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Threading dirty hands through his hair, Tony sighed and reclined back against the wall of the ship, body slumped with dejection. He would die out here; he had no doubt of that. Part of him thought that it was rather stupid that he was feeling this way: desolate, robbed of something, in a way. He shouldn't feel this way. That was the thought that immediately followed. He had always known—or at least for a very long time, for as long as it mattered—known that he would die young. And he had been okay with that. Very okay, really. He was Tony Stark, a playboy, a party boy, and it was only fitting that he went out the same way he had lived—with a bang. Or from a heart attack or even liver disease. Yeah, that worked too. After the reckless lifestyle he had led for most of his time on Earth, those were the only options Tony could seriously expect. But to die stranded in the middle of fucking space? Yeah, wow. Not even Tony Stark could have seen that coming, though he supposed that this death, too, was somewhat fitting. Somehow, it was only right that it would be a Stark who got this far, farther than any human before had. What would the old man think about that?
It might seem strange that now, here, on the cusp of asphyxiation, Tony was thinking of his dad. But it wasn’t. Not really. Not if you thought about it. It was quite natural, actually, for people awaiting death to reflect back on their lives, and Tony happened to be one of those at the present moment. For a while, both him and his alien companion had known that it was a matter of time before oxygen ran out, never mind the rations, and, as much as Nebula claimed that her implants allowed her to survive much more extreme environments than he could, Tony could see through her bullshit. She wasn’t as blank as she pretended to be. She was just as scared as he was, if not more so. Tony, at least, had the hope, however torturous, that his friends and family had survived whatever the fuck had happened back on Titan, even if the kid hadn’t.
The kid…
To be completely honest, it hadn’t crossed Tony’s mind that he would have to explain this to Peter’s aunt. Rather, he needed someone to explain to him how it was possible for a person to turn to dust out of nowhere. Nebula probably knew, but whatever resentment Tony had built against her silence had been long extinguished by now. Who was he to force her to speak? He admittedly knew very little of her, but he knew enough to determine that she was more fucked up than him, and not to be arrogant, but that was a pretty big, fucking achievement. Yeah, sometimes, Tony decided, it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.
Who would have ever thought? Him, Tony Stark, keeping to himself. These truly were unprecedented times, but, then again, it was not every day that you were trapped on a doomed spaceship, not knowing whether the people you loved were alive.
Tony thought of them often—of Pepper, of Rhodey, of Happy. Even of Steve and his metal-armed friend. He thought about a lot of people, from his earliest caretakers to the morons he had met weeks before. There was little to do but to think back on his life, on what he had done and hadn’t done. His only other option was to stress about his upcoming death, and, believe it or not, Tony preferred the former.
When Tony thought about his father, it used to be, always, with the dejected acceptance that, even if the guy had kicked around for some more years, they would have never achieved an agreement that allowed them to at least pretend that they had something like a normal father-son relationship. Now, Tony couldn’t help but reevaluate that assessment, though, if he was completely honest, that was no novelty, not since he’d found out about the Winter Soldier. Could they have ever reconciled, if one could even call it that? Who knew. Tony certainly looked at it differently now because, before discovering the truth, it had been easy to blame Howard for the supposed car crash. It had been easy, Tony admitted, to imagine that Howard had been drunk, and that was what had caused both his and his mother’s death. Unforgivable, Tony had always thought, yet had mourned them both.
Yes, he had mourned them both.
There were many other things he regretted, like the trip to Afghanistan. Tony loved his suit, sure, but it had made him responsible for things that should have never been entrusted to him. Seriously, how was it that he had become involved in some alien parody of Star Wars? Oh, no, and don’t even mention that whole pissing contest with Rogers. Tony had no words for that except, maybe, I hope you’ve been having fun with your buddy , because that was the type of person he was. Spiteful, yeah, and maybe a little childish, but Tony felt pretty justified about that, at least in this case. No, especially in this case. One had to wonder how Pepper put up with him.
Oh, sweet Pepper. Tony had really put her through a lot, hadn’t he? But all those years together, they had been worth it. They had made each other happy. Or, at least, Tony hoped that he made Pepper happy because God knew his life was all the better for having her in it. He didn't know what he would have done without her, without her support, especially after the mess that was New York invasion. He'd been a real mess back then, but when wasn't he? In fact, it seemed like that was a defining trait of their relationship: Pepper being there to pull him through his shit. Jesus, how did she put up with him? Like, seriously, she should be a saint, but, well, Tony couldn't be that bad if she'd agreed to marry him. Right?
