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Chapter Text

Titan is alien.

Tony had known that, of course. It comes with the territory when commandeering a spaceship and taking the fight to an alien enemy. But in the midst of the urgency and adrenaline and hope he hadn’t felt it. There hadn’t been time.

Now, hunched in the rust-orange dirt, the whisper of an apology ringing in his ears, the utter foreignness of his surroundings is overwhelming. Dry air sucks at the tears streaking his face; his hands, darkened by a substance his mind won’t acknowledge, look unfamiliar in the unnatural light. He’s drained: of urgency, of adrenaline —

(I’m sorry.)

—  of hope.

The edges of his thoughts go black, and he doesn’t bother to fight it.

***

When he comes to, the sky is dark. It’s bitingly cold; his body aches against hard ground. For a distorted moment he’s back in a cave in Afghanistan. Then his brain catches up to the dizzyingly unfamiliar stars. There’s a metallic tinge in the air that he’s never smelled before. This isn’t Afghanistan, it’s not Earth. Pain worse than any shrapnel clenches his chest as he’s flooded with the memory of the boy he’d promised he’d protect dusting away on the wind of this foreign planet.

He gasps; gasps again; his lungs refuse the air as panic clenches at every muscle in his body. This can’t be right. This isn’t right.

Maybe it isn’t Titan that’s alien. Maybe it’s the universe he now lives in.

(The universe without Peter)

His mind screams and shuts down again.

***

This time he’s awakened by a sharp jab at his side. Another. He blinks away the blur of lingering tears, and a blue face clarifies in front of him. A stranger frowns down at him, expression heightened by lines of metal glistening in the sun. No — not a stranger. She had fought with them, blazing into battle unannounced. She had been the declarer of nightmares, the one who voiced a reality too terrible to accept.

(He did it.)

Tony groans and shuts his eyes, but another insistent jab of the stranger’s foot just below his ribcage stops him from drifting off. He groans again and waves her away.

“Get up.” Her voice is brisk and businesslike. “We have work to do.”

Tony’s mind grasps at a quip but comes up blank. He reluctantly pulls himself to sitting, muscles burning with the effort. His entire body is a bruise. He takes the hand offered to him, allowing himself to be hauled, stumbling, to his feet. For a moment, he and his expressionless companion eye each other in silence.

“Hi,” he eventually begins. His voice is horse and sounds broken, even to himself, as if his body is determined to manifest the gnawing despair settling across his heart. “I’m Tony. Stark.” As if the name should mean anything so many millions of miles from home. The blue woman — android? It’s hard to tell — doesn’t register recognition.

“Nebula,” she offers. “Gamora’s sister.”

Why does everyone think he should know Gamora? The pain that flits across Nebula’s face keeps him from voicing the thought. Right. Whoever Gamora was, she’s dead. He flashes back to Quill screaming in rage. To the panic he felt while pulling desperately at the gauntlet. To Peter at his side, whispering, “We’ve got this, Mr. Stark. We’ve got this.”

(Peter.)

A wave of nausea hits him; he swallows hard to keep from gagging. He should keep the conversation moving, but he has nothing to say. No focus for anything but fighting back tears.

Fortunately, Nebula doesn’t seem to care. After a few beats of silence she adds flatly, “We need to repair my ship. Are you any good with your hands?”

All Tony can do is nod.

***

They work through the day. Nebula seems pleased when she discovers that despite being out of his depth when confronted with the science behind her engine’s power source, Tony is more than capable of handling repairs to the ship’s flight mechanism without much guidance. They each settle into a separate job, mostly silent except for the odd question from Tony when he hits an unfamiliar device.

He lets himself sink into his tasks, the familiar comfort of disappearing into small puzzle after small puzzle engulfing him as he pieces the ship back together.

This should be exciting. The thought nips at the back of his mind as he hammers out a dent with a rock. He’s repairing an alien spaceship with an alien rock. That is so cool!

When did the part of his brain that can never resist a scientific challenge start to sound like Peter?

(Peter, who disintegrated in his arms. Peter, whose eyes will never again light up at a new piece of tech. Peter, who’s gone.)

His heart contracts. The urge to vomit hits him again, stronger than before. He drops the rock and leans against the side of the craft, sucking in deep breaths, mind scrambling. It takes minutes of heaving to regain his composure.

He’ll have to deal with that reaction later. Right now, he can’t begin to parse it. Instead, he forces his thoughts back to his work. If he doesn’t think about it, maybe he can at least stay conscious.

***

The sun is just starting to lower, casting an eerie red glimmer across the landscape, when Nebula declares they are finished. Tony is pretty sure this day has lasted at least twenty hours, but there’s no way to check. It’s not like time matters anymore. (It’s not like anything matters.) Exhaustion runs so deep he doesn’t notice it.

He stands back to admire their work. The small craft is battered, but all the pieces are in place.

“So, where to, Blue?” he asks, voice dry and cracking from lack of water but a little more confident than it had been when he first woke. As if he’s starting to get used to this version of the world. The thought makes his heart ache.

Nebula’s eyes blaze as she turns to him. “I am going to find my father, and I am going to kill him for what he has done to the universe. And for what he did to Gamora.”

“Your father—” Comprehension dawns, and Tony knows something in him has broken, because he can’t find the emotional space to be surprised. “And I thought I had daddy issues.” When his strange companion blinks back without reacting to the joke, he adds, “Any chance you’re willing to give me a ride home first?”

“Every moment wasted is a moment Thanos is not paying for his crimes.”

“Okay, fair.” What exactly does he have to go home to, anyway? Well, Pepper. (Maybe. If she’s still alive.) The other Avengers. (Maybe. If they’re still alive.) May. If May is still alive, he has to tell her. Peter would want that. He has to. He can’t let him down. (Not again.) “But the last place we know that bastard went was Earth. Seems like a good place to start looking.”

Nebula tilts her head, considering the point. Finally, she nods.

Relieved, Tony follows her onto the ship. It’s small, and cramped, not really meant for two, but she gestures him towards the single bunk and he immediately collapses, grateful to disappear into sleep.  

***

He jerks awake in a cold sweat, sits up so quickly his head spins. Nebula observes him from a chair just a few feet away. Between them is a small metal table unfolded from the wall, on it a bottle and two metal cups filled with pale green liquid. Wordlessly, she pushes one in his direction.

Too stunned and shaken to question why she was watching him sleep, he picks up the offering and sniffs. The unmistakable stench of alcohol punches him. His throat contracts with need; he’s not supposed to be drinking but, well, what exactly is the point? He downs the entire drink, wincing at the burn. Nebula refills his cup. 

“That obvious, huh?” he asks ruefully, taking another long gulp.

“You did not seem to be sleeping well.”

Fragments of his dreams — the bright smile he already misses, the agony of the disappearing body he couldn’t save — hit him fresh. He lets out a strained laugh and finishes the drink. “You’re not wrong.”

His companion remains expressionless, but her unnerving black eyes don’t leave his face. Tony suspects there’s something like sympathy lurking beneath the intensity of that gaze. Or at least understanding. She lost someone, too.

“So,” he says. “Thanos is your dad?” Nebula nods and takes a swig of her own drink. “That can’t have been fun.”

“He used to pit me against my sister,” she hisses with a burst of emotion so sudden it gives him whiplash. “Every time I lost, he would replace another part of me. He ripped the eye out of my head. He ripped the brain out of my body. He left me in a trap to teach me a lesson.” She throws her cybernetic limb onto the table. “I was forced to cut off my own arm with a knife.”

That was more than he’d bargained for. He refills his cup as he struggles to formulate a response.

“Yeah, well, my dad didn’t tell me he loved me enough. Really fucked me up. Lots of intimacy issues.” He adds a smile to emphasize the joke. For a moment, he’s afraid he’s chosen entirely the wrong tactic, but then Nebula lets out a barking laugh. “But seriously,” he adds, voice softening. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful.”

Nebula draws her arm back, wraps her hand around her cup, and glances down, occupied with her thoughts for a moment. And another moment. Long enough for Tony’s mind to start to drift back towards Titan, towards a loss so consuming he can’t face it. (I don’t feel so good.)

Panic grips at his chest, but Nebula saves him from the impending spiral by speaking again.

“I hated Gamora for so long.” Her voice is quieter, rage replaced with breathtaking notes of sorrow. Her gaze remains steadfastly fixed on the table. “I blamed her for never letting me win. I wasted so many years…” She lets the thought trail off.

Huh.

“Wait, so, Gamora was your sister?” A nod. “And Thanos killed her? Sorry for the twenty questions, just trying to sort out the emotional landscape here.”

Another nod. She grips at her cup so hard Tony can hear the scratch of metal-on-metal. 

“I can see why you want to kill him.”

She glances up. “What about you?”

His heart misses a beat. That isn’t a direction he’s prepared to go in. “Don’t try to change the subject. I thought this was more of a me getting to know you kind of a conversation. We were making such good progress.”

Nebula seems unfazed by his rambling. “Who’s Peter?” she presses.

The name is a knife to his heart. “I—he—uh,” he hears himself stutter as blind panic nips at any sense of control he has left.

“You were shouting his name in your sleep,” she explains. “Is he the boy who died on Titan?”

Died. The word takes his breath away. He’d known it, of course. Had known it since the moment Peter stumbled towards his arms. (Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good.) But it’s different out loud. He digs nails into his wrist to ground himself and nods.

“Yeah. That was Peter.” He takes another long drink. Didn’t alcohol used to make him feel better? The fuzzy warmth as he swallows is still the same, but it doesn’t seem to penetrate the cold blanket that has settled around his heart. Maybe alien alcohol is different. (Maybe nothing can help.)

“Was he your son?”

“No.” He remembers Strange’s puzzlement over the nature of their relationship. Peter’s indignation at being called his ward. Adorable was the word that had flashed through his mind at the time. The memory makes him want to sob. “No, he definitely wasn’t my son.”

“Your lover?”

It’s like a lightning bolt.

He stammers a denial — “What? He was a teenager!” — but it’s like a piece has been slipped into place. The word that has been hovering in the back of his mind materializes: Heartbreak.  

He is heartbroken over Peter Parker.

As soon as he thinks it, he knows it’s right. The panic that has been circling him since the moment Peter fell away suddenly clarifies.

(What the fuck.)

Somewhere in the background of his buzzing thoughts he hears an unconcerned, “So?”

It takes a moment to realize Nebula is responding to his comment. That apparently out here, the idea that he and his teenaged protégé could have been lovers doesn’t seem odd. (Or maybe it’s just her. It doesn’t sound like she was raised with healthy relationship role models.) (And now he’s just trying to distract himself.) (What the fuck.) He hears his name, drags his mind back into focus.

“I—sorry.” He realizes there are tears running down his face. When did that happen? He brushes them away. “No, we weren’t lovers.”

He sighs and rubs his eyes clear. Nebula’s face has gone soft; the expression looks strange and wrong, like she doesn’t get much practice at it. It’s such an intimate moment, Tony finds himself confessing before he can stop it: “But I think I may have loved him. I—I didn’t know.” 

Nebula reaches out towards him like she might grab his hand, but then pulls back.

“I guess we were both too late.”

Without another word, she rises from her seat and disappears to another part of the ship, leaving Tony to down the rest of the bottle on his own.

Chapter Text

Tony has Nebula drop him off on a football field in Queens. She tosses him a transmitter, promises — at his insistence — to let him know before she leaves the planet, waves a stiff goodbye, then retreats back inside her ship and launches away, speeding off to Wakanda, where she’s picked up a signal from someone she referred to as “the rodent.”

He knows he should go home. He’s been missing for days, he’s covered in the grime of another planet, he hasn’t really been sober since that first drink on Nebula’s craft. He should shower, change, regain his bearings. Maybe figure out what has happened on Earth since half the universe went up in ash, little details like that. But he can’t face it. Can’t face Pepper, if she’s there. Can’t face the physical reminder of his life before.

Before Titan, after Titan: that’s how his time is counted, now.

Besides, it’s already been days since — well. It’s already been days. May deserves to know as soon as possible. She deserved to know the moment it happened, she deserved to be with Peter when he went. Peter deserved to be with her, too, to be comforted by the woman who raised him, not whipped away on foreign winds with his pathetic excuse for a mentor helpless to change it. But there’s nothing he can do about that. May not knowing he can fix.

The sun is just tipping over the horizon as he sets off. The field is almost two miles from Peter’s apartment, but a straight shot, easy to navigate, and he could use the walk to sober up. The air is crisp, bordering on cold. It smells familiar, the scents of earth: freshly cut grass, morning dew, trash waiting to be collected. The feel of concrete under his feet, passing rows of cozy brick houses, is surreal. It’s so early, it’s easy to excuse the emptiness as sleepy silence. If he doesn’t think about it too much he can almost convince himself everything is okay, that it was all a sick nightmare. 

(That he isn’t too late.)

But that’s fantasy, and truth comes crashing back when he reaches a commercial street. A few diligent shop owners are already out, pulling open storefronts and sweeping sidewalks. They look up as he passes, and he sees the horror of Thanos’s destruction reflected in their faces: heavy bags under eyes, poorly combed hair, a general air of bone-deep sorrow. He knows he must cut a surprising figure, world-famous hero sulking through Queens at dawn, but they barely seem curious.

“You’re alive,” an older man comments, pausing from wiping down the window of his bodega long enough to fix Tony with an accusatory glare, as if to say, much good that does anybody.

Tony just nods an acknowledgement and quickly shuffles on, before he says something he regrets. (Like: Yeah, and I hate myself for it more than you ever could.) (Or: Yeah, but I lost the most important person in my world.) (Or: Yeah, and I’d give anything to trade my life for his.)

By the time he reaches Peter’s apartment building the sun has risen completely. It’s early, but probably not so early that May isn’t awake. In fact, after a year spent negotiating with her over Peter’s Spider-Man duties — training routines and lab time balanced against school work and He’s still a kid, mister, don’t you forget it — he flatters himself that he understands how she operates, and he highly suspects she has barely slept at all in the last few days. The door to the building is locked, so he hits the buzzer. A few seconds later the intercom hums to life.

“Peter?” May’s voice comes through crackling and muffled. “Peter, is that you?”

The reality of his situation hits him: Showing up unannounced, unwashed, reeking of booze and sweat, to deliver the worst news possible. News that makes him want to down an entire bottle of vodka every time he lets it settle in his mind. News that he’s not even sure he’ll be able to say out loud, now that the moment is here.

And she has no idea he’s coming. She still thinks this could be Peter. What the fuck is he doing?

But she keeps calling Peter’s name, edge of frantic hope apparent even through the shoddy speakers. He can’t leave now. He hits the intercom button.

“No, it’s Tony. Stark.”

This announcement is met with several seconds of painful silence, seconds that stretch long enough for Tony to wonder if she’s not going to let him up. But then here’s a hum and click, and he’s able to push the door open.

He feels the nip of panic as he enters the elevator and hits the button to Peter’s floor. He’s reminded of the first time he did this, back when a falling out with Captain America seemed like the worst thing in the world, when recruiting a kid (a kid, what had he been thinking?) to fight by his side in Germany seemed like a reasonable lark. How arrogant he’d been. When the doors open at Peter’s floor his chest constricts, he has to concentrate to breath. No. No anxiety attacks, not now. He has to do this.

May answers the door on his first knock. Her face is blank. Not emotionless, but the opposite, as if there are so many emotions fighting under the surface no single one can win out. She’s wearing a pink duster over flannel pajamas, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She definitely hasn’t slept, and probably hasn’t showered either. At least he’s not the only one who’s a mess.

She steps to the side so he can enter, then shuts the door and turns, taking him in. Her eyes dart all over, noticing the dirt, the bloodstains. Her expression is pinched when she meets his eyes.

“Well?” she finally asks. Accusatory, but also pleading: Give me good news.

“He—” The words don’t come. (Please, I don’t want to go.) He swallows and tries again. He owes Peter this. “I’m sorry, May.”

Her breath catches, her chin trembles. He expects her to crumple into tears, or maybe come at him, fists flying. Instead, after a moment, she just nods, sharply, as if she was prepared for this.

“Okay,” she says, slowly. Controlled, but barely. “And where the fuck was he?”

Ah. There’s the anger, quietly burning off every word.

“He was with me,” Tony admits.

“With you.” She sounds so completely unsurprised. And also like she wants to murder him. “In space? The news said you went to space. Was he in space?”

“Well… Yeah. Yeah, we were in space.” Saying it out loud, it sounds ridiculous, outlandish. He rushes to add detail, words rolling out in a ramble as he tries to shape the story of how Peter ended up on Titan into something resembling sense. “We went to Thanos’s home planet, to try to catch him off guard. Element of surprise. Oh, sorry, why would you know—Thanos is the one who—who—”

(Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good.)

He stops short, words sticking in his throat, and gestures vaguely. May stares at him in disbelief.

“Let me get this straight,” she says, voice rising. “You took my teenaged nephew to an alien planet to fight a genocidal maniac?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very good,” he quips before his brains can catch up. (Why would he say that?) (Is he entirely sure he’s sober?) (Fuck.) His hands start to shake; he crosses his arms to hide them. “In my defense, I did not want him there.”

May lets out a hollow laugh.

“In your defense,” she repeats, incredulous. “So he just decided to hop on a spaceship for the fun of it? Why was he anywhere near the situation?”

“Field trip? Look, I don’t know. He showed up out of nowhere while I was in the middle of trying to stop another alien invasion in New York, he jumped in, and then he—” And then Tony told him to follow Strange. He never would have been near the ship if it weren’t for those instructions. He digs his fingers into his sides in a futile attempt to stop the trembling. “I tried to send him back, I really did, but you know Peter.”

“Oh yes, I know Peter.” She takes a step forward, crowding his space. “I know that he worshiped you. Of course he followed you into space. He’d follow you anywhere. And I know that you knew that.” She jabs at his chest plate. “And I know that you promised you’d keep him safe. So explain to me why, exactly, didn’t you send his butt to the other side of Manhattan the moment he showed up?”

