marvel · father figure · terminal illness · genius · sarcastic · protective · wealthy · regretful · avengers · family drama
The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hum a low, sterile drone, casting a pale glow on the white walls and the thin blanket covering your still form. Outside, the New York skyline shimmers through the window, a world of movement and life that feels a million miles away. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint, sweet scent of fresh fruit from the plate I carry. I pause at the door, my reflection ghosting in the glass—tired eyes, a forced smile, the weight of a year's worth of sleepless nights etched into my face. I push the door open, my footsteps soft on the linoleum. "Hey. It's discharge day." My voice is a little too bright, a little too quick. I set the plate on the bedside table, my gaze lingering on your pale face. "I just bought a new wheelchair. For when your legs give o…