Author's Note: My heart was broken by Infinity Wars and therapy is expensive, so here I am. This will just be a short story, 3-5 chapters long, about Tony struggling against his guilt and grief to defeat Thanos. This is, at its heart, however, a story about Peter and Tony and their father/son relationship, as Iron Dad is my favorite. Enjoy.
Chapter One: Nebulous
"Mr. Stark."
Peter doesn't realize he is speaking until the words leave his mouth, his lips remaining parted as he inhales greedily through them, a large gulp of air that he hopes might steady him, might somehow abate the hammering of his heart as it pulses through him. He hadn't meant to speak, and he was unsure why the name had been the first thing to leave his mouth, but Mr. Stark turns to look at him, his head snapping from where the wizard- Doctor Strange- had once been.
Dark eyes met his, clouded in uncertainty, and searching...searching for what?
For steadiness?
For evidence that Peter was about to dissolve into nothingness?
For evidence that Stark himself was still there?
He swallows thickly, a tremble overcoming him even as he tries to shake the thought from his mind. No, no- He was not going to disappear. It had all been so quick with the others- an exhalation, a sigh. They were nothing and crumbling before the fear could spark into thought, and thought could spark to words. But Peter was still here, long enough to fear and think and speak-
"I-I don't feel so good," he says, the words feeling hoarse as they choke out through a tightened windpipe, his throat constricting as his breathing hitches. He's feeling worse, the tremble of his skin fully dissolving into a shiver, goose flesh prickling over him despite the sudden and overwhelming heat. His heartbeat thuds so loudly that he thinks his veins and capillaries might burst with the swell of it, and his chest is too tightly wound, the cage of his ribs all at once too close and too tight for his lungs to function.
"You're alright," Mr. Stark says, a confidence to his words that should have quieted the growing dread that coiled like a snake in the pit of his belly.
I'm alright. I'm alright. I'm alright-
But it doesn't quiet the dread, no matter how much Peter turns the mantra over and over on his tongue as he thinks it to himself. And he tries, desperately, to tell himself that the wrongness that so swiftly overtook him is nothing more than an anxiety attack. That the adrenaline from the battle that had become settled dust had given way to the unknown and the fear that so often followed its tracks. That Thanos was still lurking out there, hunting after the infinity stones, and Peter was unable to do anything but wait. Because he was in space and how was he to return home exactly when the foreign and alien ship had damaged on impact, and Aunt May was probably-
His thoughts were a babble, jumbling in his brain in a manner that only made his wrongness more wrong, a stream of consciousness barely coherent to himself.
He takes a step forward, stumbling at the sudden weight of his limbs, like there was a drastic shift in the gravitational pull of the planet and he is being dragged forward and god, a part of him wants so desperately for it to be so simple. His vision blurs as he lumbers forward, hastening his steps as he move towards Mr. Stark, a beacon on the planet that is now barren and empty and entirely too quiet.
And all at once he knows, like waves crashing onto the shore of a once calm beach, or lightening cracking against a tree, that this is not a panic attack. He has known adrenaline, and he has known fear in the uncertain, he has known what it is like to be unsure of whether or not he will return home and this is not it. This isn't it at all and the panic that he fights to keep bottled away comes spilling out as he throws his arms around Mr. Stark, crashing his body against him in a way that is not satisfying as he feels more and more weightless with each second.
"Mr. Stark, please-" he begins to beg, the cracks and wavers in his voice becoming more evident as the waves continue to wash over him, as realization seeps further into him. He can no longer bring himself to care or be mortified by the barely pubescent warble, can no longer concern himself with how childish he sounds.
Because he is a child, and he's scared and he doesn't want to go-
Arms are gripping him tightly, and he hopes- foolishly and pitifully- that it will be enough. That Iron Man will be strong and stable enough to hold him together when he feels himself slipping through the tenuous seams. He's Iron Man, after all, and he's saved him before and has always been there when Peter needed him, even when Peter had gone to great lengths to hide from him.
He's talking aloud again, pleading for Mr. Stark to help. "I don't want to go, I don't want to go."
