"I can promise you, it's no mistake — the Guardians and those who were behind on Titan, they will be arriving on Earth sooner than later," T'Challa later tells him, over the translucent feed glowing from the center island of his work space, and Tony's eyes flutter closed with overwhelming relief. Watching transfixed as the people he cared about reappeared in his life, sprouting like seeds after one hell of a metaphorical volcanic eruption? It was almost too much. He'd lived with the deaths of billions for far too long, and though the world is alight with celebration and confusion and everything in-between, the feeling hadn't settled between Tony's ribs until Sam Wilson walked his way into the room with a lopsided grin, or when doors parted and Wanda's furrowed brow and uncertain expression graced the halls of the headquarters.
People were alive again, and all it cost Tony personally was a broken arm and leg and ribs and — okay, the healing process wasn't the best, but Wakanda sure did make it easier. Everyone had hoped the snap would be set straight the moment that purple bastard's blood bleached the ground, but not so — no, it took another month just to figure out how to reverse it, none of which would have been possible if not for Captain Marvel. She'd come and gone like an angel, and if Tony were a man toeing the line for an early grave, he'd offer a smooch of gratitude. Italian-style. He's got at least 10 or 20% in his bloodline somewhere.
She'd taken the Power Stone and vanished into the stratosphere (too literally) with it.
That leaves five stones that needed to be displaced securely. Thor would see to the Reality Stone. The Guardians wanted to return the Soul Stone. And of course Strange had a raging boner for the Time Stone. The Space Stone... The Mind Stone... who knows. Still working on it.
But Tony couldn't care less about those shiny bits of misery; he's given up enough of his time the last two fucking years (and then some) in a cold sweat about stones that he'd lob into the sun if he could. No, he wants to see Peter. That's the last piece, the thing that he tosses and turns over, the one good thing that came out of Germany that day — meeting this kid, but also damning him by proxy, and fuck if he didn't want to fix that. Once Peter is back home with his ridiculously attractive aunt, goofing off and building weird robots with his pal Fred, stammering about some girl that looked at him funny while he helps Tony in the lab... that's gonna be the real endgame. That's when it all actually ends and he can close his eyes and actually rest.
"I'm eager to finally meet this kid without a mask, after all proud parent talk," Steve says from the couch in the break room. He hadn't been able to stand for very long anymore after what Thanos had done to his knee a month back, but Tony's at least helped hook him up with a prototype brace he'd started way back when for Rhodey. It whirs a little when he straightens his leg out. Despite the new scars that grace them — one on the arm here, another on the forehead here, the imprint of a stab wound—
Wait a goddamn minute. He glowers at Steve.
"It's not 'proud parent talk'."
"If it quacks like a duck," Sam says as he walks by with a cereal bowl, like he's drifting along on conveyor belt that dispenses wise cracks.
"Begone, Wilson, you wretched creature," is the apt reply, as Tony wags a hand for him to leave (he already has). "And he's a — good kid, so yeah, maybe I talked up a big game for him so he starts off on the right foot. Someone has to prep you so his awkward puberty-stricken self doesn't ruin his credibility right off the bat." Steve just shakes his head, smiling at the ground. He looks so much younger than he had even just a couple months ago. But maybe that's all of them. There's a light in their eyes, a feeling of victory they hadn't felt in over two years.
We've won.
Vision would think so, too.
Him and his stupid sweater vests, and his terrible cooking, and his scarring everyone else by ignoring doors.
... He'd be proud of them. Tony's sure of it.
"Aaww, look at that... Proof that Tony Stark has a heart."
And then, gone. Every night.
His heart is hammering in his chest when the Benatar touches down on the central landing pad, which is stupid and unprofessional; Tony Stark does not anxiously flutter around like a student worried about their test grades; he scores 101% every time. But now he's here, and his palms are sweating, and Pepper is telling him it's gonna be okay — "Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good." — and to relax before he sprouts a couple more gray hairs to add to the others — "I don't wanna go, please, sir, I don't wanna go...!" — and Rhodey grips his shoulder, tight enough to hurt. He blinks.