“Because—” Tony steps backward, trying to find room to breathe. He hits a table and leans into it, grateful for the support. Why hadn’t he sent Peter away? Because he needed the backup, probably.

(Or because his heart had leapt the moment he saw that small red figure join the action.)

(Because he loved to fight alongside him.)

(Because suddenly, he hadn’t felt so alone.)

“Because I’m an idiot.”

May huffs disdainfully. “Yeah, no shit.”

Tense silence drops over them. May crosses her arms to match his, glaring, as if challenging him to figure out something to say next that won’t make her even angrier.

Man, is he fucking this up. He should have practiced. Prepared remarks, right? Pepper is always telling him about the value of prepared remarks. He was never good with the rehearsed stuff, though. Winging it is more his style.

(Winging it ended up on Titan, Peter disappearing from his embrace.)

The shaking has moved from his hands down his arms; his entire chest feels tight. He needs to say something. He can’t just stand here. He can’t have a meltdown in front of Peter’s aunt. That wouldn’t be fair. It isn’t fair.

“None of this is fair,” he hears himself say. Wait, that wasn’t supposed to be out loud. But May is looking at him in surprise, so he keeps going. “I know that. I know it’s not right that he was a million miles away. He should have been here. He should have been with you. And it’s not fair that he was the one who—” He swallows, clenching his hands into tight fists. “If it had been up to me, if Thanos had said you or him, it wouldn’t have taken me even a second to decide. Not a second. But it wasn’t. It was just… random. Just cruel and random and unfair.”

May’s stance shifts. She no longer looks ready to pounce, but she still doesn’t say anything. Tony barrels on before the silence gets awkward, before it all catches up to him and he loses the will to talk.

“He was amazing, May.” For a moment, he lets himself remember: Peter, grabbing Strange from space; Peter, piloting the ship; Peter, flying at Thanos, fearless. “He didn’t miss a beat. He followed me onto a spaceship, and it was like it didn’t even phase him. He came up with a plan when I couldn’t. He fought well. He protected the people we were with. Actually, they were aliens, mostly, and one man-child — never mind, that doesn’t matter. The point is: he was smart, and brave, and loyal. The whole time. It’s Peter, of course he was. And he survived.”

He pauses, takes a deep breath. (Is this helpful?) (Is it what she wants to hear?) (Now that he’s going, could he stop even if he wanted to?)

“He survived, and then he just disappeared in front of me. Like that.” He snaps his fingers. “He crumbled to dust in my arms. He—he died on an alien planet with only me to comfort him, and I know that’s wrong. I know it’s my fault. I’d say you can’t possibly hate me for it more than I do, but that feels insulting. I have no idea how much you can hate me. I assume quite a lot. But know I’m right there with you, sister. I get it.”

(I love him.)

“You have no idea how much I get it. I know ‘sorry’ doesn’t mean anything, so just hear this: I loved your nephew, and I failed him, and there isn’t going to be a single day that goes by where I don’t think about that.”

There won’t be, he realizes. He hadn’t really registered it until it came tumbling out of his mouth, but he is going to think about Titan every day for the rest of his life. He wishes he had a drink to down, or maybe just someplace to pass out.

“That was quite the speech,” May finally says. Tears cut tracks down her cheeks, but her voice is cold. “And I guess I appreciate that you came to tell me.”

“As soon as I got back,” Tony jumps in, suddenly eager for her to know how important this had been. As if that might redeem how much of a mess he’s made of it. As if it could make her understand how he treasured Peter. “I came right here. I haven’t even been home.”

“Yeah, I hate to break it to you, but that was obvious.” She fixes him with a frown that makes it clear she is unimpressed by his urgency.

“Oh.” He’s a disaster. An obvious disaster. “Sorry. I didn’t want you to wait any longer than you had to.”

“You meant well,” she says, sounding exhausted. She runs a hand across her face with a sigh. “You always meant well. But I’m still going to ask you to get the fuck out of my apartment and never come back.”

It’s like a slap, and before he can grasp a response she pulls the door open and gestures for him to leave. The movement has such finality it smacks back his urge to protest. But he can’t resist turning when he enters the hall, catching the door before she can close it.

“Any expense,” he urges. “For the funeral or—anything. I’ll cover it. It’s the least I can do.”

May yanks door shut without a reply.

***

Back on the street, the sun is on full blast. It’s getting warm, the promise of a perfect spring day. It makes Tony want to crawl out of his skin. For the first time since Peter’s death, he activates the Iron Man suit, panic subsiding as he’s closed off from the world, cocooned in his familiar shell.

With a staticky hiss, F.R.I.D.A.Y. buzzes to life in his ear.

“Welcome back, Mr. Stark,” she says, sounding more relieved than she should be able to feel. “I’m very glad to see you’re alive.”

“Well, that makes one person,” he replies. “Is Pepper…?”

“Miss Potts survived The Incident,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. reports cheerfully. “As did Colonel Rhodes.”

A small part of the knot in his chest loosens at the good news, but only a small part. The relief is there, but he can barely feel it. Maybe he’s just tired. (That’s not why.) (God, he needs a drink.)

“Where are they?” he asks.

“They are both at the Avengers compound, coordinating recovery. And waiting for news of you, sir,” she adds. “Shall I chart you a path back to the compound?”

And then what? Tell them about Titan? Tell them about Peter? He can’t have this conversation again.

(How is he going to look Pepper in the eye?)

“No,” he decides. “Let’s go to my apartment in the city. And Fri? Don’t tell Pepper I’m back yet.”

“Whatever you want, boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. agrees, but the hint of disapproval is unmistakable.

“Yeah, well, welcome to the club,” Tony mutters as he takes off.

***

Being back in their apartment is weirder than he expected, and he expected it to be pretty weird. Clean lines and cool modern colors, little personal touches strategically scattered in by Pepper: it all seems so foreign. Last time he was here, he was dreaming of children, of a happy settled life, and now —

(Does he even still love her?)

(He must, right? Part of him?)

(All he can feel is heartbreak.)

He finds the vodka and doesn’t stop drinking until his brain shuts up.

***

He wakes, sprawled on the couch, with pain radiating down his back from the awkward position. Bright sun cuts across the apartment: it’s the middle of the day. He’s far, far too old for this.

He grumbles his way to sitting. He’s still in his Titan clothing, and managed to stain the white couch. Great. Okay, shower. He can at least do that. But as he starts to rise, half empty bottle rolling to the floor, he notices a message flashing across his coffee table. It’s from May. He collapses back and opens it.

The funeral is on Friday¸ it reads. You’re not paying for anything, and don’t take this to mean I forgive you. But he’d want you to be there. So, be there. And he’d want you to say something. So, say something. And actually prepare this time.

Funeral.

She wants him to say something.

At Peter’s funeral.

He retrieves the bottle from the floor, shower forgotten. 

Chapter Text

Tony wakes up wanting to vomit, memory blurry but throbbing headache telling him everything he needs to know. He’d managed to undress and make it to his bed, at least. He’ll count that as a success. But showering had apparently eluded him.

He drags himself to the bathroom, regretting every drop of water he clearly didn’t drink last night. He can’t avoid catching his reflection in the giant mirror over the sink. Jesus, he looks rough: hair matted and slick with oil, face pale and gaunt except for the deep bags under his eyes. Angry purple bruises and raised red cuts weave a splotchy tapestry across his torso.

He visited May like this? No wonder she’d kicked him out.

He turns the shower as high as it can go; it thunders painfully in his ears as he waits for it to heat up, an unfortunate side-effect of the hangover. (Every sense dialed to eleven.) (Is this how Peter felt all the time?)

He lets the bathroom fill with steam before finally stepping in. He turns to face the showerhead, tilting his face back and standing motionless, letting the smack of water against body engulf him. It runs down his back, stinging on still-open gashes, turning grey with the grime of Titan. Isn’t water supposed to purify? That’s a thing, right? It sounds like a thing, but he doesn’t feel any cleaner, let alone purer.

After a few minutes, just as the heat is getting unbearable, he picks up the soap and begins to scrub in earnest. Once he starts, he can’t stop: he rubs until his skin is red and raw. He digs his nails into the bar, leaving small moon-shaped indents; he doesn’t want even a speck of dirt from that place left on him. It’s amazing how much there is, everywhere. His skin, his hair. He grabs a bottle of shampoo and dumps too much into his hand, sloppily working it onto his scalp and through each strand, ignoring the way it drips into his eyes, making them burn. He needs to be clean, rid of all the mud and ash and—

(Ash.)

He sinks to his knees with a sob, curling in on himself. The water pounds against his back and flows down his face, mixing soap and shampoo with tears. Droplets drum against the floor, a relentless beat matching the single thought playing on endless loop:

Peter is gone, Peter is gone, Peter is gone.

***

“Morning, Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chirps when he finally exists the bathroom, roughly toweling himself dry. “Would you like me to alert Miss Potts of your whereabouts now that you’ve cleaned up?”

He knows he should say yes. He should, in fact, be eager to see her. He should be thrilled she’s alive — and he is. He definitely is. But in a distant way. It’s good for her, it’s good for the world, it makes the universe a slightly less unjust place, and that’s all great. Just peachy. But he doesn’t want to run to her, doesn’t long for her embrace and god, how is he supposed to explain that? He tries to imagine wrapping his arms around her and comes up blank.

(How can he ever hold anyone else again? Not after—)

“Boss?” F.R.I.D.A.Y. prompts, starling him out of his thoughts. Damn. He must have just been standing there, dazed.

“Uh, no thanks, Fri. Not yet.”

He absentmindedly pulls on a robe, contemplating what he should do now. Hurling through space in a drunken stupor, he hadn’t managed to think past landing on Earth and finding May, hadn’t planned for the morning after. And yet here he is, time stubbornly marching forward.  

F.R.I.D.A.Y. had mentioned recovery efforts. The world must be a mess, and that’s something he can help with. Yeah, that’s definitely what he should do: pick back up as heroic leader, jump into risky rescues, chart a path to a better tomorrow, the whole bag. It’s what Peter would want.

Okay, great. That’s a plan, squared away.

But then he sees the open bottle of whiskey sitting on his nightstand.

***

He stumbles out into the living room half an hour later, vaguely planning to order some sort of food. (If there even are people delivering food, anymore.) (There must be, right? This is New York City. Surely the death of half the universe couldn’t end the proud tradition of no one making their own meals.) His train of thought screeches to a halt when he sees a new message flashing on the coffee table.

For a moment he’s afraid Pepper or Rhodey has somehow figured out he’s back, but then he sees this one is from May, too. He lurches across the room to open it, expecting a retraction of the request to speak, not entirely sure if that would make him feel better or worse. He can’t imagine getting up in front of Peter’s friends and family, jabbering on about the “intern” he’d lost, not able to explain who he’d really been, what he’d really meant — but he’s not sure he could take sitting silently by, either.

(He can’t take any of this.)

But May’s message isn’t a retraction. Instead, it simply says, He’d probably want you to have these. Maybe they’ll help inspire you. There's a compressed folder attached. Tony’s fingers tremble as he swipes across the screen, uncompressing and opening it in a single fluid motion, revealing an array of videos. Before he can quite process what’s happening, he clicks on one at random, and is met with Peter’s dazzling smile.

“Okay, okay, okay!” Peter, adorned in his Spider-Man suit, chirps into the camera. He pulls on his mask. “Ready, Ned?”

“Good to go, Pe—I mean, Spider-Man,” says an excited voice, which Tony recognizes as belonging to the cheerful best friend who Peter had introduced him to, the one time he had personally picked him up at school so they could head upstate for a weekend working at the compound. (In retrospect that was a bit weird, wasn’t it? Picking up a high schooler in an Audi R8?) (But it had been worth it for the way Peter’s eyes lit up when he came screeching into the parking lot, the content smile permanently plastered across his face as they drove through the twisting, tree-lined roads outside the city with the top down.)

The camera pulls back, revealing that Peter is on a roof.

“Sup?” he says with a small wave, voice pitched down an octave, making him sound a little ridiculous. “I’m—um, I’m Spider-Man. And, uh, this is what I do.”

With that he turns and sprints to the edge of the roof, launching himself into the air with a delighted whoop. The camera shakily follows him as he throws out a web and swings between buildings, backed by a soundtrack of Ned’s awed exclamations of “Wow” and “So cool!” The video abruptly ends as he soars out of frame.

Tony stares at his reflection, blinking back at him through the now-empty screen, stricken. It takes a few seconds to realize he isn’t breathing. His entire body is tense, even his toes are curled tight, scrunched into the rug. He wasn’t expecting—He can’t—

(He can’t not.)

He reaches out to open another video.

***

He can’t stop watching; he can’t watch without drinking. The harsh burn grounds him, allows his quivering muscles to relax, just a little. It takes him an hour to get through the entire folder, each new image cutting another scar across his heart.

The videos are a grab-bag of Peter’s life, a random smattering of moments he must have thought worth recording for posterity. There he is, laughing and joking with Ned, and sometimes a dry-witted girl they refer to as MJ. In some, he chatters enthusiastically into the camera, tripping over his words as he shows off Lego creations and science projects. In others, he’s in his suit, posing balanced in high places, demonstrating flips and tricks, leaping from buildings, lifting heavy objects.

It was irresponsible, really, to have made these clips, to have kept them on his personal computer. It doesn’t matter — Tony treasures every one. When he gets to the end of the folder, he immediately starts going through them a second time, ignoring the gnawing nausea deep in his stomach.

God, he’d been beautiful. It’s easy to see it, now, as he allows himself to drown in the ghost that flits across the screen, lithe and bright. Those eyes, so often shining with unabashed delight. That messy hair, falling into his face when it got too long. His movements — strong, confident, a contrast to his rambling words. But it’s that rambling that really makes his heart twist and catch: the unselfconscious earnestness, the way he sped up when he was excited, as if he couldn’t wait another second to get to the good stuff. Somehow, despite everything he’d been through, pure optimism personified. 

(How could he not love him?)

(So of course he messed it up, stole him away to a lonely death.)

He gags and wretches as the room goes blurry. He falls forward, bracing himself against the table, heaving. Alcohol, or panic attack? He can’t tell, doesn’t care, just desperately sucks at air, trying to think of anything except Peter begging not to go, clinging to his back, falling apart in his hands, gone.

Just, gone.

He focuses on the rug at his feet, a light grey weave, tastefully subdued. He unsuccessfully attempts to follow individual threads through its subtle pattern, but eventually the room stops spinning, his heart rate steadies. Credit where credit is due: he’s gotten pretty good at calming down. He gives himself an internal high-five for managing not to vomit. Yeah, he’s doing just great.

He realizes F.R.I.D.A.Y. is asking if he’s okay. Well, obviously not, what kind of question is that? For a moment he misses J.A.R.V.I.S in a way he hasn’t in years. (That’s his fault, too.) (Always, always.)

“I’m fine,” he lies. He should get food, at least. That had been a good idea, before he got distracted. Brilliant, even. (Okay, maybe that’s overboard.) (Very smart, though, definitely.) But it would mean interacting with another human, and the idea of seeing someone, anyone, even a stranger delivering food, makes his heart beat faster. He can wait another hour. He’ll be fine.

He pours a glass of gin and turns back to the videos.

***

“Are you kidding me, Tony?!”

He jerks awake, head pounding worse than before, throat dry and scratchy, mind fuzzy. When did he fall asleep? Where did he fall asleep? He looks down, realizes he is slumped, half sitting, on the couch. Ah, got it.

Nervously, he turns to see Pepper looming over him, rage radiating from her glare. She looks good, he registers. Her face has the same wane, stretched quality he saw on the shop owners in Queens, but she’s taken the time to put on a sharp dress and pull her hair back into a neat ponytail. It’s the apocalypse, but she’s still the picture of efficiency. It’s a little comforting, even if she does look like she wants to murder him.

“Hey, Pep,” he offers weakly, attempting to stand until the room starts to spin. Bad idea. He slumps back with an apologetic shrug.

“Hey, Pep. That’s what you have to say to me right now? Really?”

“Um.” The lump of nausea in his stomach has gotten worse. Water. He could use water. But he probably shouldn’t say that. “I am very glad you’re alive,” he offers instead.

“Oh, well thank you,” she bites back, a slight edge of hysteria to the sarcasm. “That’s very nice. I would say the same about you, except that I had to find out about it from May Parker, of all people.”

“May…?”

“There I am, going crazy with worry, sending messages to Bruce and Thor in Wakanda trying to figure out how we can track you after you disappeared into space, and then I get a call from May Parker. Because it turns out you went to see her yesterday. She wanted to know if you’d been getting her emails. I mean, what the fuck, Tony?”

Yeah, okay. Fair reaction. Fuck. He’s definitely not ready to do this. He rubs his eyes, trying to clear his mind, or at least stop the room from blurring around the edges.

“Thor’s back?” he finally asks.

“That’s what you got from that? How long have you been back?”

“Since yesterday,” he admits, looking down so he doesn’t have to see the hurt that flashes across her face. “I was going to call. I was! Eventually. I just—I couldn’t—” His words come out slurred.  

“You’re drunk.” It’s not a question. “You got home, alive, and you decided you’d rather visit May Parker and get drunk than see me? Tony, please explain that to me, because I don’t get it.”

She sounds so shattered, under the fury. Like she can’t believe he let her down. Not again, not like this. (What an asshole.) (Complete disaster.) He slumps forward with a sigh, resting his face in his hands. He owes her the truth. Some version of it, anyway. As close as he can get without making this worse.

“Did May tell you what we talked about?” he asks into his palms.

“Not in detail. She mentioned Peter’s funeral, though. Which is heartbreaking, obviously—”

“He was with me,” he cuts in. “Peter. He was with me. He—he died in my arms.”

(It’s getting easier to say.) (Does that mean he’s accepting it?) (He doesn’t want to accept it.)

He hears a soft gasp, a shuffle. There’s a slight shift on the couch, and suddenly Pepper’s hand is on his back.

