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There's a certain sense of wrongness to staying out of the fight.
There can't, of course, be two Iron Mans flying around. He knows what's at stake, knows the mission parameters intimately—he was, after all, the one who ultimately, metaphorically, unlocked the door to the past.
Which, despite the unadulterated anxiety wracking his nerves, sounds pretty cool. All things considered.
New York in 2012 hits him like an iron fist to the gut. From his vantage point behind a smoldering dumpster (fitting) in a dingy alley beside the tower, he watches another version of himself soar into the belly of a space whale.
Maybe it's the smell of ozone in the air—Thor’s lightning, or the blazing ring of blue fire burning a hole open in the sky, he doesn't know—but the memory is such a sudden, visceral slap to the face that the air leaves his lungs as fast as the Mark IV shoots out of the thing's ass with a squelch he had, up until this point, successfully blocked from his memory.
On second thought, he'll happily sit this one out.
This time—the second time—subterfuge is the unlikely name of Tony Stark's game.
But the thing he's learning about time travel—and he's not sure whether it's fourteen million possible timelines flickering in his head (there's a strange static charge in the air that wasn't here before, and he knows somehow, inherently, that the fabric of spacetime itself is protesting his very presence here... in the dumpster) or deja vu dialed up to eleven—but the thing he's noticing is that something about time travel makes his intuition go haywire.
And something is telling him sending Natasha to Vormir was a very, very bad idea.
It makes sense, Tony tells himself, that of course having Natasha—the spy—here would be a logical, not at all fear-inspired desire.
Because he's not a spy. He's not made for all this undercover reconnaissance. That's all this is, he thinks wildly. Intuition is subconscious pattern recognition that occurs too fast for the conscious to process. And Steve—2012 Steve—is hurling what is technically Natasha—2012 Natasha—through the air to hijack a Chitauri Davidson.
He doesn't dare think, not for a second, that he wishes he had spent more time with her, in the end.
His brain aches. He never did master those breathing exercises Bruce said would lower his blood pressure.
2012 Steve takes a hit to the face, and the sudden desire to cheer is almost enough to distract him from the shittiness of his present reality.
It's not enough to distract him from the sudden clang of the tin garbage cans behind him.
His fists are encased in gauntlets before he's managed to fully turn away from the street. One of the lids rolls until it hits the opposite wall, falling to the pavement with a sound that echoes through the alley and probably signals to every being within a hundred mile radius that, hello, sitting duck right over here.
He holds his breath, back to the dumpster, but the sounds of the fight don't leave the street.
“You have ten seconds to prove you're not one of the bad guys before I start shooting.” His voice carries farther than he intends, and he doesn't breathe for another heart pounding moment before he hears it.
“Please don't shoot.”
And then he's not breathing for an entirely different reason, and Christ, this is what his cardiologist warned him about, but he knows that voice. He knows it and—
So much for intuition, he thinks dazedly.
His gauntlet slowly dismantles back into his watch. He peels away from the dumpster—literally peels, he thinks faintly, as his shirt clings to whatever slime was gluing him to the fusty metal—sparing one last glance at the fight before faltering his way to the trash bins.
“It's okay.” Impressive, that he can manage English right now around the rock that's taken up residence in his throat. “I won't.”
“Thanks,” Peter Parker whispers hoarsely, curled up next to the farthest trash bin, knees to his chest and back to the brick wall.
It's not his Peter, of course it's not. Not yet, at least. The kid in front of him can't be older than twelve. His cheeks are still round and his eyes are massive in his face, rimmed with red, and he clutches his backpack to his chest like a lifeline. There are little Iron Mans all over it, and by god, if they pull off this scheme of theirs, his Peter is never going to hear the end of it.
“What the hell are you doing here, kid?” His voice is rougher than he means it to be, and he runs a hand over his face. His eyes are burning. Probably all the asbestos.
“Hiding,” Peter says more defensively than Tony is expecting. He isn't deaf to the unspoken duh that laces the kid's words, either. God, but he's missed the little shit.
“No. I mean here, in Manhattan.” He can hear the desperate edge to his own voice, and Peter looks at him strangely. Fuck. He backpedals. “Civilians were supposed to be evacuated hours ago.”
Fear flickers across Peter's face, and he looks down at his knees, picking at a loose thread on his jeans.
