I literally could not stop thinking about That Scene in Infinity War, so please enjoy my trauma-induced ramblings! Open to any suggestions, at the moment this is a one shot but if people like it I guess I can carry it on, so feel free to message me/leave a review:)
Peter's POV.
They were doing so well. Despite his racing heart and the bile that rose in his throat when Mr Stark was stabbed, Peter was just about keeping up. Just about holding his own. He'd even made peace with the distinct alien-ness of Titan, the dry wind and the spring in his step that made him feel like he was seconds from floating away completely.
And then it all started to go wrong.
Everything was wrong.
'Mr Stark?' Peter called, but Tony was too far away to hear him, and Peter was too high above the ground. 'Mr Stark?' He tried again, because he needed someone to tell him what was going on, needed someone to brush away this suffocating fear – but Tony was too far away, and Peter was too high up, and he couldn't see properly, and he was pretty sure he was hallucinating because every time he blinked someone was gone, but they couldn't be because that was impossible and – 'Mr Stark!'
Useless. The wind tore away his strangled scream.
But he needed someone, and he was pretty sure Mr Stark needed him, so he let himself fall, fall, fall, landing too lightly on the ground. Much too lightly. It was as if all the substance had left him, and he was sure that if anyone looked at him they would only see scraps of shadow and hollow bones.
'Mr Stark? I don't feel so good.' Peter said, the words landing flat and limp as he stumbled forwards, clutching his stomach.
Why was he so nauseas? His head was spinning, and it got harder to see, harder to breathe by the second. Was this what it was like to be drunk? If so, forget that – this floating, fuzzy, hazy feeling was awful. Even his thoughts drifted stubbornly out of reach, and Peter found he couldn't focus on anything.
'You're alright.' The words were muffled, slurred, and Peter was only dimly aware that he must have fallen because Mr Stark's arms were holding him up, Mr Stark has caught him like he always does. For a moment he believed it, or wanted too – but then there were hot, angry tears falling onto his cheeks and a hot, ugly warmth spreading from the gash in Tony's side and Mr Stark was crying and Mr Stark was bleeding and he couldn't tell which one of them was shaking – maybe the whole world was trembling, or maybe he was dreaming, or maybe this was the rattling of the school bus -
'I don't… I don't know what's happening.'
But he did.
He was dying.
He could feel it in his aching lungs and wasting muscles, he was dying –
The universe was dying, and he's not ready for this, not ready at all.
'I don't want to go, sir, please, please, I don't want to go, I don't want to go-' a desperate, childish plea, but he's only dimly aware that he's begging because the pain and panic are making him so dizzy. There's something that feels like his knees buckling and then they're sprawled across the ground and his head is spiralling, he's breathing too fast, and there's absolutely nothing to say except –
Mr Stark, I don't want to die.
Mr Stark, it hurts, Mr Stark, I can't breathe, Mr Stark help me, Mr Stark -
'I'm sorry.'
And he is. Though not everyone would agree, Tony cares. A lot. Too much, Peter thinks, going by the hands gripping his arms and the sheer, paralysing terror on Mr Stark's face.
It's too much, much too much.
And holy crap, it hurts. If he opens his mouth again, he's going to scream.
So he doesn't. He swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself to look up, away from Mr Stark and up, towards an empty, grimy sky where, somewhere miles away, is home. Queens. May. Ned. Yellow buses. City lights. Blue skies…
Peter drowns in the summer skies of home as he is ripped apart.
Tony's POV.
He didn't think that it was possible for him to be this terrified, not after New York, not after every goddamn thing he's been through – but he is. Thanos is a whole new kind of terrifying, and Tony's not sure they're going to win because he's stuck on Titan with the cockiest sons-of-bitches since… well, himself, and the kid he's promised himself he'll look out for. Die for.
If the gash in his side doesn't kill him first.
The pain is blinding, and Tony thinks he must've passed out when they start to vanish. People, even wizards and aliens, don't just disappear. They can't be gone. He's in shock, unconscious, something -
'Mr Stark? I don't feel so good.'
Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.
Not this. Anything but this. Anything but that small voice and those wide eyes pleading for reassurance.
Shit.
Peter's clutching his stomach, swaying slightly as he trips towards him. In any other lifetime, Tony might joke, 'Thought I told you to lay off the sugar, kid.', but this is a new, especially torturous kind of heart-breaking and he doesn't think he'll ever laugh again.
'You're alright.' He says, because what else do you say to a dying kid? What else do you say when the unthinkable happens and you fuck up beyond belief and every cell in your body screams that this can't be happening?
Peter lurches forwards and, without thinking, Tony reaches out to catch him. I'll catch you. The small body in his arms shakes, and Tony grips him tighter, one hand clutching damp curls, the other balling a fist of that damn suit that seemed like such a good idea at the time because if he couldn't stop the kid, he could at least try to keep him safe -
'I don't… I don't know what's happening. I don't want to go, sir, please, please, I don't want to go, I don't want to go-'
In his mind, Tony yells a thousand guttural screams, curses every goddamn alien and so called 'God' there might be as something inside him breaks.
This. Is. Not. Fair.
This is a kid dying in his arms. This is a kid begging for his life, begging Tony to save him, and there's nothing he can do. It's like he's just here to listen to his gut-wrenching fear and pain.
He. Is. Just. A. Kid.
Just a kid. The best kid. A brave, stubborn, over-enthusiastic, excitable, whip-smart, stupid kid.
His kid.
Peter is Tony's kid, and Tony's kid is dying.
And just like that, the universe means nothing. Let it burn, for all Tony cares. There's a ringing in his ears and the pounding of his heart (stupid-useless-fucking-beating-alive heart) is too loud, roaring through his veins as they collapse, locked in a desperate, crumbling heap.
He wants to look away, not sure he can bear to see this, but Peter deserves better from him. Peter deserves to know that he is loved and that he's not going to die alone – so Tony forces himself to look.
Tony watches as his kid is swept away, torn apart by the dry, gritty wind. Tony watches him swallow his fear and listens to his last words.
'I'm sorry.'
And those wide, pleading eyes go glassy.
And his kid is gone.
And the only thing that exists to Tony is the ash in his hands, his shredded heart.
And he breaks. Over, and over again, he breaks.