Still, Tony couldn't deny that, here, estranged as he was, he kind of regretted asking Pepper to marry him. Their engagement—their continued relationship in general—would only cause her more unnecessary pain. At this moment, she was probably tearing her hair out, trying to figure out what had become of him. Maybe she had even threatened to kill him or cut off his ball a couple dozen times by now, and, honestly? Tony wouldn't mind that if only he got to see her again, but that wouldn't happen, and Pepper… Oh, how Tony hated himself right now. He had promised to himself that he would never cause this pain to Pepper, not like a certain somebody had done to him. It was such a horrible thing, not knowing whether your partner was still alive. And, if Pepper was anything like Tony, which was to say stubborn, then she would spend years trying to find him, hoping he would return. Because that was Tony now. Refusing to think that anything could have happened to Pepper, instead assuring himself that she was alive and well. Tony wouldn't entertain any other thought.
That was what had been stolen from him, Tony knew—his future with Pepper. For the first time in forever, he'd had something to look forward to, something that made him happy, something genuine , fucking dammit. He was supposed to get married, to have a family, to die of old age instead of in this bloody coffin. That was, essentially, what the spaceship was. A coffin that, for all Tony cared, could be blown to bits by—
Thud.
"What the hell was that?" Tony exclaimed, startled. He knew that, just moments before, he'd been hoping that his only protection from the nothingness out there would be destroyed, but he hadn't meant it, okay, universe? This was not the moment to start listening.
"A body," Nebula replied from the cockpit, her voice flat as it usually was, and wait, what?
"What do you mean 'a body'? What is a fucking body doing in the middle of fucking space?"
To that, Nebula didn't reply, and Tony had no other option than to go see for himself, though, generally, he tried to keep away from the cockpit, and with good reason. Oh, with excellent reasons. Tony was sure that not even the craziest of psychos could have come up with what lay before him: a sea of bodies, yes, charred bodies, others simply blown apart by whatever had happened here. More than once, Tony saw nothing but a lone arm floating peacefully in the vacuum.
"The hell?" Tony muttered under his breath, eyes darting from corpse to corpse. "Who would do this?"
"My father," Nebula replied with little to no inflection, but Tony knew better than that. He could spot daddy issues more than a mile away. Alternately, Nebula didn't look like the type to mourn strangers.
"Jesus, and here I thought he couldn't get crazier."
"You don't know what my father is capable of."
Tony rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I got that, thanks." Under any other circumstances, Tony thought with wry amusement, they would both sound like spoiled brats. Strange how death could turn even the most popular bratty response into something so utterly horrific.
"That one," Nebula suddenly said, and Tony glanced at her in confusion, not bothering to look where she was pointing.
"What?"
"We're bringing that one in."
Tony's mouth fell open in shock. "Look, Smurfette, I know you're crazy, but this is too crazy, okay? You get that? We're already hours away from dying. You don't need to rush it."
"We're bringing him in," Nebula restated simply, sparing him not a glance just like Tony hadn't cared to look at what she wanted. Whatever it was, they were not bringing it in. What would they even do with a dead body ?
"What are you, a necrophiliac?"
Nebula ignored him, utterly and completely, strutting out of the cockpit with her jaw clenched in determination. What a crazy chick, and a murderous one at that. But, despite knowing that Nebula could easily kill him, Tony followed on her heels. If he allowed her to do this, he'd just die of asphyxia anyways, so what other choice did he have?
"Nebula, c'mon, think about this! He's dead . Bringing him in won't change that. He'll still be dead, so just—"
"I know him," Nebula snapped, and Tony froze in his tracks. She did? Well, that was… quite the coincidence. Was space really that small? Wow. Everyone really knew everyone. Double wow.
The shock of that news was enough to keep Tony rooted to his spot as Nebula prepared to head to the hatch, his mouth uttering no other words of protest. He wasn't an asshole, at least not anymore, he liked to believe. Maybe a couple of years ago he would have snapped, So what? and kept on arguing, but now? Well, for starters, he wasn't that man anymore and, second, from what little he knew of Nebula, this guy, whoever he was, had to be truly important for her to be so insistent about recovering his body. After all, the only other times Tony had known her to express emotions was when Thanos or the so-called Gamora were concerned.
Actually, that didn't… that didn't sound like it would bode well for him, but, eh. What could a dead man do. Right?
~°•°~
"He's not dead."
Face devoid of emotion, Tony simply blinked at Nebula—once, twice, and then again. Not dead? Sure, that made sense.
"Alright, then. I'm just going to go get that blanket I mentioned, 'kay?"
