mouth pressing together in a way that Andromeda recognized all too well. She was thinking—feeling—more than she wanted to let on.

"I knew you were gonna pull this off," Cassie said finally, voice carefully even. "But seeing it..." She shook her head. "It's different."

Andromeda swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, tightening her grip around the warm cup in her hands. She hadn't expected to feel this much. She had been so focused on the process, on the functionality, that she hadn't really thought about what this moment would mean.

She wasn't just standing.

She wasn't just moving.

She was herself again.

For the first time in months, she didn't feel broken.

She let out a shaky breath, blinking rapidly. "Yeah," she murmured. "It is."

Andromeda felt the weight of the moment settle in her chest, pressing against her ribs like it was trying to escape. She had been so focused on the technical side of things—on building, on problem-solving, on engineering her way out of the wreckage of her own body—that she hadn't really let herself feel what it meant to be here. To be whole again.

Her fingers clenched around the coffee cup, a warmth against her palms that barely registered over the rush of sensation spreading through her body. She had spent months trapped in pain, months forcing herself to move through the world with the ever-present fear that her body would betray her at any moment. And now? Now, she was sitting upright, her legs steady beneath her, her spine reinforced, her movements smooth and hers again.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly, and she exhaled sharply, blinking rapidly to keep the sudden sting behind her eyes at bay. She hated this part. The emotional response. The way relief could cut just as deep as pain when you weren't prepared for it.

Cassie, who had been watching her closely, immediately picked up on it. "Oh no," she said, her voice edging on teasing but laced with something softer. "You're feeling things, aren't you?"

Andromeda let out a breathy laugh, one that wobbled at the edges as she blinked hard, shaking her head. "Shut up."

Cassie smirked, leaning against the counter with an easy confidence that Andromeda knew was just a cover for the concern underneath. "Nope. Not shutting up. I think we should talk about it. Maybe even—oh, I don't know—unpack it."

"God, you're insufferable," Andromeda muttered, bringing the coffee cup to her lips, mostly to give her hands something to do. But the moment she tried to take a sip, she realized they were shaking.

Not from pain. Not from exhaustion.

From relief.

Her breath caught, and she squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, willing herself to get a grip. She wasn't this person. She wasn't the kind of person who got overwhelmed just because things finally went right for once. She had spent months fighting through the worst of it, pushing herself to keep moving, keep building, keep fixing what was broken. And now that it was fixed—now that she was fixed—she wasn't sure how to process it.

The room was quiet for a beat. Too quiet.

Then—Strange's voice, low and even, breaking the silence. "Breathe."

She did. A slow inhale, steady, deliberate, grounding. She hadn't even realized she had been holding it.

Cassie's smirk softened just a fraction, like she knew what was going through Andromeda's head but wasn't going to push—not yet. Instead, she just sipped her coffee, watching her with something closer to quiet understanding.

Andromeda let out another breath, rolling her shoulders, adjusting to the weight of her body, of her spine, of the reality that for the first time in months, she was no longer being held together by willpower alone.

A hand touched her shoulder.

Gentle. Firm. Just enough pressure to anchor her.

Andromeda turned her head slightly, catching Strange's gaze over her shoulder. He was watching her the way he always did—sharp, assessing, but this time, there was something else there. Something steadier.

She swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

Strange studied her for a long moment, and then, in a rare display of something dangerously close to human emotion, he gave a small nod. "You built it. I just put it in place."

Andromeda huffed, a watery sort of laugh escaping her. "Yeah, well. It still took a damn good surgeon to make sure it didn't kill me."

Strange exhaled, shaking his head like he was already regretting everything that had led him to this moment, but his hand on her shoulder lingered for just a second longer before he stepped back. "Try not to break it immediately."

Andromeda sniffed, blinking rapidly again before flashing him a smirk. "No promises."

Cassie clapped her hands together, cutting through the moment before it could spiral any further into Feelings Territory. "Alright, before we start sobbing into our coffee cups, I say we celebrate. Lunch. Immediately."

Andromeda groaned. "You just walked in with coffee."

Cassie shrugged. "Yeah, and? Caffeine is a beverage. Food is a necessity. You, my friend, have spent the last six weeks eating hospital sludge, and I am morally obligated to correct that crime against humanity."

Andromeda sighed, but there was no real argument behind it. "Fine. But I'm not walking all over Midtown just because you suddenly feel like getting sentimental about my recovery."

Cassie's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Oh, we are celebrating, Stark. You are getting a damn good meal, and I don't care if I have to carry your cyborg ass there myself."

Andromeda smirked. "I would like to see you try."

Cassie shot her a look. "Don't test me."

Strange, already over this conversation, waved a hand dismissively. "Go. Eat. Just don't do anything stupid."

Cassie grinned. "Define stupid."

Strange gave her a flat stare. "If I have to put her back on my operating table because of you, I'm charging double."

Andromeda let out a laugh, the tension that had been sitting so tightly in her chest finally loosening. This—this—was what she had missed. The banter. The normalcy. The feeling of just being again.

She slid off the exam table, stretching her arms overhead before flashing Strange a cocky grin. "Don't worry, Doc. I'll be back in one piece."

Strange gave her a long, unimpressed look before sighing. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Cassie slung an arm over Andromeda's shoulder, steering her toward the door. "C'mon, Robo-kid. Let's go find you some real food."

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

Two days later, Andromeda found herself back in Strange’s office, perched on the edge of the examination table as she drummed her fingers against the metal casing of her phone. The past forty-eight hours had been surreal—she had walked out of that hospital without pain for the first time in months, had eaten real food instead of medically approved slop, and had even slept through the night without waking up to sharp, electric stabs in her spine. Every small victory stacked up into something monumental, and yet, here she was again, already looking ahead to the next step.

Tony had checked in multiple times since their last call—too many times, honestly. He had been in full-on engineer mode after watching the vertebrae attachment process, grilling her on details, firing off suggestions, poking holes in Strange’s methodology, and ultimately promising to refine the interface with her once she got back to Malibu. Andromeda hadn’t had the heart to tell him she wasn’t sure when she’d be back.

Not until she finished this.

The cochlear implant.

That was the next frontier.

Tony’s initial skepticism had faded once he saw her schematics. Now, he was just intrigued. She had noticed it during their late-night FaceTime call, the way his eyes had lit up, the way his mind had already started spinning with improvements before she had even finished explaining her concept. But there was something else—something in the way his gaze lingered just a second too long before he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together.

And that’s when she saw it.

A new arc reactor.

It wasn’t the one he had built in Afghanistan.

This one was sleeker, refined, set into his chest with the kind of precision engineering only he could pull off. He hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t drawn attention to it, but Andromeda knew her father well enough to recognize when he was holding something back.

The realization had settled in her gut like a weight.

She had been so caught up in her own recovery, in fixing herself, that she hadn’t stopped to think about what he had been doing in the meantime.

Now, sitting in Strange’s office, waiting for the next discussion about another irreversible change to her body, she couldn’t shake the thought.

What had happened to him while she had been here?

Strange entered the room with his usual air of efficient detachment, a tablet in hand as he flipped through her most recent diagnostics. His sharp blue-gray eyes flicked to her briefly before returning to the screen, scanning over neural readouts with the kind of focus that suggested he had already formulated three different arguments against whatever she was about to propose.

He exhaled. “I assume we’re here to talk about the implant.”

Andromeda smirked. “Well, I wasn’t going to ask about your golf game.”

Strange gave her a flat look. “First of all, I don’t play golf. Second—” He set the tablet down on the counter, folding his arms. “—this is significantly more invasive than the spinal implant. If you thought I was hesitant before, you’re going to love this conversation.”

Andromeda tilted her head. “I don’t know, Doc. I’m starting to think you just like playing devil’s advocate.”

“I like making sure my patients don’t make reckless medical decisions,” he countered, arching a brow. “You’ve barely adjusted to the modifications we made two weeks ago. Now, you want to add an implant that directly interacts with your auditory nerves and processes AI-generated data in real-time? Do you have any idea how much that could go wrong?”

Andromeda met his gaze evenly. “That’s why we’re here. To make sure it doesn’t.”

Strange studied her for a long moment before sighing, rubbing his fingers over the bridge of his nose like he could already feel the migraine coming. “Fine. Walk me through it.”

Andromeda reached for her phone, pulling up the schematics she had been refining with Tony. She swiped through the blueprints, her fingers moving with ease over the interface as she highlighted the key components. “It’s not just a standard cochlear implant,” she started, her voice slipping into the familiar cadence of an engineer deep in their work. “It has dual-channel processing—one for standard auditory function and the other for direct AI integration.”

Strange glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You want to install something that runs continuous AI processing without any external interface? No external control panel?”

Andromeda nodded. “Exactly. Eleanor would be linked directly into my neural network through a low-frequency transmission relay. The second channel would allow for real-time communication, but more importantly, it would enable adaptive noise filtration, language translation, and environmental mapping.” She gestured toward the highlighted sections. “Basically, it’s an AI-assisted sensory enhancement. Instead of just hearing, I’d be able to—”

“Process sound in ways normal human cognition can’t,” Strange finished for her, his expression unreadable as he leaned against the counter. “That’s a hell of an upgrade, Stark.”

Andromeda smirked. “I aim high.”

Strange exhaled through his nose, dragging a gloved hand down his face before shaking his head. “You and your father are terrifyingly alike.”

She shrugged. “Genetics are a bitch.”

Strange didn’t smile, but there was something in his gaze that wasn’t entirely disapproval. He picked up the tablet again, flipping through more scans before finally meeting her eyes. “What’s your father’s take on this?”

Andromeda hesitated, her fingers tightening around the phone. “He thinks it’s possible.”

Strange’s lips pressed into a thin line. “But?”

She exhaled slowly. “But he’s worried.”

Strange hummed, his sharp gaze pinning her in place. “And are you?”

She considered lying. Considered brushing it off with another joke. But she had spent too much time in this office, too much time under his scrutiny, to think she could get away with it.

So instead, she swallowed hard and said, “I don’t know.”

Strange nodded slightly, as if that was the answer he had expected. He set the tablet down again, steepling his fingers. “Your nervous system is already compensating for the changes we made to your spine. Adding another system that requires real-time neural processing is—frankly—an enormous risk. If your body rejects it, if your brain can’t handle the additional cognitive load, it could permanently alter your auditory function. At best, you experience mild disorientation. At worst—”

“I lose my hearing entirely,” Andromeda finished, her voice quiet.

Strange didn’t sugarcoat it. “Yes.”

She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. She had already done the calculations, had already considered the risks. But hearing them out loud, hearing them from the man who had already saved her from one irreversible mistake, made them feel heavier.

He watched her, waiting, giving her space to absorb it.

Then, finally, he said, “And knowing that, you still want to do this?”

Andromeda didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Strange exhaled sharply. “Of course you do.”

She smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t be a Stark if I didn’t push the boundaries of responsible decision-making.”

Strange rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up the tablet, scrolling through her schematics again before muttering, “Alright. Let’s see if we can make this work.”

Strange didn’t hand back her schematics right away. Instead, he placed the tablet on the counter and folded his arms across his chest, that familiar look of clinical scrutiny settling into his features.

Andromeda knew that look. It meant he had one more argument to throw at her before conceding.

Here it comes.

“You need a psych evaluation first,” Strange said, voice flat and unyielding.

Andromeda blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What?”

Strange leaned against the counter, arching a brow at her like he had been expecting her to argue. “You’re proposing installing an AI system directly into your head, Stark. That’s a lot of input. A lot of processing. If there’s anything—anything—going on in that brilliant but traumatized brain of yours that could cause complications, I need to know about it.”

Andromeda scowled, crossing her arms. “So what, you think I’m crazy? That I’m gonna start hearing voices or lose my grip on reality because Eleanor is in my ear twenty-four-seven?”

Strange gave her a level look. “I think you’ve been through a significant amount of trauma in the past six months, and you haven’t exactly taken the time to process it.”

She exhaled sharply, clenching her jaw. “I don’t need therapy, Strange. I need this implant.”

Strange didn’t budge. “It’s not just about therapy, Stark. This is about making sure your mind can handle the constant presence of an AI assistant feeding you data at all times. If there’s anything—PTSD, latent auditory processing issues, underlying anxiety disorders—that could make that experience more stressful than beneficial, I need to know now. Before we start messing with your auditory cortex.”

Andromeda opened her mouth to argue again, but he wasn’t finished.

“You want me to install something in your brain? Then I need to make sure your brain is up to it.” He picked up the tablet again, flipping to a new screen. “I’m not saying you’re unfit, but this is standard medical due diligence. Even soldiers who undergo neural augmentation in experimental programs get psych evaluations before the process. And, I hate to break it to you, but you’ve had more than your fair share of reasons to need one.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw, her mind whirling. She knew where this was coming from. Knew Strange wasn’t just trying to put another roadblock in her way. Hell, if anything, he was being smart about this. But the idea of someone poking around in her head, of sitting through some psych exam while a stranger tried to decide whether or not she was stable enough—it made her stomach twist.

She hated feeling like she had to justify herself.

Strange, sensing her hesitation, sighed. “Look. I get it. You’ve handled everything on your own for so long that the idea of someone questioning whether or not you can handle it pisses you off. But this isn’t a punishment, Stark. It’s precaution. I don’t want to put something in your head that’s going to make things worse.”

She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to calm down, to think instead of react. “And if I pass?”

Strange’s lips twitched, almost like he was amused. “Then we move forward.”

Andromeda huffed, shifting her weight on the table. “Fine. But if I have to go through this, then you get to be the one to tell my dad.”

Strange actually smirked at that. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Three days later, Andromeda was sitting in an office that looked way too cozy for a psychiatric evaluation.

