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Tony feels the weight collapsing against him, and he raises his arms to cradle the boy, to try and offer comfort. He wraps his arms tight around him, like if he squeezes hard enough he’ll be able to hold Peter together, whole and unharmed, and he’ll be able to keep him there in reality with him.
“I don’t wanna go. I don’t wanna go, Mr. Stark, please, please, I don’t want to go.”
Tony closes his eyes and buries his face in Peters hair, trying to pretend he can’t feel Peter's body literally turn to ash beneath his fingers. Eventually Peter’s weight is too much to bear on top of his own injuries (and - god, Peter’s legs, they’re disappearing and he can’t-) and he has to drop them both onto the ground.
Peter’s back slams into the ground and Tony can see the way it travels up his body from his feet up to his waist. Peter’s legs are quickly disintegrating and there are no signs of stopping it.
He looks up at Peter’s face and his chest feels hollow, his throat tight and his eyes burning at the sight of Peter’s hazelnut eyes staring back at him, scared yet resigned. He’s terrified of what’s happening but he knows there is no way to stop it, knows there is no way for Tony to save him this time.
That’s all he was. A scared little boy fighting a battle too big for him on a decimated planet light years away from home, asking for help and protection from the one person he thought he could always rely on to save him.
Tony’s never felt so goddamn useless in his life.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says, his eyes wet, his face sorrowful. Like he has any reason to apologize, like he’s to blame for what’s happening to him and not Tony himself.
Like he knows what this is going to do to Tony - what it is doing to Tony. Like he knows Tony is going to blame himself.
‘And if you die.... I feel like that’s on me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So really, if you think about..... it’s your fault I’m here.’
‘What did you just say to me?’
’Okay, I didn’t mean that, but—‘
‘I’m sorry.’
Before Tony can say anything, before he can even process what’s going on, Peter’s gone. Floating away, ashes in the wind.
Tony collapses onto the ground, no longer propped up on a body that’s no longer there. He collapses right into the pile of ash that was once his boy, his Peter, and it smells like it’s burning. He can feel the flame flow through his body, can taste the ash in his mouth, and feel the flames as as they spreads from his heart throughout his body and burns right into his very soul.
He pulls back and wipes his hands across each other, trying to get the reminder of his failures off of him. He looks down at his hand, blackened from the ash that was once Peter’s body and suddenly everything inside him feels like it’s too much, there’s too much, it’s so much and he wasn’t enough—
“He did it,” he hears the blue chick, Nebula, say from behind him.
He jumps having forgotten she was there, still alive, left alive like him.He looks down at the ash on his hand and what little is left on the ground that the wind hasn’t claimed and he wonders what it is was all for. He spent the last six years preparing for this moment, for this fight, only to lose. And he’d warned them, he’d warned all of them but they brushed him off, called him paranoid, attention seeking, but he knew, he knew they were coming and they wouldn’t be ready and now the worst had come to pass. Millions, billions, trillions dead across the entire universe. Strange, Quill, Drax, Mantis, Peter….
“I promise when I’m done half the universe will still be alive.”
Tony looked down at his hands and the blackened ash clinging to his skin.
Half the universe.
Thanos may have killed half to universe, but he’d taken all of Tony’s.
He hears Nebula shift behind him and he can feel the panic building in his chest. Peter is gone, everyone is gone and he’s stuck here, stranded and dying on some alien planet hundreds of thousands of miles away from home with no way of returning. No way of contacting anyone on Earth. He doesn’t even know how many people are left on Earth that he can contact. Did the Avengers survive, or are they all dust too?
His vision blurs as his throat closes up and suddenly he’s numb, he can no longer feel his body. The only thing he can feel is his heart pounding in his throat, his eyes burning with tears, his breath catching in his throat and he can’t breathe, he can’t do this, why should he get to survive out everyone in the universe? What did he do to deserve that they didn’t, that Peter didn’t--
He clenches his eyes shut and lifts his hand to his mouth, cradles it there as the tears slip down his cheeks. He rocks himself back and forth, some desperate attempt at self soothing, a pathetic attempt to soothe the pain, the hurt he feels beyond the physical, the pain he knows nothing can soothe, nothing can stop but he tries anyway.
The air is cold and he can feel himself shaking even as the sunlight beats down on him, beats down on his back. It burns brighter and brighter, everything is quiet and the air is like a vacuum, sucking up all sound and all the oxygen, and suddenly all he can focus on is the grittiness of the ash on his hand and the way it burns across his face. The light is… so bright, too bright, he can see it even through his closed eyelids, he can see the way it burns across his vision and he isn’t sure how much more he can take it--
Everything shifts suddenly and he feels his body jerk as his equilibrium is thrown off kilter. Light is still pouring down on him from somewhere, bright and cutting enough that even with his eyes closed he has to turn away.