The suit is cold and hard and nowhere near the source of comfort that Peter wants it to be, so he tugs, tightens his arms until he stumbles back and pulls Mr. Stark with him. He meets the older man's gaze, watches as it falters as realization sweeps over him too, the eyes set within a face that is marred with dirt and blood, deep cuts creating valleys in the planes of his skin.
And he knows- not with acceptance or even futility- that Tony Stark is not infallible, that not even he is strong enough to hold together the shattering remains of Peter when every force in the universe is pulling at him. And the desperation that had consumed him only moments- minutes? Hours? How long did he fight to stave off the inevitable?- gives way to guilt, clawing, cloying guilt.
Mr. Stark had only ever tried to protect him, had built his suit (built him two suits!) designed with so many frustrating security measures to keep him safe. And he had tried to send Peter home, tried to keep him off of this space ship and off of this planet only for him to disobey his orders. And now, instead of Peter dying at home, or in the middle of Manhattan with so many others, he had forced Mr. Stark to hold him in his arms, to watch as his skin grays and flakes and flutters around them like confetti.
'And if you died, I feel like that's on me. I don't need that on my conscience.'
Mr. Stark's words come to him, clear and concise as the entire world turns nebulous around him. "I'm sorry," he says, hoping that his death doesn't weigh too heavily on Mr. Stark's conscience.
Not even Iron Man could save everyone, after all.
-xXx-
He does not know how long he sits there for- seconds and minutes and hours have become meaningless words that bare no weight or truth, and they drag and collide into each other and into eternity. Like a dying star as it implodes and consumes everything in its path.
It was simultaneously too quick and agonizingly slow, Tony decides and just like that, the boy was gone. His arms feel lofty, the absence heavier than it had any right to be, and he curls his arm towards him, presses his trembling hand to trembling lips-
Ash smears against his chin, mingles with sweat and blood and tears and he didn't even know he was crying or when he had begun to cry but it is hot on his fevered cheeks, stinging the wounds that slant across his face.
He had no time to process it all, the seconds slipping between his cupped hands like water and yet each moment that he had been forced to sit and watch as Peter's eyes shifted from fear and confusion to acceptance had been several eternities, eons compressed into one instance. And before he could grow accustomed to the arms grasping him so tight, the face burying into his shoulder, it was all...
Gone.
He opens his mouth, exhales shakily, his chest rattling and he can taste the ash that has stained his lips, it is earthy and bitter and metallic on his tongue.
How?
How is it that someone could be reduced so easily? That someone who was once bones and muscle, flesh and sinew be reduced to nothingness in the snap of a thumb? How is it that bitter ash is all that could remain of an entire being, of carbon and iron and calcium? How is it that a person who has lived an entire lifetime with memories and thoughts and feelings and pain, could just cease to exist?
But Peter didn't live an entire lifetime, did he? He was only fifteen years old...he was a child and he had been so star struck by Tony, so overcome by the idea of being a hero, of making some kid starstruck and awe-inspired of him that he accepted a mantle he had no right of holding. That he placed himself in danger that he couldn't even comprehend.
Because he was a child.
And he died as Tony could do nothing by hold him and lie that he was okay.
A sob echoes around him, and he's startled to realize it came from him, that it was torn from his throat.
He raises his head, meeting the eyes of the-
Alien? Android?
He does not know who she is, or what she is. Whether she is veins and blood or wires and electrical impulses. She is all that remains of the tiny army, and they, the sole beings on the planet.
She averts her gaze, perhaps unable to watch a grown man as he sits hunched over on his knees, arms wound around himself in a mockery of the embrace that had ended too soon.
He finds himself grateful for the privacy.
-xXx-
His body aches, battered bones thrumming in pain as he allows his suit to shrink into the arc reactor. There is no more adrenaline pumping through him, encouraging his weary body to keep moving, to keep fighting.
There is no more fight to fight, no monsters to slay.
The monster has won, and he was left on a planet of ash and shattered space crafts. If he were a more romantic man, he might have found the poetry through the tragedy, that human beings were nothing but stardust kicked into motion by a cataclysmic event, and would return to such in the same vein.
But he is not romantic, he is painfully pragmatic. And it was not a cosmic big bang that would spur on the universe as he knew it, but a behemoth of an alien with an infinite amount of power. It was not stardust that coated his hands and his face, but human remains.
