Chapter Text
For once in the battle, he feels like the center of attention. The ash from their enemies drifts up into the horizon, but the sky is still thundering with falling debris and grey clouds. A silence falls upon the remains of the structure, even the roaring fires from explosions and battle screams have ceased.
He feels various pairs of eyes stuck on him, his crumpled figure, the metal of whatever he’s resting upon piercing against his damaged armor. He can fix that later. There’s pain flooding every vein, every fibre of his being, and he tries to keep the blood and vomit in his stomach. The glove dully shines with tenuous lines, and his skin seems to have combined with it during the snap.
He can see the burnt flesh, smelled it sooner, now combined with melted metal, in the corner of his eye, but does not have the strength to look down on it.
Peter approaches first.
He wants to smile, to cradle the teenager in his arms with care to recover the time lost in five years. He wants to tell him about Morgan, take out that small polaroid picture in his armor and say how sorry he was for letting this happen.
His ears can’t make out the words the brunette is babbling, just his teary eyes and quivering smile. Then Pepper’s blue chest plate shines behind the kid and he wills himself to look up.
She’s bright as the moon, in all the glory of a warrior with that armor he had designed, and he can help but think of their lovely cabin in the woods. He wonders where Morgan is, what she is doing. Is she aware that both her parents were fighting for her future? Is she concerned, or scared?
Pepper’s crying, and for a brief moment he wonders if he made a sarcastic or selfish comment. She cradles his face with an un-gloved finger, and he cant help but lean into the touch, the skin being the only warm thing apart from the fivers scattered around.
His right hand is shaky and nearly gives up on moving when he tries to hold her hand, and she takes it with care. His lips move to pronounce her name, but he can't hear his voice, yet knows she heard when her eyes shine.
Strange emerges behind her, battered and older than before, and his eyes hold an emotion he can’t decipher. If someone had told the genius that Stephen Strange was aware of his fate a few months ago, he would have blasted the magician. But at the moment their eyes me, he couldn't help but be thankful that the future was only theirs to know.
He is exhausted.
Years of pain and turbulence seem to weigh down on him, more weight than his suit of armor could ever carry. He wants to close his eyes and drift off for eternity.
His lips twitch and smile down on his son and wife, on the shimmering of a red and blue shield behind them. Goodbye.
The last thing Tony Stark notices is the swinging of a blade, but it doesn't strike his chest as pictured. He can feel it zipping past his ear, crashing to his shoulder, but darkness consumes his mind before he can scream.
--------------------
Pepper was originally the only person who knew of his fear of hospitals, but after a few years of battles and avenging he suspects the whole teams knows.
His stomach twists as the smell of latex and disinfectants flood his senses and his eyes blink rapidly. His body is propped up, face brightened by the swimming lights of the ceiling, neck brace holding it high. Strange, dressed in an odd combination of cape and surgical scrubs, is rushing by his side, and a female doctor he does not know.
He moans out in pain, but he starts to panic when his left arm doesn't respond.
Hold on Stark, we’re going into surgery
Mr. Stark!
Tony, you have to live
Morgan should be here
He’s seizing!
Voices, hushed and loud, are everywhere and he wants to tune the volume down. He calls out for Friday, and when she doesn't respond his head starts picturing ways to scol the AI for not maintaining herself responsive.
When the wheels of the cot stop moving a bright, icy light shines and makes him wince. Someone presses a mask against his mouth and he fails to summon his left arm to take it off, off off off off.
Everything is now silly, floating around like his ship with Nebula.
Everything is black once more.
-----------------------
“You didn’t waste it.”
He is floating, dressed in the Black Sabbath t-shirt and some pants, barefoot. The figure of the Afghan man approaches him, also clean, pure and without the round glasses.
“Yinsen?” his lips don’t move, as if the voice comes from his head instead of his vocal cords.
“Rest, Stark. Your legacy is grand. It's time to go.”
Abruptly, the memory of the man is no longer peaceful, and he frowns.
“I don’t want to go.”
“Stark, it is time-” begun the man.
“No.” A tremor shoots down his left arm, and his consciousness of having his arm appears. “I have a family- I’m not done. Morgan.. Peter, my wife-”
“It's over now, Stark. You deserve rest.”
No, this is wrong. He wants to live, he has a purpose now. It couldn't possibly be over.
“I can’t, I- I don’t want to go…”
He tries to place his hand on Yinsen shoulder, but he crumbles to ash particles. The hand flinches back in terror, and he wants to close his eyes in order to wake up from this slumber turned to nightmare.
“Anthony?”
Tears run down his face as the figure of his mother comes closer, and a hand, perfectly manicured, cradles his cheek.
“Mom?”
“Shush, Anthony. You have to rest now.” her voice is sweet as honey.
He can see the figure of Howard behind her, close but not too much, and as he reaches to wipe her tears she begins to crumbles to dust.
“I can’t see you yet, mom.”
“Anthony, dear-”
She’s gone, and he’s alone in this void. He wants Pepper, Peter, he wants to hug Morgan, to feel the breeze of their lake, taste the cool lemonade on barbecue afternoons, to make up with his teammates, his friends, to invent- he’s not done.
He wants to go home but there’s nothing but darkness.