Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world stopped, if only for moment, when Tony Stark left, all eyes, all cameras following that flying doughnut into the sky.

It stops again when he comes back.

It’s something to behold, it really is, and cameras do not truly capture the pure, unworldly beauty of it.

They burst through the atmosphere, streaking across the sky like shooting stars. There are dozens and dozens of ships. Big and small, personal crafts and huge battleships from all corners of the universe, indicated in flags, in alien words and symbols painted along the sides. In the center of it all the Milano, a bit dinged up and somewhat worse for wear, but with a replaced wing, tech obviously upgraded and replaced.

The ships stop at the place it all began, New York. People point and scream, clutching children close to them while the government gears up for a fight. But the ships do not engage, only hover there, impassive and watching.

Then, one by one, they leave, speeding off towards the stars. There is no warning, no purpose, just a strange, intuitive system with no seen signals.

One of the last to leave, a Death-Star sized warship releases something like fireworks. What’s left of SHIELD is ready to fire, but something stops them — curiosity, perhaps? More of the remaining ships shoot the Colors as well, until the sky is covered with sparkling, blooming fireworks like flowers. Once the crackling explosives fade the smaller ships disappear along with the larger one.

They have heard of the Ravagers from Rocket, they have heard of the Colors, but it is not the same second-hand. This is so much more vivid, so much more...other-worldly. It's a funeral rite. Who has died, who are they honouring?

(Tony Stark himself, they learn. They are honouring him, all that he has done, all the pain he has gone though, the people he has changed and the places he has been, he in a way has died and been reborn. They are honouring the end of his old life and the start of a new one.)

The rest of the vessels bob, seemingly in recognition or goodbye, leaving quickly after that. One skips towards the Milano, sniffing goodbye like a puppy. Satellites and drones capture hands pressed against the windshield of each, one undoubtedly humanoid, and the other more like a tentacle, green and purple.

Then it's just the garishly striped orange-and-blue Milano, still with it's design and paint job, hovering above the New York harbour. Just as they are ready with the megaphone, about to demand what they are doing here, the little ship zooms up to the city.

It lands by the docks, the door sliding open and a ramp extending without prompt. The police, FBI, CIA, every government agency known to man and quite a few not, gather around, ready with assault rifles and soldiers in battle gear. With them is Rocket, trembling with excitement and trepidation.

The press is there too, no matter how much shooing the government does, journalists are stubborn little things and buzzing around the scoop like flies to a carcass. The government is more concerned with the ship than a few wannabe-reporters, but they still shoo a few away.

When the doors open Rocket jumps forward, only to be pulled back by a nameless agent.

There’s a few moments without any movement, and then someone is stepping out. Her gait is unusual, graceful, loping but with a cutthroat edge, clunky and robotic that slows her down. She’s vaguely humanoid in shape and design, pieces of blue and purple metal slotted together to make up her body. One eye rotates in it's socket, a big black iris fringed with long eyelashes like a deer's blinking out at them.

She grins, slow and almost savage, and Rocket leans forward, “I know her!” he yells, voice gruff with emotion — of what type, not sure.

Nebula sees him and smiles again, this time smaller and sombre, more of a funeral smile than a reunion one, as if she's sorry for something. Rocket doesn't notice, fully expecting his teammates to saunter out behind her.

Nebula laughs, high and slightly mechanical. “You can come out now, Stark,” she calls, looking back into the depths of the ship. The soldiers stiffen, Stark? He’s dead, he has to be… it's been so long with no contact... he can't be alive....right?

But a laugh bleeds out from the interior, known from so many press conferences and interviews and shouted comments on the street that it’s unable to be unrecognisable.

And he comes, walking off the ramp with that smile on his face and favouring his right side. “I wanted to make a big entrance,” he pouts petulantly, acting the same as ever, but there's something...alien in his tone, something not entirely earth-like. It’s muddled his classic New York accent, twisted it into something that should be familiar, but isn't.

She motions towards the jaw-dropped soldiers, to the paparazzi snapping shots once they get over their surprise, “I think you did.”

He smiles again, this time slightly wobbly and nervous — like he can’t quite believe it, and they take in his appearance.

He’s not wearing his signature suit, not at all. Instead combat boots that look to be made out of a scaly, reptilian hide, a long red trench coat — one that Rocket seems to be eyeing suspiciously, and with such a degree of knowing that the agents will surely question him later — and a thick gold belt strung with various tools and weapons so gaudy it has to be a joke of some sort.

“Hey, guys,” Tony says raspily, eyes sharp and guarded, unsure in some way. "Been a while, hasn't it?" he says, no-one answers him, only gape at the man they all thought dead.

