Blue.

Breathless, beautiful, swallowing blue.

He feels it slide around him, star-splashed skies turning to the softest of silks that gently guide him from this place. For a moment, time melts away. All else ceases to exist. For a heartbeat, a fragment of this tortured life, he is at peace, resting in warm, luxurious darkness, bruised skin soothed, cuts and grazes and scars rendered little more than a faded memory with the sweet embrace of this royal blue.

There, just as he's about to close his eyes, to finally embrace this moment, a radiant sunset bathes him with warmth and light from the center of this wonderful haven. He doesn't rush towards it. In fact, the moment he sees it, a gentle swirl of satin whirls around him, and he slips out in a whisper of ease, stepping lightly forth into the fond embrace of the sun.

Tender hands, softer and more tender than any amount of silk or satin in the world, rest on his shoulders, then glide up to his neck, drawing the softest of sighs from him as his eyes close, and he tips his head forward, to balance against the forehead of this glorious, eternal sun. She smiles. He opens his eyes again, and her face beams out to him, a beacon in the darkness.

"Hey, Miss Potts..." His quick charm is gone. The stars and moons and suns have stolen it from him. All that remains is a vulnerability that she's seen before, and that he knows will remain between them until everything else is gone. His voice is hoarse. Thirst has found him, even here. For a moment, he's seized by panic, by a sudden and sharp dread that he can't be here, not really, not-

"Mr. Stark." A lovely, known voice replies, and it trickles away. It chases the thirst away, hunts it away with a powerful blast, and shields them from it. Virginia Potts. Pepper Potts-Stark. Who's always ready, who's always there, who always, ALWAYS, holds him close, knows what to do, brings him to safety, guides him home. Even this dream of her voice is enough to keep him sane.

"I like your dress. Very pretty. Very blue." Did he even say this before? He can't remember. All he can know is how incredible she was. And how her smile, this smile, the smile that warms his trembling bones, was all that he really kept from those darker days.

"Yes, well, you bought it. It's your birthday present to me."

"Oh?"

"Thank you."

"I have excellent taste."

"In dresses." She's smiling again, and oh, how his heart damn near stops. Something pulls him away. For a moment, that god-awful panic is back again, seizing him, freezing him in place, as a hush falls, and something covers his eyes. He's spinning, though only a few times, and not terribly fast. But he spins. He spins, and for a heartbeat, he's convinced that this is the dream again. Yinsen. Thanos. Obadiah. Harley. People from both ends of the spectrum. Oh, God, stop spinning. Stand still. Don't move, don't spin, just stop-

He's suddenly pitched forward. This time, rather than an ocean of blue silk, a cheerful red door pushes open with his arrival, and a bell rings to declare his presence.

There she is again. This memory is recent. Powder blue slacks, a white blouse that's uncharacteristically crumpled, and red eyes that make him stiffen again. He's no longer standing, but sitting in the diner booth with her. The table is in the way, but he's entirely prepared to destroy it if it means holding her faster. But then she releases a soft, hoarse, finishing laugh, and his muscles relax instantly.

"We can't embarrass Happy like that, jerk." She has her hair loose around her shoulders, hairband discarded on the tabletop next to a salad that she seems to enjoy nicely enough. He isn't sure. All he can see is how her eyes crinkle at the corners when she's laughing, how her cheeks turn rosy with the chuckles that spill into the room, almost drowning out the music in the small diner. "Let Peter attend if he wants to, and if Happy wants to invite May as a plus one, let him!"

"Problem solved. You're a woman of endless solutions, Miss Potts."

"You better not be flirting with me, I'm engaged."

"Oh? To who? Is he devilishly handsome?" There it is again, that melodic giggle as she lowers a forkful of romaine. "Attractively intelligent?" The fork descends to the bowl, and she rolls her eyes in an attempt to stop laughing. "An excellent dancer? I bet he's a great dancer."

"Actually, not so much."

"You know something, I bet I'm a better dancer than him. In fact..." He's on his feet, jogging over to the jukebox, and slotting in a quarter. His choice made, he steps back, and extends a hand to her as the opening bars begin to play.

He isn't sure how long they dance for. She's light on her feet, always is, unlike he who so often feels as though the iron boots are on. They take turns spinning one another around the diner, between empty booths, much to the great joy of the waitress, whose only action is to get up and pull the blinds when a few aspiring paparazzi arrive to take some winning shots. Pepper's head rests against his shoulder during the slow parts, and her hands pull him into a series of jaunty moves during the fast parts. But before the song even has a chance to finish...