“We—I mean, my class—” Peter swallows thickly. “We were on a field trip. To Oscorp. The building got hit on our way out, and a bunch of us had to scatter, and I don't know—”
The kid cuts off, looking up at him, terrified.
“I thought if anyone could help…” he trails off, looking at Tony as if seeing him for the first time. “Mister Stark, what are you doing here?”
Peter's voice has taken on that same awestruck edge it would in 2016, the day Tony met him for the first time. Not anymore. Tony winces as the sound of the suit's repulsors roar past the alley, and Peter's eyes flicker in panic over his shoulder as a damning red and gold blur soars into the sky behind them. He really needs to work on his subtlety.
“Um…” Peter stares. “These aliens aren't like the ones in that really old movie, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, are they, Mister Stark?”
If Peter didn't look so genuinely terrified, Tony might have laughed at him.
“Sorry to disappoint, kid,” Tony says, and Peter's eyes widen comically before he puts him out of his misery. “One hundred percent human, last time I checked.”
Peter sags, blinking rapidly. “Sorry, stupid question.”
“Not stupid,” Tony counters lightly, and Peter looks at him in surprise as he sinks to the ground next to him behind the trash can with a grunt. He jerks his head towards the street and improvises. "It's a life model decoy.”
The words reverberate in his head from two days ago. No. Seven years ago.
Peter is nodding, wide-eyed and polite, and Tony feels his lips twitch upward at the corners despite himself. “My AI can operate the suit remotely from the tower. I, on the other hand,” he continues, shifting on the pavement, “am on a super secret mission from the future.”
Peter snorts, just like he was hoping, and this time Tony can't help but smile. The time line's already fucked. He knows this much already. And Peter's alive, breathing, and most importantly, not disintegrating in his hands in front of him, and if Tony's honest with himself, he stopped caring about much else a long time ago.
“No offense, Mister Stark, but I think I'd believe you were a body snatcher more.”
“You did believe I was a body snatcher,” Tony retorts, elbowing the kid lightly in the ribs. Solid. Alive. Peter's entire countenance has shifted from exhausted fright to cautious delight in a matter of seconds.
“So what's the super secret mission?” He's going for skeptical, Tony can tell, but “eager puppy” is probably more accurate. His chest is aching.
“It wouldn't be super secret if a told some random kid, now would it?” he manages.
“Oh—” Peter sticks out his hand. “I'm Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.”
I know, Tony almost says, before he realizes he's not supposed to. He swallows, and takes Peter's hand in his. It's tiny.
“Nice to meet you, Peter Parker. Tony Stark.”
Explosions continue in the street, but Tony can hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears as the universe shifts around him.
“I know,” Peter says, and the irony isn't lost on him for a second. But Peter looks almost shy. “You saved my life once.”
“What?” Tony stares at him, incredulous.
Peter nods. “Yeah, um… a couple years ago, at the Stark Expo. My uncle took me, but we got separated.”
Dread churns in Tony's stomach, and he hopes this isn't going where he thinks it's going.
“Someone needs to put you on a leash, kid.”
Peter nods seriously, and Tony’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline.
“Aunt May says I'm jeopardy friendly.”
“Sounds like Aunt May might know a thing or two.”
Peter looks sheepish. “I had an Iron Man mask.” Tony groans internally. “I... wanted to be like you. But one of the suits came after me. You shot first though, and then you said—”
“‘Nice work, kid,’” Tony finishes, resigning himself to the fact that another five years were just shaved off his life span. What’s he at now? He has to be getting close.
Baby Peter looks at him curiously. “You remember that?”
“Unfortunately,” Tony sighs, stretching out his legs. At the very least Peter has the sense to look ashamed. “I think your purpose in life is to give me a coronary.”
He looks at his watch tiredly. They had calibrated their jump to give themselves a margin of error. Bruce Hulk (Bulk? he mulls. He hasn't had much time to digest that one yet.) may have been able to go to find Strange right off the bat, but his own responsibilities are more tactical—and there isn't much that can be done until the fight is over. And he had chosen this alley to stake out the fight.
Strange had been tight lipped about his foray into the future. Time has a funny way of taking us where we need to be, when we need to be there. They were the only words he had offered, complete with a patented haughty glare. Tony thinks he understands, now.
He still hopes Bulk punches Strange right on his ugly, holier-than-thou goatee.