He realizes he’s no longer sitting up but lying down, something soft and warm beneath him. It’s quiet, no longer the silence of a harsh, empty void, but instead the air is still and calm. Quiet. Peaceful.
Did he disintegrate too? Did he fade away into nothingness when he wasn’t paying attention? Is this what it felt like to be dead, to be nothing?
He opens his eyes slowly and twitches away from the sunlight bearing down on him. Once he acclimates to the lights he opens them fully, frowning when he realizes that he isn’t staring at a vast void of nothingness. He’s staring at a ceiling.
Of a building.
Of his bedroom.
In Avengers Tower.
Eyes flying open wide, he rushes to sit up.
“Good morning, boss,” FRIDAYS voice rings out as soon as he moves, and he jolts back at the unexpectedness of it. “It is Friday, May 4th at 7:03 AM. It is currently 63 degrees outside with a high of 72—“
“Mute, FRI,” Tony says softly, slowly shifting on the bed.
His feet touch the floor and he looks down at himself. His sleep pants that are so long they almost cover his feet, he’s not wearing a shirt, and his chest — unblemished except for the usual arc reactor scars around the new nanite arc and the usual old battle wound scars.
No stab wound.
He reaches down and runs his fingers over the spot. It feels completely normal, no puncture wounds, no blood, no frayed edges or nanites holding his insides together.
He looks around the room and nothing looks out of place. His shoes are tossed to the side by his closet, a t-shirt on the floor that didn’t quite make it to the hamper. There on his bedside table is the the usual framed picture of his parents and another of himself and Rhodey at graduation. Tucked into the corner of the frame is… a picture of him and Steve? They seem to have eyes only for each other, their arms wrapped around each other.
That was… strange.
And next to that--
Tony reaches out and grabs the picture of himself and a little boy with brown hair, no older than nine or ten. There’s something… familiar in that smile, in those hazel eyes that are smiling up at whoever is taking the picture. Picture-Tony’s eyes are only for the little boy he’s holding close, both arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders from behind, the little boys arms reaching up to wrap around his wrists.
“FRIDAY, what--” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat before trying again, “what day did you say it was?”
“It is Friday, May 4th, 2018.”
‘May 4th,” Tony whispered, frowning as he put the frame back on the table.
The last time he had woken up it’d been April 26th and the world had been ending. He’d woken up, had breakfast with Pepper before going on that run where Stephen Strange showed up with Bruce Banner and a universal death sentence.
None of it made sense. How was he here when not even five minutes ago he’d been stranded on a desolate island watching his whole world fall apart? How was he here, a week later, seemingly perfectly fine after everything that had happened? Why did everything seem so… normal?
He opened his mouth to ask FRIDAY something else when he heard a sudden clash and clang followed by cursing coming from the main living area.
He jumped to his feet, suddenly tense and on edge as he slowly moved towards the door.
“FRI, stand by,” he says quietly, reaching down to grab the shirt off the floor and pulling it on before he opened the door.
He moved slowly and silently down the hallway, walking on his toes to keep from making any noise as he made his way towards the living area. He got to the corner and glanced around. No one was in the living room, so the noise had to have come from the kitchen. He tiptoed gingerly across the living room and around couches, stopping by the corner leading to the kitchen before gathering himself and throwing himself around, poised to attack before he froze with a jolt.
There at the kitchen counter, shoveling the last bite of Count Chocula cereal into his mouth, was Peter Parker.
Whole, unharmed, un-disintegrated Peter Parker.
Tony stood frozen, unsure what to do. Peter turned from where he was putting his bowl in the sink and startled when he sees Tony standing there silently.
“Oh, hey,” Peter said, the smile on his face bright and genuine. He knew that smile, he’d just seen that smile a minute ago…
The photo. The little boy in the photo.
“Sorry I didn’t wake you,” Peter was saying, not noticing anything amiss, “FRIDAY said you got back late last night so I just called Happy and asked him to take me to school.”
Tony moved further into kitchen, his steps slow and deliberate while Peter walked to the kitchen table to grab his backpack.
Peter turned and startled again when he noticed Tony had moved closer, but then relaxed, his smile faltering slightly as he took the other man in.
“Hey, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a— oomph!”
Peter let out a startled breath as Tony grabs him and yanks him close, tucking Peter against his chest and clutching the boy tight as if to make sure he was real.
“Woah,” Peter says with a surprised little chuckle, though he still raises his arms to wrap tightly back around Tony’s chest. “Dad, are you ok?”