“Oh, Tony,” she whispers. The anger isn’t gone, exactly, but it’s tempered by understanding. She’s always so understanding, even when she shouldn’t be. “I know how much he meant to you.”

(No you don’t.) (No you don’t.) (You definitely don’t.)

He flinches away from her touch, guilt roiling through him until he gags.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asks.

When his only response is another dull shrug, face still buried in his hands, she quickly rises and bustles around the kitchen, returning a minute later with a plate full of saltines and a glass of water. He launches into it without looking up, shoving crackers into his mouth, undignified, as she returns to her seat next to him. He risks a glance over and sees that sometime in the last few minutes her expression has softened, a little.

“You’re a saint,” he tells her, meaning it. The edge of her mouth twitches at the compliment.

“We already knew that,” she replies, pushing the water in his direction and nodding, satisfied, when he grabs it and gulps it down. “So, tell me. What happened?”

He clenches the glass as he launches into the story: how Peter had shown up in New York, how he’d gone after Strange because Tony told him to, how he, in his endless loyalty, had followed him onto the ship, and had fought, and been brilliant and brave and perfect and still snatched away at the end of it all by a cruel and demented alien.

By the end, tears are streaming down his face and Pepper’s hand has returned to his back, rubbing comforting circles.

“I failed him, Pep,” he concludes. “And I just—I couldn’t face it.”

“Okay,” Pepper says, slowly. She stops rubbing his back and carefully pulls the water glass out of his hands; he’d been squeezing it so hard it risked shattering. “So it sounds to me like you’re doing that classic Tony Stark thing where you’re spiraling over something that wasn’t even in your control.”

He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“I did,” she insists, annoyance seeping back into her voice. “And what I heard is that Peter snuck onto the spaceship after you tried to send him home. And that he died because of what Thanos did. Which is horrible. It’s tragic. But it’s not your fault. You said it was random, right? So it didn’t matter where he was, he would have died no matter what.”

“But he shouldn’t have been there,” Tony insists. She doesn’t get it. He needs her to get it. “He should have been here, on Earth, with May, with his friends—”

Pepper holds up her hand to stop his oncoming rant.

“First of all, it happened in the middle of the day. You don’t know where he would have been, it probably wouldn’t have been with May. And second of all, this is Peter we’re talking about. I’m sure he was thrilled to be on an another planet fighting aliens with you.” She tries to give him a gentle smile, but it looks forced. “That must’ve been like Christmas to that kid.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t—”

“I know it was awful to watch him die,” she pushes on, laying a hand on his shoulder before he can continue his protest. “But it’s not your fault, Tony. And neither was Thanos winning, so don’t even start on that. And you can’t have a breakdown over it. Not right now. The world needs you.” She takes a deep breath before adding, “I need you.”

(But I miss him.)

He almost voices the thought, but decides it won’t lead anywhere good. Instead, he nods.

“You’re right,” he says, because she is. Of course she is. He can’t stay here, drinking and watching old videos. That’s obvious. But there’s also no way he’s going back to that compound. Not when the place will be haunted by memories of Peter flitting around the lab and sprawling on the living room couch, doing homework. He can’t. Not yet. “What’s today?”

Pepper scrunches her eyebrows together in confusion. “What?”

“May said the funeral is Friday. What’s today?”

“Oh, Wednesday.”

“Wow, that’s soon.” (And he has to give a eulogy.) (Something worthy of Peter.) (How.) “Okay, proposition: I’ll stay here until the funeral. And then you come to that, and I’ll leave with you and we’ll go back to the compound and save the world.”

Pepper looks startled at the idea. She frowns, brows furrowing further.

“We need you now, Tony,” she urges, last pretense of calm understanding falling away.

“Look at me, Pep,” he says, gesturing wanly at his general everything. “I’m useless. I need a little time. Just a little.”

She does look at him, eyes roaming his face with insightful precision. Reading him, as only she can.

“Okay,” she agrees after a moment, squeezing his shoulder. “I can have Happy send me some work to do here, and—”

“No,” he interrupts. “I’m sorry, Pepper, but no. I need to be alone.”

“Oh.” Her face suddenly goes cold; her hand drops away from his shoulder. “Are you serious?”

He gives her his best apologetic half smile, though he doubts it will help. Some things you can’t charm your way out of. “I’m afraid so.”

She takes another deep breath, as if repressing the urge to shout. Then she stands.

“Well, fine,” she declares, in a brisk, professional tone that’s more of a gut punch than any anger could be. “But in case you haven’t realized, you’re not the only one who lost someone, and yet, the rest of us have managed to keep going. So you’d better be ready to get back to work on Friday.”

Before he can respond, she storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

“Well, that went well,” he announces to the empty room.

It’s not until halfway through his next glass of whiskey that he realizes they hadn’t even kissed.

***

He sends May a message confirming that he got her emails and is willing to speak at the funeral. He adds a sincere thank you for the videos: They mean the world.

She writes back quickly with the details. Her email contains a P.S.: I found one more. I think you’ll like this one. It takes him a moment to realize there’s another attachment, but as soon as he does, he has it open and rolling.

Peter sits at his desk, wearing a slightly too-tight t-shit that shows off his toned muscles. From his haircut, this must have been filmed sometime in the last few months. He looks oddly stiff and formal, blinking into the camera with a serious frown, which Tony recognizes as a sign that this video is from a series in which Ned quizzes Peter about life as Spider-Man. Good. Those are Tony’s favorites: there’s a special glow Peter gets when he talks about being a superhero.

“So, what’s it like to work with Tony Stark?” Ned asks from off camera.

Peter’s composure instantly disappears as he breaks into a grin.

“Mr. Stark is awesome,” he gushes. “I’ve been a fan of Iron Man since I was a little kid, because duh, but he’s even cooler in person. No, really, he is!” he adds, clearly reacting to something Ned has done off screen. “I mean, yeah, he can be a bit tough — he’d definitely kill me for making these videos, so don’t tell him—”

“When would I tell Tony Stark anything?”

“Okay, good point. Well, anyway, yeah, he can be tough, and he sometimes treats me like a kid which is annoying. But he’s really funny, and he made my suit which is basically the greatest thing ever, and he lets me work in his lab sometimes which is beyond cool. And he definitely treats me more like a grown-up ever since he offered me a spot on the Avengers.”

Peter suddenly goes uncharacteristically quiet, dynamic smile transforming into a thoughtful gaze. He runs his fingers through his hair before continuing at a more measured pace: “I know he’s my superhero mentor or whatever, but sometimes it feels like he actually likes hanging out with me. Like, as me, not just because I’m Spider-Man. He’s definitely been inviting me to the lab more, anyway.”

Suddenly, Tony can’t breathe.

On the screen, Peter looks down with a slight blush. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “It just feels like he really cares about me. And I know I care about him. A lot.” His eyes raise again, looking straight into the camera. “So, yeah. Working with Mr. Stark is great.”

The video cuts off.

(It just feels like he really cares about me.) (Kid, if you only knew.) (And I know I care about him.) (And look where that got you.)

(He cared about you.)

(A lot.)

(And he hadn’t even been sure that Tony cared.) (How could he not have been sure?)

(A lot.)

He lets himself sob as he presses play again.

***

The next day passes in a blur of alcohol, videos on repeat, and feeble attempts to craft a eulogy worth giving. Peter was smart, Peter was kind, Peter was stolen from the world too soon — it all feels both obvious and mundane.

But he can’t say what he’s really thinking: Peter had a smile that could light up any room. He wasn’t just smart, he was brilliant; he invented superhero-grade web fluid in a high school lab. He could stop a car without flinching, and instead of trying out for the football team, he used that power to protect his neighborhood. Because he actually did care that much — yeah, it’s hard to believe, but he did. Because he was good, in a fundamental, bone-deep way.

(And when someone that good looks at you like you’re the most important person in the world, it’s intoxicating.) (It makes you want to be the person he thinks you are.) (And then you fail, and he dies, and you’re left standing here, trying to capture what made him one of the best people you’ve ever known, and what’s the point, he’s still gone.)

As if he doesn’t feel bad enough already, halfway through the day a courier shows up with several burgers and a freshly pressed suit, along with a note from Pepper telling him a car will be there to pick him up at 9 a.m. the next morning. She must still be furious, and yet here she is, taking care of him. Like she always does.

(While he’s heartbroken over a teenager.)

(Why do people who are so much better than him keep thinking he’s worth their time?)

As he bites into a burger, only just realizing how hungry he is, he pulls up the video of Peter talking about him and plays it again for the — well, the something-th time, he's lost track. As Peter breaks into a smile on screen, he allows himself to get lost in the vision of himself captured in those bright eyes.

How is he supposed to say goodbye to that?

***

The next morning, he starts awake with his mind made up. Burning with a sense of purpose he hasn’t felt since Thanos disappeared from Titan, he practically springs out of bed, stalks straight past the suit hanging on his closet door, and sits at his desk to compose two messages.

The first is to May: I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it after all. I promise there’s a good reason. That’s fine. She’ll be annoyed, but he can hardly be her top priority today. And besides, she’ll forgive him, one day.

Pepper, on the other hand — yeah, Pepper might not forgive him for this one. That’s a lot to process, so he pushes it to the side. If that’s the price he has to pay, it’s the price he has to pay. At least she’s alive. Peter’s not.

Pep, he writes. I am so sorry, but I’m not coming. I have something I have to do. I hope one day you’ll understand.

He presses send on both. Then he starts to get dressed, pulling on a clean sweat suit. A comfortable one, good for a longer flight.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he calls out. “I need you to chart a path to Wakanda. Let Bruce know I’m coming. And Nebula, if you can figure out how. Tell them I have an idea.”

He’s going to get Peter back. He has to.

Chapter Text

By the time Tony lands in Wakanda, F.R.I.D.A.Y. has successfully contacted Bruce, who flags him down in a field outside a glittering city. He waits, bouncing on his feet, as Tony lands; a smile bursts across his face when he emerges from his suit.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” he exclaims, pulling Tony into a hug, squeezing so hard it hurts. Tony collapses into the embrace, heart swelling with the realization that this is the first truly friendly welcome he’s gotten since his return to Earth.

(And whose fault is that, idiot?)

“Back ‘atcha, Big Guy,” he says after the hug has gone on long enough to get awkward, disentangling himself and fixing Bruce with a serious look. “Who else?”

Bruce’s smile fades as he starts to list: “Thor, Nat. Clint, who showed up yesterday with a whole new attitude. Much darker. I’m not sure I love it.”

“Huh.” Welcome to the club, Barton. “I should probably warn you, I can relate.”

“Pepper mentioned.” Bruce eyes him nervously before adding, “Steve’s here, too.”

“Good, we’ll need him.” Tony waives away the surprised eye-raise this declaration elicits. It’s not that he’s over everything, exactly. But some grudges don’t seem worth nursing in the middle of the apocalypse. (And, well, maybe he’s a bit more sympathetic to the urge to throw everything away on one person.) (Okay, definitely he is.) “Well, let’s get the band back together, shall we?”

***

Bruce leads him back to what he calls “Avengers Headquarters 2.0,” a state-of-the-art tech center in the middle of the gleaming city. Beyond state of the art. More like half a century ahead of the art, if Bruce’s excited explanations are to be believed. In any other circumstance, Tony would be completely awed by the way vibranium weaves through the fabric of the building, the city, the entire country. By what’s been achieved under the nose of a world that had written off an entire continent. He would have felt humbled.

But it’s hard to be more humbled than he already is. Hard to be too awed when everywhere he turns, he’s met with haunted faces. Still, it gives him hope. They have resources beyond what he’d imagined. They can do this.

He can get Peter back.

***

The team’s already waiting for him, seated around a table in a large conference room. As soon as he steps in, he’s hit with a sense of resigned gloom. No one gets up to greet him, though Thor waves and Nat’s lips twitch into a tiny smile. Clint just scowls. Steve gives him a stiff nod, expression inscrutable.

There are two other people he doesn’t know. One, a slender, brightly-dressed girl, he instantly recognizes as Shuri, princess of Wakanda. F.R.I.D.A.Y. flagged her on the flight over as one of the scientists he’ll want to consult. Convenient.  

“Your highness,” he says with a small bow, which earns him an amused grin.

“Welcome to Wakanda, Tony Stark,” she replies. 

The other is — he does a double take — a raccoon, hunched over a gun built on unrecognizable tech, intently polishing it with a rag. The rodent. This must be who Nebula wanted to meet. The raccoon doesn’t look up, and Tony decides it’s not worth confirming the guess. Instead, he returns his focus to the people he knows. His team, once. His heart tightens.

He’d had an idea about how to start this, had composed a few lines about new looks and tough weeks to break the tension of being together for the first time in years. Confronted with actually seeing them, alive but clearly worse for the wear, wane and weary as the rest of the world, the words disappear.

“Hi,” he says instead.

“Hello, old friend,” Thor replies. Tony has never liked him more.

“Been a while,” Nat adds, leaning back in her chair.

“Straight to the point, I like it.” His weak smile is met with blank stares; it’s clear this Band-Aid needs to be pulled off if they’re going to get anywhere. “I was an asshole. I owe you all an apology. So: I’m sorry. I’d be happy to do the group therapy later, but right now we have more pressing problems.”

“Yes. Your A.I. told us that you have an ‘idea’?” says Shuri, who has been watching the tense exchange with a bemused expression.

“Yeah, what’ve you got, Tony?” Bruce asks, taking a seat.

It’s like a spotlight is on him, and suddenly he feels the last few days. The bottles of booze, the scraps of food, the hours of flight. He hasn’t looked in a mirror since hitting Wakanda, but he has a feeling he doesn’t look good. His stomach clutches, nervous. What if they think he’s crazy?

(They can’t think he’s crazy.) (They have to agree.)

“Yeah,” he says. “I have an idea. My idea is this: We’re going to undo what Thanos did. We’re going to get everyone back.”

This declaration is met with disbelieving stares. Even Bruce’s face falls, expectation replaced by concern.

“That’s an idea? That doesn’t sound like an idea.” It’s the raccoon, who doesn’t look up from polishing. “Wishful thinking, maybe, but not an idea.”

“There’s more to it than just that,” Tony insists.

“Well? We’re waiting.” It’s the first thing Steve has said. The sound of his voice, tired and annoyed, is like a punch to the gut. “Some of us have other things to do, Stark.”

“Okay, ouch. Message received, group therapy is still in order.” He does his best to tamp down the manic edge to his voice and ignore the way they’re all looking at him, like he may have lost it. “I’ve been thinking. While we were up there, Strange looked into fourteen million futures and said there was only one way we won. Just one. And then he handed Thanos the Time Stone. Voluntarily. In exchange for my life.”

That gets their attention.

“I know I’m pretty charming,” he barrels on. “But there’s no way that circus sideshow turned over his crown jewel to save me. He definitely didn’t like me enough for that. But he did it. Why? I’ll tell you why: There was no other way.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, and is pleased to see that several annoyed frowns have softened into interested ones. Even the raccoon has finally raised his head, black eyes fixed on him, polishing rag still. 

“Right before he died, that’s what Strange said,” he continues. “‘There was no other way.’ I thought it was more of his mystical nonsense. Which — a bit slow on the uptake, I’ll admit. Not my finest hour. What can I say? I was distracted.”

He stops, clears his throat. He can’t think about why he was distracted. (I don’t feel so good.) Not helpful.

“But I don’t think it was mystical nonsense at all,” he presses on before he spirals. “I think it was his way of telling me he did it on purpose. Thanos was supposed to win in the short term so we can win in the long run. Battle verses war, right? And no way does it count as winning if half the universe stays dead. So there must be a way to fix this. We just have to find it.”

He throws his arms open and gives them his best dazzling smile. Ta-da.

“But what do we do?” Thor asks, clearly expecting more.

“Admittedly, I’m still working out the details. But step one was getting the team back together. We knocked that out of the park. Great work.”

“Okay.” Bruce rubs his temples, as if trying to gather his thoughts. His tone is measured, in the way that means he’s tamping down frustration. “What I’m getting here is that when you said ‘I have an idea,’ what you really meant was you have a very optimistic interpretation of a dying man’s cryptic last words.”

“Objection! I have a very optimistic interpretation of a dying wizard’s cryptic last words. That’s entirely different.” When this frankly quite perceptive point is met with groans, he adds, “I’m serious. It is different. And I do have ideas, I just don’t know which one is right yet. But if there’s one thing the last week has taught me, it’s that we’ve been way too limited in our view of what’s possible. Maybe there’s a way to shield against the Infinity Stones so we can steal the gauntlet and use it ourselves. Maybe we can replicate them. Maybe we can go back in time to stop Thanos from doing it in the first place. Personally, I like that one.”

“Time travel?” Clint drawls, voice rougher than Tony remembers it being. “Is that a joke?”

“Not necessarily. Strange could—”

“Strange had the Time Stone,” Bruce points out.

“Okay, fine,” Tony admits. “But do we actually know that’s the only way? No, we don’t. We don’t know anything about any of this. The only way to find out is to study what information we have. To think through every idea, no matter how crazy it seems, because crazy is the new normal. I already have F.R.I.D.A.Y. compiling a list of people whose work might be relevant. And she’s talking to Wong. We can reach out, coordinate—”

“This is a waste of time,” Steve cuts in, rising to his feet. “Rocket’s right, it’s wishful thinking. There are people out there who need our help right now.”

“As opposed to all the people who are gone?” Tony growls back. “You might have given up, but Thanos made half the universe disappear, and I don’t accept that’s it, we’re done, nothing left to do but move on. I can’t be the only one who’s not ready to let go.” He looks Steve directly in the eyes. “I don’t see Barnes here.”

Steve lurches forward, as if he’s about to leap over the table and punch him, but Nat jumps up and grabs his arm, whispering his name. He stands quietly, trembling, glaring at the floor.

“None of us like it, Tony,” Nat says, glancing between them as if worried they might explode. “We all lost people. But that doesn’t mean we can undo it.”