He hears people start screaming anew. There's an incoming missile, and he knows they're getting close. Something explodes just outside the alley, debris tumbling towards them, and Peter jolts, looking at him in fright.
“Hey, whoa, slow down.” Tony slings an arm around Peter's scrawny shoulders. “I've got you. You know I do, you know who I am.”
Peter looks at him as if he's gone insane.
“A body snatcher?” he whispers, and Tony's never loved the kid more.
“Did your class ditch you on purpose?" He rolls his eyes, and Peter laughs wetly. "Because I'm starting to see how that might have happened." He nudges the kid's chin. "Hey. I'm not going to let anything happen to you.” Liar. “Safest place in the world right now, right here.”
He'd jeopardize the whole mission to make sure it was true.
Peter's looking at him, wide-eyed. Too trusting for Tony's erratic, guilt-sick heart.
“Whatever happened earlier,” he forces out, and his head is on Titan and Peter—his Peter—is staring at him with those same doleful, brown eyes as he crumbles into dust, “it wasn't your fault. I need you to understand that, alright? It's not your fault, kiddo.”
Peter sniffs valiantly. Outside their dumpster haven, the Tony Stark of 2012 disappears into space.
He's out of time. And it's not fair.
He wants to scream and shout because for all that a goddamn time machine has given them a second chance to fix the clusterfuck of the future, time is the one thing he can't buy. The one thing he wants so badly it hurts can't be bought or sold. And he hasn't had enough time. Not with Natasha. Or Peter. Christ, not with Morgan. And now Peter Parker is sitting at his side, and there's a million things Tony needs to say, and he can't.
Instead, he rasps, “C'mon kid, let’s get you out of this slimy alleyway.”
He hefts Peter to his feet, squeezing him around the shoulders.
The tower has a maintenance door further down the alley. It's the only reason he's even here in the first place. Tony shuffles them further into the alley, shooting glances over his shoulder too frequently for someone trying not to look suspicious. It's embarrassing, especially in front of the kid, but Peter's eyes are glued to the pavement. The door opens with a screech and shuts behind them with a clang. The corridor inside is gray, nondescript, and most importantly, empty. His ears ring in the heavy silence of the hall, and he takes a deep breath.
“Alright, Pete, here's the deal. I have to go finish my super secret mission.”
Fresh guilt floods his system as Peter looks at him in fear.
“You're leaving?”
His voice is as small as his body. Berlin is in three years and he's never been so viscerally reminded that Peter is a child.
“You'll see me again,” he promises vaguely, and swallows. “I'm leaving you in the best hands in the tower. Now listen. At the end of this creepy maintenance tunnel—” Peter lets out a startled laugh “—there’s an elevator. Take it all the way up to R and D. Fiftieth floor.”
Peter looks at him in wonder and Tony resists the urge to roll the kid in bubble wrap and run screaming for the hills.
“Don't touch anything,” he grits out, and Peter looks sufficiently chastened for Tony to not feel existential dread where his usual gut-twisting anxiety is sufficient. “Tell Fri— tell Jarvis—” and boy, is that adding some salt to old wounds “—Tony sent you. You ever see that really old movie, Die Hard? Tell Jarvis to activate the Gruber Protocol. The whole floor will lockdown. You'll be safe there until the building is clear.”
The portal is shut down by now. The hall is still eerily quiet. Floor fifty is far enough out of the way that Tony hopes it won't end up collateral in what's bound to be the ensuing shitshow.
“Who's Jarvis?” Peter asks warily.
“Remember that AI I told you about?” Peter's eyes grow about ten times bigger.
“Woah,” he breathes. “But what about Aunt May?” he asks suddenly. “She’s probably worried.”
Oh, I bet she is, Tony thinks with empty humor.
“Ask Jarvis to call her. Tell her what happened.”
Peter nods stoically, looking unsure.
“Hey,” Tony grabs his shoulders. “Look at me.” This Peter's face has fewer freckles than Tony remembers. “You get all that? What did I tell you to do?”
Peter swipes suddenly at his eyes, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the concrete flooring.
“Um… floor fifty. Gruber Protocol. Tell Jarvis to call Aunt May.”
His voice is hardly above a whisper.
“You got it, kiddo,” Tony says roughly. “You're gonna be fine.”
He steers Peter down the hall, the Iron Man backpack gripped tightly in his other hand.
“Do your homework while you're up there.”