She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting—some cold, clinical space with white walls and a doctor who looked like they hadn’t seen sunlight in years—but instead, the room was warm, well-lit, and full of actual books, not just screens. A couch sat against the far wall, but she had taken the chair instead, arms crossed over her chest as she studied the woman sitting across from her.

Dr. Helen Park.

She was younger than Andromeda had expected—mid-forties, maybe, with dark hair pulled into a neat bun and a calm, perceptive gaze that felt way too familiar. The kind of gaze that saw everything and waited patiently for you to decide whether or not you were going to lie to her.

Andromeda hated her already.

“So,” Dr. Park started, tapping her pen against the edge of her notepad. “I’ve read through your file. You’ve had a hell of a year.”

Andromeda smirked. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

Park hummed. “Captured in Afghanistan. Sustained severe spinal injuries. Surgeries, physical therapy, and now, a neural interface. And you want to add an AI integration directly into your auditory processing system.”

Andromeda tilted her head. “That’s the short version.”

Park nodded. “It is. But let’s talk about the long version.”

Andromeda exhaled through her nose. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her fingers twitched against her armrest. “I don’t have PTSD, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Dr. Park arched a single, unimpressed brow. “Interesting. Because your file suggests otherwise.”

Andromeda stiffened. “I don’t have nightmares,” she lied, knowing damn well she had barely slept through the night since Afghanistan. “I don’t freeze up, I don’t break down, and I sure as hell don’t panic when things remind me of—” She cut herself off before finishing the sentence.

Park didn’t pounce on the hesitation, didn’t give any sign that she had caught the slip. She simply tapped her pen against her notepad again, methodical and patient. “You don’t panic,” she repeated.

Andromeda rolled her shoulders, the titanium vertebrae shifting smoothly along her spine, a reminder of just how far she had come. “Nope.”

Park tilted her head. “Then tell me, Andromeda, what happened the last time someone touched you unexpectedly?”

Andromeda’s fingers curled against her knee.

The answer was immediate.

She remembered the way her body had reacted on pure instinct when one of the hospital nurses had reached for her without warning. The way her vision had tunneled, her heart hammering in her chest as adrenaline surged like a cold wave. The way she had flinched hard, nearly elbowing the poor woman in the face before she had even registered that it wasn’t a threat.

Her throat tightened, but she forced a smirk. “So I don’t like being touched. Lots of people have personal space issues.”

Park smiled, but it wasn’t the friendly kind. It was the knowing kind. The kind therapists gave when they had just maneuvered you into the exact place they wanted. “Of course. And does your personal space issue extend to sudden noises? Flashing lights? The sound of metal on metal?”

Andromeda’s mouth flattened into a thin line.

Park continued, her voice even. “Because the last time you were in a combat-adjacent situation, you were restrained. Held down. Mutilated, if we’re being honest about it. So I find it interesting that you don’t consider it a problem that your body is still reacting to those triggers.”

Andromeda exhaled sharply, leaning back against the chair. “I don’t freeze.”

“No,” Park agreed. “You don’t. You fight.”

Andromeda hesitated.

Park leaned forward slightly, watching her closely. “And when you can’t fight, you shut down. You throw yourself into work, into problem-solving. You design new technology, new enhancements, new ways to fix yourself because if you keep moving forward, then none of it has to catch up to you. Am I close?”

Andromeda’s nails bit into her palm.

Too close.

Park sat back,  tilting her head. “So let’s talk about the implant.”

Andromeda tensed, already knowing where this was going. “It’s a practical decision.”

“I’m sure you think it is,” Park said smoothly. “But let’s break it down. You designed something to help with pain management. Necessary. Logical. You refined it to stabilize your motor function, to give yourself back control of your body. Also necessary. But now?” She gestured vaguely toward Andromeda. “Now you want to install an AI directly into your sensory processing system. Why?”

Andromeda’s jaw clenched. “Because it’s an advancement. It’s useful. It eliminates external interference, gives me a more streamlined interface. You wouldn’t question a soldier using enhanced communication systems in the field.”

Park nodded slowly, like she was letting the words settle. “True. But that’s not all this is, is it?”

Andromeda held her gaze, her pulse hammering a little harder now.

Park didn’t let up. “This isn’t just about integration. It’s about control. About eliminating variables. About making sure you always have something keeping you connected so you never feel trapped again.”

Andromeda swallowed hard.

Park didn’t smirk, didn’t gloat, didn’t act like she had won anything. She just let the silence sit between them for a long moment before she exhaled. “Andromeda, I’m not saying your idea doesn’t have merit. It does. Your work is brilliant. But you are not solving a medical problem with this implant—you’re trying to solve an emotional one.”

Andromeda’s mouth went dry.

Park set her notepad down gently on the table beside her chair. “You’re still carrying the weight of what happened to you. And instead of addressing it, you’re trying to engineer your way out of it. But trauma doesn’t work like that.” She sighed, shaking her head. “You’re a genius, Andromeda. But you are not a machine. You can’t upgrade your way out of PTSD.”

The words hit harder than Andromeda expected.

Andromeda clenched her jaw, her entire body stiffening at the implication. It was the kind of clinical analysis that should have bounced right off her, the kind of calculated deduction she had heard before—at Stark Industries meetings, from board members assessing risk, from scientists who thought about problems in formulas instead of feelings. It was nothing she hadn’t already told herself.

And yet, it lodged itself deep in her ribs like shrapnel.

Because this was different. This was about her.

Her breath felt too shallow, too quick, like her body was gearing up for a fight it didn’t know how to have.

“I don’t need therapy,” she bit out, her voice just sharp enough to make it sound like she believed it.

Park remained unmoved, her expression level, measured. “Needing help doesn’t make you weak.”

“I don’t need help.” Andromeda’s hands curled into fists against her lap. “I need solutions.”

Park let out a slow breath, tilting her head slightly, like she was considering her next words carefully. “Tell me something,” she said, her voice softer now, quieter. “When was the last time you let yourself feel what happened to you?”

Andromeda scoffed. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Park nodded once, like she had expected that. “Afghanistan.”

Two syllables. Sixteen letters. And somehow, they hit harder than any of the surgeries, any of the nerve shocks, any of the injuries that had stolen pieces of her and left her with something unrecognizable.

Andromeda’s fingers twitched, her spine going ramrod straight. The titanium vertebrae barely shifted with the movement, stabilizing her, grounding her, but the stability wasn’t enough to stop the weight pressing against her lungs. It wasn’t enough to keep the memories at bay.

Park’s voice remained steady, firm but not unkind. “What did they do to you?”

A simple question. One Andromeda should have been able to answer with the cold efficiency she used when she talked about the mechanics of her injuries, the logistics of her recovery. But this wasn’t about logistics. This wasn’t about engineering. This wasn’t something she could diagram into neat little categories and solve with a blueprint.

This was about her.

The breath left her lungs in a sharp, uneven exhale, her mind suddenly not in the office anymore—not in New York, not in the present. It was back in the cave. The cold. The pain. The rough hands on her arms, dragging her across dirt and rock, steel biting into her wrists, her ankles, her skin—

“Stop.” The word came out ragged, barely more than a whisper, and for the first time since she had stepped into this office, she felt small.

Park didn’t move, didn’t press, but she didn’t back down either. She just sat there, waiting.

Andromeda let out a shaky breath, willing herself to focus on the here and now, on the office, on the warmth of the overhead light instead of the suffocating heat of the cave. But she could still feel it. The phantom weight of hands pinning her down. The crackle of a foreign language she hadn’t understood at first, not until she did. The knowledge that she had been taken not for leverage, not for ransom, but because she was there. Because she had been expendable. Because, to them, she had just been a body.

It wasn’t just the injuries. It was everything else. The things they didn’t talk about in the reports, the things that weren’t listed on her medical file. It was the way they had mocked her, taunted her, how they had enjoyed breaking her. It was the days she spent trying to convince herself that if she just fought back hard enough, just kept her mind sharp enough, she wouldn’t shatter completely. It was the knowledge that, even after all of that, she had still crawled out of that hellscape alive, but not whole.

Her throat felt tight. Her hands were trembling now.

“I don’t—” She swallowed, but it didn’t help. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

"Andromeda, you need to talk about it."

The words settled in the air between them, heavy and unmoving. Andromeda clenched her jaw so tight it ached, her fingers curling against her palms until she felt the sharp bite of her own nails pressing into skin. She hated this. Hated how exposed she felt, how easily Park had stripped away the layers she had built to keep herself from falling apart. She wasn’t supposed to be this person. She was supposed to be better than this.

“I don’t need to talk about it,” Andromeda said, forcing steel into her voice, but even to her own ears, it sounded weak. “I need to move forward.”

Park watched her carefully, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and it made Andromeda feel even more seen, which only pissed her off more. “Moving forward doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t happen,” Park countered, her voice infuriatingly calm. “It means acknowledging that it did.”

Andromeda exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she stared at the floor. The familiar weight of the vertebrae attachments pressed against her back, a constant reminder of the price she had paid. She had already done this. She had already lived through it. What was the point of dredging it all up again?

“I know it happened,” she bit out. “Believe me, I know.”

Park leaned forward slightly, not pushing, but not letting her escape either. “Then say it.”

Andromeda’s stomach twisted. “Say what?”

“What they did to you.”

The air in the room suddenly felt too thick, too close, pressing against her ribs like a vice. Andromeda knew she should leave. She should stand up, make a snarky remark, tell Strange that his psych evaluation was a waste of time and that she was fine. She could walk out of here right now and pretend this conversation never happened.

But she didn’t.

Her fingers twitched against her knees, her throat tight. The memories were already there, waiting just beneath the surface, a storm she had spent months keeping locked behind reinforced walls. But Park had cracked something open. She had pried at the edges of Andromeda’s control, and now everything was rushing toward her like a flood she couldn’t stop.

She could still feel it. The cold of the cave. The way her body had ached from days of immobility, from rough hands and steel restraints biting into her wrists. The way her captors had spoken to her—not like a hostage, not like a prisoner of war, but like property. A bargaining chip. A tool to be broken down and used however they saw fit.

She could still hear the laughter. The way they had enjoyed her pain.

She had fought them. She had fought with everything she had, teeth bared, rage burning in her chest like wildfire. But it hadn’t mattered. They had all the power. And she had been helpless.

Andromeda dug her fingers into her scalp, squeezing her eyes shut as if she could physically block out the memories. But they kept coming. The sound of metal dragging against stone. The bruises that never had time to fade before new ones were layered on top. The way her body had betrayed her, how she had learned to ignore hunger, ignore pain, ignore the sickening humiliation of being reduced to something less than human.

“I—” Her breath hitched, and for a second, she couldn’t breathe. And then she found her breath and her anger. "What do you want me to say? That one of my fathers weapons torn my back apart? That while I was still broken and barely stitched apart they took me from my father? That they beat and raped me for days on end?"

The words hung in the air like a gunshot, shattering the silence with the kind of raw, unfiltered truth that Andromeda had never spoken aloud.

Her voice cracked on the last word, splintering apart like glass under too much pressure, and suddenly, she couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tight grip she had on her composure slipped, her hands shaking as she sucked in a ragged breath, her chest rising and falling too fast. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, the blood rushing in her ears so loud that for a moment, she couldn’t even hear the sound of her own breath.

Dr. Park didn’t react—not in the way most people would have. She didn’t lean forward with pity in her eyes. She didn’t gasp or look horrified or tell her how strong she was for surviving. She just sat there, calm, steady, giving Andromeda nothing to push against, nothing to fight back against.

Andromeda wished she would say something. Anything.

Because the silence made it worse.

The silence made it real.

Her breath hitched again, and she pressed her hands into her face, fingers digging into her temples as if she could hold herself together by sheer force of will. But she couldn’t. Not this time. Because she had just said it. Out loud.

And now it wasn’t just something buried deep inside her, something she could pretend didn’t exist as long as she kept building, kept fixing, kept moving forward.

Now it was out in the open.

Now it was real.

Andromeda clenched her teeth, her breathing uneven as she stared at the floor, her nails biting into the skin of her arms. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be this person, the one who broke down in front of a stranger, the one who couldn’t hold it together. She had survived Afghanistan. She had survived them. She had dragged herself out of that cave, out of that nightmare, and she had kept going. She had built herself a second chance.

So why did it still feel like they had won?

Park’s voice was gentle, but it didn’t waver. “Andromeda.”

She flinched.

Not because of the name. Because of the way it was said.

Soft. Careful. Like Park already knew she was seconds away from shattering completely.

Andromeda sucked in a sharp breath, forcing herself to straighten, to sit up, to pull herself back from the edge. She wiped at her face angrily, furious that her vision was blurred, that her hands were still shaking. She hated this. She hated feeling.

“Why does this matter?” she bit out, her voice rough and uneven. “Why—why the hell does any of this matter? Why do I have to say it? Why do I have to relive it? It happened. I know it happened. I was there. But I got out. I survived. So why the hell do I still feel like this?”

Park met her gaze, her own expression unreadable. “Because it didn’t end when you left that cave.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw so tight it ached, her fingers curling into fists again. “It should have.”

“But it didn’t,” Park said simply. “Because your body didn’t forget. Your mind didn’t forget. You built yourself out of it, yes. You survived. But surviving and healing are two very different things.”

Andromeda exhaled harshly, running both hands through her hair as her head dropped forward, elbows braced against her knees. Her body was trembling now, adrenaline burning through her veins like fire. The weight in her chest was suffocating, pressing down so hard she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t want to talk about this.

She didn’t want to be this person.

But now, she couldn’t shove it back down.

Her fingers twitched, her pulse still hammering as she forced out words she had never said out loud. “I just—I just wanted to feel normal again.”

Park nodded. “And do you?”