“Did none of you process what I just said about Strange?” He can barely believe what he’s hearing. Okay, yes, he doesn’t have a full-fledged plan yet, but he’s not the only one who— (I’m sorry). He’s not the only one. “Come on. All I’m asking for is you guys to have a little faith in me. Let me use this place as home base while I try to figure it out. You can keep doing the hero thing in the meantime.”

He turns his gaze, as imploring as he can make it, toward Bruce and Shuri who, as his fellow scientists — and, if he’s being honest, as two of the only people who don’t have a reason to be mad at him — feel like the best bet. But to his surprise, it’s the raccoon that speaks up first.

“My friend’s dad is a genocidal planet,” he says, tone surprisingly thoughtful for a gun-toting rodent. “Well, he was. We killed him.” When the room responds to this information with confused silence, he adds, “I’m saying gabby here has a point. The universe is strange. Why not try?” And then, under his breath, barely audible, “I’m not ready to give up.”

It’s as if a damn has broken, as if they’ve been given permission to hope.

“My brother was lost,” Shuri says immediately. “We have plenty of lab space; you can use whatever you need. And I will help.”

“You were top of my list,” Tony says, warmed. “After Bruce, anyway.” He turns to look at his friend, who nods.

“Okay, Tony. Let’s get you set up.”

As they file out Nat and Thor stop to give him hugs, and Clint spares him a handshake. Steve, though — Steve still doesn’t meet his eye.

Well, they’ll get there. Eventually.

***

Here’s the problem: big speeches aside, Tony doesn’t actually have an idea. Not a fully formed one. He was running on gut instinct, which normally pays off pretty quickly. But three days spent getting acquainted with Shuri’s labs, conferencing with the brightest minds left alive, and disappearing into analysis of the Infinity Stones — based mostly on a pile of books Wong sent over from his sanctum, with dire warnings about what will happen if he harms a single page — haven’t gotten him very far. Not nowhere, but not very far.

Oh well. Nothing to do but keep going. (Because every time he stops—) (I don’t wanna go.) (No. He can’t stop.) He’s going to crack it if it kills him.

“Tony.”

The word startles him out of trance-like concentration. His mind snaps from the abstract dance of complex calculations to the firm, sharp angles of reality. The hours spent bent over the screen hit him all at once: burning eyes, dull throb along his spine, gnawing hunger. He’s a mess; it’s reflected in the way Bruce pushes his lips together in a disapproving grimace.

“Hey,” he says with forced cheerfulness, spinning away from the computers. “I’m making progress. Wanna see?” He gestures at the chair next to him, but he can already tell distracting with science is a lost cause.  

“You haven’t left this room in eighteen hours,” Bruce accuses, taking the seat but not even glancing at the screen.

“Did you not hear the part about making progress?”

Now Bruce does look over to his work, evaluating it with a skeptical gaze. “Are you?”

“Well…” The honest answer is only kind of, but he’s not going to say that out loud. “I never claimed it was immense progress.”

“Tony.” This time the word hovers in the air, rich with concern and frustration.

“Can’t we just skip the lecture?” he asks, letting real desperation slip into his voice. He’s not sure he can take someone else telling him he’s dealing with this wrong. He’s sober, he has a goal, what more do people want from him? “I already know it by heart: Tony, you’re being obsessive. Tony, you need to eat. Blah, blah. Look, we’re done. Yay us.”

“You are being obsessive, and you do need to eat,” Bruce agrees. “And do you think maybe you’re trying to avoid the real problem?”

“I’m not sure what problem you think is realer than half the universe being dead. So, no.”

“You lost someone you care about,” Bruce says gently. “And who you felt responsible for.”

And there it is, like a bucket of cold water. Exactly what he didn’t want to hear. (And I know I care about him.) (A lot.)

“I guess you and Pepper had a long heart-to-heart,” he snaps, harsher than is fair. “You didn’t even know him.”

“She’s worried about you.” Bruce pauses, as if considering his next words carefully. “You’re right, I didn’t know Peter. But I know you. And this isn’t healthy.”

“Of course it’s not healthy!” Tony explodes, anger bubbling to the surface. At Bruce, but not really. At life, mostly. At Thanos. “We’re past healthy! Half of everyone is dead. I don't understand why I’m the only one who seems to be taking that seriously.”

“You’re not—”

“Then stop trying to prevent me from fixing it!” He slams his hand against the table, wincing as pain shoots up his shoulder. Yep, very stable. Really convincing.

Bruce reaches out, placing his hand on Tony’s forearm, expression a mixture of concern and disbelief. “I’m not trying to prevent you from doing anything, Tony. I just want to make sure you’re not on a wild goose chase out of guilt.”

Tony presses his eyes closed for a few moments to steady himself.

“I’m not,” he finally says. “I promise you, I’m not.” (He can’t be.) (He has to be right.) (He just has to be.) “Yes, I’m upset about Peter. He—I feel awful about it. I’m guilty, yeah. I’m miserable.” It feels good to say out loud, even if it’s only half the truth. “But I’m also not wrong about Strange. There’s a solution. We just have to piece it together. Trust me.”

Bruce seems to weigh this outburst carefully before nodding. “Okay,” he agrees. “Yeah, okay. Then you should know, we’ve found Scott Lang. He wasn’t killed after all; he was stuck in the quantum realm and survived. He’s currently in a medically induced coma while he recovers, but maybe we should start looking more closely at quantum research.”

“No shit.” Tony’s mind is already spinning with new angles, heartrate spiking with the thrill of possibility. “Send me everything you have.”

“Only if you promise me you’ll eat something first.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony agrees, waving him off. “I promise.”

They both know it’s a lie.

***

Now that he knows the quantum realm is accessible, ideas are falling into place so fast it’s hard to keep up with his own inspiration, knotted and tangled and not quite there, but full of multiplying potential. What he really needs is to talk to the Ant-dude, but he’s still, annoyingly, in the coma.

“Tony, if we wake him up now he could die, and then he won’t be helpful to anyone,” Bruce snaps the fifth time he asks when he can see the amazing shrinking man.

Shuri, at his tenth inquiry, puts it a little more bluntly: “Bro, you need to chill. And eat a sandwich while you’re at it.” (He likes Shuri.) (She reminds him of Peter a little.) (He can’t wait to introduce them.)

So he sits at his computer and keeps working. Coming up with the solutions he can on his own, cataloging every question he needs to ask once he has someone who can answer them. He has a bedroom somewhere in the complex, but he never sees it, just stretches out on a lab bench when he absolutely has to.

And if, in the moments where his mind goes fuzzy and he feels like he’s about to pass out, he sometimes turns on a certain video of a bright-eyed teenager raving about how great he is, well. Everyone needs their motivation.

***

The next envoy they send is Nat, who slips into the chair beside him so quietly he doesn’t even notice until she says, “So what’s your deal with this kid, anyway?”

Tony groans as the outline of a promising idea slips away, startled into nothing by the sudden interruption. “Maybe they don’t teach you this in spy school, but science is an immersive activity,” he chides. “I was about two hours from nailing down a really great idea, and now — poof.”

“Uh-huh.” Nat hands him a packet of peanuts, apparently completely unmoved. “Stop deflecting.”

“I’m not deflecting, I’m complaining. It’s different.” He eyes the peanuts. If he eats them, will she consider that mission accomplished, or will she take it as an invitation to keep digging? The nauseous hunger that has become his default state wins; he rips the bag open. It’s not like she’s going to leave until she wants to, either way.

She watches with unnerving dispassion as he downs the entire bag in thirty seconds, and then hands him another one. Rinse and repeat. Maybe if he keeps eating she won’t ask about Peter again.

“So, the kid.”

No such luck. Ah, well.

“What about him?” Tony doesn’t like the way she’s observing him, calculating movements he doesn’t even know he’s making. If there’s anyone who’ll be able to see right through him, it’s her. “He’s dead, I’m upset. That’s how that normally goes. Someone dies, someone else is upset.”

“Sure,” she agrees, tone betraying nothing. “But you’re really upset.”

“Well, yeah,” he agrees. “He was a smart kid. Lots of promise. And when you spend two years mentoring a person, you, uh,” — (It just feels like he really cares about me) — “you grow to care about them.”

She definitely notices his stumble over the words; he feels an urge to keep talking, as if he can possibly distract the most frighteningly perceptive person he knows with his usual patter. “And yeah, I feel guilty about it. I know, I know, it’s not my fault, it was Thanos. Pepper already gave me the whole spiel. Okay, fine. She’s right. You and that creepy blank stare you’re doing are right. It’s not my fault. But emotions aren’t rational, okay? I feel how I feel. And I don’t see why everyone’s on my back about it. I’m trying to save the universe here. Literally. The whole universe. As my projects go, this seems like a pretty good one—”

He cuts off. She’s smirking. Why is she smirking? “Why are you smirking?”

“Because you’re fine,” she declares. “Everyone else is being dumb.”

“I—wait, what?” That’s so unexpected, he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “I mean, yes. I agree.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she adds quickly. “You’re dealing with this very badly relative to a normal person. But on a scale calibrated for Tony Stark — I’ve seen worse.”

“Thanks?”

“Not a compliment.” Her expression softens, just a little. “But the important part is, you’re going to figure this out. I can tell. So I’ll get out of your hair.”

And with that she sweeps to her feet and begins to stride out of the room. Halfway to the door she turns and tosses him another packet of peanuts.

“And to be clear,” she adds, “this is not me giving my approval. At all. He’s a teenager. You have to know that’s kind of messed up, even for you. But if it’s what gets you over the finish line…” She shrugs. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

Well, fuck. At least he knows she can keep secret.

And maybe the encouragement is what he needed, because it takes less than two hours for his idea to come together after all. He manages to just get it down on paper before, finally, allowing himself to fall asleep, head on desk, visions of Peter throwing himself into his arms running through his dreams.

***

Maybe the universe is ready to give him a break, because he’s woken by Shuri’s voice over the intercom, telling him that Mr. Lang is finally awake, and he’ll be flown over immediately, accompanied by Colonel Rhodes.

***

The universe may be on his side, but it turns out the Avengers aren’t quite there yet, because when he runs to the main floor, desperate to find out exactly when the Ant-guy is going to arrive, Bruce is waiting to tell him in no uncertain terms that he does not get first go.

“Medical needs to look him over,” he explains. “And then Steve, Nat, and I are going to debrief him. Then you can talk to him. It might be tomorrow. He’s still recovering.”

“Debrief?” Tony asks, frantic and annoyed. “Why can’t I be at the debriefing? I can debrief.”

“You have different questions.” Bruce uses the gentle, calming tone of someone talking to an upset toddler. “And frankly, you look like you’re about to keel over. And kind of smell. You should take a shower. Get some sleep.”

Reluctantly, Tony decides he’s right about the shower, so he drags himself to his rooms, dashes in and out of cold water just long enough to scrub off some of the grime, keeping his mind firmly focused on the questions he has, the plan that’s taking form, not thinking about Peter, not letting his mind drift— (Scrubbing ash from beneath his fingers) (Ash drifting on the wind)—

No. Focus. The potential key to the puzzle will be in the building at any moment. Keep focused.

Sleep is definitely off the table.

***

He’s back in the lab, hair still damp and matted, when Rhodey appears in the doorway, a heavy presence made up of stern frowns and crossed arms.

“You don’t call, you don’t write, it’s like I don’t even matter.” For a horrible moment Tony thinks he’s managed to lose another friend in all this, but then Rhodey breaks into a grin. He limps across the room and throws his arms around him with a completely unconvincing, “I really hate you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tony mumbles into his shoulder. “I know, uncool, I should have said something. But it’s been—”

“It’s been the end of the world,” Rhodey fills in for him, breaking the hug and dropping into an empty lab chair, gazing at him with thoughtful concern. “You look like shit, Tony.”

“So I’ve been told.” He takes his own seat. This is starting to feel like déjà vu, but if he’s going to have yet another heart-to-heart in this lab, at least it’s Rhodey. Even his worried face is familiar in a way that’s comforting, one of the few consistent things left in his life. (Maybe the only one.) (After Pepper…) (Yeah, probably the only one.)

“The rest of the team is worried,” Rhodey probes.

“Natasha’s not,” Tony corrects. “Ms. From Russia With Love told me I’m doing fine, relatively speaking.”

Rhodey looks unconvinced. “I respect Nat, but I’m not sure she’s the most reliable character reference, here. She’s got kind of a broad definition of ‘fine.’”

Well, there’s not really much arguing with that. “And? What do you think?” He sweeps his arms open, gesturing down his body: look at me.

Rhodey does, evaluating him with military precision. “Yeah, I was right the first time — you look like shit. Pepper said you’ve been drinking?”

(God, who hasn’t she talked to?) (Not that he should blame her.) (He’s the bad guy, here.)

“I was,” he admits. “Then I stopped. Now it’s just—” He waves at the lab.

“With you, I’m not sure that’s better.” And then, before Tony can protest: “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he replies, honestly. “No, I really don’t.”

Because what is there to say? He’s been in Wakanda over a week, and nothing is better. Peter’s still gone, a constant ache deep in his chest, an echoing refrain running on repeat in the back of his thoughts, like the scrolling disaster at the bottom of a newscast, endlessly distracting from the main event. But he can’t explain that, and what good would it do if he did? The only thing worth talking about is the spark of hope he’s fanning brighter with each new development.

“Okay.” Rhodey shuffles and straightens, bracing himself. “That’s fine. You don’t have to talk about it. But you do have to listen to what I’m about to say.”

(God, no.) (He’s too tired for this.)

“Rhodey—”

“No Tony,” Rhodey barks, voice ringing with authority and anger. Tony jams his mouth shut. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to get your shit together. You abandoned Pepper, you didn’t say one word to me, you apparently came busting in here talking about time travel—”

“I’m off time travel,” Tony cuts in, unable to help himself. “I think the key is alternate universes, actually.”

“That is also crazy,” Rhodey informs him. He holds a hand up when Tony starts to defend himself. “I’m not the scientist. Maybe you’re right. I hope you’re right. We all hope you’re right. But being right isn’t going to mean shit if you can’t think because you haven’t eaten and you haven’t slept. So whatever guilt-induced bullshit is going on here, it has to stop. It’s not even your—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His hands are trembling. Wait, his whole body is trembling. He didn’t even notice when it started, which feels like a bad sign. Rhodey might have a point. “Just, don’t. I know it’s not my fault. That point has been made. Multiple times. That’s not the problem.”

“What is the problem, then?” Rhodey looks so relieved he’s even addressing the issue that Tony can’t bring himself to lie, not completely.

“The problem is I can’t close my eyes without seeing him disappearing in my arms,” he admits. “I can’t go to sleep without dreaming about him.” (About holding him.) (About running hands through hair.) (About murmuring into his neck that he’ll never be hurt again.) “I just— It’s easier to be awake. To keep working.”

Rhodey hunches over, drawing in close.

“I get that,” he says with surprising kindness, looking Tony squarely in the eyes. “After my accident, I couldn’t sleep for weeks. Every time I lay down, it felt like I was falling. But Tony, this is why they invented these things called sleeping pills.” He chuckles. “I feel like you should have heard of them. And I’d bet an upgrade of the War Machine gear that Wakanda has some special, magical, extra-good shit.”

***

Tony lets himself be dragged to bed by Rhodey. Partially it’s the lecture, partially it’s that he realizes he can’t get his hands to stop trembling even when he concentrates. Oh, and partially it’s that Rhodey casually informs him no one is going to allow him to talk to Scott until he’s slept a solid eight hours and had a full meal.

(Okay, it’s mostly that one.)

Fortunately, the promised Wakandan wonder drugs knock him straight into a dreamless sleep, and when he wakes, he realizes they were right. Obviously they were right. Not that his ideas are crazy — his ideas are brilliant, thank you very much — but that he needed the rest. It’s all so much clearer now, coming together in his mind sharper than ever.

***

After four days of bombarding Scott with questions, of fevered conversations with Bruce and Shuri, Thor and Wong, even Nebula — who reappears on day three, back from a mission off planet (“I thought I told you to tell me before you left.” “I radioed, you did not answer.” “Oh. I may have been drunk”) — they have a plan. Just like Tony had thought: slip into alternate universes, grab other versions of the Infinity Stones, unwind Thanos’s horrors while he’s not even watching. Scientifically tricky to pull off, but doable, in theory.

There’s just one problem: it turns out to get the Soul Stone in any universe, someone has to die.

Chapter Text

It was Wong who had found the problem, a passing reference buried in one of his books: The one who seeks the Soul Stone must sacrifice what they love. A soul for the Stone. Once they knew what they were looking for, more passages confirmed the call for a sacrifice. Then Nebula remembered a few alien legends that fit, and — most damning in Tony’s mind — it all made his model of the Infinity Stones more intelligible.

It’s impossibly unfair and disheartening, but as far as they can tell, it’s right. So here they are, disjointed team back in the conference room, sitting tensely around the table, awkwardly sizing each other up as Wong goes over what they know so far. Tony keeps his eyes trained on his personal notepad, which dances with calculations that aren’t suddenly getting more encouraging. He already knows how this conversation ends, he just has to give the rest of them an opportunity to speak, first.

“I’ll do it,” Steve says as soon as the presentation is over. “I’ll be the sacrifice. If there’s anyone here who loves me, that is,” he adds, oddly shy. His eyes slide quickly past Tony as he scans the room, landing on Nat.

“You know that would have to be the other way around, Cap.” She gives him a rueful smile. “I’m the one who’s got a debt left to pay. This doesn’t seem like a bad way to make good.”

“No!” Bruce snaps with uncharacteristic passion, prompting a startled look from Thor. “I mean — if it’s someone, it should be me. I’ve done more damage than anyone else, and I’m useless in a fight now.”

“Thanos slaughtered my brother, my best friend, and my people,” Thor jumps in. “It would be an honor to die in the name of defeating him.”

“Are you nuts? You’re the only one who can wield that hammer!” The room goes quiet, all eyes turning to Rocket, who stares at Thor in disbelief. After a few beats, he seems to realize the attention is on him. “What? Are you expecting me to volunteer? In case you haven’t noticed, everyone who ever loved me is dead.”

