"Go I will wait for you in the visitors seat." Tony said as he was hell bent on taking him away and thus was ready to help him, besides he didn't have anything else to do right now. His death was coming close and this was a good respite.
Inside, it was all fluorescent chaos. A nurse guided him to the maternity wing after some quick convincing—and a little name-dropping. "She's in Room 612. They just started prepping her. You can go in. She asked for you."
Marcus opened the door slowly.
Mia was already hooked up to monitors, her face flushed, her hands clenched tight around the thin sheet draped across her knees. She looked up, and when she saw him, she exhaled like she'd been holding her breath since the ambulance.
"You came," she whispered.
"Told you I would," he said, stepping in.
He took her hand. It was clammy, trembling slightly.
"I'm scared, Marcus."
"So am I," he said honestly.
The next hour blurred. Nurses moved like clockwork. A doctor came in, checked progress, gave updates in a calm voice that did nothing to stop the panic climbing behind Marcus's ribs. He'd fought off gang members. He'd stitched up his own wounds with a needle meant for denim. But this? Watching someone you care about scream in pain, breathe in desperate rhythm, clutch your hand like it's the last lifeline—this was a different kind of fight.
At one point, Mia screamed so loud it seemed to rattle the ceiling tiles. Marcus didn't flinch. He leaned in, his voice low and steady.
"You're doing great. You're strong. Just a little more."
And then—life. A piercing, wet cry filled the room, shrill and furious and undeniably alive. A boy. The nurse announced it with a smile, placing the newborn on Mia's chest after a quick cleaning. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked at him, overwhelmed and breathless.
Marcus stayed rooted at her side, watching the tiny thing squirm and wail. His throat tightened. Something twisted in his chest—not pain, not joy exactly, but something old and deep and raw. Like awe.
He'd never felt more small. Or more needed.
"Want to hold him?" Mia asked, looking up at him with watery eyes.
Marcus blinked, then nodded slowly. The nurse guided the bundle into his arms. He held the boy like he might break—so careful, so still. The baby quieted slightly, staring up with unfocused eyes.
"He's got your frown," Marcus muttered.
Mia laughed through her tears.
The nurse gently took the baby back to run a few quick checks, and Marcus stepped aside, brushing a hand down his face. The room was still spinning—emotionally, not literally—but he managed a shaky breath.
"I'll give you both a minute," he said softly to Mia. She nodded.
"Thank you, Marcus. For being here."
He gave a small smile, touched her shoulder gently, then stepped out into the hallway.
Tony was still there, leaning back in the plastic visitor chair like he was in a private lounge, flipping through a medical pamphlet titled Postpartum Recovery: What You Should Know with a raised eyebrow.
"Kid alright?" he asked, without looking up.
Marcus nodded. "Yeah. Screamed like a banshee. He's perfect."
"Good. I hate quiet babies. Creepy as hell."
Marcus gave a breath of a laugh. "Back in a sec. Nature's calling."
Tony saluted lazily, watching him head down the hall.
Marcus disappeared around the corner toward the restroom, finally able to take a moment for himself—body on autopilot, adrenaline finally draining. He braced a hand against the tile wall, breathing out hard.
Outside, the hallway remained calm for all of a minute. Then the elevator doors dinged open. A man in his early thirties stormed out. Disheveled. Angry. Eyes searching. He clutched a crumpled hospital admissions paper in one hand.
"Where's Mia Carter?" he barked.
"She's in Room 612. But sir—"
He was already moving. Tony, still seated, glanced up from his pamphlet. The man's pace, the tension in his shoulders—none of it read right. The guy slowed just slightly when he passed the waiting chairs and finally noticed the billionaire in the designer sunglasses. Recognition lit up in his face like a fuse line catching fire.
"You!" the man snapped, pointing. "You're Tony Stark."
Tony lifted an eyebrow. "Most days."
"You here for her?" His voice was rising. "You here for Mia?" Tony didn't even have time to answer before the man snarled.
"Of course you are. She always wanted the flashy life. Knew it. Always knew she was a damn gold-digging whore!"
Tony straightened slightly, but didn't move. "You might want to rethink your next sentence."
"Don't act like you're innocent. Showing up here like you're some savior. You think just because you've got money, people won't talk? She's still my wife!"
And then the man swung. Fist. Full speed. Tony didn't duck. Didn't have time. The punch caught him across the jaw with a sharp crack, and he stumbled back into the chair with a grunt. The pamphlet fluttered to the floor.
The nurses were shouting now. A security guard down the hall had already started running.
"I'll ruin you!" the man yelled, flailing now, pushing past the startled nurse toward Mia's door. "She's mine, not some charity case you get to sleep with because you feel guilty!"
Before he could get close, the guard intercepted him. Another nurse blocked the door with her arms wide.
"Sir, step back! This is a maternity ward!"
Marcus came running around the corner just in time to see the man being shoved against the wall, security restraining his arms. He looked from Tony, who was rubbing his jaw and a small bloodied lip.
"What the hell—?"
"Your friend, me, just got punched in the face by someone with a very colorful vocabulary," Tony muttered. "And, apparently, a deep misunderstanding of the situation." The man was still shouting, voice hoarse now.
"You don't get to raise my kid! You hear me?! You don't get to take her from me!"