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See, the thing was: it had been 127 days without Peter.
No.
Wait. That wasn't right.
Not 127 days; 128.
Or was it 135? Had he skipped a week?
It was possible.
When was the last time he slept?
Tony shook his head, banishing impromptu thoughts.
Recently, he was – to put it bluntly – a goddamn mess.
His laughter was hollow, voice nothing more than a hoarse rasp after weeks of underuse. His normally unkempt appearance had been reduced to caveman-like: hair scruffy and unkempt, and skin haggard and weary.
He was a man who used to pride himself on his quick wit and little anecdotal stories – words to disarm and words to hide behind. He was a man who could talk for hours about nothing in particular; a man who thrived on the sound of his own voice. In fact, he'd often indulged in long, drawn-out conversations with himself as he was normally the only person present with as high intellect as himself.
But it would all be worth it. He could do it – could create something, anything, that would save the kid, bring him back to Tony. Time travel, while synonymous with bad science fiction, was a possibility he was willing to consider and the longer he pondered on the plausibility of such a venture, the more he tinkered and experimented until the idea fluidly evolved from the realm of implausibility to something resembling a technological breakthrough, and Tony would know.
Were the kid here right now, Tony was almost positive he would be cracking bad puns and referencing every single science fiction film he could and the thought made his heart lighten somewhat. Peter was a never-ending source of chatter and noise and so it was more than a little disconcerting to be met with an unnerving silence. Served as a constant reminder of just how far he had fallen, how much he had lost.
Tony refused to see anyone, speak to anyone. He didn't eat or drink or even sleep except for those rare occasions where his body took matters into its own hands. And when he did, he dreamt of theories and loopholes, of multiverses and paradoxes. Problems such as the Planck scale and the Deutsch proposition flittered across his exhausted mind but it was like he was too slow, always just that millisecond behind to figure out a solution, and they escaped into the wind, leaving him a battered broken shell of the genius he once was. Trying to catch a tangible theory and hold on to it was another matter, every time he grasped one the tendrils would dissipate from the holes in his hands. If he could just think coherently for once in his goddamn life.
But he persevered. Had to. For the kid.
His relationship with Pepper became strained; a balloon stretched way too thin. She had been lenient with him, probably much more than he deserved, all things considered, yet he could tell the stress he put on her with his actions but try as he might he could not stop. Did not want to stop. He may have relinquished Iron Man because of his failure but he point blank refused to give up on Peter – and the one thing that had never once let him down in all of his long years (which he knew he never deserved, especially not after the kid had his cruelly snapped short) was his brain. His genius intellect. His so-off-the-charts-it-was-hilarious Stark IQ. Tony had never been happier to be the son of the legendary Howard Stark than he was then. At least being his son was good for something. His legacy was intact, or whatever.
But Howard Stark was the very last thing on his mind. Normally his absentee father predominately featured in his philosophical musings on life and frantic, desperate attempts to live up to the image of the man who revolutionised much of the world they lived in today. No, the only thing Tony Stark was focused on – and really, truly focused on – was his kid. The kid he had to bring back.
The kid he had to bring back. Whatever the cost.
So, in that respect, what if his relationships crumbled into the aether – sorry, the Reality Stone – gone forever? So what if the company his father founded was breathing down his neck, informing him both directly and indirectly how stale it had grown in his absence, how disappointed they had been in him as his attention was diverted to the aftermath of Thanos' mass murder spree? None of it mattered to Tony. Not when he was so close to finding the kid, to bringing him home where he was safe and sound and right where Tony could see him.
And he was. So, so, so close. He could practically taste his achievements, could feel triumph surging through his veins as he quickly chugged his fourth black coffee in the past two hours since his last 'nap'. He hurriedly continued his work on the most important invention he would ever create.
Time had become non-existent in his lab, almost as though he were cocooned in this kinda weird limitless state. Tony snorted at the thought; the irony was not lost on him.
Thankfully, he'd designed the compound big enough so he could get away with avoiding any and all contact with the remaining Avengers. They respected his privacy enough to largely ignore his presence for which he was grateful. Rhodey was the only one who attempted to initiate conversation but even he was getting bogged down in trying to hold the fragile peace across the planet – a losing battle, if you asked Tony. There was no peace; it was all just an illusion to keep the people from getting frightened. Even Pepper's attempts at getting him up and out of the lab were growing few and far between.
Tony was relieved. He could finish his work in relative peace.
Huh. Peace in our time. Tony shuddered at the memory that invoked and felt irrational anger swell up. With Ultron, he was only trying to protect the world, thought he was doing the right thing, albeit going about it in the wrong way. But the great Captain America did not spare a thought for his opinion as it differed from his own, did not care as it went against the super-soldier's methodology.
Tony shook his head. He was on his own. As he always was. Always would be.
Until he got Peter back.
In the eyes of his friends, Tony Stark was the very image of the archetypal mad scientist, down to the last brain cell.
(“Tones, you need to get out of the lab,” Rhodey urged, firm yet gentle; an undercurrent of worry staining the order – as though Tony were a stray dog with a tendency to violence. Which, in hindsight, was probably what he was. “Yeah? Maybe take a shower while you're at it?”
Tony didn't bother with a reply.)
He resisted the urge to snort; his old man would be proud.
His sleep-deprived, caffeine-addled, haywire brain was too slow on the draw, lacked the late Spider-Man's intuitive warnings, and as he powered his circuit the wires twitched and sparked at a furious pace even DUM-E with the fire extinguisher could not match.
And then it exploded.
Tony's back slammed against the wall with a vigour that had him fearing for his life. Pain blossomed in his spine, dancing along his vertebrae and setting his every nerve ending aflame. His head smacked back, white spots bursting in his blackened vision.
Pepper found him the next morning in the ruins of Peter's memory.
“Tony, honey. This isn't healthy,” she told him with strained sympathy. The pregnancy hormones were taking a toll on her, and having an absentee fiancé was probably not helping matters. Particularly when said fiancé was busy mourning the loss of a child that wasn't even theirs.
Bile rose up in his throat. He gagged on nothing.
Warm hands cradled his tear-stricken cheeks and lifted upward. The awkward craning of his neck sent a jarring jolt through his spine as his body belatedly registered that maybe this wasn't the best position to spend the night staring into a bottomless abyss of booze and self-loathing.
Tony blinked as his bleary eyes adjusted to the harsh white light. Pepper must have turned it on just then, he reasoned, with her entrance.
“I know that Pete–” and, Jesus, she couldn't even speak his name; the anguish would never pass, “that he was important to you. He was special to me too.” Her normally pristine composure crumbled a smidge then before she smoothed it over and something in his heart snapped at her display of sorrow. “But, Tony, honey. Please. I need you. I can't do this by myself, Tony. Please.”
He thought it was the sound of her voice cracking that did it in for him. She was breaking, falling apart because of him. Because he wasn't there for her like she had been for him - over and over and over, spanning so many years. He hadn't gifted her the same, hadn't reciprocated in kind and she was forced to bear the brunt of his absence in so many different capacities. She couldn't even grieve. And she was carrying his child.
How many more people would he let down before his end?
Tony wanted to cry. “I can’t do this.”
“Oh, honey, I know,” she murmured in a voice thick with all the tears she had not allowed herself to shed. “But could you try? Please. For me.”
Try. He could do that, he thought. Owed it to everyone to do so; to Pepper, to Happy, to Rhodey.
Owed it to Peter to do so.
(From that point onwards, Tony did not entertain notions of a magical miracle.)