"No..." His protests go unheeded, and he's pulled back, light and tender hands slipping from his frantic grasp, sunlight fading, thrust into a white snowstorm before he even gets a chance to say goodbye.

It isn't cold. In fact, it's more like he's floating in an endless space while snow-white confetti drifts around him. Every so often, he catches sight of a detail. His senses rise. Snatches of pure lace, the scent of that perfume she only uses for date nights, the taste of champagne, crisp linen shirt that feels impossibly clean on his skin, the sound of that song she insisted to be used instead of the wedding march. He's about to resign himself to this pretty world of muted elegance, when suddenly he lurches forward again.

This time, it isn't a memory.

It's a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on where you stand. He stands in the position of the latter.

He's at the bottom of the aisle. Ahead, Pepper awaits, wearing an elegant white dress. Strapless. He remembers hearing her talk excitedly about how much she loves grecian goddess style dresses, and this seems to be very much the kind of thing a goddess might wear. But of course it is. Pepper's wearing it, isn't she?

Happy stands with her, dressed in a pale yellow suit, no tie, snowy white shirt instead. Their backs are turned to him. His foot lifts, and Tony catches a flash of crimson from the sole of his show, and a small chuckle warms his throat and heart all at once. But something isn't right-

The music is playing. Nobody moves. Their heads face stubbornly in the opposite direction. Tony takes a small step forward. Ahead, he can see them in the front row. Red cape. Neatly combed blond hair. Deep wine red curls loose and neat above slender shoulders. A head of messed brown hair, suit jacket adjusted anxiously, a fidgeting hand lifted again to ruin his hair some more. On the other side, a man, woman, baby, two kids. Behind them, a young woman with long brown hair. Or is it red?

Nobody moves. Nobody speaks a single word. Vision is officiating. Somehow. Wait, why is he officiating-

"Mr. Stark?"

A hand catches his arm, and tugs. That's the only reason he knows he's been touched. Because when he looks down, Tony notices his suit is not of linen and silk, or of soft cotton and brushed wool. Instead, he wears iron. Rusted, dented, scratched, scorched iron.

He turns his head. The wedding vanishes. Pepper vanishes. All he sees is Peter, stumbling, confused and afraid towards the only solution his young mind can consider at the moment.

"Mr. Stark, I don't...-"

"Tony?" He turns again. The wedding is back. People are dancing, silent, heads turns away, Pepper in his arms as they slowly waltz around the room. "Where did you go, huh?"

"I didn't go..." He blinks once, twice. Turns his head again, but Pepper gently guides him back to look at her. "We're married?"

"We're married." She agrees with a smile. No warmth. This feels sticky. Like a honey trap. He stares at her, and her smile remains in place, even growing more to assure him. "Hello, husband."

"But... But the kid-"

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel-"

"Once again, not expecting. But that can change... Right?" Her fingertips run along the back of his neck, dancing up and burying into his hair. He closes his eyes, then opens them and lifts his head in confusion. "Baby?"

"This isn't real. This isn't right, Pep, I... Where's the kid? Where's Peter?"

"Tony-"

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good?" He turns. White vanishes, red returns. Peter is staring at his arms, then looking up, stumbling forward. "I don't... I don't know-"

"Tony?"

Focus. He opens his arms, and manages to catch Peter just before he collapses to face his death alone. "It's okay."

No.

"You're good, it's good."

It is not good.

"I don't know what's happening to me-"

Neither does he.

"I don't want to go! Please, please..." Peter's on the ground, in his arms, and there's absolutely jackshit he can do about it. Tony can only move his hand up, and feel the final heartbeats before he fades away. "I'm sorry..."

"Tony!" Happy's behind him, but before he can turn around, Pepper cups his face in her hands, and guides him back around. He tries to look down, but instead, she keeps him upright, staring right at him, into the very depths of his soul.

"Tony."

He doesn't jerk forward when he wakens. His heart doesn't race. In that utterance of his name, that quiet, firm, undeniable proclamation, she erases any panic or uncertainty that might follow this waking moment. Instead, Tony opens his eyes with a short intake of breath, and follows his line of sight down to the broken helmet before him. It calls to him. He sits forward, all else forgotten, and his hand, trembling with a cocktail of hunger, exhaustion, thirst, desperation, lowers to switch the camera on.

"Is this thing on? Okay..." He sits up. No smiles. No reassuring nods. This isn't a promise of return. He won't do that to her.

"Hey, Miss Potts."