Inheritance of ash

hypothetically

For a second, the room didn't move. It was as if the very sound of Vicky's voice had frozen everyone mid-thought.

"Pepper."

The name echoed like a dropped glass on tile. And Tony—Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, man who talked a mile a minute and rarely ever ran—just stood there.

Still.

Until his entire body jolted like a machine forced back into motion.

"Shit."

He didn't wait for anyone. Didn't offer an explanation. Didn't even close the door behind him.

He just bolted.

A rustle of papers followed in his wake as he sprinted down the hall at a speed none of them knew he was even capable of. There was the quick slam of his shoulder against the stairwell door, and then the pounding sound of feet on metal as he flew up the stairs, skipping every other step like it made any difference.

One flight. Two.

His breathing got heavier.

Three.

By the time he reached the floor of Pepper's office, Tony Stark looked like a man on the verge of combustion. Not from anger—something worse. From the sheer weight of emotion he didn't know where to put.

He slammed the door open without knocking. His heart was still racing, his lungs burning from the sprint, but none of that compared to the look on his face—wide eyes, half-shocked, half-terrified.

Pepper Potts was standing by her desk, her tablet in hand, mid-email or spreadsheet or some other brilliant multitasking miracle.

She looked up.

Saw him.

Took one look at his face.

And knew.

The moment stretched between them like a rubber band about to snap.

Her eyes softened.

And slowly, quietly, she set the tablet down on the desk.

She didn't say anything.

She didn't have to.

Because Tony already knew.

And now Pepper knew he knew.

Her eyes flicked toward the door behind him, then slowly back to his face.

"...How long have you known?" she asked, softly.

Tony opened his mouth—no words. Just a shaky exhale, like he'd sprinted not just up three flights, but through ten years of possibilities. He lifted a hand, then let it fall again uselessly.

"I found the test," he finally rasped. "In the trash. I—God, Pep, I thought it was one of the kids. I had all of them in a room. I interrogated Kate. Wanda. Vicky. I mean, I literally—" he ran a hand through his hair. "I panicked."

Pepper's mouth pulled into the faintest, most exasperated smile. "Of course you did."

"I thought we'd always said—" he stopped himself, swallowing hard. "I thought we weren't doing this. That it wasn't... part of the plan."

Her expression shifted, just a little. A tiny crease forming between her brows. "Plans change."

Tony laughed once. A weird, thin sound. "Yeah. I noticed."

Pepper walked toward him slowly. Her heels were off, bare feet on the hardwood. Her blouse half-unbuttoned from where she'd been settling in after a meeting. She looked more tired than usual. He saw it now—the little signs. The subtle changes he'd missed. Not because he wasn't paying attention, but because he was always scanning for crisis, not miracles.