There wasn't anything beside keep going. There never really had been.
And keep going had Natasha and Tony clinging to each other on the far side of a house that didn't obey the laws of space or time while looking at pictures of a little girl that was some other Tony's. Some Tony who had learned stop and taken the time to get and have what he wanted. A Tony that took naps in public spaces and could look peaceful while doing so, mirrored perfectly by a tiny version of himself.
The video he hadn't expected, not at all, and there was something that hurt terribly knowing what her voice sounded like, and that he had a nickname for her that was private and probably some sort of in-joke and Tony -- this Tony in there here and now -- would never, ever understand or know why.
"Goddamnit," he murmured, tilting his head to breathe into Natasha's neck again because he couldn't look at that mischievous little smile anymore. "Of course. Of course she's good at numbers." A child that young who understood the complexity of grading scales with sliding numbers had to be his, because -- well. It only made sense.