Andromeda let out a bitter, broken laugh, wiping at her eyes again with the sleeve of her jacket. “No,” she admitted. “I don’t. I haven’t for months. And now—I don’t even know if I ever will.”

Park studied her for a long moment before saying, “You designed something to put yourself back together. That doesn’t make you weak. That makes you you.”

Andromeda swallowed hard, her hands gripping the edge of the chair. “But I shouldn’t need it. I shouldn’t need any of this. The implant, the interface, the damn AI whispering in my ear just so I can function like a normal person. I was fine before. I was—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I was whole before.”

Park didn’t argue. She just let Andromeda sit with the words, let the weight of them settle.

Andromeda shook her head again, her breath unsteady. “I hate that I need this.”

Park tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because it’s not me.” Andromeda’s voice cracked slightly, frustration bleeding into every syllable. “Because I look in the mirror, and I see the metal. I feel it in my back, every time I move. Every time I breathe. I’m not just me anymore—I’m part machine. And it’s all because of them.” Her voice dropped lower, shaking now. “Because of what they did to me.”

Park nodded, slow and understanding. “And that’s why it still has power over you.”

Andromeda let out another sharp, bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Great. So what, I just have to accept that I’ll never be the same? That this is my life now? That I have to live with what they did to me forever?”

Park’s gaze didn’t waver. “You have to accept that they didn’t take you away from yourself. They didn’t erase you, Andromeda. They didn’t win.”

Andromeda squeezed her eyes shut. “Then why does it feel like they did?”

“Because you haven’t let yourself grieve what you lost.”

Andromeda opened her mouth to argue, but the words stuck in her throat.

Grieve.

The word hit like a gut punch.

Grieve what she lost.

She hadn’t thought about it like that. She had spent so much time fighting, pushing forward, trying to fix herself, that she had never stopped to think about what had already been taken. What she would never get back. The version of herself that had stepped onto that plane with her father, confident and untouchable, thinking she was invincible. The version of herself that had never known what it was like to be powerless, to be broken, to be used.

That girl was gone.

And maybe, deep down, that was what hurt the most.

Park’s voice was quiet but firm. “You’re allowed to mourn her.”

Andromeda inhaled sharply, her vision blurring again. She wiped at her eyes furiously, forcing herself to steady her breath, to fight the lump in her throat.

She didn’t want to mourn.

She wanted to rebuild.

She wanted to be strong.

But maybe—maybe strength wasn’t just about fixing what was broken. Maybe it was about letting herself feel the break.

Andromeda exhaled slowly, pressing her hands to her face for a long moment before dragging them down, forcing herself to look at Park again. Her throat still felt tight. Her heart was still hammering. But the weight sitting on her chest felt just a little bit lighter.

She wasn’t okay.

Not yet.

But maybe—just maybe—this was the first step toward something real.

Something more than just surviving.

Andromeda swallowed hard, her voice rough but steady. “So what now?”

Park studied her, then gave her a small, knowing smile. “Now?” She leaned back slightly, crossing her legs. “Now, we keep talking.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 20

Three Days Later

Andromeda hadn’t planned on going back.

Not so soon, at least.

She had left Dr. Park’s office feeling raw and exposed, like she had been peeled open from the inside out. The weight of their conversation had lingered, settling into her chest like an ache that had nothing to do with the pain she had grown used to. It wasn’t a physical wound, wasn’t something she could stitch together with technology and precision engineering.

It was her.

The part of her she had refused to look at for months.

She had spent the past few days trying to shake it, throwing herself into work, reviewing schematics for the cochlear implant, tweaking Eleanor’s processing codes, testing the fine-tuned motor responses of her neural interface. But none of it helped. The words kept coming back, circling in her mind like a vulture waiting for her to break apart.

You haven’t let yourself grieve what you lost.

It was easier to stay busy. To push past the feelings, the memories. To focus on the things she could control. But no matter how much she tried to ignore it, the weight was still there, pressing into her ribs like a reminder she couldn’t escape.

So, she found herself sitting outside Dr. Park’s office again, arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring at the door like it had personally offended her.

She had a choice.

She could get up. She could leave. She could pretend like she never came here in the first place, like the last session had never happened, like she wasn’t unraveling by inches.

Or—

She could open the door.

With a sharp inhale, Andromeda pushed herself to her feet and knocked.

The door opened a few seconds later, revealing Dr. Park’s ever-calm, ever-patient expression.

Andromeda let out a breath, her jaw tightening slightly. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

Park stepped aside, gesturing her in without hesitation. “Then let’s figure it out.”

Andromeda sat stiffly in the chair across from Park, feeling too big for the space, too present in her own skin.

She hated this.

She hated the waiting, the expectation, the way she knew she was supposed to talk, to share, to let herself feel things she had spent so much time stuffing into the deepest corners of herself.

Park studied her for a moment before speaking. “How have the last few days been?”

Andromeda exhaled sharply. “Fine.”

Park didn’t react, just gave her a slow, assessing look. “Fine?”

Andromeda clenched her jaw. “I don’t know. I’ve been working. Testing the interface. Making adjustments.”

Park nodded, as if she had expected that. “Avoiding.”

Andromeda stiffened. “I’m working.”

“You’re avoiding,” Park repeated, her tone unbothered but firm. “Which makes sense. Feelings aren’t exactly something you can fix with a wrench.”

Andromeda exhaled sharply, tipping her head back against the chair. “God, I hate therapy.”

Park smirked. “That’s fair. But since you’re here, why don’t you tell me what’s actually on your mind?”

Andromeda stared at the ceiling for a moment before dragging a hand down her face. “You really want to know?”

Park just waited.

Andromeda exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over her face before gripping the armrest of the chair like it could tether her to the present. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to talk about it. But the memories were already clawing their way up from the dark, creeping through the cracks Dr. Park had so effortlessly exposed in their last session.

She could still feel it—the dull ache in her bones, the rawness in her throat, the sickening pull of something sharp being dragged from her flesh.

She swallowed hard, her voice quieter than before. “I woke up on a table.”

Park didn’t interrupt. She never did. She just sat there, waiting, letting the words come in their own time.

Andromeda’s fingers curled into a fist against her thigh, her nails pressing into her palm, grounding herself. “I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know—anything. Just that I hurt everywhere. My back felt like it was being carved open, like something was burrowing deeper into my spine, but I couldn’t move. I tried, I really did, but my body wouldn’t respond.” Her breath hitched, barely noticeable, but it was there. “And then I felt it. The cold press of metal against my skin. And I realized someone was cutting into me.”

The memory hit like a hammer, slamming through the thin walls she had spent months reinforcing.

“I thought I was dying,” she admitted, her voice rough. “I couldn’t think straight. My head was so foggy, and my whole body felt like dead weight. And then—I heard him. Yinsen. He was talking to me, telling me to stay still. That I was safe.” Her lips twitched into something bitter. “Safe. Can you believe that? I was lying on a makeshift operating table in a fucking cave, being cut open without painkillers, and that was the safe part.”

Park’s expression remained unreadable, but Andromeda saw the way her fingers tightened ever so slightly against her notepad.

Andromeda let out a hollow breath. “He was pulling shrapnel out of my back. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it—every jagged edge grinding against my nerves as he worked. I wanted to pass out, but my body wouldn’t let me. I was too aware, too stuck in my own pain to escape it. And then, when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I realized something else.”

Her voice faltered, just for a second.

“I couldn’t feel my legs.”

It was the first time she had said it out loud. The first time she had put words to the terror that had wrapped around her chest in that moment, crushing her ribs, choking the breath from her lungs.

“I panicked. I—I kept trying to move, but nothing was working. My arms, my legs—everything felt wrong.” She inhaled sharply. “Yinsen, he tried to calm me down, but I could hear it in his voice. That hesitation. That pause. That’s when I knew something was wrong.”

Her throat tightened. “He told me the shrapnel had damaged my spine. That he had removed what he could, but there were no guarantees.”

No guarantees.

Those words had echoed in her skull for months after she was freed, haunting her, taunting her. She had survived, but at what cost?

She gritted her teeth, her shoulders curling inward. “And that’s when I started to realize—I wasn’t just injured. I wasn’t just hurt. I was helpless.” The word burned as it left her mouth. “I was trapped. A prisoner in my own body. And I didn’t even know who had me yet.”

Park’s gaze was steady, calm, but Andromeda could feel the weight of it pressing against her.

She swallowed, trying to push back the lump in her throat. “They didn’t waste time. The moment I was stable enough to be conscious, they made it clear what I was. I wasn’t a person to them. I was leverage. A bargaining chip.” Her jaw clenched. “They dragged me out of that cave, my legs still half-dead, my body too weak to fight them off. They shackled me to a cot face down......like I was nothing. Like I was already broken, already theirs."

The memory twisted like barbed wire around her chest, digging in deep, anchoring her in that moment as if time itself hadn’t moved forward. She could still feel the pressure of the iron shackles biting into her wrists, forcing her arms above her head, straining against her battered shoulders. The cot beneath her was thin, barely more than fabric stretched over a metal frame, and it did nothing to cushion the raw, searing wound that had been carved into her back. Every breath was agony, every shift of movement sent fire licking up her spine.

Andromeda swallowed, her throat dry. “They didn’t talk to me, not at first. They didn’t have to. The silence was enough. Just the sound of them moving around me, the scrape of boots against stone, the murmured voices in a language I didn’t fully understand. I wasn’t restrained for medical reasons—I knew that much. They wanted me to be like that. Face down. Vulnerable. They wanted me to feel powerless before they even touched me.”

Park’s face remained unreadable, but Andromeda didn’t need sympathy. She needed to say it. Needed to rip it out of herself before it ate her alive.

“The first time they touched me…” Her hands curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. “I remember thinking it was going to be worse.” She let out a hollow, humorless laugh, her eyes flicking up toward the ceiling. “That’s the part that gets me, you know? The fact that I was relieved when it was only their hands on me at first.”

Her voice turned razor-sharp, filled with venom she didn’t know how to let go of. “They were checking for weak spots. That’s what it was. Hands on my ribs, pressing against bruises to watch me flinch. Grabbing my wrist, twisting just enough to make the pain spike. Testing me. Like a fucking lab rat. And I—I thought if I stayed still, if I didn’t react, maybe they’d get bored. Maybe they’d leave me alone.”

Park didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Andromeda inhaled shakily, dragging a trembling hand through her hair. “They didn’t leave me alone.”

The cave had been dark, but not dark enough. The flickering light of an oil lamp had cast everything in shades of gold and shadow, illuminating just enough to remind her that there was nowhere to hide. The scent of unwashed bodies, sweat, dirt, and blood filled the air, clinging to her skin like a second layer of filth.

“They wanted to make a point,” she continued, her voice eerily even. “They weren’t just soldiers. They weren’t just men with guns looking for money or weapons. They were something else. Something worse. They weren’t in a hurry to negotiate. They wanted to break me first.”

She remembered the press of fingers against her jaw, forcing her face to the side, forcing her to meet the dark, assessing gaze of the man standing over her. The way he had smiled, slow and deliberate, his grip tightening just enough to remind her that he could shatter her if he wanted to.

“I spat in his face.”

A slow exhale, sharp and shaky.

Park blinked, her lips parting slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

Andromeda smirked, but there was no humor in it. Only steel and bitterness. “It was a stupid thing to do. I knew that. I knew it before I did it. But I did it anyway, because if I was going to die in that hellhole, I wasn’t going to do it begging.”

The reaction had been instant.

A backhand to her already-battered face, sending her vision spinning, the coppery tang of blood blooming across her tongue. A hand twisting into her hair, yanking her head back so hard her scalp burned. A voice—low, amused—murmuring something in her ear that she couldn’t understand, but she didn’t need to.

She knew what it meant.

She knew what was coming.

Andromeda’s breath hitched, her fingers digging into her thighs, trying to ground herself in the here and now. But she wasn’t here. Not really. The walls of Dr. Park’s office were gone, replaced by the suffocating darkness of the cave, the sickly warmth of too many bodies pressed too close, the heavy weight of their breath thick in the air.

She could still hear them.

Still feel them.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke again, but there was no mistaking the edge to it. “They took turns.”

The words sat between them, stark and immovable, heavier than anything she had said before.

Andromeda didn’t look at Park. She couldn’t. Not now. If she saw pity, if she saw sympathy, she might shatter completely. So she stared at the floor, at the ridges of her own scarred knuckles, and kept talking, because if she stopped now, she wouldn’t be able to start again.

“I don’t know how many times,” she admitted, her voice strained. “It didn’t matter. Time stopped meaning anything. It was just—pain. And humiliation. And their fucking voices.”

She could still hear them—murmuring in languages she barely understood, laughing amongst themselves, discussing her like she wasn’t even there. Like she was a thing. A resource to be used and discarded.

“After the first time, I thought maybe that was it. Maybe they’d gotten what they wanted. Maybe they’d let me rot in my own filth until my father caved, until he gave them whatever weapons they were after.” Her voice was hollow, distant. “I was wrong.”

She swallowed hard, pressing her palms against her thighs, grounding herself in the pressure. “It became a routine. Like eating. Like sleeping. It just—happened. They didn’t even try to hide it from each other. Sometimes, they barely even looked at me, barely even acknowledged that I was a person. I was just—there. A part of the routine. Like an object they could pass around.”

Her stomach twisted, nausea creeping up her throat. “Some of them liked talking to me. Some of them liked trying to get me to scream. Some of them just—” She exhaled sharply, cutting herself off. “I stopped keeping track of which ones were worse.”

It hadn’t always been the same men. Some had come and gone, others remained. Some were cruel, some were indifferent. But they all took what they wanted.

“They liked when I fought back,” she admitted, her lips curling in disgust—at them, at herself, at the whole fucking thing. “They liked when I tried to kick them, liked when I bit down on their hands. Made it more fun for them.”