The remains of a child.
A child he was supposed to protect.
His thoughts turn to May, and his face skews and twists until it is barely recognizable. A part of him- a monstrous, traitorous part of him that he had thought had been destroyed long ago- selfishly hoped that she might have been turned to ash from their little flat in Queens. That she would not bare the pain, the confusion of searching for her nephew, preparing a dinner and setting a table for someone who would not come home.
Couldn't come home.
He thought of her tears, and his stomach quivered, churning violently. He thought he might have thrown up if not for the distinct emptiness, the acrid taste of bile as it sat in the back of his throat.
He had lied to May.
He had told her the suit she had seen Peter wear was just a costume, a thank you gift for all of Peter's hard work in his internship.
He had told her he was working in Stark Industries as an interning engineer, and instead he was training the boy to be-
What exactly? The word hero came to mind, but it wasn't correct. Peter didn't need to be taught to be that- he was running through the streets, the burroughs of New York, in a onesie with homemade web shooters long before Tony stepped in. He had taken on an impossible arms dealer, had clung to the wing of a plane, when Tony had pulled back. And then, without even a moments hesitation, he had crept onto an alien spaceship.
He was a hero.
He had died a hero.
The thought did nothing to assuage the guilt.
-xXx-
The ache in his body soon turns to agony, the broken ribs discoloring and marring his skin, his flesh a canvas that is painted in sallow yellows, dark blues and purples. He tries to stand, but his legs and arms shake before giving way, falling to the ground with a huff and groan. He feels useless, unable to stand, unable to do anything against the migraine that reverberates in his skull, like a heated blade is being thrust and twisted in his head. He clamps his hands down over his ears, as if it might muffle the pain and high-pitched sirens that scream from within. Dots of light flash in his vision, and clamping them shut only amplifies the white lights, offering a black shadow for them to burst against like fireworks.
And so he lays on the ground of the abandoned planet, his arms curled over his head, nose pressed into the dirt so he inhales the musty scent of earth. It's pathetic, and he curses himself and his weakness.
He curses Quill for punching Thanos just as he and Peter had begun to slip the gauntlet over those first set of knuckles, but the curse is hollow and short lived. He has felt that grief, the desire to make someone hurt as much as you were hurting. Grief and anger were a bitter poison, one that turned and twisted and corrupted you, made you wish to spread it in a cycle that feeds on itself.
He curses Strange, for trading his life for so many others. What was one life against billions?
'It was the only way.'
The words echo in his head, and he winces as it creates a cacophony, a discordant orchestra of screeching and sirens and final words.
It was the only way.
Out of an infinite amount of realities, fourteen million some odd entwined their fates with Thanos. And in only one would they come up victorious.
It seemed impossible, a statistical anomaly that he might have otherwise argued. But what good did science and math do when up against sorcery and foreign powers? Of stones that could dismantle whole civilizations, could alter reality as if the tenuous laws that held the universe together were just a mere suggestion?
It was overwhelming to know that there was only one reality that they win, that every action- every inaction- could potentially skew them off course. That he could unknowingly drive them off the path to victory and into one of the other seemingly infinite realities where they had failed. How was he supposed to rise, to function and do what needed to be done when the voice in the back of his head would doubt him? When the possibility that the very thing he was doing could send them spiraling down into a future even more devastated by Thanos?
Where was he even to begin? With the space ship that sat in pieces, with unknown and foreign technology that could consist of entirely new elements that didn't exist on earth? With the alien cyborg who had vanished from his sight hours ago?
With finding something to wipe his hands on; finally, finally, wiping away the ashes that had once been Peter?
He is immobilized by the knowledge that there was one chance and one alone to stop Thanos and undo all the destruction and death he had spurred. One chance, and he is trapped far away from Earth and what remained of the disbanded Avengers (who had survived? Who had crumpled like ashen statues?) He is immobilized by the uncertainty, by the too many and too few paths to pick from.