"Hey," is all his friend says, but it grounds him. Tony nods. I'm alright.
There are few people in the facility that are aware of the post, or traumatic, or stress. Pepper and Rhodey and Happy are his key confidants when he detaches from all common sense and loses himself to places like Kunar, or the emptiness of space, or — or places like Titan. It's gotten better, but only before it's gotten much worse, and the months that followed the dusting of half the universe he was hardly capable of handling standing on his own two feet, let alone moving to solve anything. "Hey, it's all good," he'd tell them at 3 a.m. in the lab, "I took a Xanax."
Beside him, Rocket and Groot stand transfixed, and Tony can only imagine how much more wrecked Rocket is about all of this — it's been two years since he's seen his family alive. He honestly wasn't sure if they were going to be able to pull him away from the tree-kid when he'd been flown back in, and though the raccoon will never hearken back to that moment he'd cried into Groot's chest, it'll at least be a reminder that good things come to those who wait. And drink excessively.
The doors of the Benatar open to a field littered with curious Avengers and workers, and the first to step out is Drax and Mantis — well, more like rush out, and Groot and Rocket are running to meet them with outstretched arms, as you'd expect from sweet reunions; and yeah, Tony's glad, Tony's grinning. More good news playing out right in front of him, fruits of their overworked, overwrought labor. From where they all stand, they can crane their heads to the side and listen for Rocket's wobbly, teary berating: "You freaking morons! How dare you guys just go off and get yourselves killed — this is what happens when you're not being babysat by yours truly, you bastards, you — "
Quill emerges from the shadows of the craft's interior soon after, a sad smile gracing his lips as he drops a hand on Groot's jagged scalp. Not quite a whole family. Tony can see that in the weary lines of Quill's face. And he hasn't forgotten the desperation he himself felt, knowing that the Star-Lord had been one step away from exploding on Thanos back on Titan... knowing there was no way to turn the tide in their favor, once the floodgates were smashed into chalky bits.
Quill turns, locks eyes with Tony, and... something shifts in his expression. Something drops.
Worse —
Something is wrong.
The thought occurs to Tony, the moment he realizes that nobody should've been leaping out of that ship before Peter Parker. That kid had a hell of a time on Titan, yes — that'd be an understatement. But he's Pete, the teenager who can't seem to sit still for five minutes, the plucky one with a five-mile long list of shower thoughts and embarrassing factoids, the pain in the ass who doesn't do a single thing he's told, because he's going through a super-teen rebellion phase. Tony's worked too closely with him the years before Thanos; he knows him too well; he'd be out here already like a lightning bolt, smiling like nothing's wrong and cashing in on a real hug for once (and Tony'd let him and pretend it was grudgingly, but everyone knows better)—
(— nobody is listening, they just talk about their day and nobody is looking at this kid in this photograph: the kid with the curvy brown hair and pinching, smiling eyes and thin lips, he's only a kid, he's missing, does nobody see that? But Pepper just puts her hands up at the sides of her head and shrugs like he's out of his mind, and she's talking about being behind schedule —)
He dreamed this, like he dreams everything.
Quill steps toward Tony and away from the Guardians as they stand on the ship's ramp, one hand out, placating, brow furrowed. "Stark, man, I'm sorry; we didn't want to tell you over some shitty line, but there's something..."
His voice tapers off as Strange and Peter walk out from the darkness. Peter isn't smiling, he isn't frowning, he isn't anything. He's just looking at Tony — through Tony — and the scarred hand on his shoulder is doing all the leading. What do they mean? Something's what? He's whole and healthy, isn't he? There's not a scratch on Parker's head, not like the scars the Avengers have collected the last couple of months. He's fine, he's safe—
(No. No no no, look at him, why - why are you not looking at him?" Tony asks, curled fingers pecking over the shirt on his chest, right where his blue heart used to be, and he's so fucking angry that Happy said it Pepper said it Steve said it Everyone says it, the same thing, different voices: "It's a black box, Tony. It's just a black box. The picture's not developed. Something got screwed up, sorry.)