She could still feel it—every strike that followed, every retaliatory blow meant to remind her of her place. Some were lazy slaps, others were harder, meant to bruise, meant to break. Once, they had wrenched her arm back so hard she had felt something tear, the pain flaring so bright she had blacked out for a moment.

She hadn’t fought after that.

Not because she didn’t want to.

Because it didn’t change anything.

She let out a slow, shuddering breath, barely more than a whisper. “After a while, I stopped reacting.”

It was the only thing she had left. The only thing she could take back.

“They couldn’t break me if I wasn’t there anymore.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she forced it steady again. “So I left.”

Not physically. But in every other way, she disappeared. She shut down. She learned how to turn off her mind, how to go blank, how to exist without feeling anything.

It had been the only way to survive.

“I stopped screaming,” she continued, her voice numb now. “I stopped struggling. Stopped acknowledging them. I stared at the wall, at the ceiling, at nothing. Sometimes, I counted. Seconds. Breaths. Stains on the rock. Anything to keep my mind away from my body.”

Her breath wavered. “They hated that.”

She had learned quickly—her silence infuriated them. They wanted her to beg, to cry, to give them something. And when she didn’t, they pushed harder, looking for ways to force her to break.

“Some of them thought I was broken,” she murmured, her nails digging into her palms. “Some of them thought I was just a shell. That I wasn’t in there anymore.”

She swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. “But I was.”

Andromeda inhaled shakily, her nails pressing harder against her palms as the words tumbled out of her, raw and unfiltered, the kind of honesty that scraped against her insides like jagged glass. She was unraveling, layer by layer, exposing wounds that had never truly healed, only scabbed over long enough to let her pretend they didn’t exist.

"I was still in there," she whispered. "I just had to bury myself so deep that they couldn’t reach me."

Park was silent, her presence steady but not intrusive. It was a quiet sort of patience, one that didn’t push, didn’t pry. She just listened—and maybe that was the worst part. That Andromeda didn’t have to explain herself, didn’t have to justify why she had let this fester for so long. Park already knew.

Andromeda squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers into her temples, trying to force the memories back, but they had already breached the surface, pouring out like a dam breaking.

"They didn’t care that I was still healing," she said, her voice tight, her throat raw. "They didn’t even wait."

That was the part that haunted her the most. They hadn’t seen her as fragile, hadn’t cared that she was barely stitched together, that her body was hanging by a thread. They had torn her apart before she had even fully survived the blast.

"Yinsen had to stitch me up so many times I lost count," she admitted, her voice hollow, detached, like she was narrating someone else’s pain. "The first time, I wasn’t even fully conscious. They’d ripped the stitches apart so badly that I was bleeding all over the floor. Yinsen—God, he begged them to stop. He told them if they kept doing it, I’d bleed out. That I’d die before they ever got what they wanted from Tony."

Her stomach churned, the memory almost too much to stomach.

"They didn’t stop," she whispered.

She had felt the needle drag through her skin over and over, the sensation dulled by the numbness that had taken root in her body, but never completely gone. Yinsen had done his best, his hands steady despite the fear, despite the hopelessness in his eyes. He had apologized with every stitch, murmured broken prayers in his native tongue, as if trying to stitch something of her back together.

"I couldn’t even sit up," she continued, her voice strained, barely above a whisper. "I couldn’t fight them off. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even move. They knew that. They liked that."

Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening against her arms, wrapping around herself as if she could hold herself together through sheer force of will.

"It lasted two weeks," she said, staring blankly at the floor, at nothing. "Two weeks."

Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Twenty-thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes. Every second, a reminder that she was nothing more than something for them to use.

"I stopped talking," she murmured, her throat closing up. "Stopped reacting. Stopped existing."

She had turned herself into something unrecognizable. A ghost trapped in her own body. A thing that could endure because she refused to let it matter.

"They didn’t break me," she said, her voice sharp but brittle, on the verge of shattering. "They wanted to, but they didn’t."

Park was watching her, her gaze unreadable, but Andromeda could feel the weight of her silence. She wasn’t offering false comfort, wasn’t giving her empty platitudes or meaningless reassurances. She was just there, and somehow, that was worse. Because it meant that every word Andromeda spoke, every painful admission, was being heard.

And then, finally, Park spoke.

"You survived," she said simply.

Andromeda flinched, a sharp, involuntary movement, because yes, she had. But how? At what cost?

She let out a sharp, broken laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah. I survived."

But was she still her? Or had they taken too much?

Her voice wavered, cracking at the edges. "But I don’t think I made it out whole."

Park leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, unwavering. "That’s what we’re here to figure out."

Andromeda swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, fighting the sting behind her eyes. She was unraveling, the seams fraying, the armor she had spent months reinforcing cracking apart under the sheer weight of what she had buried.

"I don’t know how to put myself back together," she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I don’t know if I even can."

Park nodded, her expression calm but not indifferent. "That’s the thing about survival, Andromeda. It doesn’t mean you come out unscathed. It just means you keep going. And if you keep going long enough, eventually—" She tilted her head. "You find your way back."

Andromeda inhaled shakily, her vision blurring slightly. "And what if I don’t?"

Park’s lips curled slightly, a hint of something—understanding—softening her gaze. "Then we keep trying until you do."

Andromeda let out a slow, uneven breath.

She wasn’t sure if she believed that.

Four Days Later

Andromeda stared at the ceiling of her room, sleep a distant, unreachable concept. The words she had spoken to Park still rattled around in her skull, echoing in places she had thought were long sealed off. Saying them had been one thing—letting them exist outside of her, acknowledging them aloud—but dealing with the aftermath was another beast entirely.

For months, she had trained herself to move forward. Keep building. Keep working. Keep fixing. Because the alternative was to sit in the mess of it all and let it consume her.

She turned onto her side, one arm draped over her stomach, fingers idly tracing patterns against her t-shirt. She could still feel the faintest hum of the neural implant at the base of her spine, stabilizing her, keeping everything in perfect alignment. It was the reason she could move now. The reason she wasn’t trapped in a bed, waiting for her body to fail her.

And yet, the thought of it made her stomach turn.

They didn’t break me.

Had she really meant that? Or had she just wanted it to be true?

Because the longer she sat with it, the more she realized—maybe they had broken her. Not in the way they had wanted to, maybe, not in the way that had made her weak in their eyes, but something inside her had cracked in that cave. Something vital. And she hadn’t put it back together. She had just reinforced the damage, built around it, covered it in steel and technology until she could pretend it didn’t exist.

She squeezed her eyes shut, letting out a breath through clenched teeth.

Maybe Park was right.

Maybe she hadn’t let herself grieve.

And maybe it was finally catching up to her.

By the time she arrived at her next session, she felt like she was walking through water, everything heavy, slow, muted. She barely remembered the elevator ride up, the way she had moved on autopilot through the hallway until she found herself standing in front of Park’s office again, fists clenched, jaw tight.

She knocked.

The door opened moments later, and Park gestured her inside without a word.

Andromeda didn’t sit down right away. She hovered for a moment, staring at the chair across from the doctor, feeling like if she sat, it would make all of this real again. That this wasn’t just a conversation—it was another layer of armor being stripped away.

Eventually, she sighed and dropped into the chair, stretching her legs out in front of her and crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m back,” she muttered.

Park gave a small smile. “I see that.”

Andromeda ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. “I didn’t sleep.”

Park didn’t look surprised. “Because of what we talked about last time?”

Andromeda hesitated. “Yes. No. I don’t know. It just—stuck.”

Park nodded, waiting, always giving her the space to fill the silence.

Andromeda let her head tip back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. “I thought I was done with it. The memories. The pain. I thought I had compartmentalized it enough that it didn’t matter anymore.” She swallowed. “But it does. It still does.”

Park’s voice was gentle but firm. “Of course it does.”

Andromeda let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “That’s not what people want to hear. They want to hear that I survived, that I fought my way out and came out the other side stronger, that I didn’t let them win.”

Park tilted her head slightly. “And what do you want to hear?”

Andromeda went silent.

She didn’t know.

She had spent so long trying to be the person everyone expected her to be—Tony Stark’s daughter, the genius engineer, the woman who could take a beating and still get back up—that she had never stopped to consider what she needed.

After a long pause, she whispered, “I want to stop feeling like I’m still there.”

Park’s gaze softened. “That’s a process, Andromeda. It doesn’t happen overnight.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves. “I know. But I don’t want it to be a process. I want it to be over. I want to move on. I want to stop feeling like every time I close my eyes, I can still smell the dirt, still hear their voices, still—” Her breath hitched slightly, and she sucked in a sharp inhale, forcing herself to regain control. “Still feel it.”

Park nodded, like she understood. Maybe she did. Maybe she had seen this before, seen people who had clawed their way out of hell only to realize the fire had followed them.

“There’s something I want you to try,” she said after a moment. “It might not be easy. It might not even be something you want to do. But I think it’s important.”

Andromeda tensed, her instincts immediately rebelling against whatever was coming. “Okay.”

Park leaned forward slightly. “I want you to write it down.”

Andromeda blinked. “What?”

“The memories. The details. Everything you remember about what happened to you in Afghanistan.” Park’s expression remained calm, but there was an edge of certainty in her voice. “Write it down. Not just what we talked about last time. All of it.”

Andromeda felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs. “You want me to relive it?”

“I want you to take control of it,” Park corrected. “Right now, those memories only exist in your head. They replay on their own terms, when you least expect them. But if you put them on paper, if you own them, they become something you can manage. Something you can look at from the outside, rather than something that sneaks up on you in the dark.”

Andromeda swallowed hard, her throat dry. The thought of putting those memories onto a page, of making them something solid, something permanent—it terrified her.

But at the same time, part of her understood.

She had spent so long running from them. Maybe it was time to turn around and face them instead.

She let out a slow, shaky breath, rubbing her hands over her face. “Alright,” she muttered. “I’ll try.”

Park gave her a small nod. “That’s all I ask.”

Andromeda exhaled, forcing herself to meet Park’s gaze. “And if it doesn’t help?”

Park held her gaze, steady as ever. “Then we try something else.”

Andromeda nodded, something heavy settling in her chest. The thought of putting pen to paper, of reliving it in that way, made her stomach twist. But if it was the first step toward clawing her way back to herself, she had to take it.

She wasn’t whole yet.

But maybe—just maybe—she could find a way to be.

That night, Andromeda sat at her desk, a blank notebook in front of her.

The pen in her hand felt heavier than it should have, like it carried the weight of everything she had refused to acknowledge.

She took a deep breath.

And she started writing.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

Andromeda sat at the small desk in her borrowed apartment, the soft glow from the desk lamp pooling unevenly over the untouched pages of the notebook before her. The pen rested lightly between her fingers, poised yet motionless, as if it were waiting for something she couldn’t quite summon. The pages remained pristine—unmarked and expectant, demanding a story she wasn’t sure she was ready to tell. She had imagined this moment differently. Believed that putting her pain into words would somehow unravel it, make it less heavy, less lodged inside her bones. But now, faced with the blankness of the page, she felt nothing but paralysis, as if the weight of everything crushed her will to begin.

The nightmares hadn’t let up these past nights. In fact, they had grown worse—more vivid, more consuming. They were no longer fractured flashes but full reenactments, every sound and scent and whisper replaying with cruel clarity. Each morning she jolted awake gasping, soaked in sweat, heart hammering so violently against her ribs that, for a brief, terrifying second, she believed she had been pulled back into the darkness of that cave. The echoes of her trauma clung to her like shadows refusing to release their grip.

Cassie had stayed by her side through it all, refusing to leave her alone in that storm. She hadn’t pressured her for answers or explanations, just quietly held space—dragging blankets onto the couch instead of retreating to the guest room, keeping the coffee warm and flowing late into the night, filling the empty silence with low, mindless chatter from old movies, as though noise could stave off the creeping darkness. Andromeda hadn’t had the heart to admit that none of it worked. Nothing did.

When she finally shut the notebook, the ache in her hands was sharp and real, the rawness in her throat stubborn despite never having uttered a word. The clock on the nightstand blinked 4:07 AM, but exhaustion was a stranger to her now. Her nerves were alive and jittery, adrenaline thrumming through every fiber, muscles taut and trembling under skin so tightly wound she feared she might fracture from the inside out.

The door creaked open just enough to make her stiffen on instinct, heart lurching with the sudden breach of silence. Then she saw Cassie, silhouetted in the dim glow, her face careful and hesitant, eyes filled with a guarded concern. “Hey,” she murmured softly, voice low enough not to startle but strong enough to be heard. “You okay?”

Andromeda exhaled slowly, the breath carrying a weight she couldn’t lift. “No,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

For a long, heavy moment, Cassie said nothing. She simply watched her with an intensity that felt almost too sharp—like she was holding something fragile in her hands, something breakable and precious. Andromeda’s skin prickled uncomfortably at the thought. She wasn’t fragile. Not really. Not anymore. Not someone who could shatter at the wrong touch. But as much as she fought it, right now, she felt exactly like glass—thin, brittle, and on the edge of breaking.

Cassie sighed, stepping fully into the room and closing the door with the soft click of the latch behind her. There was no rush to comfort, no rush to fix—only a quiet presence that filled the space without overwhelming it. She hovered by the bed, arms folded across her chest, head tilted just so, the way she always did when waiting for Andromeda to choose her own words, to decide when to let down her guard.

Andromeda stayed silent. Not yet ready to breach the fragile stillness hanging between them. The air seemed thick and heavy, waiting for the first fracture to let something real slip through. Cassie exhaled sharply, the sound a fragile release in the dense quiet. Her fingers ran through her hair in a restless gesture before she lowered herself into the chair opposite Andromeda, settling with deliberate calm.