“I love you, Rabbit,” Thor offers with a gentle smile.

“You—” Rocket clears his throat, clearly taken aback. “Well, I’m still not doing it.”

Okay. The point has been made: they’re all self-sacrificing idiots — except for the raccoon, who might be the only sensible one in the room — but no one wants to see anyone else die. Time to make his pitch. (And don’t think about what it means.) (It’s the right thing.) (No matter how it goes.)

“What if none of us have to do it?” he says, trying to sound sure, as if he’s cracked the code. “What if none of us has to die?”

He can feel every eye on him, a sudden silence thick with questions.

“We’re not sacrificing someone else,” Steve warns, but it’s not harsh, just firm. As if he’s hoping that’s not the solution Tony has in mind.

“Of course not,” he agrees, trying not to be insulted that the point needs clarification. “I meant what if nobody has to die?”

“That would be ideal,” Nat says after a pause. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well.” He takes a deep breath and glances over at Wong, who give him an encouraging nod. “The Soul Stone demands a sacrifice, that part is pretty clear. But Wong and I did some digging, and we’re not so sure the ‘soul for a soul part’ needs to be taken the way we thought. A mistranslation here, an ancient text taken out of context there — it’s not an exact science, but we think there might be another solution.”

Shuri and Bruce are both glaring at him, confused, annoyed to be caught off guard. He hasn’t talked this over with them; if they have too much time to think it through they’ll realize how flimsy the line of logic leading to this conclusion really is, and then they might examine what happens if his plan falls apart. He’s trying very hard to avoid that argument until the gears are set so far in motion it’s too late to pull back.

“The Stone needs a sacrifice,” he continues. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be another person’s life. There are certain texts — hat tip to Wong for figuring this out — which suggest the power for this whole exchange comes from the part of their soul the person doing the sacrificing loses. If that’s right, then it seems like what’s really required isn’t necessarily a life, but giving up something deep. Something that cuts to a person’s core. Something that will utterly destroy part of their heart to leave behind.”

Pause for dramatic effect. Then he lifts his hand and taps at the chest plate he wore for exactly this moment. “Something like being Iron Man.”

This declaration is met with deafening quiet, until finally, hesitantly, Rhodey asks, “And that would work?”

“We think so.” He says it with more confidence than he actually has, so much more it might as well be a lie. (Not his first lie by omission recently.) (Sorry, bud.) “And I’ve already made up my mind, so let’s skip the arguments. Cool, cool? We’re cool.”

Probably they’re not cool, so he leaves the room before people can start protesting. It’ll be easier for Wong and Lang to explain the plan, anyway. Let the rest of them complain that he’s being crazy and reckless, who cares? This is what’s happening, and there’s nothing they can do about it.

***

He hides in the gym, pounding at a punching bag, trying to drown out his thoughts with the heavy thud of each blow. (It’s worth it.) (It’s worth it.) (It’s worth it.) If he concentrates on the droplets of sweat running down his back, the burn in his muscles, the pace of his breathing, then he can’t think about —

(And if he’s wrong?)

(I don’t wanna go.)

(It’s still worth it.)

“Is this a suicide mission?”

He freezes; the bag, swinging wildly from his last hit, slams against his legs, knocking him off balance, but it barely registers. He’d been prepared for someone to come find him, but he didn’t expect it to be Steve.

“Cap,” he says, spinning on his heel so he can watch the other man stride across the gym in a few bounds, as if he owns the place. As if he has a right to be the one who tells him anything.

“Tony,” Steve replies, coming to a halt, leaving a few yards between them.

It’s surreal, seeing him standing there. Infuriatingly handsome as ever, but with a few more lines around his eyes, a slightly slump in his shoulders. This is the first time they’ve been in the same room, alone, since — (he’s my friend) — since — (sir, please) — since — (it’s not your fault) — The echoes of old betrayals stutter through his mind, but can’t find a place to settle.

“When I said I’m sorry, I meant it,” he offers.

“I know. I am, too.” It’s not what they need, but rehashing old fights would be an indulgence they don’t have time for. Steve must get that, because he moves on quickly. “That’s not what I’m here to talk about. This thing, giving up Iron Man, is it real?”

“Yeah, of course it is.” (Only with luck.) “Wong explained it, didn’t he?”

“I want to hear it from you.” He glances from Tony to the punching bag, still creaking a little. “I don’t really get how it works. Do you just pinky-promise the Stone you’re not going to build another suit?”

“Yeah, and then I’ll braid its hair and give it a friendship bracelet.”

“Stark—”

Okay, no need to start a fight when he has an answer. “Wong figured that part out. Apparently there’s some voodoo binding spell we can do to make the promise unbreakable. He thinks it’ll be enough.”

“Unbreakable?” Steve pauses, as if thinking it through. “What, like in Harry Potter?”

The reference is so unexpected it throws Tony off his train of thought. “You know about Harry Potter?”

“I had time to kill over the last few years. I did a lot of reading.” And then, as if realizing that might sound like an accusation, he adds, “Sam said I wasn’t a real twenty-first century person if I didn’t know what Harry Potter was.”

“Yeah, Peter kept telling me the same thing.” (Don’t dwell, don’t dwell.) “I tried one. Can’t say I got the appeal.”

“Oh, I liked them, they’re creative.”

“You would, Mr. Gryffindor.”

“I’m a Hufflepuff, actually.”

Steve’s smiling, and for a second, it feels like time has rewound by years and they’re back to being the twin heads of this thing called the Avengers. Comfortable, teasing. A team. Before their fight, before Thanos, before half the universe gone in an instant. When everything made sense. Maybe that’s why Steve takes the opportunity to ask, “Be straight with me, Tony. How confident are you this will work?”

“Fifty-fifty,” he admits. It’s halfway to the truth, anyway. Fifty-fifty they’re right the Soul Stone doesn’t require a death. But even if it doesn’t, who knows the odds on if giving up Iron Man will be enough.

“And if it doesn’t, you’re the sacrifice?” It’s an accusation.

Tony tosses up his hands: you got me. “I hoped it would take a little longer for someone to catch on.”

“It’s what I would do,” Steve informs him, suddenly serious. “Is that why the plan is for Rhodey to go with you? Because he loves you?” Tony nods. “Does he know?”

A pang of guilt flashes through his chest. “If he did, do you think you’d be the one having this conversation with me?”

“That’s a really awful thing to do to a friend.” Steve sounds horrified, even though he must’ve come into the room knowing the answer to the question. Or at least suspecting it.

“I know.” God, does he know. “Honestly, I was kind of hoping that would take some of the edge off. Maybe he’ll be so angry it’ll be a little easier.”

“You can’t really think that will work.”

“No.” No, of course not. “I don’t. But I won’t be able to convince him to come otherwise.”

“That’s because he’d never do it, and not just because he’s your best friend.” Steve crosses his arms and stands straighter, as if bracing himself for a fight. “You can’t be the one. We need you. You’re the whole reason we even got this far.”

“You don’t, not really.” He’s ready for this line of argument, knew someone would use it, even if he hadn’t bet on Steve. “You already have my best ideas, and if we’re being honest here, I’m pretty sure Shuri is smarter than me anyway. I’m just a tired old man in a tin can.”

“You’re not just a scientist, Tony.” Steve takes a step forward, jaw stiff, determined. “You’re our leader. You don’t get to abandon that post.”

“Okay, first of all, there hasn’t been a team for anyone to lead for two years.” (So was I.) “And second of all, when there was, you were the leader. And if I recall correctly, a few hours ago you were also the first person to volunteer to fall on this particular wire, so don’t lecture me about abandoning post. In fact, I kind of suspect you’re here to renew the offer, which makes no god damn sense at all.”

Steve’s hands clench in and out of fists, but he doesn’t deny the point.

“Yeah, Cap, no way am I letting that happen.”

“What not?” Steve snaps. “You don’t care about the Avengers? Fine, forget the Avengers. You have Rhodey. You have Pepper. You can’t just abandon them.”

“Watch me!” But the words are like a stab in the gut, as painful as Thanos running him through with his own blade. (He’s right.) (He’s right.) (He’s abandoning everyone else.) (And it doesn’t matter.) (He’s not going to stop.)

Suddenly Steve’s hands are on his collar, slamming him into the punching bag.

“What is wrong with you?” His voice trembles, and now that they’re so close, Tony can see tears in his eyes. “How are you not more grateful? You still have your people. I'm the one who lost everyone. Sam, Bucky—”

Oh. Oh, right. Of course. “Guess I'm not the only one looking for a suicide mission.”

Steve shoves him harder, so hard it hurts, and presses closer, breath hot on his face. “I’m not looking to kill myself, Tony, I just can't watch you die because of a self-indulgent guilt trip. You didn’t cause this. You’re not that special.”

This again.

“It’s not guilt.” He pushes Steve away — Steve lets him push him away, more accurately. “This isn’t guilt.”

Steve takes a step back, breathing heavily, looking him up and down. “Then what is it?”

“I’m not entirely clear on why I need to tell you anything.” He takes his own step back, widening the distance between them. He doesn’t relish the idea of another round against the punching bag. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly friends anymore.”

Something that looks like pain flicks across Steve’s face before he replies, “Friends or not, I think you’re one of humanity’s last best hopes. So unless you explain to me what exactly is going on with you, I’m going to march right upstairs and tell everyone you’re planning to take a fifty-fifty shot at death, and then you can have this argument with all of them. What do you think the odds are on you winning that fight?”

There’s a thumping behind his eyes, the beginnings of a headache. It had to be this self-righteous, self-sacrificing asshole, didn’t it?

“I hate you,” he mutters, rubbing at his temples, trying to get his thoughts into some kind of order. What can he say to get the noblest person he knows off his back? (Maybe the truth.) (It might have to be the truth.) (It probably has to be the truth.) “If I ever was that guy, the last-best-hope guy, I’m not him anymore. Not right now. Isn’t that why the gang spent the last two weeks checking in on me?”

“Yes,” Steve admits, shifting awkwardly. “You’re obviously struggling. But why, Tony? I don’t get it, I really don’t. What happened is terrible. Of course, of course it is. But you’ve never been one to break down just because someone bad did something horrible. That’s when you fight back.”

“I am fighting back—”

“Tony.” The look Steve gives him is pure steel, cut the bullshit. “If Pepper had died, I’d get it. But this — the person you love the most is still here, but you’ve been locked away in a lab, thousands of miles away from her, and now you’re trying to trick us into letting you sacrifice yourself. Why?”

Well, it would be a shame to waste a good lead-in like that. (It has to be the truth.) “What if they’re not?”

Steve blinks at him, clearly not able to follow the thought. “Huh?”

“The person I love the most. What if they’re not here?”

“But—” His brow knits together, as if he can’t quite catch the meaning. Or doesn’t want to. “You’re engaged.”

“So you were keeping tabs on me while you were on the run?” No, that’s mean spirited. It’s not Steve’s fault Tony has completely fucked up his entire life. Though it is his fault they’re having this stupid conversation, so maybe he deserved it. “I’m not sure we are anymore. Pep and me. Engaged. I should probably check in about that, actually. But, yeah, we were. And yet.” He shrugs.

Steve eyes him with suspicion, face a hard plane of reprobation. “Were you having an affair?”

“No. No.” (What torrid hotel liaisons is he imagining?) (Probably still better than the truth.) “Definitely not. I — I didn’t even know. I didn’t realize how I felt until he was gone.”

“He?” It’s not disapproval, just processing a new piece of the puzzle. “Happy? No — Rhodey said he’s alive. Not Rhodey, obviously. Do I know him?”

This is where he should say, Okay, that’s really none of your business. But Steve’s expression is melting around the edges; now that he knows it wasn’t an affair, there’s sympathy there. Tony can already see how the rest of this conversation will unfold: Tony, I know it’s hard to lose someone, but this person wouldn’t want you to sacrifice yourself. That sounds complicated, but maybe you can still work it out with Pepper. And you’re still our leader. And on, and on, and on and — 

Fuck it.

“You met him, once.” He dully realizes his heart is pounding double-speed; this is the first time he’s gotten close to confessing this out loud to someone who’s not an alien cyborg. “If I recall correctly, you dropped part of an airport on his head. He thought that was very cool.”

He sees the moment it clicks into place, the absolute disbelief. “Peter? I thought he was a kid.”

“Sixteen,” Tony agrees, and then winces. That sounds really bad out loud. Adding almost seventeen is probably worse, though. “I know.”

Steve stares blankly at him for too long, nothing but the sound of their breathing, still slightly heavy, filling the space between them.

“No,” he finally declares. “You care about him. You’re getting parental feelings confused—”

“I know the difference between parental love and — whatever this is.” (It just feels like he really cares about me.) “I’m not dad’s biggest fan, but even I wouldn’t accuse him of messing me up that badly.”

Steve starts pacing, cutting sharp, military lines. Processing. Fine, let him process. Processing is the whole point. “Does anyone else know?”

“Nat figured it out, I think. And Nebula, actually.” When that earns a confused look, he explains, “It was a little harder to hide right after he died in my arms.” A flash of memory pulls him up short; he closes his eyes, inhales deeply to gather himself. “Because that happened. If you didn’t know. I flew back to Earth covered in his ashes.”

He can hear the pain in his own voice: the exhaustion of weeks without rest, the constant nagging tug of that memory, always there, on repeat somewhere in the back of his mind. Steve makes a sudden movement with his arms, as if he might want to reach out — though it’s impossible to tell if it’s to hug or hit. It doesn’t matter, he cuts the motion short.

“He’s sixteen,” he says instead, vaguely, as if slightly dazed.

No shit. No shit, no shit, no shit. As if he doesn’t know. As if it could possibly stop him from caring. “I’m aware.”

“Sixteen, Tony.”

“Yep.” (He is) (He is, and it doesn’t matter.) “He’s sixteen, and brilliant, and brave, and kind, and I can’t stop thinking about him. I’ve blown up my engagement, I haven’t done anything but drink and work and obsess, and yes, it’s unhealthy, and no, I’m not going to stop. Because he’s gone, and I have to fix it.” He adds a sardonic smile. “What do you say, Cap, am I still your last best hope?”

Steve lets out a desperate little laugh, sounding lost. “I did ask. This was not the answer I was expecting, but I did ask.”

“Does that mean you’re done fighting with me?”

Steve considers the question carefully.

“Yes, I’m done fighting with you,” he concludes. He closes the distance between them, and this time he does reach out, gripping Tony’s shoulder firmly. “But let me come with you. Don’t do that to Rhodey.”

Wouldn’t that be nice. Spare one last betrayal. But that’s not how it works. “Sorry to burst your bubble there, Rogers, but if it comes down to the original interpretation, it needs to be someone who loves me.”

To his absolute surprise, Steve rolls his eyes. Rolls his eyes. Now. The nerve.

“Tony,” he says earnestly, looking him square in the eye with the patented Steve Rogers Serious Gaze that used to drive him up the wall. “We spent years fighting side-by-side. You were my partner. You’re a hero. And you’re Howard’s son. Of course I love you.”

Something in Tony wants to collapse in relief; after everything, everything he did, everything he confessed — and still. He’s so stunned it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts into words.

“But you also kind of want to kill me,” he manages to choke out.

“Yes, but that was always true. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you can be very obnoxious.” Steve drops his arm and gives him a grin: small, fleeting, but there.

Tony returns it.

***

Fortunately, once they have a plan in place, things move quickly. Thanks mostly to Shuri, they figure out how to use the quantum realm to shuttle off to specific moments in alternate universes, and pinpoint the ones that are close enough to their own that they think they’ll be able to find the Stones. It would all be very cool if it weren’t so desperately important.

(Peter will love it when he tells him about it.) (If he’s there to tell him about it.) (And if not, well, Peter will love it anyway.) (Because Peter will hear about it.) (That’s what matters.)

Everyone has their part. Bruce, Shuri, and Scott are home base, dealing with the science. Nat, Clint, and Rhodey will nab the Mind Stone, before Ultron, and the Space Stone, while it’s still locked away in the S.H.I.E.L.D. labs. Thor and Rocket are tasked with dealing with the Power and Reality Stones, off on planets whose names Tony doesn’t bother remembering. Wong is in charge of somehow convincing one of his doppelgangers to part with a Time Stone. That leaves the Soul Stone for him and Steve, with Nebula as a guide to the apparently far-flung planet where the sacrifice takes place.

“Is this going to mess with these other universes?” Steve asks as they go over the final plan in detail for what feels like the millionth time. “Taking their versions of the Stones?”

“The goal is to put them back where we found them after we use them,” Bruce explains. “And if not…” He’d shrugs. “Honestly, it might be for the best. We’d all be better off if someone had removed the Stones from our timeline.”

No one argues with that.

***

Hidden in the chaos of work, Tony finds time to secretly record three messages, in case things go south.

The first is for Pepper. It starts with an apology, though not an explanation; there’s too much he’s not willing to say, and dwelling on false excuses feels like lying. Then it moves to an affirmation that she made him the person he is, because she did, and she deserves to hear it. Then permission not to forgive him, even though he suspects she will, in the end. Instructions to live and love, to move on. “I wanted to be better to you than I was. You deserve the world, Pep. I hope I at least managed to get it back whole for you.”

The second is for Rhodey. A joke, an apology, a request he look after Pepper — “let’s be honest, that’ll be a lot easier than looking after me all these years” — and a thank you, for being the one person who never gave up on him, not ever.

The third is for Peter, of course. He spends a long time staring at the camera before turning it on, wondering if he should say what’s really on his mind. No, he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to hit him with that, not when — not if he’s not there. So instead, he pushes record and tries to get the point across another way:

“Hey, kid. So, sorry about this. I was really hoping I’d still be around when we got you back. But you know how these things go.” He throws in a smile, trying to make it look like he’s not terrified. He’s not going to be another burden Peter bares. “I know things are probably tough right now, what with the dying and being resurrected, but you’re going to get through it. I know that, because I know you, and you’re one of the bravest, strongest people I’ve ever met. Seriously, Peter. I didn’t tell you enough, but you absolutely amaze me.”