"Tony, something went wrong," Strange starts, in rhythm with the pounding of Tony's heart. "He didn't come back with the rest of us." If he doesn't breathe right now, he won't stay upright for long. Peter's eyes are looking right through him, and his arms dangle at his sides, which doesn't make any sense, because that kid could never keep his arms still for five goddamn seconds—
("Could you not move while I adjust these? Lord, do you want to plummet to your doom because they jam?"
"Oh, oop, sorry, Mr. Stark!")
Morgan whines uncomfortably in Pepper's arms, tired of standing in the heat. "Mama, m'tired."
Steve hobbles forward, and he's saying something, but Tony can't hear it anymore.
Peter was the endgame.
Tony's having a hard time remembering how he crossed the distance from the grassy knoll to Peter, and he can't really recollect how his hands ended up on either side of the kid's face, looking for any sign that things are actually messed up — but before he knows it, he's gripping the kid's shoulders just as tightly as Rhodey had gripped his own, his hands trembling. "Pete, kid, c'mon. Say something. If you don't say something I'm gonna seriously lose it here. Don't fucking do this."
A pair of headphones rattle around Pete's neck. Tony's shaking him.
Maybe he'll come to, like a half-drowned puppy you pull out of the gutter.
Then just as suddenly he's not shaking him, because Quill is prying his hands back from the kid protectively, and Strange's palm is pushing Tony's shoulder to put some distance between him and the boy. Everyone knows Peter is a special case, for him. A special mission set aside to complete. He promised May. He promised Peter. He held him while he disintegrated. He washed him down a sink and apologized in multitudes. Someone seethes, "What do you mean, he didn't come back? What do you mean?" and he recognizes it belatedly as his own.
"Tony, look at me," Strange orders, and usually Tony would tell someone like the good doctor to shove his orders up his own ass, but for once he listens. Quill and Strange stand like guards posted at a gate, safeguarding the unresponsive boy, and Tony's senses come back to him like eardrums popping on an airplane. Strange continues in that agonizingly calm way, "You're having a panic attack. You're no good to the kid like this."
He takes a step back, eyes burning, tongue heavy in his mouth. Usually, he has a funny quip he can sling to defend himself, or some jagged-edged retort that's bitter enough to cut through just about anything. But he has nothing to offer, right now. He just stares blankly, remembers how to breathe again, and turns his head away. Focus. Focus. Okayokayokay, you're a billionaire genius with a complex full of smart-asses, you've got magical glowy rocks, you've got Wakanda on speed dial.
"What happened?"
Answers, he needs answers.
"He is not in there," Mantis meekly replies. It's not the answer he's looking for.
"Judging from what we've gathered," Strange clarifies, "His body has likely somehow resurrected — without his mind."
"What does that mean, exactly?" Happy asks, voice edged with frustration, with disbelief (when did he get there? when did he end up standing beside Pete with his hand hovering so helplessly?). "How does that happen?"
("I don't feel so good.")
"Get him in the medical wing. Now," Tony orders, cutting through the quiet. He is more than ready to bury the coiling, ugly panic brewing under the surface now, turning to Bruce — who stands sheepishly to the side, concern and sympathy casting shadows on his face. He's told him plenty of stories, told him how excited Peter was to ever get the chance to meet him. The kid loved Bruce Banner more than he loved the Hulk; Bruce was beyond happy to hear it, smiling down at his work. Thor's not here — he's not here yet. Pete wanted to meet Thor, too. He wanted to meet everyone, without the mask.
And that 'everyone' is here now, looking at him with little else they can do (this isn't a battle, they can't fight this), and Tony grits his teeth and promises Peter one more thing: he's not gonna lose it right now, when he needs him the most. He turns and plants a firm hand on Pete's shoulder again, this time looking into his eyes and steeling himself for the way nobody looks back. He tells Bruce, "I'm gonna need your help again. If this little asshole thinks he can Casper out on us, he's got another fucking thing coming."
He'll have to call a rain check on that whole concept of resting.
Good to know his nightmares are as reliable as ever, though.