“Alright,” Cassie began, her voice steady but careful, as if treading lightly over brittle ground. “How bad was it?”

Andromeda’s gaze fell to the closed notebook resting on the desk. The pages held secrets, pain, memories she’d tried to cage inside them, but it hadn’t worked. “Bad,” she said simply, the word carrying the weight of everything unspoken.

Cassie nodded, her eyes narrowing with the familiarity of someone who’d seen enough to understand the depth behind a single word. “On a scale of one to ‘I need a full bottle of tequila and an emotional support baseball bat’?”

A hollow laugh escaped Andromeda’s lips, sharp and brittle, devoid of true humor. She pressed her fingertips hard into her temples, drawing a slow breath through her nose. “Somewhere around ‘maybe I should jump out a window just to see if I can feel anything else.’”

Cassie’s face darkened, no trace of amusement in her voice as she replied, “Not funny.”

Andromeda let her hands fall back to the desk, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the worn wood. “It wasn’t supposed to be.”

The lines of Cassie’s jaw tightened, her posture shifting forward as she rested her elbows on her knees, eyes piercing and unwavering. “Andy…”

The hesitation in Andromeda’s voice was palpable when she finally spoke again, quieter this time, as though saying the words aloud might unravel something fragile inside her. “I wrote it down. All of it. Everything I could remember.” She swallowed hard, the movement tight and controlled. “I thought it would help.”

Cassie’s expression softened, the harsh edges blurring just enough to reveal a flicker of empathy. “Did it?”

Andromeda’s response was a sharp breath—half scoff, half bitter laugh—carrying the sting of disappointment. “No.”

Cassie watched her carefully, as if trying to decipher the invisible cracks beneath her words. “Worse?”

The nod was slow, reluctant. Andromeda dragged a hand down her face, muscles tightening as if trying to hold herself together. “Yeah. Worse.”

The silence stretched between them again—heavy, oppressive. It wasn’t the quiet of peace or comfort. It was the emptiness of space left unfilled. Cassie shifted in her chair, the motion subtle but charged with unspoken intention. She wanted to reach out, to offer something, but the words weren’t there.

“You should sleep,” Cassie said at last, voice soft but firm.

Andromeda shook her head, a refusal that came from somewhere deep inside. “Can’t.”

Cassie’s gaze sharpened. “Why?”

Andromeda hesitated, the admission clawing up her throat before she forced herself to meet Cassie’s eyes, raw and honest. “Because I don’t want to wake up there again.”

Cassie’s face stayed calm, but there was a subtle shift in her posture—so slight it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Andromeda caught it immediately. It was an unspoken understanding, something that ran deeper than clinical diagnoses or therapeutic patience. This was born from presence, from loyalty, from witnessing pain firsthand. Cassie hadn’t been trapped in that cave, hadn’t been shackled, broken, or left to rot in darkness. But she had seen Andromeda afterward, seen the fractures that no one else could fix.

She had been there.

Andromeda exhaled slowly, hands moving up to rub the weariness into her face before finally pushing back from the desk. She stretched her legs out and let her head fall back against the chair, the weight heavy but somehow relieving. “I just—I don’t know how to turn it off,” she admitted, her voice raw and weary.

Cassie leaned back in her chair, arms still crossed tightly across her chest like a shield. “You can’t. That’s the shitty part.”

The honesty settled over Andromeda like a cold wave, and she released another breath, shakier than she wanted. “Yeah. Figured that out already.”

Silence stretched between them, long and full of unspoken things. Cassie finally uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her gaze locked onto Andromeda’s. “So, what now?”

Andromeda swallowed hard, her throat tight and rough as she answered, voice brittle and unsure. “I don’t know.”

Cassie studied her carefully. “You going back to Park?”

The question hung in the air, more pressing than it sounded. Andromeda hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I should.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

She sighed, a long, tired sound. “Yeah. I’ll go.”

Cassie gave a small, approving nod. “Good.”

The quiet stretched between them again, dense but not empty this time. It held the promise of something—waiting.

After a beat, Cassie stood, stretching her shoulders before tilting her head toward the bed. “Come on.”

Andromeda frowned, brows knitting. “What?”

“You’re gonna try and sleep.”

Andromeda scoffed softly, shaking her head as if to dislodge the idea. “Cassie—”

Cassie cut her off with a sharp look that brooked no argument. “No. I don’t care if it’s five minutes or five hours. You’re getting in bed, and you’re closing your damn eyes.”

Andromeda opened her mouth to protest, but something in Cassie’s steady, unyielding expression stopped the words before they formed.

Instead, she exhaled sharply and pushed herself up from the chair. Her body stiffened in protest, muscles aching beneath the surface despite the neural implant’s steady compensation. It was a stubborn reminder that she’d been holding herself too tightly, for far too long.

Cassie watched her with careful attentiveness as she moved toward the bed—not hovering, not crowding, just quietly observing. She didn’t reach out, didn’t try to steady Andromeda like she was fragile, and that was the only thing that kept Andromeda from snapping. She hated feeling weak, hated the idea of being a problem to solve. But Cassie—Cassie never treated her like something broken. Only like something hurting.

And maybe that was even harder to bear.

Andromeda sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, running a hand through her tangled hair as her eyes dropped to the floor, as if it might suddenly offer answers. Her mind was still racing, the words she’d written clawing at the edges of her thoughts, making her want to rip every page from that notebook and set it aflame.

She didn’t want to close her eyes. She didn’t want to be trapped back in that cave. Didn’t want to feel helpless ever again.

Cassie stayed still for a long moment, giving her the space to decide. Then, with a quiet ease that made it feel natural, as if she belonged there, she crawled into bed on the other side—careful not to touch, careful not to make it into a big deal.

She lay back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, hands resting loosely on her stomach, offering Andromeda the room to breathe.

Andromeda felt the mattress shift beneath the added weight, the faint warmth of another presence close enough to reach. But Cassie didn’t reach out. She didn’t force anything, didn’t demand explanations or wrap her in hollow reassurances that everything was okay.

She simply was.

Andromeda swallowed hard, her head falling back against the pillow as her fingers twitched restlessly against the blanket. The weight inside her chest felt like a storm pressing down, suffocating, a force she wasn’t sure how to withstand. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do with herself in this moment, how to exist without being crushed beneath it.

Cassie’s breath broke the silence with a slow, gentle exhale. “You’re still here,” she murmured softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Not really,” Andromeda replied, her voice shaky, brittle like cracked glass as she let out a fragile breath.

“What do you need?”

The question hung between them, raw and open, a fragile thread stretched taut in the quiet room. Andromeda didn’t know how to answer. What did she need? Sleep? Peace? Some way to scrub away everything that had happened, to erase it like an engineer clearing corrupted code?

She swallowed again, her fingers curling into the blanket beneath her. The weight of her own words pressed hard against her chest—those words she had poured onto paper, heavy and suffocating in their permanence. Now it wasn’t just locked away inside her head, a specter lurking in shadows ready to strike when she least expected it. It was real. Ink on paper. Unavoidable. Permanent.

And she didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

Her eyelids squeezed shut tight. “I don’t know,” she admitted, voice barely audible.

Cassie didn’t press for more. She never did. Instead, she shifted gently, adjusting her position until she was lying on her side—still not touching, but there. A steady presence, solid and unwavering.

A second anchor in the storm.

Andromeda wanted to say something—anything—to fill the aching silence stretching between them. She wanted to tell Cassie to go back to the couch, that she didn’t need to babysit her, that she wasn’t weak. But the words stuck in her throat, hollow and fragile, a defense mechanism worn raw from overuse.

Because the truth was harsh and simple: she wasn’t okay.

And she was so damn tired of pretending that she was.

Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven, as a crushing pressure built in her chest, threatening to break her open. She hadn’t cried since she got out. Not really—not in any way that had mattered. The tears had long since dried up, burned away by anger, determination, and the relentless stubbornness that had kept her alive.

But now—

Now the walls she’d built were cracking.

And she didn’t know if she had the strength to hold them up any longer.

Cassie must have sensed the shift, because after what felt like forever, she moved. Just a little. Just enough to reach out, pressing her fingers lightly against Andromeda’s wrist. The touch was tentative, almost shy, as if offering the chance to pull away.

Andromeda didn’t.

Cassie hesitated only a moment longer, then shifted her hand, sliding it down until her fingers found Andromeda’s. They intertwined—skin against skin. It wasn’t much. Just warmth. But it unraveled something deep inside, something Andromeda had buried so far beneath layers of armor she’d almost convinced herself it wasn’t there at all.

Her breath shuddered, catching and breaking as her fingers clenched around Cassie’s like a lifeline.

Cassie squeezed back, silent and steady.

And just like that, the dam broke.

Andromeda crumbled.

Her shoulders curled inward, folding her body like a fragile shell as the first sob clawed its way out of her throat. It was raw and ugly—an anguished sound wrenched from the deepest, darkest part of her soul—and once it began, it refused to be stopped. The second sob came after, then a third, until she was shaking uncontrollably, gasping for breath, tears spilling down her face in unchecked rivers.

Cassie moved then, slow and careful, never releasing Andromeda’s hand as she shifted closer. She said nothing, offering no words to quiet or calm, no hollow reassurances that everything was going to be okay—because it wasn’t. Instead, she did the only thing that mattered. She pulled Andromeda into her arms.

The movement wasn’t sudden or forceful, but gentle and steady, coaxing Andromeda forward until her forehead rested against Cassie’s collarbone, her breath ragged and uneven as it rattled in her chest. Cassie wrapped her arms firmly around her, holding her with enough softness to let her pull away if she needed, but Andromeda didn’t. She couldn’t. The moment Cassie’s arms closed around her, the sobs came harder, ripping through her in violent waves, tearing her apart at the seams.

For the first time since Afghanistan—since she had crawled out of that cave, broken, bleeding, barely alive—she let herself fall apart. She let herself break.

Cassie made no attempt to fix her, to hold her together. She simply held her, steady and present.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Time ceased to exist within the hollow space carved between them, the quiet punctuated only by Andromeda’s sobs, which gradually gave way to hiccupping breaths and silent, trembling shudders.

By the time the storm began to ease, Andromeda felt hollowed out, utterly drained. Every muscle ached from the effort, exhaustion sinking deep into her bones, but the oppressive weight crushing her chest had lightened—just enough to let a faint breath of relief slip through.

Cassie exhaled softly, her fingers threading gently through Andromeda’s tangled hair. The touch was slow, almost absentminded, and for once, Andromeda didn’t flinch away.

“I got you,” Cassie murmured, voice low and steady against the crown of her head.

Andromeda closed her eyes.

She knew the nightmares would return. She knew the pain wouldn’t vanish overnight, that there was still so much left to unravel, so many shadows to face.

But in this moment, right here, right now, Cassie had her. She was safe. She was held.

The darkness came first, swallowing everything whole. Then the cold settled in, sharp and unyielding. Andromeda found herself back in the cave before she even had the chance to fight it, dragged under by memories she had tried so hard to bury.

She felt the sting of raw, open wounds pressed against coarse, rough fabric, the biting chill of metal shackles digging deep into her wrists. The air was thick with the acrid stench of dirt, sweat, and blood—the unmistakable scent of men who had never considered her anything more than a thing to be used, broken, discarded. Faces were absent in the nightmare, always hidden behind shadows or blurred beyond recognition. It was their hands she felt most vividly—grabbing, holding, tearing—relentless and cruel.

She struggled fiercely, even though she knew deep down it was futile. The dream always played out the same way, a cruel, endless loop. No matter how hard she fought, how desperately she screamed, she could not stop them. She wasn’t really there anymore—she had locked herself away in some deep, unreachable part of her mind—but to them, she was nothing but skin, bone, and bruises. That was supposed to make it easier. Supposed to keep her safe from breaking.

But the nightmares never let her go.

They dragged her back again and again, forcing her to relive every awful sensation she had spent months trying to erase. The rough hands shoving her down with merciless force, the cold laughter echoing in her ears, the sickening weight of breath hot against her skin, whispered words in a language she didn’t understand but recognized in every fiber of her being.

Then—a voice pierced the chaos. Not theirs. Not the cruel, taunting voices of her captors. This voice cut through the nightmare like a blade, sharp and unmistakably familiar.

"Andromeda. Wake up."

She reached for it, desperate to cling to that lifeline, but the dream clung tighter, a suffocating second skin. The hands, the chains, the crushing weight—they were still there, pulling her under. A scream clawed its way out of her throat, ragged and raw.

"Andromeda!"

The nightmare shattered suddenly and violently, dragging her back to the harsh reality with a gasp that tore through her chest like a raw wound. Her body thrashed, uncontrollable sobs ripping free as sweat drenched her skin, cold and slick beneath the heat of the room. Her heart hammered furiously against her ribs, pounding so hard it felt like it might burst free at any moment. The air hung heavy and stifling, thick with a suffocating heat that made each breath a struggle, shallow and desperate.

“Andy, look at me!” Cassie’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp but steady, grounding. Her hands found Andromeda’s shoulders with a firmness that was gentle, firm but never restraining—never trapping. Not them.

Andromeda sucked in a ragged breath, raw and shallow, never quite enough to fill her lungs. Panic coiled tightly inside her like a phantom vice, squeezing her throat tighter with every frantic heartbeat.

Cassie must have seen the struggle flicker across her face, must have understood without a word, because she eased back just enough to press her hands softly against Andromeda’s cheeks, anchoring her gaze with a calm that dared her to focus. “You’re here,” she murmured, voice low and even, steady as a pulse. “You’re not there. Look at me. Just look at me.”

Andromeda’s eyes snapped open, wide and wild, swimming with fear, still caught somewhere between the present and that dark, unreachable place. Cassie held her gaze unwavering, never blinking, never flinching, a solid anchor in a sea of storm.