Rocket pushes forward, even when hands pull him back. “Where is my crew?” he asks, voice so close to breaking.

Tony cocks his head, looking back at the robot-girl, who nods once, “I’m sorry.” That's all he says, all he needs to say, because Rocket is on the ground, clear understanding in his mind, and rough sobs pushing their way through his throat.

“Tony!” the cry is sharp and needy, like broken glass, and Stark snaps to attention. A red-head is pushing her way through the crowd, face obscured by shifting bodies as they let her pass.

She falters once she’s free, teary face unbelieving.

“Pep..?” Tony says, stumbling a step forward. That’s all she needs, and then she’s launched herself towards him, arms wrapping around his neck.

“I told you to come home,” is all that she manages, and then she’s crying, head buried into his shoulder where her sobs are muffled but still loud.

“I know, Pep. I’m sorry,” he whispers against her head, one hand twisting in the back of her shirt and the other holding her hair with a hand scarred from worlds and battles a solar system away.

Nebula steps towards Tony in a protective gesture, hand going to the gun at held at her belt. It’s not towards Pepper, but some well-honed battle reflex. Half of the army raises their guns at her, the other half doesn't even notice.

She snarls at them, but is interrupted by Tony, now separated from Pepper, “Neb,” he warns, “don’t.” She only nods in response.

With a flick of her eyes demanding more than asking, she walks towards Rocket, alone and inconsolable on the ground. When she touches his arm his jumps back. He relaxes only slightly seeing her familiar face. She circles her arms around him, whispering something in his ear.

Tony stands, slightly uncomfortable, taking in the city air, looking like a foreigner on his own home planet.

He is a man that has travelled to a thousand worlds and never looked back. A man who has seen everything and more and never blinked. A man who has heard many languages and spoken them all. A man who has danced in as many festivals as stars litter the sky then prayed to every one of them. A man who has been to a thousand civilisations and taken something from each culture.

A man who has not forgotten, Oh no, he has remembered.

He has remembered a gawky, awkward 15 year old, with terrible jokes and science T-shirts.

(He remembers him dissolve under his fingertips, ‘I don’t want to go, Mr. Stark. I don’t want to go’)

He has remembered sleepless nights designing new leg braces and wheelchairs and crutches for Rhodey, plagued with guilt every time he even thinks about sleep.

(He remembers him falling, blasted out of the sky by his adopted family. His fault. His fault. His fault.)

He has remembered Pepper, true to her name with a fiery temper that will burn you if you cross her. He remembers her smiles, her kisses, that wry twist of her lips when he’s being well….him.

(He remembers her frantic call, come back here, Tony!)

He has remembered JARVIS, one of his first real family after Rhodey and the real Edwin Jarvis. The thought of the butler stings, so he pushes it away fast.

(He remembers trying to make him better, but instead destroying him. You just had to mess it up, didn’t you?)

He has remembered his other hand-made family, DUM-E and U. His lovable, stupid, horrible-at-their-jobs, bots that will never be thrown out, no matter how obsolete they are.

(I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll teach you how to make proper smoothies next time.)

He has remembered Happy, rolling his eyes, and making annoyed phone calls about Pe— no, don’t say his name. He remembers stopping at burger joints and greasy pizza places, eating together in the middle of the night, only a few skittish witnesses and each other as company.

(Oh, he would give a lot to be back in those moments, the surreal, empty feeling of all-night diners, only the occasional car zooming past on the empty highway outside.)

He remembers the life he left behind.

He remembers, but he did not want to go back. (Until now)

He did not want to know if they survived the snap.

He did not want to face the press, the media, Christine Everhart shoving a microphone in his face and demanding answers he doesn't have.

He did not want to come back without him, have to explain to his aunt, have to tell the journalists why Spider-Man went up but never came down.

He is afraid. He is cowardly. But, he is strong. He has fought and died and lived and cried in his time in the stars. He is known, the genius who can make anything work, the uniter who can take lone wolves and pariahs and win a war with them, the fighter, who will do anything for friends and allies.

It is custom in most places to tell the story of your life. Tony Stark does, and his tales spread though the universe like water, gurgling down canals and trickling down streams. Soon he becomes an urban legend, present in bedtime stories and the history books, stories recited over shady poker games in seedy underworlds.

He is not Tony Stark, not anymore.

He is someone — some thing much more.

He is not Tony Stark: ‘genius billionaire playboy philanthropist'. He is Tony Stark: ‘inventor, ravager, traveller, god.’

And every place he's been, he leaves with backing, with another group, another person ready to fight for him. They echo with every step, battle cries and pledges, the sharpening of knives and swords, the low rumble of engines firing up.

This Tony Stark is loved by the galaxy more than earth has ever loved him, his second home treats him better than his first. Funny.

