Author's Note: This is my first Iron Man/Avenger's fic, so I am still fleshing out exactly how Tony Stark could be interpreted and written. Forgive minor inconsistencies, and beat me over the gaping plot holes. I will be continuing this, even if it's only for my own sick pleasure. Enjoy.
Time.
Strange how it had gone from being an endless noose around his neck to being the one thing that all his wealth couldn't obtain. At one point, he had stared at the empty years ahead, somewhere between the nightly stupor of too much drinking, and the glossy promises of his inventions. At one point, he had looked at Pepper, and wondered how in the hell she had gone from being his irritating, self-appointed guardian angel he tolerated to something so much more. What she had become to him, he didn't know, but it was precious and real, and worth consuming his last thoughts. He couldn't say good-bye, but at least he could give her the last of his time. Far better to ponder the dead possibility than the unpleasant reality of what would happen to him once the missile detonated.
All he knew was that his ending would involve fireworks and excruciating pain.
Hell, had he not been living on borrowed time all along? The arc reactor in his chest that glowed where his normal heart used to be was testament enough to know. Machines could be repaired. Parts could be replaced. But flesh burned and failed and died, and-
Get a hold of yourself, you idiot. Now is not the time for hysterics. It's dying, not rocket science. It's doing what has to be done, it's making things right once and for all, and if this isn't penance, I don't know what else can be…..
He had been an asshole, even if he was a philanthropologist. No amount of money could clean the ledger, as Natasha had put it. And as Stark knew, all too well, it was possible to be a great humanitarian, and a piss-poor human being.
But still….did he truly deserve this ending?
It was so damn sad and strange. He had lived all of his life on the verge of an apology, and could never do more than cobble together the façade, drink like a fish, piss everybody off and drive them away.
Sarcasm, drinking, indifference, and always being alone.
No, he had put down the bottle. Sobriety was one of the few things he counted as victory.
And he had the ironic revelation in being sober that he had several legitimate reasons to keep drinking and only a few to stop. A fitting self-created hell that was as perfectly made as any other of his inventions. At this point, introspection and torturing himself with regret was pointless. Not that it would matter much longer anyway.
He was dying.
End of the story.
Maybe his stupid last act would outlive everything. Now was a very, very bad time to develop such a jackass sense of morality.
The vortex shimmered into existence, dwarfing the earth and the stars around it. It was as grotesque as it was beautiful. Gossamer strands of brilliant blue wove fire and pure white heat into a gigantic, nearly perfect circle. And hurtling behind him was the long line of heat, silver missile and the vast trails of smoke that wound their lonely paths from the earth.
He smirked. What better place for a missile to detonate than up the figurative ass of the enemy? He shut his eyes, whispered Pepper's name, and uttered the closest thing to a prayer that he could…
"God, let this work."
And if I do meet You after this, be nice, please.
Surely some sort of absolution could be granted. It looked as if Stark would find out, very, very soon. He arched his back, and sent every last scrap of his fire power into the death plunge of the portal. The missile slid into the mother ship's helm as easily as a needle through cloth. The weapon had carved such a deep gouge to her side that the ship was mortally wounded, even if the thing didn't blow up.
His senses faltered with his suit's last auxiliary power. From the dizzying plummet, the sound was nothing but a high shrill whine against his helm. The trail of fire and smoke was dwarfed by the splintering heavens of the mother ship's sensed, rather than felt the ripple of energy, the sudden convulsion of the universe as the abyss contracted into a blinding wave of oblivion. Almost rendered blind from the flash, he saw the universe fracture.
The ship and its minions dissolved into a gigantic fireball, as the metal carcass crumbled and buckled into the yawning black. The portal hissed and reverberated as it collapsed inward.
And then, it was as if God Himself had disemboweled the cosmos.
The sea of black was torn away in monolithic swell of blue as the missile, ship, and surrounding fleet disintegrated. The swell of energy, power, and explosion swept over him like an ocean wave as he felt himself being flung backwards at a few thousand feet an hour. It felt like his flesh was being sucked from his bones as he cartwheeled helplessly and lingered from being flipped head over foot and propelled backwards from the force, he found himself staring at his blaze of glory.
God!
Stark didn't know if the word was a prayer or an explanation for the supernova that shredded the dark, and swallowed the stars in one long roar. The tremendous sound wave collided with his suit, and he felt the bone deep force roll through the abyss and through his very skin.
The dazzling lines of energy coiled together as the core yielded. The massive break ciphered every last scrap energy towards the center like a black hole to a mere glint of wan light. Silence. A long, horrible stillness as if the collective universe was holding its breath.
.
The reverberation, he decided, would be what killed him after all. His thrusters spluttered, coughed and hitched out a last breath before they died. Without them, he couldn't propel himself upward, dodge the debris, or fly back. And plummeting a few miles back to his home planet was hardly conducive to long term survival. It should have felt like he was falling like a cannonball. He instinctively flung his arms wide, grasped empty air. Nothing. Nothing to stop any of it.
He hadn't felt this helpless since those dark moments when he first woke up in that cave with the wires sticking to his chest.
He held out a hand again, and marveled at how he could cup the earth in the palm of his hands.
If they could see him from the Earth, he probably looked like a falling star, an angel. No, probably nothing more than a big white streak that could make the folks in tin foil hats piss themselves in joy. He was falling fast. The sky scrapers now jutted into view, the glint of the Harbor…he could see it all rising far too fast.
Less than a minute to impact, less than a minute to live.
Would he be shattered like a dropped glass, die from overwhelming physical trauma or just explode? Would the suit shield him from the mercy of a quick blow and leave him to linger in agony?
No, the suit would serve as his casket, and he'd be flung to the earth, a corpse already boxed up and ready to be buried. Maybe he'd hit a patch of earth and carve a ditch big enough to be buried in. He should have been on the verge of panic, but there was only the languid, almost gentle acceptance, and a peace in the finality of it all. A long trip on borrowed time,and a blaze of glory?
Hell, yeah.