“Breathe, Andy. Right now. Breathe with me.”

Cassie drew in a slow, exaggerated breath—deep, controlled, deliberate. Andromeda tried to follow, but her own breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, frantic and out of sync. Still, Cassie didn’t let go, didn’t let her drown in it.

Another breath. Another.

The cave faded. The rough hands vanished. The nightmare’s grip loosened.

Andromeda exhaled shakily, her entire body trembling in the wake of the storm that had just passed through her. Her voice cracked when she finally spoke, raw and broken, a brittle thread barely holding together. “I—” She shook her head, dragging a trembling hand through the sweat-damp strands of her hair. “Fuck.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her hands still bracing Andromeda’s arms with a grounding weight that said, without words, you’re not alone. “Yeah,” she muttered softly, “that was a bad one.”

Andromeda let out something between a laugh and a sigh, hollow and exhausted. Her arms curled tightly around herself, a desperate and useless attempt to hold together the shattered pieces she had left behind. “They don’t stop,” she whispered, voice ragged and raw. “I thought maybe—if I talked about it. If I wrote it down. I thought maybe—”

The words caught in her throat, broken and incomplete.

Cassie didn’t push for more. She just sat there—quiet, solid, steady—waiting patiently in the silence that followed.

“You’re shaking,” Cassie finally observed, softer now, with a gentleness that seemed to acknowledge every frayed edge.

Andromeda barely noticed the tremors anymore, feeling instead a coldness that ran ice-deep through her veins, as if her body hadn’t quite accepted that she wasn’t still trapped in that suffocating cave.

Without warning, Cassie rose and disappeared into the bathroom. Moments later, the soft sound of running water filled the space between them. Andromeda barely had time to process before Cassie returned, pressing a warm, damp washcloth into her hands.

“Hold onto this,” she instructed quietly. “Focus on it. Feel it. It’s real.”

Andromeda curled her fingers around the fabric, the soothing warmth sinking slowly into her palms, anchoring her to the present. The tremors in her hands didn’t vanish completely, but they softened, the violent shaking easing into something manageable. She wasn’t falling apart anymore.

Cassie settled back beside her with measured, careful movements, the silent reassurance in her presence unspoken but undeniable. “You back?”

Andromeda swallowed hard, nodding faintly. “Yeah.”

Cassie didn’t look fully convinced, but she offered a nod anyway.

The silence stretched between them—thick but not suffocating. After a long moment, Andromeda exhaled, leaning back against the headboard, exhaustion dragging her down like a weight she couldn’t lift. Her limbs felt leaden, her mind frayed at the edges, worn thin by the relentless assault of memory and pain. She rubbed her hands over her face, chasing away the lingering tendrils of the nightmare, but it remained, lurking just beneath her skin.

Cassie stayed close, neither crowding nor retreating, offering the steady presence Andromeda lacked the strength to acknowledge fully in that moment.

The nightmare still clung to her, its echoes reverberating through her bones, pressing relentlessly against the backs of her eyelids every time she blinked. She knew all too well that if she closed her eyes for even a moment longer, it would pull her back under—drag her deep into the darkness where she could still feel the oppressive weight of them, the hot, foul breath pressed against her skin, the cruel sensation of being taken apart again and again, piece by piece.

She let out a shaky breath, rubbing a trembling hand over her face as if the motion could wipe away the exhaustion that settled deep into her bones and refused to leave. “I’m so fucking tired.”

Cassie exhaled softly in response. “I know.”

“No, you don’t,” Andromeda’s voice cracked, barely more than a fragile whisper. “You don’t know what it’s like to be scared of your own head. To close your eyes and feel like you’re still there—like you never left at all.”

Cassie didn’t argue, didn’t offer some hollow attempt at reassurance. She just sat with the weight of it, letting it settle around them like a heavy, suffocating fog.

And that was worse.

Andromeda’s breath hitched harshly, her fingers digging into the blanket beneath her as if it could hold her from slipping away completely. “I don’t know how to stop this.”

Cassie shifted slightly, her gaze sharp and steady in the dim light. “Then we figure it out.”

Andromeda let out a hollow, frayed laugh that barely resembled one at all. “It’s been months, Cass. I’ve done everything they say you’re supposed to do. Therapy. Journaling. Talking about it. I even let Strange put a fucking neural implant in my spine so I wouldn’t feel like a prisoner in my own body anymore—and none of it—it doesn’t—” Her breath caught painfully. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Cassie was quiet for a long moment before finally reaching out—not sudden, not forceful, just a slow, steady movement—her fingers brushing gently against Andromeda’s hand, lingering there without pressure, without demand.

Andromeda exhaled shakily, still feeling the tremors ripple through her fingers—the phantom echoes of pain long gone yet stubbornly refusing to fade. The shadows of those men, those hands, those voices, crawling beneath her skin and poisoning every inch of her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the tightness that clenched her chest and the pulse that hammered wildly beneath her ribs. “I want them out of my head,” she whispered, barely audible. “I don’t want them to exist in here anymore.”

Cassie’s fingers tightened around hers, a fierce promise in the simple squeeze. “They don’t get to own you, Andy.”

Andromeda huffed sharply through her nose, a bitter edge threading through her voice. “Don’t they?” She gestured vaguely to her own body—to the scars hidden beneath fabric, to the pieces she’d spent months rebuilding with metal, circuitry, and sheer defiance. “Because it sure as hell feels like they do.”

Cassie’s grip tightened, voice firmer now, edged with unwavering certainty. “No, they don’t. They hurt you. They took what they had no right to take. But you’re still here. Every breath you draw, every second you keep fighting to live in spite of what they did—that’s yours. Not theirs.”

Andromeda’s throat clenched painfully. She hated how raw and exposed she felt, hated how much she wanted to believe Cassie but didn’t know how to.

She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to sit straighter, to loosen the crushing weight pressing down on her chest, if only for a moment. Her body ached from the tension—the way she’d curled in on herself, trying to shrink into nothingness and make all of it disappear.

But it didn’t work.

Nothing did.

Cassie watched her carefully. “You’re stronger than them, Andy.”

Andromeda let out a breath, shaking her head in quiet despair. “Then why doesn’t it feel like it?”

Cassie didn’t hesitate. “Because healing isn’t about feeling strong all the time. It’s about getting through the moments when you don’t.”

Andromeda swallowed hard, those words striking deeper than she expected, unraveling something she’d kept tightly bound.

She clenched her jaw, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Cassie squeezed her hand again. “Then let me help.”

Andromeda didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away either.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

The nightmares didn’t stop. Each night, Andromeda lay down with a fragile hope tucked deep inside her—a desperate, foolish wish that maybe, just maybe, she would finally close her eyes and be met with nothing. No cave, no cold hands dragging her down, no suffocating weight pressing into her chest until breath became a distant memory. But that reprieve never came. Instead, every sleep was shattered by gasps, sweat-drenched sheets, and a heart pounding so fiercely it blurred the edges of her vision.

Cassie never left her side. Whether perched on the couch or settled in the chair next to Andromeda’s bed, she was a silent guardian. She never hovered or smothered, instead offering a steady, unmoving presence—an anchor when Andromeda felt like she might unravel completely. It wasn’t enough to stop the nightmares from invading, but it made waking up slightly less terrifying, a little less solitary.

Days bled into weeks. The exhaustion settled into her bones and never loosened its grip. Each moment of the day became a practice in muscle memory—work, physical therapy, repeat—like a machine set to autopilot. There was no room to slow, no space to think, because the moment her mind drifted, the abyss loomed closer, a dark, endless pull threatening to swallow her whole.

She met with Dr. Park three times that week. Each visit came with the same question—how was she sleeping? And each time, Andromeda met it with silence, a practiced lie shielding the chaos roiling beneath her calm exterior. She wasn’t ready to face the nightmares again, not yet.

Not yet.

So she buried herself in work. She kept busy, refining the cochlear implant schematics, making meticulous adjustments to her neural interface, running endless tests on Eleanor’s data processing system. Fixing something tangible was easier than confronting the things inside her that resisted repair.

It was easier to be an engineer than a survivor.

But it couldn’t last forever.

And it didn’t.

One night, after weeks spent pushing herself beyond exhaustion’s edge, Andromeda finally fell asleep at her desk.

When the nightmare struck this time—

She didn’t wake screaming.

She woke fighting.

Her eyes snapped open, and her body reacted on pure instinct, lashing out before her mind could catch up. Her arm jerked forward, fingers curling into a fist, swinging blindly through the air.

Cassie barely dodged in time, stumbling back with a startled yelp. “Whoa—! Andy, it’s me!”

Andromeda sucked in a sharp breath, heart pounding fiercely against her ribs. The room blurred around her, thick with the lingering pressure of unseen hands pinning her down, the acrid scent of dirt, sweat, and blood choking her senses.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She struggled to catch a steady breath, trapped in the chaos of panic.

Then Cassie’s voice cut through it all.

“Andromeda.”

Her name. Clear. Real. Not theirs. Not them.

Cassie’s hands remained raised in a gesture of surrender, concern tightening her expression but fear absent.

That—more than anything—grounded Andromeda, snapping her back to the present.

Her breath stuttered.

She glanced down at her trembling hands, still poised to fight, still caught in the reflex of survival, even though there was no enemy left to face.

Only herself.

A sharp twist of nausea seized her stomach, and she barely made it to the bathroom before retching violently.

Her body convulsed in knots as she emptied the turmoil within. Between heaves, she gasped, fingers digging into the cold porcelain, nails scraping harshly against the smooth surface. Sweat slicked her skin despite the chill of the tile beneath her knees.

The nausea wasn’t only physical. It was everything—nightmares, exhaustion, the lingering trauma that had her body reacting as if trapped in that cave, the shock of nearly striking Cassie.

She squeezed her eyes shut, chest heaving as she rested her forehead against her arm, still braced over the toilet. Breath came in sharp, uneven pants, throat raw from bile and panic.

A hand hovered near her back but didn’t touch.
“I called your dad.”

At first, the words barely registered, swallowed by the chaotic haze of sickness and trembling. But then they landed—heavy, unmistakable, pressing into her mind.

Slowly, painfully, Andromeda turned her head toward Cassie, crouched near the door, hands resting on her knees, her steady, silent presence a quiet anchor when Andromeda needed it most.

Her mouth tasted like acid as she swallowed. “You—” Her voice cracked, raw and frayed. She cleared her throat, trying again. “You called Tony?”

Cassie nodded, gaze unwavering. “Yeah.”

For a moment, Andromeda just stared, disbelief warring with something darker, hotter, curling beneath her ribs. Her stomach twisted again—not from nausea now, but panic. Her fingers clenched the edge of the toilet seat, gripping it like it might hold her together, like it might keep her from unraveling any further.

“You had no right—” she started, voice weak and lacking the fire she wished it had.

Cassie didn’t flinch. She didn’t look guilty or apologize or offer excuses. Instead, she met Andromeda’s eyes, steady and sure, and said, “I had every right.”

Andromeda’s breath hitched.

Cassie shifted, leaning forward slightly. “You’re not okay, Andy.” Her words were firm, but not unkind. “You haven’t been okay for a long time. You’re not sleeping. You’re throwing up. You—” She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “You woke up swinging. You were about to hit me, and you weren’t even awake.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw so hard it ached. Shame twisted inside her like something rancid.

“I wouldn’t have—” she began, but the words felt fragile, insubstantial.

Cassie cut her off. “You weren’t there.” Her voice softened, but the weight behind it remained. “You were still in that cave, Andy. You weren’t here. And I—” Her throat tightened around something thick she didn’t reveal. “I can handle it. But what happens next time? What happens when it’s not me?”

Andromeda sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, her fingers pressing harder into the cold porcelain beneath her.

Cassie let the silence stretch out, giving her the space she needed to absorb the truth hanging heavy between them. Then, quieter this time, her voice low and steady, she said, “You need him.”

Andromeda squeezed her eyes shut, a desperate refusal clamping down inside her. No. No, she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Because if Tony saw her like this—saw the broken, shattered pieces of herself left inside—it would destroy him. She had spent months, years even, trying to be the one thing in his life that wasn’t a disappointment, wasn’t a problem he had to fix. Raised by a man who could engineer solutions to anything with his mind and his hands, this was something no arc reactor or blueprint could fix.

She wasn’t sure she could be fixed at all.

Cassie must have seen it, sensed the storm swirling deep in her thoughts, because her voice softened even more. “He loves you, Andy.”

Andromeda flinched, a sharp, involuntary jerk beneath the weight of those words.

“He deserves to know what’s happening to you.”

Her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, her chest tightening like a trap. She felt cornered—like an animal pressed against a wall, nowhere left to run.

Her stomach twisted again, sour and raw, and she lurched forward, dry heaving over the toilet. Cassie didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t reach out or force anything. She just sat there, steady and quiet, waiting.

Waiting for Andromeda to break.

Because Cassie knew. Cassie always knew.

She was already broken.

The knock at the front door was soft but firm, and Andromeda felt it deep in her bones.

Her stomach clenched violently, twisting tighter with every passing second.

Cassie exhaled, voice calm but low. “That’s him.”

Andromeda squeezed her eyes shut tighter, the pressure unbearable.

She couldn’t do this.

Not like this. Not while she was still trembling, still soaked in cold sweat, still tasting bile in the back of her throat. Not when her body felt like it had betrayed her all over again—when she was still struggling to convince herself she was more than the sum of what had been done to her.

Cassie stood, stretching her legs with practiced ease. “I’ll get the door.”

Andromeda didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She only listened—Cassie’s footsteps fading down the hall, the soft click of the door unlocking, the silence that followed.

