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In the end, the only way to fix things is to erase them.
The Avengers - the original six, plus Rhodey and newcomer Captain Marvel - find a way to travel back in time and prevent the Snap from ever happening after almost six months of nothing.
It's...surreal, to say the least.
Because it actually didn't happen in everyone else's timeline, no one but the Avengers remembers. The Snap, everyone disappearing, the weary aftermath, it's forgotten by all but seven people.
Tony will never be able to forget it. Holding your kid in your arms as he slowly disintegrates, crying and begging all the while for you to save him...it's not something you forget.
Peter is alive and well - physically and mentally, thank God - but Tony still spends every waking moment with the words I don't wanna go ringing dully in his ears. Still dreams of red planets and purple titans and the closest thing he's ever had to a son fading away all too soon.
Tony Stark has born many crosses in his lifetime.
This makes everything else he's been through seem like a cakewalk.
The worst part is, he can't talk to anyone about it. Rhodey knows what happened, only because he dragged it out of Tony after a particularly bad night, but he hasn't told anyone the details. Hasn't told anyone that he lives his life waiting for this timeline to turn out to be some sort of really drawn-out dream and for him to wake up and realize that Peter is still gone.
He can't even talk to Peter about it. Can't sit the kid down and tell him that he's sorry for not being able to save him, that the six months without him were the worst six months of Tony's life. He can't put that kind of burden on Peter, not when the kid was miraculously spared from the trauma of it all.
So he keeps his mouth shut. And he keeps as close an eye on Peter as he possibly can, because there's no way in hell he's going to fail his kid again.
As all things are, Tony is bound to fall apart eventually.
It's a lab day. Peter's sitting across the room, tinkering away with the Iron Man gauntlet Tony had handed him an hour ago, when he finally got tired of not being able to figure out what was wrong with it. Tony hasn't really been working on anything since, just fiddling with spare parts in an attempt to look like he's doing something. With how often Peter glances over at him, it's probably not working.
He didn't sleep well last night. Or, if he's being honest, at all. He'd spent most of the night wandering the halls of the tower and trying to avoid waking anyone up because every time he closed his eyes he saw Titan.
It's getting worse, he thinks. The noise in his head, as Peter so aptly describes his own issues, is getting louder. Harder to ignore.
But he's been dealing for the last five weeks and he'll keep dealing.
No matter what Rhodey and Pepper and Bruce say, he's dealing.
Until the time to send Peter home alarm goes off (May insisted he set it after one too many forgotten curfews), and Peter looks up and mock-whines, "Aw, I don't wanna go."
I don't wanna go. I don't wanna go.
He can feel himself slipping as it happens. The part he's holding falls out of his hand and clatters on the floor and he can't breathe, he can't think, he can't he can't he can't.
Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good.
No, no no, not again, he can't do this again. Peter's stumbling into his arms and he wants to comfort him, to help him, to save him, but all he can do is say, "You're alright," and hold him as he shakes.
Please.
Peter is fading and there's nothing he can do. His kid is dying and there's nothing he can do.
I'm sorry.
His kid is dying, he thinks it's his fault, and Tony can't even find the strength to tell him it's not. To say that he's the one who should be apologizing, not Peter.
He can't fucking breathe.
Mr. Stark.
He's never going to hear the kid call him Tony. He's never going to hear the kid call him Dad.
Mr. Stark!
He's never going to earn his place as Peter's father-figure. He's never going to hear his kid talk about Star Wars or chemistry or his friends again.
"Tony!"
Peter.
Peter.
It can't be real. It can't be real because Peter's gone and Tony misses him so fucking much.
"Tony, please, you - you're scaring me."
What?
This isn't part of the script.
Tony comes to on the lab floor, knees pulled up to his chest and fingernails dug into the sides of his calves. Peter is kneeling in front of him, hands hovering in the air as if unsure where to go and eyes wide with thinly veiled panic.
"Peter," Tony gasps out. "Peter."
The kid takes both of Tony's hands in his, pulling them away from his legs and clutching them tight. The fear on his face lessens, but only just. "I'm here. I'm right here, okay? I've got you."
He's way too good at this for a seventeen-year-old. Peter is way too young to be watching his mentor have a panic attack on the floor.
Peter is so young and so small and so, so alive.
"I'm sorry, Peter, I'm so sorry. Peter, I - Peter." He can't stop saying his name. Has to remind himself that Peter is here, that Peter is okay, that Peter is alive. He's alive. "Peter, I'm sorry - I love you, Peter, I should've told you - I should've -"
It's not how he meant to tell him, but at least he's said it now.
Surprise flits over Peter's face for barely even a second before his expression shifts back to worry. There’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though. “I love you too, Mr. Stark. But are you - what’s happening right now? What can I do?”
It’s too many words at one time. Too much to process at one time.
“Don’t go,” is all he can say.
“I won’t,” Peter assures him, scooting closer and moving to sit criss-cross with the fronts of his shoes pressing against Tony’s. “I’m not going anywhere, promise.”
You can’t promise that, he wants to say. He’s seen for himself that staying is something Peter cannot guarantee.
“I love you, Peter,” he says again, because he should’ve said it a billion times before. Because he wants Peter to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Tony would do anything for him. “Don’t go.”
A broken record.
Peter squeezes his hands. “I’m here. I’m always here.”
They’ll talk about this later, Tony knows. Peter won’t let him get away with not explaining, never does.
He’ll have to figure out what to tell Peter. Because he can’t tell him the truth, but Peter always knows when he’s lying, at least about important things.
But it doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter now because Peter is here. Alive and well.
He’s here. And Tony can breathe.