The falling, Stark decided, was easy. The landing would be what sucked. The bone-snapping collision with the earth. His plunging at thousands of miles an hour through the atmosphere and either being incinerated, or literally shattered. A bad mix of both? Stark couldn't tell, and he didn't wish to speculate on that. Being drop-kicked back to the Earth, he was hurdling through the atmosphere and back into the veil of heat, the layer of white clouds. Everything was faltering, from his senses to the last of his sensors. As the expanse of writhing blue unfurled and rose up to kill him, he opened his hands, let them dangle. It would have been beautiful in any other situation. If this was the last sight he had, it could have been a lot worse. No, he didn't anticipate this exit, not this quick, not now, God- but he did find a savage peace in knowing that he was exiting a hero. It was more bitter than sweet, sure, but it was damn better than the miserable drunken ending he had once resigned himself to have. It was a piss-poor consolation prize, but better than what he might have been.

It's better this way.

Between the dizzying plunge, spinning earth and sky, he felt like a sock in a washing machine and too disjointed to keep his stuff straight. The air was thinner, his systems were failing, and the edges of darkness were eroding what bit of awareness he had left.

Not a problem. I sure as hell don't want to be awake when I hit the ground. I don't want to feel what's coming.

Coherency was becoming more and more of a pain to keep, as well. The dizziness had fractured his thoughts, as Pepper's beloved face flickered before him. Had he the time, the chance, a few more moments, or that damn cell phone working, he would have told her good-bye, and sorry, and thanks and-

The burn of tears was unexpected as the clenching in his gut when he thought of her clutching that cell phone with the missed call when his dead body landed. So many times he had been around her, with the words heavy on his tongue and the uncertainty tying knots in his gut as he nearly whispered that he loved her. So many times he had nearly taken her hand, and sat her down and asked her if she wanted a future with him. Stark shut his eyes, conjured up her image, let it sink into his soul. He couldn't tell her he loved her, no, but he could give her his last thoughts, and make her name his last words. It wasn't much, she would never hear, but it was all he had left and it would have to be enough.

The dizzying black thundered over his failing senses, like an ocean wave, and this time, he didn't fight the slither of oblivion. He breathed; shut his eyes with a final thing that sounded like a prayer. Dying seemed easier that way.

I'm sorry, Pepper. Sorry that it ends like this, sorry that I wasn't enough, sorry for leaving you and sorry for not saying I love you when I had that chance. I'm sorry, Pepper. I'm so damn sorry….

Hawkeye's point of view:

"Why in the hell is he not flying?" Clint (Hawkeye) growled as he saw the thin streak of light falling from the sky. At his side, Natasha tensed and squinted. The tiny speck was too distant for her to see anything.

"Something's wrong." He whispered, as his features twisted in horror. They had watched the sky explode, the Chitari armada crumble, and the numb, bittersweet triumph that was too hard won to savor. And yet Clint could only keep his eyes trained on the barely discernible dot that arched like a meteor as it plummeted.

Natasha squinted and tilted her head upward where Clint had gestured. She could see nothing but the sky in flames and the supernova. Her eyes slid to his, her voice as taut as a fraying rope.

"Do you see him?"

She left it unspoken that by all logic, Stark would have been evaporated in the fire storm.

"Yeah." Clint answered as he scrambled high up the wall, cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, "Bruce! Stark needs help!"

This part is from Bruce Banner's/the Hulk's view point.

The keening whine of their voices felt like a needle piercing his brain as he snarled on instinct. Forcing his human voice to answer, he growled, " What?"

Natasha rose, quaking as she answered in a broken whisper, "Stark!"

Bruce scowled, followed the direction she was pointing. His features twisted in rage as he saw the limp form tumbling. Tony. A friend. He saw the frail tendrils of exhaust spiraling behind the limp figure shot into view. With a grunt, he heaved himself over the debris, and braced himself. Kneeling to the earth, he brushed concrete with emerald bloodied knuckles. And then, he leaped.

Stark was falling so fast.

Bruce hit the ground like a felled tree and dove. The red and gold blur dropped like a cannon ball as Bruce scrambled to his knees, and felt the burn of overheated thrusters and cold metal in his palms. He staggered from the force of the hit, felt it thunder through his bones, wincing at the ache. He nearly dropped the limp form. Instincts screamed to fling it away.

Inches and forever ground themselves into oblivion. Bruce felt Stark's suit ghost over his skin, as he fell out of reach and tumbled towards the dirt. Bruce roared as he desperately clutched, feeling each clang of metal against the ground like a fist.

Fragmented seconds that lasted forever,and that tortured moment when Stark's helmet bounced against the rock.

His head! Bruce realized numbly. He hit his head!

Quaking with anguish, Bruce had to fight the tremor in his hands-hands that were made for killing and crushing, not cradling the fragile victim and keeping him from shattering. His huge fingers ghosted over the helm, too clumsy and dangerous to do anything but damage. He couldn't feel a pulse or breath-not through Tony's armor. He waited desperately for Clint and Natasha to make their frantic way over. Natasha glided catlike over the concrete, stooped to Tony's side, as Clint scowled, worriedly. Bruce lowered his huge hands, his face contorted, as he choked out in a guttural whisper, "Take him."

Clint nodded as Natasha held up a hand. "Be careful. We don't know what's broken."

Clint grimaced. "Hell, Nat. We don't even know if he's alive."

Natasha carefully cradled Tony's neck and torso as Clint latched his arms over Tony's knees. Together, they raised him, carefully heaved him over Bruce's palms and lowered him. Clint clawed at the helmet, and somehow triggered the release mechanism. The facial plate popped open and slid free with a cloud of smoke. Tony's black hair hung in sweated clumps over his forehead, and his lips were thinned into a smirk of finality. He looked serene as a corpse laid to rest.

"Tony? Tony!" Natasha leaned over him, a shaking hand already over Tony's sweated throat. She could barely feel his breath at her palm.

"He's alive."