Then—

“Where is she?”

Her father’s voice.

Andromeda broke.

A choked sound tore from deep within her throat, muffled but raw against her sleeve. But it was too late. She felt it the moment Tony heard—felt the shift in the air, the urgency in his steps, the sound of him moving toward her.

She scrambled backward, pressing herself tighter against the cold bathroom wall as if she could vanish into it, as if she could hide from the one person she had feared most seeing her like this—broken, exposed, unraveling.

The door swung open.

And then he was there.

Tony Stark stood framed in the cramped bathroom doorway, his face unreadable—eyes sharp, too knowing, mouth pressed into a hard, firm line. Tension coiled tightly through every inch of his frame as his gaze swept over her, taking in everything—the trembling hands, the way she curled inward, the toilet she still half-leaned against.

His expression didn’t crack.

Didn’t break.

But something shifted.

Andromeda’s breath hitched.

She hadn’t seen him in weeks. Maybe longer. She’d avoided him, kept him at a distance because she knew—she knew —that if she let him see her like this, if she let him in, she wouldn’t be able to keep pretending she was fine.

And now—now, it was too late.

Tony exhaled sharply and crouched before her, moving slow, careful, like he was approaching something fragile. Something wounded. Something breakable.

His voice was quiet. Careful.

“Hey, kid.”

Andromeda made a sound—half sob, half laugh, bitter and weak. “Hey.”

Tony didn’t reach for her. Didn’t move too fast, didn’t try to touch her or pull her into one of those suffocating, too-tight, I’m-not-letting-go hugs he was known for. He just crouched there, watching her with sharp, assessing eyes that missed nothing.

Andromeda hated how exposed she felt.

She knew exactly what he was seeing—the dark circles under her eyes, the hollow look on her face, the fine tremor still lingering in her fingers as they clenched the fabric of her sweatpants. The way she curled in on herself, as if she could shrink away from the weight pressing down on her chest.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Tony sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face before resting his elbows on his knees. “You look like hell.”

Andromeda let out something that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so brittle. “Feel like it too.”

Tony hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah, I figured.” His voice softened, less sharp now. “Cassie called me.”

Andromeda swallowed hard, nodding. “I know.”

The weight of Tony’s words settled in the cramped bathroom, solid and unyielding. “She told me everything,” he said, voice steady, without accusation or demand. Just there. Present. “Well, almost everything. But I get the feeling there’s a whole lot more rattling around in that head of yours.”

Andromeda’s breath hitched, shaky and uneven, as her head fell back against the cold tile. The chill seeped through her skin, a stark contrast to the turmoil coiling inside. “Yeah,” she whispered hoarsely, the single word a fragile confession. “There is.”

Tony gave a slow nod, as if he’d already expected it. “Okay.”

That was all.

No questions pressing for why she hadn’t told him sooner, no impatience for how long this had been going on, no judgment for the damage she’d endured. Just acceptance.

It loosened something buried deep in her chest—a tangle of sharp, restless words clawing beneath her ribs, desperate to be spoken, but still tethered tight. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not when the fragile threads holding her together threatened to snap at any moment.

Tony must have sensed the hesitation because he shifted, leaning back casually against the doorframe, the faintest hint of patience in his stance, like time itself had slowed to accommodate her.

“You eat today?”

The sudden change in topic pulled Andromeda out of her spiral. She blinked, voice caught off guard. “What?”

“Food,” Tony clarified, arching a brow with that familiar mix of dry humor and concern. “You know, that thing humans need to survive? Or have you been running purely on caffeine and spite?”

A humorless breath escaped her lips as she rubbed a hand over her face. “Caffeine and spite,” she muttered, the admission heavy with exhaustion. “Mostly.”

Tony’s nod came easy, like this was exactly what he expected. “Alright. We’re fixing that first.”

A low groan slipped from her as she let her head drop forward. “Tony—”

“Nope. No arguments.” His voice cut through with firm finality as he pushed to his feet, extending a hand toward her. “Come on, up. Before you pass out and I have to carry you, and neither of us wants that.”

Andromeda eyed the offered hand warily, the invisible line she’d drawn quivering beneath her skin. Accepting it meant surrender, a step away from the fortress of solitude she’d built so carefully. No more pretending she had it all under control.

But the weariness that wrapped around her like a shroud was suffocating, pulling her down from the inside out.

Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out.

Tony’s grip was firm but gentle, anchoring her in a way she hadn’t realized she desperately needed. He lifted her to her feet with effortless strength, steadying her when her legs threatened to betray her.

A shaky exhale escaped her lips as she pressed a palm to her forehead. “I think I’m gonna be sick again.”

Tony’s face twisted into a mock grimace. “Cool. Maybe warn me before you do, yeah? I like these shoes.”

Despite herself, a faint smirk tugged at Andromeda’s lips. “They’re ugly anyway.”

He pressed a hand over his chest, mock offended. “Wow. Kicking me while I’m trying to be supportive. Love that.”

Her eyes rolled, but somewhere deep in her chest, the relentless tension slackened just enough to let a breath slip through.

Tony waited until she found her footing before jerking his chin toward the door. “Come on. We’re ordering food. And before you argue, yes, real food. Not protein bars. Not some sad excuse for a meal replacement shake. Actual grease-soaked, artery-clogging food.”

A reluctant sigh slipped from her lips. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” Her voice was tired, threaded with a weariness that ran deeper than she wanted to admit.

Tony’s dry gaze met hers, a familiar smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Do I ever let anything go?”

Fair point.

With a soft groan, Andromeda surrendered, allowing herself to be led toward the kitchen, too drained to argue the point.

Cassie was already there, leaning against the counter with arms crossed, her eyes unreadable as they tracked the two of them. She didn’t offer a word of triumph for calling Tony, no knowing glance that said, I told you so , no smirk of gloating. Just steady presence—a quiet anchor Andromeda hadn’t realized she needed until now.

Their eyes met briefly, and Cassie nodded with something soft and knowing hidden beneath the surface.

Andromeda exhaled and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “You’re the worst.”

Cassie’s smirk was quick and easy. “Love you too.”

Tony took charge, ordering enough food to feed a small army, true to his philosophy of better too much than too little . Within the hour, the smell of greasy, fried goodness filled the small apartment, mixing with the lingering scent of coffee and the faint, sterile trace of antiseptic that clung to Andromeda’s skin.

She was vaguely aware she hadn’t showered in over twenty-four hours, that her hair was a tangled mess, and that she looked like she’d just clawed her way out of a war zone—which, to be fair, wasn’t too far off from the truth.

Settling on the couch with her legs curled under her, Andromeda held an untouched carton of fries in her lap. Tony sat beside her, picking at a burger but pretending not to watch her like a hawk. Cassie had claimed the armchair, idly scrolling through something on her phone, giving them space while remaining unmistakably present.

Andromeda sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

A low noise rumbled from Tony’s throat. “Mmm. Yeah. See, the problem is, I do.”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Tony.”

He turned, arching a brow in that way that made it abundantly clear he wasn’t buying any of her excuses tonight. “Andy,” he countered, matching her tone perfectly.

She huffed, picking at one of the fries without eating it. “I’m fine.”

Cassie snorted from the chair. “Oh yeah, totally. People who wake up swinging and then throw up for twenty minutes are definitely fine.”

Tony’s jaw twitched at Cassie’s remark, but he held his tongue. Instead, he just stared at Andromeda, waiting for her to meet him.

She exhaled sharply, tossing the fry back into the carton. “Look, I know you’re worried—”

“Worried doesn’t quite cover it,” Tony interrupted, setting his food aside. “I’m concerned, I’m pissed, and—let’s be honest here—I’m kind of hurt that you didn’t tell me how bad it’s been.”

Andromeda stiffened, the weight of his words settling like a stone in her gut. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Tony blinked, deadpan. “Bother me? Bother me?” He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jesus, Andy. You’re my kid. You think I wouldn’t want to know when you’re struggling?”

Her jaw clenched tight as she looked away, eyes brimming with unspoken fear. “I didn’t want you to look at me like I was—”

She stopped herself, biting down on the words before they could slip free.

Tony’s voice softened, losing some of its usual edge. “Like you were what?”

Swallowing hard, she admitted, “Like I was broken.”

The silence that followed thickened, stretching taut between them like a wound neither dared to touch.

Tony exhaled, running a hand over his jaw, the roughness of a humorless laugh breaking free. “You think that’s how I see you?”

She didn’t answer.

Because yes. That was exactly what she’d been afraid of.

His voice grew warmer, steadier. “Kid, I’ve seen you build an entire neural interface from scratch with half a functioning spinal cord and a metric ton of stubbornness. I’ve seen you push through pain that would floor most people. I’ve seen you come back from things that—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale. “You’re not broken, Andy. You’re surviving.”

Her throat tightened painfully, the raw truth scraping against her insides.

She wanted to believe him. God, how she wanted to believe him.

But every time she closed her eyes, all she saw was the cave, the chains, the hands.

She forced out a shaky breath. “Then why doesn’t it feel like it?”

Tony’s expression softened, his gaze drifting into memories she couldn’t touch. “Because it never does,” he admitted quietly. “Not when you’re in it.”

Andromeda’s frown deepened as she watched Tony’s gaze drift away, his mind slipping to places she couldn’t reach—Afghanistan. The single word echoed quietly in her chest, heavy and sharp.

It clicked then. Her own pain, so consuming, had blinded her to what he’d been through. She’d seen the scars, sure—the arc reactor embedded in his chest, a permanent reminder of everything he’d survived—but she had never asked. Never really asked.

And maybe, deep down, she hadn’t wanted him to ask her.

Tony caught the flicker of realization in her eyes and turned back, a small, wry smile touching his lips. “You know,” he said, voice roughened with memory, “I had nightmares too.”

Andromeda swallowed, voice tight. “Yeah?”

He nodded, settling back against the couch cushions. “The first few months were the worst. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that cave. Smelled the sand, felt the heat, heard the gunfire all around. Didn’t matter how many times I told myself I was safe—I still woke up expecting to see Yinsen staring back at me.” His breath hitched with a sharp exhale. “And when the nightmares stopped being about me, they started being about you.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

Tony’s voice dropped, quieter now. “You were still there when I got out. I didn’t know if you were alive. Didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.” A humorless laugh escaped him, shaking his head. “Wanna know the worst part? I almost didn’t make it out of that cave. I almost died thinking you were gone.”

Andromeda’s chest constricted with a painful squeeze. She’d never looked at it from his perspective—what it must have been like to be free while she remained trapped in hell. The weight of it pressed on her throat like a stone. “Tony…”

His eyes met hers, sharp and knowing. “You’re not broken, Andy. You’re healing. And it’s gonna suck, and it’s gonna hurt, and some days it’s gonna feel like you’re drowning, but you are healing.” His voice softened, but steel threaded beneath the words. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Her jaw clenched tightly as she stared down at her trembling hands. The quivers had faded but inside she still felt like she was vibrating, nerves taut and raw.

She drew a slow, shaky breath. “What if I never stop seeing it?” she whispered, voice fragile and small. “What if it’s always there?”

Tony was silent for a long moment. Then, soft but steady, he said, “Then we figure out how to live with it.”

Her exhale was uneven, fragile, but she nodded. It wasn’t a promise, not yet. But it was something.

Tony reached over, grabbing one of the discarded cartons of food and pressing it into her hands. “Now eat.”

A laugh escaped her lips, shaky but genuine. “Bossy.”

“Damn right.”

She picked up a fry, hesitating briefly before taking a bite. Lukewarm and overly salty, but it was real. Tangible. Something outside the chaos in her mind.

She swallowed, and Tony grinned. “See? Not so hard.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes but took another bite.

Cassie smirked from the armchair. “This is kinda heartwarming. You two should have more emotional breakdowns together.”

Tony responded by tossing a fry at her.

Cassie ducked, laughter spilling free.

She finished the fry in her hand, then paused before grabbing another. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Tony’s eyes never left her, watchful as if waiting for her to bolt. When she kept eating, he relaxed, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied look.

“See? Progress,” he declared, gesturing dramatically.

Cassie smirked. “Pretty sure this is just basic survival, Stark.”

Tony scoffed. “Details.”

Andromeda let out a soft breath, almost a laugh, close enough that Tony looked momentarily victorious. She shook her head, reaching for the bottle of water on the table and taking a slow sip before setting it down.

“Cassie,” she said after a pause, glancing at her best friend. “You should go home.”

Cassie blinked, surprise flickering across her face. “What?”

“You should go back to California,” Andromeda repeated, voice steadier than she expected. “You’ve been here for weeks. You have a life, Cass. A job. I can’t keep dragging you through this.”

Cassie’s expression shifted, stubborn lines hardening her features. “Andy—”

“No.” Andromeda shook her head, exhaling slowly. “You’ve done more than enough. And I love you for it. But I need to do this with him now.” Her eyes flicked toward Tony, who watched the exchange with an unreadable look.

The room seemed to hold its breath, heavy with quiet understanding, the kind that needs no words. Cassie studied Andromeda for a long moment, her jaw working as if weighing the weight of the decision. Then she sighed, rubbing a hand over her face, the weariness showing in every line. “I hate that you’re right.”

Tony smirked, amusement flickering across his features. “I love that she’s right.”

Cassie shot him a sharp look. “Shut up, Stark.” Then, turning back to Andromeda, her eyes softened just enough to offer comfort. “You sure about this?”

Andromeda hesitated only briefly, then nodded, voice steady despite the storm inside. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Cassie exhaled through her nose, the sound quiet but resolute. “Alright. I’ll head out in the morning.”

Tony leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. “Perfect. I can reclaim my spot as the number one person annoying Andromeda on a daily basis.”

Andromeda groaned, half-laughing despite herself. “I take it back. Cassie, please stay.”