He pauses. No, he can’t say it. But he can say something close. “I just hope you know how much I cared about you. So go out and have a great life, kid. That’s an order.”

***

The final few days of prep are a wild whirlwind of calculations and briefings, and backup plans on backup plans; it keeps everyone busy enough that apparently no one else catches on to Tony’s private contingency plan. Or maybe they do but Steve quietly convinces them to let him be, he’s not sure. It’s weird, being on a team with him again. It’s not that they’re back to the way they were, but at least they’re sharing the burden of leadership. It feels right.

In what seems like no time at all he’s strapping into a specially designed suit — specially designed by him, but with credit to Pym’s research; there’s probably some relationship building he should do there if he ever gets the chance — stepping onto a ship, and launching into a wild, trippy world of flowing colors and oversized creatures. Then a button hit, a vortex created, and suddenly they’re floating in space, surrounded by stars, in a universe that looks just like their own, but isn’t.

***

They pass the trip to Vormir in silence, Tony turning an amulet — blood red, perfectly smooth, set in an engraved casing — over and over in his hands. It’s magical, apparently, the key to the whole idea: if the Stone accepts his promise to give up Iron Man, the amulet should put on an impressive light show and bind him such that he’ll drop dead if he ever steps foot into the suit again. Just like that, the best thing he ever created, gone.

In his desperation to hide his potential death from the rest of the team, he hadn’t spent much time thinking about what it would be like if Plan A worked. As soon as Wong had realized the sacrifice might not have to be a person’s life, it had seemed like the obvious solution, and once he came to that conclusion he hadn’t questioned it.

Still doesn’t, really. But giving up the suits — he’s tried before, and it never stuck. He likes being Iron Man too much. Loves it. Loves the rush as he jets around the world, the power and safety he feels, in control of his creations, able to fight back against evil because of things he made. Even now, sitting in a spaceship in another universe, he’s more at ease knowing he’s wearing his chest plate.

Best case scenario, he’ll never get to feel this way again, and part of him breaks at the thought. Well, that’s why it’s a sacrifice, right? It wouldn’t work if it didn’t hurt.

It’s ironic, Pepper would love this. Maybe she should’ve tried dying; apparently it’s the only thing that could get him to kick the habit. He laughs darkly at the thought, causing Steve to glance over at him with a confused frown, but he waves him off.

It’s fine. It’s worth it. He’ll miss flying, though. Briefly, he wonders if Peter would take him swinging with him one day. That seems a bit like flying.

(Worth it.) (So very worth it.)

And then soon, too soon, they arrive, and it’s time to face his second alien planet. (Maybe his last.) Nebula is staying to guard the ship, but just as the door is about to close behind him, she calls his name in her cold, emotionless bark. He tells Steve to wait outside.

“It’s a little late to try to talk me out of this, Blue,” he warns as he steps back into the ship.  

She’s standing a few feet away, hunched and glowering in the middle of the room. “I was not going to,” she informs him. “I just wanted to tell you that I hope it goes well. You are a brave man, Tony Stark.”

She gives him a smile, which still looks forced and wrong on her face, and extends her hand. Surprised, touched, he takes it.

“If I don’t come back, tell the rest of those clowns I said you’re the one who should get the killing blow,” he tells her. “You’ve earned it.”

She nods and drops his hand, quickly retreating into the depths of the ship. Well, that’s that, then. Time to figure out if he’s clever enough to dodge death.

***

The planet is cold and dark, the only light a few pale strips of pink barely filtering through a mass of clouds. And on top of that they have to hike up a mountain, which is completely unfair.

“I don’t think I like other planets,” Steve comments as they weave their way up the steep slope. Biting wind tugs at their jackets and snow dusts their shoulders.

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “They haven’t worked out very well for me so far.”

Finally, they reach an archway, where they’re greeted by a floating figure, its tattered black robes whipping in the wind. They exchange bemused looks, and Steve whispers, “Okay, this is definitely like Harry Potter.”

“Welcome, Anthony Stark, son of Howard,” the figure intones, voice echoing from every side. “Steven Rogers, son of Joseph.”

“So, are you the Soul Stone’s bodyguard or what?” Tony replies, determined not to let the dramatics bother him.

The figure floats lower, until its feet hit the ground. “You should know, the Stone extracts a terrible price.”

“Yeah, I’m aware. Ready and willing, just lead the way.”

“We all think we are ready. We are all wrong.” The figure steps out of the shadow, revealing a gaunt, red, demoniac face that rings a bell in the back of Tony’s mind.

Next to him, he hears Steve gasp. It’s enough to bring a name into focus: Red Skull. The villain Steve had fought back in World War II; who Tony had grown up hearing about. “Well, this is weird,” he voices out loud.

The grotesque figure inclines his head in acknowledgement. “I once sought the power of the Infinity Stones, as you well know, Captain Rogers, though you are from another universe.” He turns and beckons for them to follow. “I failed and was banished here, guiding others to a treasure I cannot possess.”

“I don’t like this,” Steve tells Tony as they begin to follow. “I don’t trust him. This could be a trap.”

Tony shrugs. It’s not that he doesn’t agree, but what else are they supposed to do? “He did try to get one of the Stones,” he reasons. “And some of Wong’s books mentioned a guardian. So the story checks out.”

Steve doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t have an alternative to offer, so they continue to follow, up to a cliff where two massive stone columns rise into the snow-filled sky.

“A bit much,” Tony comments as they walk through the columns, trying to ignore the way his heart is skidding in his chest and his hands are shaking with more than cold. He shoves one into his jacket pocket to grab the amulet. It’s warm and buzzing, just a little, alive in a way it hadn’t been on the ship. Maybe that’s a good sign. (He hates magic.) (Spend your whole life learning to understand the world, and then magic.) (Ridiculous.)

They come to a stop on the edge of the cliff. Red Skull gestures at the long drop — so long Tony feels his stomach lurch, even with the knowledge that, at least for now, he has the suit — and explains that the Soul Stone demands a sacrifice.

The good news is that nothing he says explicitly frames that sacrifice as a death. Sure, it’s implied, and there’s no denying the glee in the monster’s expression as he leers at Steve, clearly delighted by the idea that his former foe will be forced to either die or kill. But implication is not the same as binding rules, and this was always about finding a loophole.

Tony pulls the amulet out of his pocket.

“What is that?” Red Skull demands.

“My sacrifice,” Tony tells him. Then, before there can be any more questions, he swiftly removes his chest plate, and holds it against the amulet, the way Wong had instructed. “Steve?”

Steve unfolds a piece of paper containing lines Wong had scripted, and holds it out for him to read. If this doesn’t work, his last action will be reading a fucking enchantment off a scrap of parchment, which is absurd. But between dignity and death, he’ll take the hit to his pride.

Cringing a little, he dutifully recites the words, exactly as they’re written: the chest plate represents Iron Man, and he does solemnly promise never to don the armor again, to destroy the automated suits, to relinquish the title. Iron Man is dead. Then some ancient language that’s been written out phonetically, and that’s it. It’s done.

They wait.

(His heart beats so hard it’s all he can hear.)

And wait.

(I don’t wanna go.)

And wait.

(Red Skull is laughing.)

Nothing.

He can’t take his eyes off the amulet in his hand, warm and buzzing but unchanging. No lights, no binding, none of the things Wong had promised. Fuck and fuck. He stares and stares, he doesn’t know how long but it’s not making a difference. Everything is cold and numb.

It didn’t work. It didn’t even begin to work.

He feels Steve’s arm around his shoulder, only barely notices that he’s whispering his name as he guides him to the edge of the cliff. This is it, then.

(He’ll never see Earth again.) (Never make up with Pepper.) (Never see Peter.) (Never hold him.) (Never even know if he’s okay.) (He has to be okay.) (He’ll never know.)

Why did he think this would work?

The snow is blinding, or maybe it’s tears. He gazes at the drop and wonders what it will feel like to hit the bottom. At least it’s a quick death.

(I don’t feel so good.)

“Throw it in.” The words don’t make sense until he hears them a second time: “Tony, throw it in.”

He puts together what Steve’s getting at: maybe the stone hasn’t felt the sacrifice, all the way up here. Maybe he needs to toss the amulet over the edge, like Steve will toss him if this doesn’t work. It seems like a long shot, but who the fuck knows.

Mutely, hopelessly, he throws the amulet and the chest plate into the darkness, watching them fall for what seems like endless seconds, wondering what it will be like to follow.

They hit the ground, and for a moment nothing happens. But then there’s a shimmer from below, a shimmer that grows into a glow, and then a great burst of light like a golden tendril reaches up from the depth and wraps around him. It’s warm, and welcoming, but it doesn’t let go; warmth becomes hotness, burning, squeezing, and he can’t breathe and he can’t feel, and he can hear screaming somewhere in the background and it might be Steve or it might be him —

And then he isn’t there at all, but in a vast river. An orange stone appears in the air before him. Stunned, he reaches out to take it, and if he had thought he was burning before, now his entire being is on fire, his hand is about to burst, he can’t possibly —

Everything goes dark.

***

He wakes to the familiar sound of hospital monitors beeping, harsh and repetitive. His head hurts. His body hurts. Everything hurts, including a deep down ache that isn’t quite physical.

Had it worked? Is he alive? He seems to be alive.

The throbbing pain through his skull suggests letting in any more light is going to be a bitch, but curiosity wins. He opens his eyes and is greeted with the harsh glare of fluorescents, which sends a shudder through his core; he has an urge to vomit. This is worse than any hangover he’s ever experienced, and he’s had some bad ones.

He closes his eyes against the light and, slowly, cautiously, body burning in protest, inches himself halfway to sitting. He opens his eyes more carefully, giving himself time to adjust. He’s dizzy and the room barely comes into focus, but he can see enough to confirm it’s definitely a hospital room. But not a regular hospital; he recognizes the monitors as the ones he’d designed himself for the compound. Okay, he’s home.

Then he turns to the left and his heart stops.

There’s Peter, curled up in a chair, textbook open in his lap, asleep. His hair is tangled and messy, and even from feet away Tony can see the deep shadows under his eyes. But he’s there. Right there in Tony’s hospital room.

Waiting for him.

(It worked.) (It worked.) (It worked.)

He wants to reach out, wants to call Peter’s name, but as he tries he feels his grasp on consciousness slipping. He lets himself fall back into sleep, one thought singing through his body:

It worked. Peter’s alive.

Chapter Text

The next time Tony wakes up, the headache is down to only-moderately-worse-than-a-hangover levels. He’s able to scoot himself to sitting before the nausea wins, but he’s forced to pause and inhale deeply to avoid vomiting. Why does saving the universe always come with such shitty side-effects?

He looks to the left, and has to swallow disappointment when the chair is empty. What did he expect, for the kid to be sitting vigil twenty-four seven?

(He wouldn’t have left his side, if the roles were reversed.) (But that’s different.) (It’s different.) (He can’t possibly think—)

(What if it was all a dream?) (What if it didn’t work at all?)

He reaches for the buzzer he knows must be on the side of his bed, but his right arm won’t obey the order from his brain. It’s only then that he realizes it’s encased in a heavy cast, running from his hand to his shoulder. And the fingers peeking out from under the plaster: charred, twisted black and red, peeling.

(Oh.) (God.)

This time he can’t stop himself from vomiting, leaning over the side of the bed, wires tugging. An alarm starts blaring wildly, and out of nowhere a woman appears: white scrubs, strong hands, kind voice telling him he’s okay, he’s okay, she’s got him. She manages to pull him back to sitting as other strangers rush into the room. He hears someone call for “Dr. Banner” before passing out.

***

When he comes to, Bruce hovers above him, fussing with the tangle of wires and eyeing one of the machines over his head.

“I don’t feel so hot, doc,” Tony says. It comes out a rasp, barely above a whisper; each word feels like sandpaper in his throat.

Bruce starts and looks down. “Yeah, you wouldn’t,” he replies cryptically, but his expression of professional concern disappears into a smile. “Good to have you back, Tony.”

He reaches out of Tony’s field of vision — it’s too painful for him to turn his head to follow the movement, which isn’t a great sign — and then brings a glass of water to his lips. It should be embarrassing, sipping out of a cup held in someone else’s hand like a child, but Tony’s too thirsty to care. He gulps gratefully, ignoring the stream that dribbles down his chin.

“Thanks,” he says sincerely when the glass is empty. He opens his mouth to ask a question, but realizes he has no idea where to start, so he closes it again.

Bruce seems to get the point anyway. With a sigh, he pulls the chair over and sits. He looks worn, even more than the last time Tony saw him; hunched, hands fidgeting uncomfortably, skin stretched thin under his eyes.

“Well,” he finally says. “The good news is it worked. Everything. Your plan — it was perfect.”

Tony closes his eyes, allowing himself a moment to bask in the relief, tension flooding away. He hadn’t imagined it. It is okay. It’s okay. (Peter’s okay.)

“And the bad news?”

“You held the Soul Stone in your bare hand. It…was not good for you.”

Tony glances over at his blackened fingers and has to bite back bile. He sucks in a deep breath, steadying himself. Ah. “Right,” he says, hoarsely.

“Yeah,” Bruce says softly. “Dr. Cho tried to help, but you didn’t respond. We think it’s because the injury was mystical in origin. Shuri and I have been working on an exoskeleton. I’m sure you’ll want input.” He stops, running his hands over his legs as if stalling. “Also, you should know: you’ve been out for six months.”

It should hit him like a ton of bricks, but it doesn’t. It’s — fine. It’s fine.

(He’d wanted to be there when they got Peter back.) (Wanted to be the first person to touch him, hug him, to tell him he’s safe.) (But he’d already lost that chance.) (So: six days, six months, who cares?)

“Peter,” he says, and Bruce gives him a puzzled look, sharp and searching. “I think I woke up before. Recently. I thought I saw him. Asleep?”

Bruce seems relieved, chuckling as he replies, “Oh, that must have been Saturday night. He’s been up here every weekend. A lot more over the summer, but he’s back in school now. Good kid.”

All Tony can do is nod, heart clenching in rapid bursts. He can’t let himself think about what that might mean, that Peter’s been here every weekend. (Don’t hope.) (Don’t dare hope that—) (It’ll be enough to see him.)

“Anyway,” Bruce says, getting to his feet. “You need to rest, and then we have about a million tests to put you through. I’ll tell Pepper.”

Oh. Right. Yeah. Yeah, telling Pepper makes sense. He wants to ask him to tell Peter, too, but Bruce is already out the door and, besides, he doesn’t want to draw that curious frown again. There was something a bit too knowing about it.

He’ll just have to wait for the weekend.

***

Pepper appears that afternoon, after Tony gets out of round one of what he is assured will be many, many rounds of medical examinations. She’s still the picture of efficiency: pressed suit, clacking heels, hair cascading, shining, over her shoulders. But the lines around her mouth as she frowns at him show strain.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” she tells him, walking into the room in a few swift steps and seating herself on the edge of the chair that sits next to his bed.

He’d be offended, except he knows the feeling. Instinctively he reaches in her direction. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I did save the universe.”

“You didn’t even call,” she replies, taking his hand. Hers is dry and soft. “Tony you just left. You left New York, then you left this universe, and you didn’t even call.”

“I left a video,” he offers, though he knows it’s pointless. What’s he even trying to gain, here? “In case I died. I left a video.”

“Oh, well that makes it okay.” Sarcasm falls off each word, a depth of hurt he can’t begin to process. His fault, and there’s nothing he can offer to fix it, because he doesn’t quite want to.

“No, of course not,” he agrees. He squeezes her hand. He’s too tired to make this a fight when they both know where the conversation ends. “I — I can’t be the man you need me to be.”

“I know. I realized that six months ago.” She drops his hand and reaches into the purse by her chair, pulling out a black jewelry box. It’s only then he notices she’s not wearing her engagement ring. That’s the kind of thing he probably should have noticed. With a small sigh, she places it on the bed next to him. “I don’t really understand what changed, Tony, but this is clearly not happening anymore.”

He meets her eyes, which sparkle with tears. He wishes he could explain, but that would only make it worse. “You’re still the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.”

Her lips flicker into a smile. “And you saved the universe.” She stands, smoothing her skirt. “I am proud of you. And I’m glad you’re awake.”

As she begins to walk away he says, quietly, “Pep, I want you to be happy. Please find a way to be happy.”

She turns in the doorway, stiff, face a mask of calm. “You too, Tony. I really hope you can.”

***

On his second day awake, he does ask Bruce about Peter. Bruce explains that they’ve already told May, who’d replied in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want to let Peter know until the week was over, because otherwise he’d definitely skip school to come see Tony, and she wasn’t having that.

“But she’s happy to hear it,” he adds. “She’s warmed up to you since you saved Peter’s life.”

So Tony has to wait three long days until Friday. Three days of being poked and prodded so often that all the needles run together; his left arm feels like a pincushion. Dr. Cho keeps putting him in a complex, full-body scanner that was apparently flown over from Wakanda, but each new image just makes her frown deeper, until Tony finally snaps and tells her that if it’s hopeless, he’d rather just be left alone.

He spends most of the time he’s not being treated like a lab rat sleeping, and when he’s not doing that he’s pouring over the plans Bruce and Shuri drew up to deal with his arm, making adjustments, getting frustrated, starting from scratch, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he won’t be able to build any of this himself, that he might not be able to build anything ever again. Because when he lets his mind rest on that it makes his chest tighten and the room close in.

Instead, he thinks about Peter; the joy of seeing him curled in that chair, the anticipation of hearing his voice, excited, stumbling over his words. The hope of reaching out, pulling him into his arm, skimming his hand along his cheek, saying —

He has no idea what he’ll say, actually. He keeps trying to think of something, but it’s all too much or too little. He’ll just have to wing it.

It’s a slow three days.

***

But finally, finally it’s Friday evening, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. announces that Mr. Parker has arrived downstairs.

“Send him up,” Tony tells her.

