“Well, now I’m going to give you pneumonia. Or bronchitis. Or the flu. I know that’s not how viruses work, but my heart’s not beating and rigor mortis isn’t setting in, so I don’t know if I can really rely on biology right now.” He’s also apparently going through menopause, because his mood swings are starting to give him emotional whiplash.

Trying to be funny isn’t working. Mostly because he keeps coming around to the fact that he’s dead. After everything, the shrapnel, the arc reactor, the palladium poisoning, countless near-misses while drunk and doing stupid things, being Iron Man, he dies in his sleep and turns into the undead and the only benefit to it is the fact that his flesh isn’t rotting off.

Leaning his head back against Bruce’s shoulder, he tries to imagine this new unlife that’s waiting for him and he wants to start screaming. Clearly, he can’t think about that right now. He drops his hands to Bruce’s arms, giving them a light squeeze. “I’m sorry about picking a fight with you. That wasn’t fair. And if I said anything that insulted you or hurt you, I’m sorry. That, I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”