Dad, Tony thinks slightly hysterically, his heart clenching in his chest. He pulls back and holds Peter at arms length, his eyes mapping every inch of the boys face, his hands moving from Peter’s arms, to his shoulders, into his hair and back as though trying to reassure himself Peter is actually there. Alive and whole. Safe.
“Dad?” Peter asked again, his voice slightly concerned. Tony realized he’d been standing there silently staring at Peter for an awkwardly long time.
“Yeah,” Tony says, his voice distant even to his own ears, “yeah, I just. I’m happy to see you is all.”
“Okaaaay, weirdo,” Peter says, smiling at Tony weirdly, “you just saw me yesterday.”
“I know, but I... I missed you.”
Peter’s eyebrows draw together and he looks at Tony with squinted, suspicious eyes.
“Dad, were you drinking last night?” Peter asks with amusement. “Do I need to go get Steve?”
“No,” Tony said faintly, eyes searching Peter’s face as if to memorize it. He ignores the way his heart skips a beat at the mention of Steve, at the way Peter keeps calling him ‘dad.’ “What, a man can’t be happy to see his son?”
“Right,” Peter smiles, looking at Tony as if he doesn’t believe him, “well, I need to get to school, so I’m just gonna—“
“NO,” Tony says, a little too loudly, a little too frantically, hands clenching tighter around Peter’s arms.
Peter jerks a bit in surprise, looking at Tony with wide eyes, concern replacing all traces of amusement that his face had held before.
“Dad, what are you—“
“I just, uhh—“ Tony wracked his brain for something to say, something to get the boy to stay with him, something that would keep Peter from disappearing from Tony's view, breaking this moment and showing him it wasn’t real.
“I was just thinking... it’s Friday, right?” Tony says, pulling some reasoning out of nowhere, “how about instead of going to school... you stay home with me and we’ll go do... something. Anything. Whatever you want, you name it. No limitations.”
“Really?” Peter asked, his face filled with disbelief but happiness all the same, “That sounds awesome! Let’s do it!”
“Okay,” Tony said, hands still clenched around Peter’s arms, “I’m going to get changed and text Happy, and while I’m gone you think of what you want to do, okay?”
“Alright,” Peter said, starting to turn away and throwing his backpack back onto the kitchen table behind them. He started to walk over to the living room, presumably going to his room.
“Hey, come here,” Tony said, grabbing Peter’s jacket hood and pulling him back.
Peter turned back to look at him with questioning eyes.
“Just let me,” Tony said softly, raising his hands to cup Peter’s face, “just let me look at you. For a second. Please.”
Peter raised his eyebrows but said nothing, letting Tony move him around with nothing more than concerned worry on his face.
Tony took in every part of Peter he could, tried to memorize his face and how it looked at that exact moment. The deep brown of his eyes, the curl in his hair, the dimple in his chin, the light spattering of freckles on his nose you could only really see in the spring and summer months. His boy. His son. His Peter.
“Is there something wrong…? Did something happen?” Peter sounded very confused and slightly afraid.
“Peter, I just....” Tony trails off and even he can hear the rasp in his voice, the quiet desperation and the loud, screaming fear. “I need you to know this, so listen to me. I love you, okay? I love you so much.”
“I know,” Peter says softly, startled by Tony’s sudden intensity and the seriousness of the situation. “I love you too, Dad.”
“Good,” Tony says, his eyes burning and his throat tight. He lifts one hand from Peter’s face to brush his hair back from his forehead a couple times before going back to its previous position. “As long as you know.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Peter asks quietly, putting his hands around Tony’s wrists to lift them from his face. “Should I call Uncle Rhodey?”
He steps forward into Tony’s now open arms, tucking his head under Tony’s chin and wrapping this arms around Tony’s chest. He felt a hand fist the back of his t-shirt and feels a surge of affection for this kid because he knew Peter was doing this mostly for Tony’s own benefit. Because he could tell Tony needed the comfort.
“Yeah, I just, uh… nightmare,” Tony said, his eyes burning, heart filled with aching disbelief, “just a bad dream.”
“Must have been a pretty bad one,” Peter mumbles into Tony’s chest.
“Yeah,” Tony laughs, his arms wrapping tighter around Peter, his son in his arms. God, he has no idea.
“But you’re okay, right?” Peter asks, pulling back slightly to look up at his father. “I mean… it was just a dream. It wasn’t real.”
“Yeah… yeah, it’s not real,” Tony says, choking up a little at the feeling of Peter’s weight in his arms again, this time whole and alive. Safe. He brings his son back in and holds him as tight as he can.
“I’ll be okay, kid,” Tony saying, pulling back so he can look at Peter again. Peter says nothing, just grins lopsided up at the man, “how can I not be? I’ve got you.”