Cassie snorted, shaking her head with a grin. “Nope. Too late.”

Tony’s grin widened, the room settling into a fragile, hopeful rhythm beneath the weight of all they’d just navigated.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23

The drive home was quiet, an unfamiliar stillness settling between them like a fragile truce. Tony didn’t fill the silence with his usual running commentary or sharp-edged jokes. Instead, his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel in an absent rhythm, his eyes flicking toward her every so often—checking, as if to confirm she was still breathing. Andromeda’s gaze stayed fixed on the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of color and light, her thoughts tangled and restless like the jumble of wires and circuits she was always knee-deep in.

No implant.

She had known the possibility was real. Hell, somewhere deep beneath the surface, she’d probably expected it was inevitable. But hearing it out loud, knowing with cold certainty that her own mind and body weren’t ready for something she’d pinned so much hope on—it left a bitter, sour taste that settled heavy in her gut. Another thing she couldn’t fix. Another thing she’d have to live with, like so many others stacked up around her, piling higher than she had the strength to face.

She swallowed it down, tucked it away with the other burdens she’d shoved aside to keep moving forward.

Tony eased the car onto the long, winding driveway of the Malibu house—the sleek, white fortress perched defiantly against the cliffs, the ocean stretching wide and endless below. Home. Or at least the closest thing she had to one.

But something was wrong.

Andromeda’s brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene ahead. Scaffolding clung to the side of the house like metal vines, construction materials scattered along the driveway in careless heaps, and—was that a jagged section of the roof missing? A gaping wound carved into the structure’s bones.

She turned slowly, locking eyes with Tony, who suddenly seemed intensely interested in the dashboard.

“What the hell happened to the house?”

He cleared his throat, shifting uneasily in his seat. “So, funny story…”

Andromeda’s gaze sharpened, voice low and pointed. “Tony.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before unbuckling his seatbelt. “Okay, before you get mad—”

But she was already out of the car, the door slamming shut behind her like a challenge. The damage was worse close up—the roof’s gaping hole yawned above, concrete and steel twisted and broken, exposed beams jagged and fractured like shattered bones. Construction workers moved purposefully around the site—some tightening scaffolding, others hauling debris with grim determination. The entire side of the house looked like it had been through a war.

Andromeda spun on her heel, eyes blazing with disbelief as she jabbed a finger at the wreckage. “What. Happened.”

Tony, standing a cautious distance away, winced under her gaze. “Alright, so you remember how I was testing the suit?”

Her stomach dropped, a cold pit forming low in her abdomen. “No.”

He raised a hand in a half-apology, half-explanation. “I may have miscalculated the, uh, weight distribution during landing.”

Andromeda didn’t blink. She just stared, voice steady but icy. “Are you telling me you landed on the house?”

Tony hesitated, then nodded slowly, the words coming out carefully. “Not on the house. More like... through the house.”

Her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. “Tony.”

“In my defense,” he said, stepping forward, hands raised slightly, “I didn’t mean to land on the roof. I was aiming for a nice, smooth touchdown, but the suit’s heavier than I expected, and, well—” He gestured vaguely toward the chaos around them. “Turns out, reinforced concrete doesn’t hold up so well when you drop half a ton of metal on it at terminal velocity.”

Andromeda pressed her fingers to her temples, drawing in a slow, deep breath to steady the rising tide of frustration. “You’re telling me,” she said carefully, deliberately, “that you built a multimillion-dollar exosuit capable of flight—factored in propulsion, stabilization, aerodynamics—but forgot to double-check how much force it would take to land without obliterating the house?”

Tony pointed a finger at her with mock innocence. “See? When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad!” she shot back, voice sharp.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, as if trying to diffuse the tension. “Look, this is just a temporary setback—”

But Andromeda didn’t wait for him to finish. She was already moving, striding through the front door without a glance back, weaving past the construction workers who gave her knowing nods as she passed. She needed to see it for herself.

Tony followed, keeping a careful distance, trailing behind her as they made their way down to the basement.

The moment Andromeda stepped onto the lower level, her stomach twisted again, sinking into a pit of dread.

The destruction was worse here.

The ceiling had collapsed completely in one section, jagged chunks of concrete and twisted steel strewn across the lab floor like wreckage from some disaster. The repulsor blast from before had left scars, but this—this was devastation on another level. The entire space looked as if a meteor had crashed through it.

Andromeda pivoted slowly, eyes sweeping over the ruined walls, the overturned equipment, shards of shattered glass sparkling across her workstations like cruel confetti. Then, there it was—the massive crater gouged deep into the concrete floor, a jagged scar marking where Tony had landed.

She stared down into the impact crater, taking in the fractured concrete, the tangled rebar jutting out like broken bones, the raw devastation that turned her lab into a battlefield. The destruction was visceral, a brutal reminder of the recklessness behind it all.

Very slowly, she turned back to him.

Tony cleared his throat, suddenly looking everywhere but at her. “Okay, so maybe I came in a little hot.”

Andromeda inhaled through her nose, voice sharp and incredulous. “You fell through the house, Tony.”

“Technically, I crashed through the house.”

“Not helping.”

He let out a sharp breath, waving his hand at the mess. “Look, I already have a crew fixing it, alright? We’ll patch the roof, reinforce the structure, upgrade the basement—”

“Upgrade?” Her voice rose in disbelief.

Tony nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Since we’re already tearing things apart, might as well make improvements. I was thinking a retractable landing pad—”

“Oh my God.”

“—and maybe a reinforced testing area, so next time I don’t, you know, crater through multiple floors—”

“ Next time?! There’s going to be a next time?!”

Tony hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean… hopefully not this exact scenario again.”

Andromeda dragged a hand down her face, resisting the urge to throw something. This was their life—a constant cycle of destruction and rebuilding.

She had come home expecting to grapple with her own chaos, to figure out how to move forward after the news from Strange, to reclaim some fragile stability. Instead, she found herself standing in the ruins of her own lab, staring at the aftermath of Tony Stark’s inability to land like a normal human.

She let out a slow, shaky breath. “I swear to God, if you destroy this house one more time, I’m moving out.”

Tony scoffed. “Yeah, sure. And go where? You live in the lab.”

“Not anymore, I don’t.”

His expression faltered just a bit but quickly smoothed into a smirk. “You’re really going to leave me all alone to deal with Pepper’s disappointment? Because I promise you, she’s going to kill me when she sees this.”

Andromeda crossed her arms, arching a brow. “Good. I hope she does.”

Tony placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. “Wow. Betrayed by my own kid. That hurts.”

She groaned, shaking her head. “You are a walking disaster.”

Tony smirked, shrugging. “Yeah, but I’m a brilliant walking disaster.”

She threw her hands up. “Brilliant at destroying my stuff!”

“Okay, in fairness, this wasn’t intentional—”

“Not making it better!”

Tony held up his hands in surrender, the smirk softening just a fraction. “Alright, alright. Look, I get it. You’re pissed. You have every right to be. I’ll fix it—we’ll fix it.” His gaze flickered to hers, something more genuine flickering beneath the usual bravado. “I know things have been… a lot lately. But this? This is just concrete and metal. We can rebuild it.”

Andromeda clenched her jaw, eyes drifting over the wreckage around them. He was right. The house, the lab, even her piano—none of it compared to what she had survived already. This was nothing in the grander scheme.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples as if trying to erase the ache that pulsed there. “Fine. But if you so much as think about testing the suit inside the house again—”

Tony grinned, that infuriating, confident smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lesson learned. No more roof landings.”

She narrowed her eyes, the weight of exhaustion pressing down but the fight still flickering inside her. “Or basement landings.”

Tony raised a hand, mock solemn. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“Minor detail.”

She groaned again, frustration melting slowly into reluctant amusement despite herself.

Tony clapped his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Great. Now that that’s settled, let’s talk upgrades.”

Andromeda groaned louder this time, a dry sound tangled with weariness and something warmer. “I hate you.”

He smirked, eyes dancing with mischief. “No, you don’t.”

She sighed, turning away from the wreckage toward the remnants of her workstation, her gaze settling on the broken tools and shattered glass. “You owe me a new lab.”

Tony’s grin broadened. “And a new piano.”

Her expression darkened, voice sharp. “Not funny.”

“Little bit funny,” he shot back, dodging the swat she threw his way with a laugh that echoed lightly through the space.

She didn’t unpack right away.

The bedroom waited, exactly as she had left it—immaculate, untouched, a pristine snapshot of a life paused but not quite forgotten. The shelves were still lined with books she had meant to finish but never had. The workbench by the window sat cluttered with half-assembled tech, quiet evidence of the projects she’d abandoned. Blueprints and scrawled equations adorned the walls like ghostly reminders of a self she was still trying to reclaim.

Andromeda sank onto the bed, the weight of the day and the wreckage settling deep into her bones like a heavy fog. It was as if she’d stepped into a museum dedicated entirely to herself—each corner holding fragments of a past life she barely recognized anymore.

She lingered in the doorway for what felt like hours, breathing slowly, the press of familiarity around her folding over her like a blanket too thick, too warm. She wasn’t sure whether it comforted her or suffocated her.

Eventually, she moved.

The motions were automatic—kicking off her boots with a dull clack against the floor, peeling off her jacket and tossing it carelessly over the back of her desk chair. Her fingers pressed into her temples, rolling out the stubborn tension that knotted just beneath her skin, before she let her hands fall to her sides, exhaling through a tight throat.

Her body still ached—stiff muscles reminding her of restless nights and unrelenting worry. The neural implant hummed quietly beneath her skin, smoothing out the worst of the pain, but it couldn’t erase the bone-deep exhaustion dragging her down like an anchor.

Her eyes drifted toward the closet.

She hesitated, breath catching.

Then, with a slow, reluctant surrender curling like ice in her chest, she crossed the room and pulled the doors open.

Rows of clothing stared back, neat and unyielding. Jackets hung in perfect alignment, shirts folded with mechanical precision, pants arranged like silent sentinels of a life paused.

She hadn’t touched most of it in months.

Her fingers brushed the fabric of a familiar shirt—a soft, worn black long-sleeve she’d stolen from Tony’s closet years ago. Oversized and loose, it had always been her armor, the kind of garment that hid everything.

Her back.

The scars.

The neural implant and the cold metal plates that now traced a line down the length of her spine.

She gripped the shirt tightly, as if it might anchor her, might make her feel whole instead of a fractured body held together by memory and steel.

The scars no longer screamed the way they used to—not as loudly, anyway. That was the story she told herself. She had learned to live alongside them, to accept how her skin bore the marks of hands that had no right to touch her. Old wounds, faded, softened by time—but never forgotten.

The implant was different.

It wasn’t just another scar.

It was inside her now—permanent, unyielding. Her own creation, born from the wreckage of what came before. A design crafted to heal, to stabilize, to reclaim what her body had lost. It was supposed to restore power, to return control to a place where it had been violently ripped away.

But some days, it felt less like salvation and more like a brand—an indelible mark of everything she had endured. A quiet reminder that she had been broken enough to need fixing.

Her fingers curled tighter around the fabric of the shirt, twisting it between knuckles clenched so hard the threads strained beneath her grip.

For years, she had chosen sleeveless tops, cropped jackets, fitted designs—clothes that moved with her, breathed with her. Clothes that made her feel seen, separate from the weight of the Stark name, detached from expectations and legacy.

But now—

Now, hesitation came before every pull over her head.

Now, she reached instinctively for long sleeves, for high collars—anything to hide the reality beneath her skin.

A slow sigh escaped her lips as she rolled her shoulders, then yanked the long-sleeved shirt over her head. The fabric felt heavier than it should have, clinging to her like a second layer of armor. She tugged the hem down, smoothing the material across her torso, and turned toward the mirror.

Her reflection met her gaze.

For a moment, the woman staring back felt like a stranger.

The face was the same—sharp angles softened slightly by exhaustion, dark eyes shadowed by sleepless nights, hair still twisted into the messy bun she’d thrown up hours ago. But the posture was different. Stiffer. Guarded. Like even in the sanctuary of her own bedroom, she was bracing for impact.

Her throat tightened.

Slowly, she lifted the hem of the shirt and peeled it over her head, letting it fall onto the chair beside her. Then, with the clinical detachment she reserved for running diagnostics, she turned her back to the mirror and looked.

The implant gleamed under the soft light.

Thin metal plates traced the length of her spine, nestled between old scars and new, the surgical precision of their placement stark against the jagged wounds left by the cave. The central module sat between her shoulder blades—a sleek, small interface embedded flush with her skin, seamless—too seamless. If she didn’t know better, she might have believed it had always been a part of her.

But she knew better.

Andromeda clenched her jaw, forcing herself to keep looking.

It worked. The implant worked. Tested and refined more times than she could count. It stabilized her, compensated for damage, gave her back motion, strength, the ability to fight and simply exist in ways that would otherwise have been impossible. By every measure, it was a success.

But it was still foreign. Still wrong.

Her skin prickled at the sight of it, at the way it sat there—silent, unyielding—an intrusion she had willingly let in.

Her fingers ghosted over the central module, tracing the edge of the interface. Smooth and warm under her touch, the artificial nerve connections humming faintly beneath her fingertips. Eleanor’s code running diagnostics in the background—quiet, efficient, ever-present.

And yet, despite all the technology, despite all the advancements, it still felt like a wound.

She exhaled sharply, tearing her gaze away from the mirror.

She didn’t want to look at it anymore. Didn’t want to see how it had become part of her—how it replaced something human with something engineered.

She reached for the long-sleeved shirt again, yanking it back on with quick, forceful movements, as if covering it up would make it easier to ignore. The fabric settled over her shoulders, hiding the implant, hiding the scars, hiding everything she wasn’t ready to face.