Peter laughs again, wetly. The pair of elevators at the end of the corridor are more ominous than Tony ever remembered. He pushes up, and the mechanics of the elevator echo along the walls. It's moments before the doors are sliding open in front of them.
“That's you, Pete.”
“Mister Stark, I…” Peter's throat bobs. “I don't wanna go.”
For a second Tony can't breathe. For a second, he's on Titan, and Peter is dying, and there's not a goddamn thing he can do about it. Peter's ashes burn his lungs and the hole in his side, and he can't breathe, and if he's honest with himself, if this is what being alive means, he doesn't want to be anymore.
"… ster Stark?”
But Peter is still there, alarm coloring a face that's too young to be in the middle of any of this shit, and Tony shudders as he says, “I wish you didn't have to.”
Tony deliberates for about a quarter of a second before he pulls the kid into a hug. He doesn't know if he's surprised or not to feel Peter's skinny arms wrap tightly around his neck, but it's worth it. God, it's worth it.
“I'm proud of you, Peter,” he whispers, and maybe it's too much to tell a kid—that technically speaking—he just met, but Peter doesn't seem to care, and Tony can't bring himself to. “You were brave as hell out there.”
Tony lets him go, and Peter stares at him in awe.
“I'm just a kid from Queens,” he says softly.
Tony shrugs, lips quirking. “Better than Brooklyn.”
Peter grins toothily, and Tony nods toward the elevator. “C’mon, kid.”
He ruffles Peter's hair as he ducks into the elevator, ignoring the lump that seems to be growing malignantly in his throat. Definitely asbestos.
An errant thought grows unbidden in his head.
Peter's pushing the button to go to 50, and the doors are beginning to slide shut, and he shoots his arm out to stop them.
The timelines are buzzing around him like a swarm of angry bees.
“Hey,” he says, almost wildly. “Stark Industries has a way better engineering division than Oscorp.”
Peter is staring at him again.
“I'm just saying—” he swallows, trying to shake out the nervous tick in his hands. “—if your class goes to Oscorp again? Take the day and come here instead. Full tour, I'll put you in the system.”
Something in the air snaps, and Tony knows it's done.
But Peter is nodding enthusiastically. His whole future has veered off course, and Tony should feel guilty, but he doesn't. Peter is safe. And he's beaming.
“Mister Stark, that's— wow, I don't know what to say, thank you—”
Tony lets his arm fall back to his side.
“I'll see you later, kid.”
Peter waves, and the doors shut, and it's quiet.
He takes a breath. And then another.
He presses the button for the elevator again, and the second set of doors slide open not a minute later. His body feels numb as he steps inside, and he presses the button for the penthouse.
“Hey, J?”
There's a moment of silence, and then—
“Yes, sir?”
His knees almost buckle.
“Good to hear you, buddy,” he says, swallowing down the hysteria he can hear building in his voice.
Jarvis is damningly silent, and Tony sighs. “I know this looks weird.”
“That would be an understatement, sir, considering I am currently monitoring your vitals inside the Mark IV.”
Jarvis sounds accusatory, and Tony doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry.
“I bought Pepper an engagement ring,” he says instead. “Gold-titanium alloy. Six carats.”
The Tony of 2012 had been discreet in this. No one else would have known. Jarvis is quiet a moment longer, but then—
“I suppose I've seen weirder, sir.”
Tony huffs a laugh.
“You haven't seen anything yet, J,” he intones. “Listen. Don't tell me—your me, other me—about me, okay?”
It sounds asinine to his own ears.
“I shall endeavor not to mention you, sir,” Jarvis says dryly.
“That’s great— listen.” His heart is pounding, urgency eating at him like cancer. “I don't have a lot of time. I want you to set up a trust for Peter Parker.”
“The child currently recalibrating the electron microscope?”
Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s the one. I don't want him to worry about anything except what color tie to wear to his first homecoming dance. And J—”
There's a pregnant pause as the elevator slows to a stop. “Regular offline backups.”
It's quiet, and then softly, “I will see that it is done.”
Tony nods, and sticks his comms in his ears. Rendezvous with Shrinkydink in T minus 5.
Jarvis's voice sounds skeptically from overhead. “You're not a body snatcher, are you, Sir?”
It's the first time he's laughed in weeks.
It's the last time he'll laugh before—
The doors slide open, and Tony steps into the past.