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Tony always thought his death would be lonely.
In a dark room, maybe, when his breath would be stenched in alcohol, the liquid choking his throat or rotting his organs.
In a cave surrounded by the deserts of Afghanistan, maybe, where every night's sleep and every shared meal with Yinsen and every painful breath filling his damned lungs could be his last.
In a battlefield, maybe, when his death-rattle breath trapped in his lungs or the slowly-dulling sting of his wounds would be the closest thing to a goodbye anything will ever give him before the inevitable darkness takes over his vision.
A lonely death was a concept Tony was all but ready for. Even if it wasn't a death he was sentenced by fate to have, even if he wouldn't die all on his own, he'd expect to be met by pity, or relief, or by oh, Tony Stark is finally dead.
But he'd never thought he'd die surrounded by love. He'd never thought he'd die seeing Pepper's face, or having Peter's tears wetting the crushed metal of his armour, or the sounds of knees thumping to the ground to honour his death.
They were honouring his death.
Some part of him didn't want it this way. Some part of him thought that he deserved to die alone. Some part of him didn't want anyone, and especially his loved ones, to see the way life drains slowly out of his eyes.
But oh, some part of him felt glad. Some part of him felt loved. Some part of him was grateful that whoever or whatever was up there didn't give him a lonely death.
Tony always thought his death would be lonely. What he least expected was this.