He spends the next two minutes with his heart racing wildly, still not sure what he’s going to do, and then suddenly Peter is there in the doorway, face flickering quickly from astonishment to joy. “Mr. Stark! You’re awake!”

He rushes to Tony’s side, and for a moment he looks like he’s going to throw himself into his arms, but then he glances at the beeping machines and seems to think better of it. Instead he bounces on the balls of his feet, studying Tony, wearing a grin that lights up his face, so bright Tony can’t see anything else.

(Beautiful.)

“Mr. Stark, I’ve been so worried. I was afraid — I don’t know what I would’ve done if, if—” He grabs Tony’s hand and squeezes it. “I’m just really glad you’re okay, sir.”

Tony marvels at how strong he is, how solid his hand feels. Real. There. Actually there. (Alive.) He squeezes back. “Back attacha, kid.”

Peter beams at him, and Tony has never seen anything so perfect in his life.

They stay like that, fingers entwined, silent. He should say something else, anything, to express how fucking grateful he is just to be able to feel this hand in his. Something about how he doesn’t even care that it feels like he’s been hit by a moon five times over, how it doesn’t matter that he gave up his life’s work, that he lost half a year, because Peter is here, Peter is here. But the words catch and fade as he tries to put them together.

Peter is the one to speak again, suddenly quiet, almost shy. “They told me what you did. I — thank you. I mean, I know you didn’t do it for me. But thank you.”

(Oh, kid.) (Of course it was.)

Tony tugs at his hand, pulling him closer. Peter gets the idea and leans forward, carefully wrapping his arms around his neck and tucking his chin against his shoulder. Tony brings his good hand to his hair, curling his fingers into it. Each strand is a miracle. “I missed you,” he murmurs into the side of his head.

“I missed you too, Mr. Stark,” Peter replies, voice muffled, lips grazing his neck, sending a shock of goosebumps down his chest.

They stay like that for what feels like forever, Tony trying to memorize every second: Peter’s weight on his chest, his uneven breath warming the side of his face, his body, slender and hard, in his arm.

Eventually, Peter straightens up, face bright red, clearing his throat and not quite meeting Tony’s eyes. (And why’s that?) (Don’t think about it, don’t think about it.) (Don’t even dare—)

“So,” Peter says, voice shaky. “I brought some homework, but since you’re awake do you want to do something? Watch a movie, maybe? I have a lot on my laptop.”

He looks so awkwardly anxious, hopeful that Tony will like his suggestion, that Tony can’t bring himself to point out that there’s a perfectly good TV with access to any movie they could imagine mounted on the wall. Instead, he nods and tells him to pick whatever he wants.

And so they prop the laptop on Tony’s legs, and Peter pulls up a chair and puts on The Matrix.

“If you call this old, I will kick you out of this room immediately,” Tony warns him. Peter just laughs and elbows him playful in response.  

It turns out not suggesting the TV was a good idea, because in order to see, Peter has to push his chair as close to the bed as possible, and over time his head falls against Tony’s shoulder, and his hand finds his hand, and really Tony’s not even following the movie, just basking in the touch, the way Peter’s body shakes when he laughs and his fingers tighten when something exciting happens; luxuriating in the warmth of body against body.

(It was worth it.)

***

They share a pizza for dinner — the nurse who brings it does a double take and purses her lips when she sees them side-by-side, but has the sense not to comment — and settle into the second movie. By halfway through, Peter starts to nod off, eyes flickering closed, head falling forward before starting awake. After the third time he does it, Tony nudges him.

“Hey, kid, I think it’s time for bed.”

Peter straightens a little and shakes his head. “I’m staying,” he murmurs, groggy.

(Yes.) (Please.)

“No, you’re not.” He hates the words as they leave his mouth, but it’s the responsible thing to do. “There’s nowhere for you to sleep.”

“I’ve slept in this chair plenty,” Peter protests, waking up a little.

(Don’t think about it, don’t—)

“Well, not anymore. Not on my watch.” He tries his best to sound like the mature and reasonable adult. It’s not very convincing.

“You’re not exactly in a position to force me to leave,” Peter points out, sitting straighter in his chair to gesture at Tony's bed before adding, with a hint of cheekiness, “Sir.”

“Okay, rude.” But Tony can feel himself smiling. “Last time I checked I still own this building and pay half the staff. I can get someone to kick you out.”

“And last time I checked, no one on your staff could kick me out if I don’t want them to.” He grins, almost cocky.

Where did that come from? (And, oh god, why is it so attractive?)

“Bruce could, if he Hulked out.”

“Yeah, not gonna to happen.” Peter settles back into the chair and curls up his legs, like he knows he’s won. “He likes me too much.”

“Since when are you two friends?” Tony asks, curiosity distracting him.

“Since you were out cold for six months,” Peter replies, and then winces, as if realizing how callous it sounded. “Sorry, I just mean, we’ve spent a lot of time together. He’s the one who explained everything.”

It’s a punch in the heart he didn’t expect; he sucks in air remembering how much he’d looked forward to walking Peter through the science, showing him how he’d gone about breaking every law of physics, because that’s what it took to get him back.

(Losing six months was losing something, after all.)

“Sir?” Peter is looking at him in concern.

Tony reaches out — Peter is just out of range, but he sees what he’s going for and leans forward, eyes wide and welcoming as Tony runs his fingers lightly over his cheek.

“I’d been looking forward to being the one to explain it to you,” he admits. This isn’t Peter’s problem. He shouldn’t be making it Peter’s problem. It’s not on him to comfort Tony.

And yet, here he is, leaning into his hand, and that’s more comfort than he could have asked for and — what is he supposed to do? Somehow, he hadn’t quite thought through what it would mean to have Peter back, the reality of wanting him so much, knowing he really, really shouldn’t do anything about it. Self-restraint is not his forte.

“I’d love to hear it again from you,” Peter says earnestly. “Dr. Banner is nice, but he’s not very good at explaining the complicated stuff.”

Tony’s pretty sure that’s a lie. Bruce is definitely better at breaking down complex ideas than he is, it’s the whole having patience thing. But if it’s a lie, it’s one he’s grateful for; it makes him want to gather Peter in his arms again. Instead, he pats his cheek and says, “Okay, but tomorrow. You look exhausted.”

Peter nods sleepily. He makes a small protesting sound when Tony pulls his hand away, but quickly melts back into his chair, knees curling into a position Tony would say must be uncomfortable if he didn’t know Peter has literal super flexibility.

“Night, Mr. Stark,” he whispers as his eyes flutter closed.

“Good night, Peter,” Tony replies. It’s a long time before he falls asleep, too, and he spends it watching the person he sacrificed everything for curled in that chair, grateful for each second of his existence.

***

He must have drifted off eventually, because he’s woken by a whimper. Immediately his eyes fly open and he sees Peter twitching in his chair, arms clutching his legs, face scrunched as if he’s in pain. He lets out a low moan.

“Peter? Pete?” When that doesn’t work, Tony raises his voice. “Hey kid, wake up!”

That does it. Peter’s eyes flash open and his limbs fly in all directions with such force that he knocks the chair over as he leaps to his feet. His eyes dart wildly before he finally seems to register where he is. Immediately, he looks abashed. “Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry! Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”

He stands there, trembling, and Tony can feel it as if he were the one who’d had the nightmare. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “Don’t you dare.” He gestures for Peter to come closer and slowly, cautiously, as if still ashamed, he does. Once he’s in reach, Tony grabs his hand. “How often does that happen?”

“How often do I knock over a chair in front of the coolest person I know?” Peter says, voice weak, but clearly attempting humor. “Not very.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “You know what I meant.” When Peter looks to the ground, biting his lip, Tony squeezes his hand. “Kid, I’ve been getting nightmares since you were still watching Saturday morning cartoons. It’s not a big deal.”

Peter’s eyes flick up to meet his, and he’s shocked by the raw vulnerability reflected there. “I know. I just — I didn’t mean to make this about me. You’re the one who just got out of a coma.”

Tony attempts a nonchalant shrug, but the effect is ruined when he moves too quickly, sending a sharp pain down his side; he can’t stop himself from wincing. Peter’s face crumples in response, and he drops his hand, gesturing helplessly in his direction. “See. That’s what I mean. You shouldn’t even be awake right now.”

Has he always been this stupidly selfless?

“Peter, you’re shaking like you just saw a ghost. Actually, I feel like you could handle a ghost without breaking a sweat. So something worse than a ghost.” He scoots to the right — slowly, making sure not to hurt himself — freeing up a sliver of the bed. There’s definitely not enough room for two people. Not if he wants to keep up the totally appropriate boundaries that he’d definitely been planning to maintain. But Peter looks like he’s about to either collapse or run away and — fuck it. He pats the empty space.

Peter raises his eyebrows, but when Tony tilts his head and extends his arm to indicate that yes, he wants him to join him, he does, slipping into the small space on one side, facing Tony, fitting his head against is shoulder. His hand falls to his chest, hovering lightly, barely touching, exactly where the arc reactor used to sit. Tony wraps his good arm around him, letting his own hand come to rest on his side, above his waist. That seems — okay, not actually appropriate at all, but at least not totally inappropriate. The grey area, as it were.

(Oh, who is he kidding?)

He turns his head so he can see Peter, who is suddenly so startlingly close, because yeah, that’s what happens when you get into bed with someone. (What is he doing?) (This is a bad idea.) (But the warmth of Peter’s body stretching against his is the most comfort he’s felt since—)

(Titan. Since Titan.)

“Hey,” he says, and then, because that’s really inappropriate on its own he adds, “So, tell me about these nightmares.”

Peter turns further into Tony’s shoulder, hiding his face against his chest. He’s still shaking, light vibrating tremors coming in bursts. “It’s embarrassing,” he mutters, and even through his shirt Tony can feel the movement of his lips (and wow this is a terrible, terrible idea).

“It’s not,” he insists, doing his best to keep his voice steady and calm. Normal. He does a damn good job, if he does say so himself. If you listened to an audio recording you definitely wouldn’t know he’s dying from the desire to do something that would chase off the one person he can’t possibly lose.

(Okay, but how certain is he that it would chase him away?) (Peter’s the one who insisted on staying.) (And he didn’t exactly shy away from crawling into his bed…) (No.) (Bad.)

“Kid, you died,” he continued. “And then got brought back to life. And — I don’t even know what else happened. It would be weird if you didn’t have nightmares.” He can feel Peter nod against him. “Is it Thanos? Because I had nightmares about that guy before I even knew who he was.”

“Kinda,” Peter replies, finally shifting enough that Tony can see his eyes again. They’re wet.

“Care to expand on that?” Tony nudges. Peter seems to contemplate the question, eyes darting across Tony’s face is if trying to decide if he can trust him. Which is crazy, because of course he can. He should know that by now. (It hurts that he doesn’t.) “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But take it from someone older and — okay, maybe not wiser, but definitely older: hiding from this stuff never helps.”

Peter’s fingers drum an anxious, stuttering rhythm against Tony’s chest. He has to ignore how agonizingly aware he is of each movement, each touch a burst of hope. That’s not what matters right now.

Finally, Peter seems to come to a decision. He scoots himself up, propping himself on his elbow until he’s level with Tony, suddenly only inches away. This close, it’s clear just how tired he is: chapped lips, skin pulled thin and wane, eyes shot through with bolts of red. Tony resists the urge to stroke his hair; the moment feels tense with importance, as if any sudden movement could scare it off.

“You,” Peter says and then, as if realizing that’s not really an answer, he expands: “My nightmares are about you.”

(And his are about Peter.)

(So maybe—)

“Wow, you really know how to flatter a guy,” he says. Joking is probably not the right choice. It’s probably a really insensitive and rude thing to do, actually. Because Peter is sixteen and hero-worships him and man, will he ever learn not to hide from emotions behind a mask of breezy nonchalance? (Given how many years he’s been going at it, all signs point to no.)

To his relief, Peter simply rolls his eyes, sides of his mouth twitching into a tiny smile that pierces his heart. Tony doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t reach out, doesn’t even breathe. If he moves at all, he’s not sure he can keep himself from kissing him.

“You should be flattered, actually,” Peter informs him. A hint of pink flushes up his neck, and suddenly Tony is incredibly grateful that the lights never go entirely off in the hospital room, because the image is one he would hate to miss in the dark. “My nightmares are about you dying. Which I find very upsetting. Which is a compliment.”

He looks away, observing his own hand as he stretches it flat against Tony’s chest. Tony wonders if he can feel how fast his heart is racing. He must be able to, right? Can probably hear it, too, with those enhanced senses. But is he old enough to realize what that relentless patter means?

(He must be.)

(He’s not that young.)

(He’s smart.)

(And he’s not moving away.)

(Why isn’t he moving away?)

Tony brings his good hand to the back of Peter’s neck, resting it there gently, fingers itching to weave into his hair. But he doesn’t. Because if he doesn’t, this can just be a comforting gesture. A normal, comforting gesture between a mentor and his mentee. As they share a bed. In the middle of the night.

And, okay, fine, it’s not normal. But at least there’s some plausible deniability here. Blame it on the aftershock. They’ve both been through a lot. As long as he doesn’t curl his fingers, pull that face closer, give into the dreams — not the nightmares, but the dreams —

Yeah. Plausible deniability.

“I’ll take the compliment,” he says, but it comes out too hoarse; he can hear the pain and longing in his voice, but maybe Peter will think it’s just pain. Only then, because he is an idiot who can’t help himself, he adds, “For what it’s worth, I have nightmares about you, too.”

“Oh?” Peter asks quietly, something small and hopeful flicking across his face.

“Oh yeah. Big time.” And then, because Peter is looking at him like that’s the most amazing thing he’s ever heard, he adds, “Not sure if anyone told you, but I did not handle your whole death situation very well.”

Peter’s expression goes serious as he replies, “Yeah, Dr. Banner may have mentioned.”

“Ol’ Brucie put up with a lot,” Tony admits. “And Rhodey. Pep. All of them, really. Your aunt, too. I should probably send her apology flowers, actually.”

That gets a smile out of Peter, who relaxes a little, sinking down to lay his head next to Tony’s on the pillow. Tony lets the hand that had been on the back of his neck drift to stroking his shoulder instead, feeling like a moment of disaster has been averted.

(If disaster is really the word.)

“May’s forgiven you,” Peter says confidently. “She’s a big fan of my being alive, and Captain Rogers explained it was thanks to you.”

“Steve did that?” Tony asks, startled.

“Yeah,” Peter confirms. “After I got back from Titan, he came to explain everything. May liked that. I think she has a crush.”

Something clutches at Tony’s chest. Explain everything? But no — Steve would never. And May certainly wouldn’t be Tony’s fan if he had. “When you say explain everything…?”

“How you guys collected the Infinity Stones from other universes. And — what you did. Your sacrifice. Holding the stone. All of it.” Suddenly, Peter’s hand is brushing through Tony’s hair before settling at the back of his neck, a mirror of his earlier gesture, warm and comforting. “I can’t believe you gave up Iron Man to save the universe.”

(No. To save you.)

(He can’t say that.)

He gives what he hopes is a confident smile. “Seemed worth it.” And, oh no, Peter is looking at him with those wide eyes, the ones that reflect a version of himself that is far braver and nobler than he could ever really be. The ones that makes him want to try. “Besides, it was ‘bout time I retire. Gotta make room for the next generation.” Tony taps his shoulder. “That’s you, kid.”

“But what are you going to do?” A depth of concern runs under his voice, as if this is something that’s been bothering him. As if he’s been worried about Tony.

Yeah, because Tony needed something else to feel guilty about.

“Well, I am still a genius,” he points out, trying to make it sound like he has it all figured out, no big deal, he didn’t give up part of his soul on that cold, eerie planet. “And I only sacrificed making Iron Man suits. No one said I can’t keep the rest of you up to date. I have an upgrade or five million in mind for you.”

Peter’s eyes flick, almost involuntarily, to Tony’s injured arm. And yeah, that. That might make this all a little more difficult. But fuck if he’s going to let Peter worry about it. Peter should never have to worry about him. Or anything, if he can help it. “That’s what they make computers for, Pete,” he says with an assurance he doesn’t feel. “I have robots for the actual building.”

Peter’s eyes come back to meet his. “And I could help,” he offers. “I mean, if you want. I love spending time in the lab. With you.”

For a moment Tony lets it spin out in his mind: hours spent working side by side, looking over Peter’s shoulder as he makes the delicate corrections Tony’s broken body can’t handle, whispering instructions in his ear, nuzzling into his hair —

Yeah, it’s another terrible idea. But what he says is: “I’d love that.”

Peter’s smile is worth it.

It also kills him, how much that smile it makes him want to kiss him. He needs to get rid of the temptation. “Okay, do you think you can get back to sleep now?”

Peter nods, and begins to move, as if he’s going to roll out of the bed. Which is exactly what he should do. But that would require Tony letting him get up without protest, and he’s already used up every last ounce of will he has.

He presses his hand against Peter’s back, holding him in place. “You don’t have to get up. If you don’t want to.”

“Oh.” Peter stops his retreat and, without hesitation, shifts back toward him. “I don’t want to,” he declares before curling against him, head settling on his chest, humming when Tony places his hand in his hair.

It’s the fastest he’s fallen asleep since Peter died.

***

When he wakes up the next morning, Peter is out of bed, sitting in the chair, hunched over a large textbook. It looks like he’s showered and changed. When he notices Tony is awake he breaks into another huge smile.

It’s bad how used to that Tony could get.

“I made you breakfast,” he says eagerly, gesturing at the table next to the bed, where a plate sits on a tray, piled high with scrambled eggs and bacon.

“You — made it?” Tony asks, struggling to sit up properly, muscles knotted and complaining. He wouldn’t have changed a thing, but it turns out sharing a tiny bed when you’re barely this side of a coma isn’t kind on the body. “I’m pretty sure I have a private chef for that. Somewhere. He’s still on staff, right?”

Peter shrugs. “Probably, but May always says the best food for healing is food made with love.”

Tony freezes.

(Love.)

(Not the kind of love he means.)

