Chapter Text
He watched, peripherally aware that the rest of the world was watching too. His countrymen, most of whom shared his deep anxiety. The majority more keenly as they were under direct threat of subjugation.
He never would have thought a year ago that exile would see him safer than being at home. In his country. Of which he was now King.
A powerless King.
His hands ran through his hair once more, spiking it, greasing it. Legs twitching up and down, nervous energy demanding movement, but he stayed glued to the screen.
His father was dead.
Images of a well preserved body, laying in state.
The camera pans to show a kneeling figure, head bowed in deference.
The Chief Counsel become the chief mourner.
'More like admiring his handiwork' bitterly thought as his nails dug deep into his thighs.
The official press release commentary pontificating a reign of decades, leadership in a bygone era, tragedy, betrayal...
A regency.
'REGENCY!?!' Enraged indignation propels him from his perched position.
A hand on his shoulder, a voice calling to him, all lost against the sound of the blood thrumming through him, the panicked in/out of his breathing.
Two soft hands on either side of his face draw him back, warm eyes he knows so well shine with love, and unshed tears.
'Tony. Its ok, it'll be ok'. A mantra repeated through the room from his stalwart friends, his fellow exiles.
Rage gives way to despair.
The last few months exhausted feeling of treating water suddenly hits him. He's failed. Failed and others will pay the price.
He needs to help them. He needs help them get back home. He needs to help stop the murders and the ruin of his country.
He needs help.
~
He watched, he could hear the machine beeping but he still, irrationally, needed to watch the ventilator deliver each breath. Making sure life reached his mother, even as her cancer-riddled body fought against it.
She looked so small, frail in a way he couldn't reconcile with her. It was wrong.
Wrong that she wasn't enjoying an old age of rest. Wrong he could do nothing to help her especially with the memories of her nursing him in his own weak years.
He was desperate to scream, to throw the clinical pristine furniture across the room until it splintered like every emotion he was desperately, yet futilely, trying to hold together.
A knock at the door gave him the excuse to move, but brought its own new fear. If it was the hospital billing liaison again, well, he was out of excuses.
Squaring himself against the predicted onslaught of overdue invoices, interest, and fucking loan pamphlets, all discussed with an insincere smile of pity, he opened the door to see only his best friend.
In his relief, he fell straight into open arms. A tight hug, a gruff moment to pull himself back together.
'It'll be ok Stevie, it'll be ok.'
He nods, but the surgeon’s advice is ringing through his head, and the cost. Oh God the cost.
He needs to help her. He needs help to pay for this treatment. He needs help to save his mom's life.
He needs help.