Author's note: Written on a whim; it is (partially) based off a song from a Tony/Pepper fanmix. The plot is not long or developed, but I wish to leave this one open to interpretation. At parts it may seem unrealistic (as my friend pointed out to me), but I tried my best to convey the emotion that I had planned in my head. It seems I'm in an angsty mood (teenage version). Heh...

Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man or the song which provided inspiration.

We'd be so less fragile, If we're made from metal

And our hearts from iron, And our minds from steel

And if we built an armor, For our tender bodies

Could we love each other, Would we stop to feel?

- - - "Three Wishes" by The Pierces

8:27 AM, January 1st

It was the end of the world. There was no other explanation for it.

It was exactly how he had imagined his death during the far-too-many sleepless and lonely nights. The sky was falling, the world turning faster and faster through the slim eyeholes of his mask. His head hit the front of his already too-tight helmet, the stinging smell of burning metal and blood assaulting his nostrils. He was spinning, flipping head over heels, and he knew this was death. Ah, but Tony Stark did not simply die without a fight. He would go down kicking, screaming, fighting, and everything in between. I refuse to die like a dog.


8:38 AM, January 1st

Groan. It hurts like hell.

He screamed. More accurately, he attempted to. A cloud of dust left his mouth, like a soul all too ready to escape the confines of its body. For a moment, he wished for nothing more than a scotch with ice. He opened one eye; the other had been caked over with several layers of blood. To his utter horror, a fuzziness crept over the corner of his vision that he couldn't shake off. A quick surveillance of the area informed him that one leg was broken inside the suit. The other was caught under what appeared to be his grand piano; the wood's new gloss scratched and broken. His arc reactor and suit were unresponsive, he realized with a jolt, when he couldn't move the piano off his leg. The metal had never felt heavier. He struggled for a second before managing to throw the remaining glove off his hand. It hit what he assumed to be the remainder of his bedroom wall, leaving a small trail of blood from the cuts along his arm.

He put his head to the ground, a sign not of defeat, but of weariness. A groan resounded around the area, and for a moment he thought he had made the sound unknowingly. He lifted his head toward it, eyes squinting against the light. Across from him lay Pepper, who appeared to be in worse shape than him. He strained against the debris restricting him again, desperately. Dear God, not her. Never her.

"Tony?" her voice responded to his movement. He realized with a lurch that both of her eyes were closed, a long cut across one and the other swollen shut. Her hair lay in a mess around her face, which was covered in crisscrossing scratches and a few gashes that still bled freely. One arm reached out toward where he laid, the other bent at an unnaturally awkward angle away from her body. Her body. He could not see her body under what appeared to nothing short of a mountain of junk piled on her.

"I—," his voice gave out with a wheeze that did not suit him, the realization that this was his fault dawning on him. "Pepper, talk to me." He reached out and grabbed her hand in both of his, which seemed too small, too frail to belong to the PA he knew so well. "Are you okay?" Stupid, stupid Tony. 'Hey Pep, you okay or is the building crushing your ribcage a little too heavy for you?'

"Tony." She attempted to tighten her grip on his hand, but it felt so clumsy, so weak in his that he almost screamed. "Tony, it hurts. It hurts… can't breathe. But I want you… need to know, I love you. Really… all I have. Sorry, so sorry I didn't…" He had waited and wished so long to hear those words, and now he realized this wish was that of foolishness. He had gotten what he had asked for, what he deserved. In the end the only life I can save is my own. Selfish, Selfish, Selfish.

"Shh, shh… I love you too, but listen. Listen." He strained to bring one hand to cup her face. She turned her face slowly, painfully slow to lightly kiss his palm. "I know it hurts. It's going to be okay, alright? You're going to be okay." She didn't answer and he watched, horrified, as a tear slid down her cheek. He hurriedly wiped it away, but they didn't stop.

The tears kept coming and coming, and he kept wiping and wiping, but still they kept coming. She couldn't stop; worse, he couldn't stop her. And with each tear she shed, he felt some of her resistance fall with it, leaving her body at an alarming rate. His mind was reeling, searching desperately for the solution that was not there.

Tony had always been able to find a solution to his problems, being a firm believer that any dilemma could be solved with enough brain power. But now that he couldn't, the sensation left him feeling weak and helpless. Human beings had an incredible will to survive, he knew, but that will, too, was slowly ebbing, and he could feel it. He could feel it. It hurt him in more ways than one. It hurt physically more than the shrapnel inching closer to his heart, the numerous bullets in his gut. It hurt and hurt more because he had no way of stopping it.

"Potts," he said as he fought to keep his voice under control. "Don't you dare give up on me. You've never given up on me. Never. I swear, if you—"

"Tony," she whispered, interrupting his sentence, "it's okay."

"No." Her grip slackened and as he tightened his, arm straining to reach.

"It doesn't hurt anymore."

"Please." He never had to ask for anything, had never begged in his life. He was always been too proud, too arrogant. But right then, right then he was prepared to beg like a dog at the feet of death.

He prayed. Tony was not a religious man. He had never been a religious man, but still he prayed. He sobbed and wept, the tears leaving a trail through the blood on his face. He prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed and…

"Happy New Year, Tony."

One heartbeat, two, three, then…

He knew. He knew the minute life gave its last kiss, taking the woman he loved with it as it withdrew its cold, cruel lips from her still ones. Her eyes didn't close, they had been shut to begin with, but the realization hit him the moment she was gone. A stillness fell over her, starting at her hand and ending with a soft sigh escaped her parted lips.

12:54 PM, January 1st

The medics arrived seventeen minutes later. Seventeen minutes too late. It took two hours to free him, two hours and ten minutes for them to confirm one, Virginia 'Pepper' Potts, deceased. Four hours later found one, Anthony Edward Stark, dead in his best friend's, Col. James Rhodes, arms. With the only person capable of healing him, himself, unconscious, all the doctors could do was watch as the metal slivers inched toward his heart and finally entered it. However, he died with a smile, much to the confusion of the people gathered around his bed at the time. He died with a wicked grin on his face, the smirk of a man who dies knowing something that those around him do not. The devilish smile of a man who has nothing and everything.

The End.

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