"We're not covering him," Nebula insisted, but since she didn't sound that bent on it, Tony went to look for that blanket anyway. Honestly, was he the only one creeped out by the corpse? Jesus, what was wrong with people nowadays, seriously. Tony didn't even need to look at it to know he didn't want it lying around, much less touch it, what the fuck?
"What are you doing ? Do you have any idea how disgusting that is?"
As calm as you please, Nebula lifted her gaze from where her hands had been probing the body's neck, her face expressionless as she replied, "Are all Terrans this spineless?"
"Spineless!" Tony gasped in indignation. "More like respectful! You don't just manhandle a body like that."
"Shut up and let me work," Nebula hissed, and Tony snapped, "Fine," dropping the blanket to the floor and adding, "I just hope you know we won't be able to play anymore with your dead guy on the table."
With that, Tony spun on his heel to leave, but he'd hardly taken a step forward when he heard it, the unmistakable crunch of a bone being snapped back into place.
Tony couldn't help it; he vomited.
~°•°~
As it turned out, there was plenty—oh, plenty —that a dead guy could do, and that was not eating his brain, as Tony had feared—as he, in fact, mentioned to Pepper on the last video he recorded, where he spoke, in addition to zombies, about how Nebula's desire to keep a link to her old life just made Tony yearn for Pepper all the more deeply.
There was, also, something to do with closure, with the certainty of death even if Nebula was currently pretty deep in an abysmal well of denial, but Tony kept those thoughts to himself. Which was great, really. Fantastic, actually, because he'd been right to fear zombies and Nebula had been technically right about the not dead thing—which, not good. Star Wars wasn't supposed to have zombies—and Tony hated nothing more than being wrong. Well, except for Thanos, maybe, but Tony was taking things an hour at a time. He'd say "days," but, you know. He probably didn't have any more of those. Anyways…
Did anyone know how to deal with panicking zombies?
"Aren't you going to do something?" Tony asked Nebula, where she stood quite peacefully by the cockpit whilst Tony hid (not cowered, okay?) behind some not very sturdy-looking stick he'd found lying around towards the beginning of their journey. He was easy prey, and he knew it. He was only being smart.
"He'll tire himself out," Nebula replied, apparently not a bit concerned with the wheezing jumble of limbs on their floor.
"Jesus, woman, that's cold," Tony muttered, feeling a burst of pity for the panicking zombie—with friends like that, why have friends at all?—though the sentiment quickly vanished when bloodshot eyes—no, poison eyes—met his own.
"Holy shit, Nebula! From where do you know this guy?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Tony felt like an idiot. Of course he knew from where and why Nebula knew Loki. Bruce had warned him about Loki, back when Tony first learnt about Thanos. It was only his own damn fault that he hadn't connected the dots. Still, the idea, the knowledge, that he'd been having a prolonged sleepover with a buddy of Loki's filled him with rage up to the brim, and he snarled, "You couldn't stay dead, could you?"
Loki recoiled, pressing himself to the table, his breaths still coming out in pants and wheezes, yet he managed to croak out no more than three syllables, just one word, a cursed word, and, somehow, the only one that mattered:
"Anthony."
Tony flinched, snapped, "Don't call me that," and held his stick all the tighter.
"So you two know each other," Nebula noted, but Tony ignored her, unable to quench the feeling of betrayal blooming in his chest. Had she been on it, Tony wondered? Had she known of Loki's plan to fuck him over? If so, well, Tony couldn't really bring himself to blame her for not recognising him, because, after all, that was what hurt Tony the most: the fact that Loki's scheme had had no personal motive, just the need for convenience, and Tony, the best weapons builder at the time, had been nothing but that.
Really, Tony had to give it to Loki. When he wanted, he could be a fucking million times the better liar than Natasha could ever be. After all, he'd fooled Tony for years, years in which Tony spent all his efforts pouring love into a relationship that had always been one-sided, just a stepping stone more in a megalomaniac's quest for world domination. Probably all the times they'd had sex—which filled Tony's throat with bile just by thinking about it—Loki had gotten off on knowing he had one of Earth's most powerful figures wrapped around his little finger. At least, that was, until the day he decided to get up and leave without notice, having determined that he had enough information about Earth's weaponry.
The worst thing—at least in Tony's opinion—was how he didn't find out about how utterly Loki had used him until Coulson showed up at the tower, and, even then, Tony had refused to believe it until he saw Loki—or Lucas, as Tony had always known him—in Stuttgart. How could it be, Tony had asked himself over and over. How could it be that the man he loved, the very same man who had slept by his side for years, was an alien and a would-be conqueror at that? How was it that he had spent five years looking everywhere for this man, gripping his phone at all hours as he desperately waited for someone to call and ask for a ransom, yet never discovered that Lucas Smith had never existed? It had only been during the year leading up to the invasion that Tony had come to accept that he'd failed. Even after becoming Iron Man, he hadn't been enough to save Lucas.