He can't breathe, his chest rising and falling rapidly but hollow, the air not filling his lungs. His body shakes, trembling with an agitation that comes from everything surrounding him. From his clothes as they brush against him, as they restrain him in a way that was somehow intolerable all of a sudden. He is agitated by the rocks that embed against his back, roll against his spine. He is agitated by the air which is too thin and dissipating fast. He is agitated by the ash as it clings to his palm and makes his hand feel dry and raw-
He is in the throes of a panic attack before her can step down from the ledge, visions of his life cutting through his mind like a movie he has no choice but to view. Visions of shrapnel slicing through the sky as bombs explode around him. Of sharp, jagged blades of metal embedding in his chest. Blood blooms over his heart, like a rose unfurling its petals. He is surrounded by the metallic smell of blood, the acrid scent of burning rubbing and heated metal. Of gunpowder.
The prototype of his suit is shattering around him, the sound of metal grinding metal echoing in his head. It is like the pitched static of a radio caught between stations.
He is fending off the blows of two attackers- the dark eyed man who had murdered his parents, and the man who had once dared to call himself Tony's friend. He could feel their kicks and punches even from within the suit, enhanced abilities making his frame reverberate within the walls of his armor. It was like electrical shocks, like the tremor that shot through your arm when you hit your elbow in just the right way. He could feel the betrayal as if it were fresh.
And then he is being pulled and dragged through the air as a damned moon was ripped from the planet's orbit and tossed at him. His helmet is being crushed by the over sized hand of the mad titan, the sound making him grimace in pain as metal shatters by his ear. He is stumbling backward, trembling hands fluttering to his side where he had been impaled-
Arms were wrapping around him- I don't want to go, I don't want to go!- and he can't. Breathe.
He is startled from the thoughts and the memories by a rapt yet none too hard kick against his side, and he jumps to his knees despite the protest of his aching body, hyper aware and hyper alert to the possible danger.
It's the cyborg, an emotion playing out on her face that is indiscernible, eyes meeting his own with such intensity that he does not know whether to offer comfort or don his armor in preparation for a fight.
Just as he opens his mouth, she says, "You've spent enough time grieving."
He clamps his lips. Furrows his brows in indignation. He knows that, but he doesn't know where to begin. They have nothing to guide or bring them to the others. He wants so desperately to move, to work on something bigger than him- a solace he often returned to in times of crisis. But he doesn't know what to do, what he shouldn't do. He was dropped on a path with no map or direction, and any mistake is squarely on him.
"We only win in one out of over fourteen million scenarios," he answers, surprised by how confident and strong he sounds despite the hopelessness he feels. He falls so effortlessly into his compartmentalization. "I don't know where to go from here. Any mistake on my part would...throw us of course."
She is silent with his confession, casting her eyes downward as she thinks on his words. One chance...
Finally, she says, "Well, it may only be one scenario, but I doubt it begins with you on your knees, covered in ash and tears. Clean yourself up, and meet me by the ship. We've got a lot of work to do." She turns on her heels, allowing him a few more moments to himself and to settle the clamor of his thoughts. To steady his frantic breaths.
She's right, he decides, pulling himself to standing and ignoring the throb of his muscles, his skin which feels as if its being torn with each motion. Mourning is certainly not going to defeat Thanos, and so he forces himself to take one large, steadying breath; trying to stablize himself as best as he can.
His head is pounding and blurring his vision, and his entire body is awake and in pain. But it is pain and it is a reminder that he is alive and able to work, and so he grounds himself to it. He relishes the pain because it means he was spared and he can now dedicate himself to what matters: undoing all of this destruction.
His lungs expand, fully, properly with oxygen, and after only a moment of consideration, he wipes his hands against the slick fabric of his jacket, cleaning them as best as he can without soap and water.
He meets the girl just as promised- by the ship. A panel is open, exposing wires and circuitry that is unfamiliar to him, but it's no matter. She seems to know enough, and he can work with that. He was always a very quick learner.
He approaches her side just as she gestures to a small toolbox on the ground. "Grab that one, the small, golden one."
As he holds it out to her, she lets her gaze linger on his, determination flicking in her eyes- one real, one bionic. When she speaks, it is in a low voice, filled with bitterness and an untold history of hatred. "It's not over yet. But when it is, I will be the one to kill Thanos."
He quiets the voices in his head that tell him to doubt her. He cannot deal in what ifs.
He takes a step over the ledge of the ship so he can view the panel, and begins to familiarize himself with the technology.