Pepper didn't think of the man draped over James's arm as a corpse, or she didn't think of him (it) as Tony. It was as simple as that, the two concepts could not elide or mix, oil and water. It was the only way to maintain composure as Tony jolted along like a slit-stringed puppet at James's side, his neck slack. She watched, because she had to. Because she couldn't imagine when time would unpause from the shock of the freezing water flooding through the lab, from seeing him still and dull and light-less.
When she would have to deal with all of it.
So no, Pepper followed. She clung to James's heels like a misshapen shadow, silent and her face narrow and angular and sheet-white behind the drenched red hair. It dripped, slowly down her shoulder-blades, a slick shiny trail on the floor of the building they walked into.
It felt like it had been abandoned, only minutes before. It looked like it was inhabited but the air was too still, and the women who sat curled into one another like kittens on the couch didn't look as if this was theirs. Pepper did not know whether to look for weapons, but she was used to assessing situations quickly, for the danger to a reputation rather than to a life.
"No," she said quietly, but it felt important, sharp in her throat. "Please. If you can, the couch." The table felt like -- like an autopsy. The dissonance of the body would not be contained if it was Tony whose head was tipped back, who was supplicant to a doctor and (Pepper refused to think about knives).
"Can you help?" Her voice was hoarse, it rasped; Pepper twisted her fingers together until the knuckles went waxy-white. She didn't notice. "Please." She was an echo of the women on the couch without realizing, grief worn like skin.