(Even they did share a bed last night—)

With a heavy, shuddering breath, he reaches for the tray and carefully brings it to his lap. “I’ve tasted your aunt’s cooking, and I don’t think that theory holds up.”

Peter laughs and nods, closing his book to focus his attention on Tony entirely, which makes his blood run hot. It’s hard to believe there was ever a time those eyes could rest on him with that flood of affection and not make his heart freeze in his chest. “That’s why I had to learn to do it myself.”

It turns out he’s a good cook: the eggs are simple but delicious, laced with several imported cheeses that are probably much nicer than anything he gets to use at home. Tony’s halfway through the plate before he realizes that somewhere in his mind he’s making a list of cookware to stock in his private kitchen. Because that same place in his mind is already imagining waking up to a home-cooked breakfast morning after morning and — wow.

Wow. Yeah. This is a problem.

Peter’s still looking at him like he holds the key to the entire world. He quickly chokes down his last bite, which had gotten lodged in his throat as he was distracted by realizing exactly how in love he is. “Best meal I’ve had since waking up,” he assures him.

And that was a stupid thing to say, because now Peter’s eyes are lit up like it’s the greatest compliment anyone has ever given him and god, Tony would do anything to make sure he’s wearing that expression all the time.

He puts the plate to the side. “So, you ready to hear what happened from the real hero of the story?” He adds a self-deprecating grin, to emphasize that the last part is a joke, even though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to worry about Peter thinking he’s an arrogant asshole. He might be the one person in the whole universe who somehow doesn’t think that, actually.

Peter nods eagerly, scooting his chair closer, and Tony launches into the story, trying very, very hard not to bask in the adoring gaze that never leaves his face.

***

Peter goes home later that afternoon, though not without complaining that he wants to skip school and stay with Tony. Despite every nerve in his body crying out to keep Peter as close as possible, Tony tells him it’s not happening: “I just got back into May’s good graces, don’t you dare mess that up.”

Once he’s gone, the hospital room feels cold and empty.

***

The day after Peter leaves, Rhodey shows up. He looks as tired as everyone else, and when Tony asks where he’s been — “I expected you to lead the welcome party” — he cryptically huffs that it’s classified.

“The world didn’t just get over what happened,” he explains when Tony makes a skeptical expression. And then, formality melting into warmth, he adds, “It’s good to have you back, man. If you’d died, I would’ve killed you.”

“Oh, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” Tony replies with a smile, and suddenly they both burst into laughter at the absurdity of calling anything they’ve been through easy.

It’s the first time that Tony really, genuinely, feels like maybe he’ll be okay. He may have blown up everything that made his life what it was, but he still has his friends. Some of them, anyway. He still has his brain. He can still laugh.

(And Peter?)

(He’ll figure that out.)

***

It turns out Rhodey isn’t just back to say hello. Tony’s doctor has decided he’s ready to start getting out of bed, which means rounds of exhausting, painful physical therapy, slowly teaching his body how to hold its own weight, how to take small steps, how to move through the world with only one working arm.  

He feels tired in every bone, every fiber, like he’s shaking with exhaustion all the time. But when he complains Rhodey tells him to suck it up, so he does. Every day, it gets a little easier. He appreciates that Rhodey is there to help him, to hold his hand as he struggles to take each new step.

He tries very hard not to wish it was Peter holding his hand instead.

***

Halfway through the week, he receives a bouquet of flowers. They’re from Steve.

Glad you’re awake, Universe’s Greatest Defender, says the card buried in the blossoms. Take a break. You’ve earned it. — Steve.

On the back, in small, sharp handwriting, there is an extra message: P.S., Be careful. Nat says so too.

Tony knows exactly what he means. And because part of him has never grown out of bucking at being told what to do, he texts Peter.

Just to check in.

You know, like a normal, healthy mentor.

And if his heart spikes like a teenager in love when his phone lights up with a response — well, he’s in love with a teenager. It’s probably to be expected.

***

The next weekend, Peter shows up with May in toe, and Tony lies to himself that he’s not disappointed. He’s still hospital bound, but he’s able to walk around a little, and he’d been hoping to at least stand and get a hug.

(A long hug.)

(The lingering kind.)

(So, maybe it’s good May’s here.)

“I wanted to say thank you in person,” she explains as a nurse hustles off to find an extra chair. “I hadn’t realized you were still in the hospital wing or I would’ve waited. But here I am.” She brandishes a Tupperware container in his direction. “We brought brownies.”

Behind her, Peter points at himself, mouthing, I made them. Tony represses a laugh.

“I know it’s a little silly,” May goes on, and Tony hopes she doesn’t think he was laughing at the gesture, which is actually quite sweet. “Brownies for saving my nephew’s life. Not exactly a fair trade. But I’m not sure there’s any real way to say thank you for what you’ve done.”

She grabs Peter, yanking him forward and throwing her arms around his shoulder, hugging him tight from the side. He makes an embarrassed face, but hugs her back, explaining, “Sorry, she gets like this.”

“No apologies needed,” Tony assures him. “And May, if you want to thank me, you can indulge me in continuing to borrow your nephew on the weekends.” He inclines his head toward his useless arm. “Eventually I’m going to need a new lab assistant.”

“Pretty sure I couldn’t stop him even if I wanted to,” she admits, and Peter nods enthusiastically.

“Well then, we’ll call it even.” He steadfastly does not look at Peter as he says it, because he already knows the expression he’ll be wearing, the one that makes it seem like Tony just gave him Christmas early. He can’t deal with the way that expression makes him want to grab him, pull him into a kiss that definitely would not be appropriate in front of his aunt, not under any circumstance.

It’s almost a relief when the nurse comes back with an extra chair and May breaks out a pack of cards. He’s almost able to ignore the way he keeps catching Peter looking at him when he should be paying attention to his hand, expression inscrutable but intense.

Almost.

(Or, more honestly, not really at all.)

(He can feel that steady gaze like a laser boring into him, making it almost impossible to concentrate, to think about anything but those eyes.)

Tony can’t decide if he’s grateful or heartbroken when Peter starts yawning and they all decide the evening is over. With May there, Peter doesn’t protest when Tony tells him to take the guest room.

Which — well. Sure does say something, doesn’t it? So he does know sleeping by Tony’s bed isn’t a normal thing to do.

***

Part of Tony isn’t surprised when he’s startled awake in the middle of the night by a whispered, “Mr. Stark?”

Peter is in the middle of the room, shaking. He’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and grey sweatpants, eyes puffy. He looks impossibly small and sad. Without a word Tony shifts over to make room on the bed and he joins him in an instant, sighing contentedly as Tony folds him into his chest and lays a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

(Which.)

(Well.)

(Fuck it.)

As the minutes tick by, Peter’s body relaxes in his arms, breaths coming steadier. Once he seems to have calmed down entirely, Tony asks quietly, “Do you get any sleep at all when you’re at home?”

“Nope,” Peter replies, tone somewhere between flippant and devastated.

There’s nothing to say to that, so Tony doesn’t say anything. But he also doesn’t let himself drift off until he’s sure Peter is asleep.

***

By the next weekend, Tony has moved back into his suite. The doctors tell him he’s been recovering remarkably quickly, but it doesn’t feel like it. He can barely walk from the living room to the kitchen without needing to stop for rest, and his arm is as bad as ever, though it’s graduated from a cast to simple bandages, wrapped tight around burned and disfigured skin. He’s not really convinced that they do anything other than keep the sight of it hidden, but that’s good enough for him. He’s taken to wearing a black glove over his scared hand, because looking at it still makes him want to gag.

He hasn’t had a drink since he woke up, because the doctors keep lecturing him about it. But every time he sees that hand, it gets a little harder.

At least now that he’s out of bed and not completely overwhelmed by pain all the time he can focus on the exoskeleton. It feels good to be working in earnest again, digging into a mechanical problem, all the small challenges that come with designing something new. When he lets himself get lost in it, he even sometimes manages to forget what exactly it is he’s trying to fix.

“You know,” Bruce tells him on Saturday morning, as they pour over their latest design on a StarkPad and Tony tries very hard to concentrate on what they’re doing, and not the fact that Peter will be here soon. (Just a few hours.) (Not that he’s counting.) “You should actually consider yourself lucky.”

“You’re going to have to play that one out a little bit more for me, Big Guy.”

Bruce moves a few lines on the screen and stares at them thoughtfully before saying, “According to Strange, holding that stone for as long as you did should have killed you. He thinks it liked you.”

That’s a crazy enough idea that it startles Tony fully into the conversations, anticipation of Peter’s imminent arrival momentarily sidelined. “Come again?”

“Well, as you know, the Soul Stone is sentient, in its way. Strange thinks it saw something in you. Your motivation for wanting it, probably.” Bruce shrugs. “Honestly, I still haven’t quite adjusted to the idea of magic thinking stones that destroy the universe. But that’s what he says.”

“My motivation?” Tony echoes.

Bruce nods. “I guess saving the universe is a pretty good one.”

(As if that’s why he did it.)

(Does this mean he has a cosmic stamp of approval?)

(No. That’s absurd.) (As opposed to magic thinking stones that destroy the universe, which are so normal.) (This is not a train of thought he should let himself continue.)

“Well, if this is what it does to people it likes, I’d hate to be on its bad side.” That earns a laugh from Bruce, and Tony goes back to definitely not pondering what it would mean if the Soul Stone actually did look into his heart and liked what it saw.

***

When Peter finally arrives — five minutes late, but Tony was not counting — he comes in a flurry of excitement. He dashes into the living room as Tony stands to greet him, tossing his backpack to the side haphazardly and throwing his arms around him with a thrilled, “Mr. Stark, you’re out of the hospital!”

Tony staggers under his enthusiastic embrace, but manages to catch himself. The hug is warm and all encompassing, Peter’s arms tight across his back, face pressed into his neck, bodies close. Without thinking, Tony cards the fingers of his good hand into his hair, pressing his lips to the top of his head. If Peter notices, he doesn’t protest.

(He never protests.)

(Soul Stone approved—)

(Stop it. Stop it.)

The hug lasts longer than it possibly should, and Peter looks disappointed when Tony finally pulls away with a joking, “Okay, okay, you gotta let me sit down, kid. I’m still in recovery.” But he quickly slips an arm around Tony’s shoulder and, without comment, helps walk him to the couch.

Tony wants to say he shouldn’t worry about it, it’s fine, he doesn’t need his help, but that gentle strong grip guiding him feels so safe he can’t bring himself to tell the lie. Peter navigates him to sitting, and then plops next to him, taking his hand. His eyes, bright and earnest, catch Tony’s and refuse to let go.

What happened to the air? There used to be air in this room, but now he can hardly breathe. “Kid?” he manages to choke out.

“I’m just — I’m really happy to see you walking around,” Peter says, so quiet and heartfelt Tony wishes he could capture the sound of his voice and turn it into a blanket. It’s like home. 

“Pete, I feel like you’ve been worrying about me,” he says after moment. “You really shouldn’t do that. It’s not your job.”

Peter seems to think about this seriously, going a little distant as he runs the words over in his mind. His hand remains on Tony’s, soft and just a little too warm — a side-effect of his powers, one Tony learned long ago to take into account when building his suit, but hadn’t realized would feel so good, skin against skin. Eventually, Peter returns his focus to Tony’s face. “It might not be my job, but I want to. Worry about you, I mean. You saved my life, it’s the least I can do.”

(Remember to breathe.)

(I know I care about him. A lot.)

“Kid, just because I saved your life doesn’t mean you’re obligated to—”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter cuts in, a little firmer. “It is not obligation. I—” he stops, then sits a little straighter, jutting his jaw as if he’s made up his mind about something. “I care about you. You’re not going to talk me out of that.”

(As if he would ever want to.)

“Okay,” Tony agrees. “Fine. You have my permission to worry about me.”

Peter smiles and jumps to his feet. “Great! In that case, I have some homework I have to do if that’s okay, but then I’m going to cook you dinner. I brought some ingredients from home.”

Tony watches him bounce off to grab his books with complete amazement. The kid wants to cook him dinner? There’s a burning along the back of his throat that he recognizes as tears; he blinks hard before they can get the best of him.

How the hell was he ever supposed to not fall in love?

***

They spend the afternoon on the couch together. Tony works on his exoskeleton project until the fuzzy blur of pain starts to throb around his eyes. He’s come to recognize that as his body telling him in no uncertain terms that it’s had enough. It’s a signal he learned to take seriously after the first time he almost passed out because he ignored the signs, so he switches to listening to an audiobook, eyes drifting closed to block out the blare of the light.  

Peter, meanwhile, is lost in his homework — “I’m sorry to do this during my visit, but I have a big presentation on Monday” — holding a pen in his mouth (adorable) as he pours through a chemistry textbook, occasionally taking notes or asking Tony a question. As the afternoon wears on, he props himself sideways on the couch, book in his lap, shoes abandoned on the ground. Slowly, subtly, he slips his feet under Tony’s thigh, wiggling his toes contently.

Tony knows he should shift away, but he can’t.

No, that’s a lie. He can. He doesn’t want to.

Because this, this is heaven. So instead of moving, he squeezes Peter’s ankle. They share a small smile before Tony closes his eyes again, leaving his hand where it is, fingers burning at the touch.

(It was all so completely worth it.)

***

Peter does cook him dinner. Pasta carbonara, which is shockingly good. When Tony asks him how many secret talents he has, he just smirks and replies, “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

Which, if Tony didn’t know better, would kind of feel like flirting.

(Does he know better?)

(It feels like maybe he doesn’t.)

They eat in front of a movie — Lord of the Rings, because he makes the mistake of letting Peter pick — and after Peter clears the dishes he comes back and tucks his feet under Tony’s legs again, as if that’s just a thing that he can do.

Which. Yes. It is a thing that he can do. Sometime after the wizard dies, Peter scoots a little closer, grabbing a pillow to keep himself propped up; his hand confidently finds Tony’s, their fingers lacing together in what is starting to feel like a very familiar gesture.

That’s the moment Tony realizes he has to stop pretending they don’t both know exactly what’s going on.

***

It’s well past midnight by the time the movie ends. They stand, slowly. Without a word, Peter slips his arm around Tony’s shoulder, lets him lean against him, patiently guiding him back to his room. At the door, Tony turns to face him. His head is pounding, or maybe his heart; his entire body throbs with something between adrenaline and pain.

“Kid,” he says, and then Peter is kissing him, pressing him against the door, one hand steady at his waist, the other wrapping around his neck, gentle but confident, as if he knows what he’s doing. Which he doesn’t — the kiss is a little too eager, sloppy, his mouth opening too much, tongue prodding at Tony’s teeth. But it doesn’t matter, it’s perfect. So perfect it makes him dizzy.

Or maybe that’s the effort of standing. His knees buckle, but Peter catches him, breaking the kiss to hold him up. “Sir, are you okay?”

“I—” he’s not even sure how to answer that, so he kisses Peter again, slower, hand finding the small of his back. Peter’s a quick learner, immediately matching his pace, lips moving warm and soft against him, hands pushing him firm against the solid door, body burning hot through his jeans and t-shirt. He tastes faintly of pasta and smells like olive oil, because he cooked Tony dinner, because he’s perfect, just impossibly perfect —

Tony breaks the kiss, pulling away. He runs his hand up Peter’s back and neck, bringing it around to cup his cheek. “Peter—”

“Don’t tell me we shouldn’t do this,” Peter says, and the vulnerable tremor in his voice is the end of any possibility that Tony could force himself to change course. “Please. I’ve been thinking about this for six months, I know what I want, and I’m pretty sure you want it too, so unless I’m wrong about that — please, just don’t.”

“I think this is the part where I point out that you’re sixteen,” Tony forces himself to say. Each word hurts.

“Seventeen, actually. You missed my birthday.”

(Oh, right.) (He’ll have to make that up to him.)

“That doesn’t make it better.” But his hand hasn’t left Peter’s cheek. It’s not going to.

“Technically it does.” Peter flashes a small grin, something a little dangerous playing across his face. “I’m legal now. In New York. I looked it up.”

(Oh god.) (Of course he did.)

“I wasn’t worried about the technicalities, kid.” It’s a lost cause, but he has to say it. Has to give Peter the chance to turn back before he commits to something he can’t possibly understand. He owes him that. “You’re young. I’m a mess. You don’t deserve the shit that comes with being with me.”

Peter steps back, setting his chin in that determined way again. He leaves a hand planted on Tony’s shoulder, keeping him steady.

“Mr. Stark, I died,” he says, and he sounds completely confident, sure in a way Tony has rarely seen. “I went to an alien planet, and I died, and then I came back to life and the one person I really wanted to see was in a coma, so then I spent six months sleeping in your hospital room every weekend and I know what I want.”

He emphasizes the point by closing the gap between them and kissing Tony again, fast and passionate, before adding, “Does that work for you?”

(Yes.)

(Please.)

“Yeah, it works for me,” he hears himself say. Of course it works for him. It’s the only thing he can even imagine wanting right now. “But you have to understand, if we’re going to do this, it can’t be halfway. I don’t have that in me. I—” He pulls himself up short. He can’t say what almost tumbled out of his mouth. It’s too soon, too much. So instead he says a different truth, or maybe the same truth in different words: “Kid, everything I did — figuring out the alternate universes, giving up Iron Man, all of it — it wasn’t to save the universe, not really. It was for you. To get you back. I couldn’t live in a world without you. I just, I couldn’t do it.”     

Peter’s face goes soft, a gentle smile washing over his features, chasing away any signs of exhaustion or stress. Simply gorgeous. “I love you, too,” he whispers.

And then they’re kissing again. This time, they don’t stop.

***

When Tony wakes up the next morning, Peter is curled in his arms, head resting just below his chin. He hadn’t woken from a nightmare once.

He looks too peaceful to disturb, so Tony lets him sleep, marveling at the way his breaths come, steady and deep; content just to lay still, feeling his body, here, in his arms, not disappearing. Not going anywhere. (Safe.) (Alive.) (His.)

For the first time since Titan, he feels nothing but happiness.