Ha! Save . As if. The only one that had needed saving had been Tony, especially after the media shitstorm that followed in the wake of Loki's invasion, which Tony had only survived thanks to Pepper's support and superb PR skills. Okay, okay, maybe he was laying it a little thick. One of his lawyers could have probably gotten him out of the accusations that he'd been working with the alien invader (after all, Loki's face was well-known after Tony had plastered it everywhere looking for his "kidnapped" boyfriend) just as well as Pepper. Still. Nobody but her could have gotten him out of the emotional pit left by a betrayal that rivaled Obadiah's.
Tony could be such an idiot sometimes. But not anymore, he thought with a scoff. Not anymore.
"Just keep your buddy away from me," Tony muttered to Nebula and wrenched his gaze away from Loki, stalking back into the depths of the ship. He still remembered how it had felt when Thor told them Loki had died (apparently to "save" Thor). Tony had felt—not sorrow, exactly, but a profound numbness for the months that followed that news. It had been strange, to be sure. Thinking that Lucas had been kidnapped, mourning him only to find he was actually an alien named Loki, grappling with the fact that the guy was still alive and had never loved him, finding out that he was dead, and now discovering he was still kicking around? Yeah, no, Tony was tired of this shit, tired of the emotional rollercoaster this guy always put him through, but what could Tony do? His relationship with Loki had left deep scars, deep enough for Tony to feel like he was giving up his soul by turning his back on Loki's battered form.
No. No, Tony told himself firmly. He wasn't falling for that again. Loki had made it this far; he could take care of himself. So well, in fact, that it had barely been a minute before Tony heard the blundering movements of a large body following after him.
"Could you not?" he snapped, making the mistake of looking over his shoulder because, Jesus, how was Loki still breathing?
"Anthony," he croaked out again, and again Tony flinched, not only at the abuse of such an intimate name, but at the grating sound of Loki's voice, once so smooth, so lovely, charming his ears with honeyed words.
Tony had to say, he was kind of grateful that of all the ways Thanos could have killed Loki, he'd chosen to choke him and snap his neck—and yes, Tony knew that made him a huge asshole, but it was the truth. He could clearly see how speaking hurt Loki, his throat bobbing constantly through shallow breaths, pained breaths, and yes was Tony grateful. This way, he wouldn't have to put up with Loki's lies.
"Please," Loki insisted, but Tony shook his head vehemently, hands clenching into fists by his side.
"Just do yourself a favour and stop talking, okay? Your voice is hurting my ears."
A flash of hurt crossed through Loki's face, and although it didn't please Tony, it didn't displease him either. He didn't even know if it was real, though he was inclined to say it wasn't. Loki could be so theatrical. Seriously, tears?
Still, Tony wasn't immune to the sight, no matter how badly he wanted to be. He couldn't just stand there and watch Lucas—no, Loki, idiot —cry and shake silently with sobs when he was already so obviously in pain. But Tony had to ignore it.
He had to.
"Look, let's talk later, okay? When you're feeling better and can actually speak. That sound alright?" Tony said gently, and hated himself for the softness in his voice.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
Loki's determination crumbled, his legs folding beneath the weight of his body, and he stayed there, on the floor, with his legs hugged tight against his chest. The sight was so pitiful and so, so painful that Tony had to beg himself to move, to walk away. But he managed. He did. He was over this. He had no intention of ever talking to Loki again, and whether Loki was aware of that, Tony didn't care. He was just glad Loki had stopped following him around.
With that, Tony walked into the room he'd chosen for himself and let himself collapse back against his wall, one cheek pressed against its icy chill. Already, he could feel the strain on his lungs, his vision turning dark and blurry around the edges, and all Tony could think about was how unfair it was that it would be Loki, and not Pepper, who would be here with him when he died.
But no , Tony thought with newfound determination. He wouldn't let that happen. He would get back to Earth, back to Pepper, and win back his life, the life he had dreamed about just weeks before, when, suddenly, for the first time, he'd seen a kid in his future, one that sure as hell didn't include Loki.
Tony didn't know how he would do it, but he was a Stark, and Starks endured—no, they thrived, and that was exactly what Tony planned to do. He would be happy, happy with Pepper , and he didn't care about what he would have to do to get there.