This man is not the same. Not for the better, or the worse, but perhaps for the stronger.

He is different and he knows it. They know it.

But does Thanos?

Chapter Text

Happy picks him up from government custody, waiting outside a shiny black Mercedes, wringing his hands and more excited than Tony's ever seen him. When he steps out the doors, red coat flapping around him -- they can rip it out of his cold, dead hands -- Happy jumps, leaning forward. Tony only hastens his pace, grinning from ear to ear when he catches sight of his long-lost friend.

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Chapter Text

“Hello, Tony,” Natasha says, face of stone but eyes betraying her.

He freezes for one long second, “Agent Romanoff.” He says, decidedly icy.

She nods her head, looking down. “I am sorry, for all that’s happened.”

Tony laughs, “for what? Abandoning me, leaving me, running off with Cap and — and the Winter Soldier,” his voice stumbles a little when he mentions Bucky, but it is still strong. “I thought of you only twice, you know,” he tells her, perhaps more cruel than needed, but dammit, he is angry with a right to be so. “The first, when I encountered the women warriors of D’iea, trained in much the same way as you,” he continues impassionately, voice not betraying anything at all. “The second when drunk on Kataren liquor, telling my stories as in custom to a group of farmers and loggers. That’s it. You lost nearly all importance in my life when you ran off with Cap, you lost the rest when I flew up to space. When I made a name for myself, because finally, you had nothing to do with me, not Natalie Rushman, not Natasha Romanoff, not Black Widow.

“And for once, I am better, the better spy, the better infiltrator, the better legend. You may have your hands in more earth-related matters, but I have far, far more galactic ones. In fact, you don't have any, I know you don’t...or the people I know do. Funny, isn’t it? I’m finally the most important. It didn't matter before that I’m a genius, a billionaire, even that I was Iron-Man. I’ve learnt — and it’s taken me far too long — that earth is so inconsequential, that the Avengers don’t mean shit.

"The Avengers don’t, but Tony Stark does. Not Iron-Man, Tony Stark.”  pausing, he measures her reaction, “that’s quite a thought, isn’t it?” he grins mad and feral, something starved inside him awakening again.

Natasha swallows, “Tony—”

“— no.” Tony cuts in. “You do not get to twist me this way and that, do not get to worm your way back into my sympathies.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You always are, Nat,” he says, gentler this time. “You always have an ulterior motive, or an idea, or a plan, it is not your fault. You are a spy, after all. It is your nature. Still, it is tiring.”

“I really am sorry,” she says again, voice not softer or harder, but somehow realer, realer than Tony’s ever heard it.

“I know,” he says. “I know you are, but that doesn't change anything.”

There's a slow moment where it looks like she's going to say something, but then she bobs her head, and turns, leaving with only a whisper of uncertainty at the door.

Tony is home for a two weeks before he sees Steve.

A not-so-blissful week, he's been gone for a long time, after all, and a lot of things have changed. He’s settling into a routine, getting to know all the people he used to, back before the fateful trip to space. The government and press are both on his ass, and he almost regrets coming back.  But then Pepper smiles at him, or Rhodey jokes about their MIT days, and he doesn't feel so alone, so helpless.

When he does, Tony is at some government base, signing some paperwork. Like a lot of paper work. His fingers hurt. He feels bad for secretaries.

There’s a rapping knock at the door of the empty conference room and Tony freezes. He knows that knock.

The door opens before he answers and then holy shit Steve Rogers is here, my god, my god. He's in Siberia again in an instant, transported to that HYDRA base it the middle of nowhere (where no body can hear you cry, but that;s okay because Stark men don't cry). The cold and the ice and the screaming wind whistling along his suit. He can feel the loneliness, the soul-shattering, heavy feeling of desertion, of being left to die. Oh god, oh god, oh—

“Hi, Tony," he says uncertainty, cutting off the genius' self-rant. Tony has to fight the urge to puke, to scream and cover his arc reactor from the shield slamming down on his chest.

He starts talking before he knows it, mouth working on it’s own. “Here to make up?” he says bitterly, “I guess Nat told you what I said, and now you’re here to make sure I don’t go dark, or to get information out of me. Am I right?”

Steve swallows, “We’re your teammates—” Tony bursts out laughing, but lets him continue “— and the UN thought that would help with you opening up.”

“Correction. You were my teammates, and yeah, if the Accords didn't happen, I would tell you without hesitation, but you also wouldn't tell the government. Sooo...” Tony clicks his tongue, shrugging.

Undeterred, Steve tries again, “You went though something traumatising —”

“You stabbing your shield into my chest, making me watch the murder of my parents, choosing Bucky Barnes — my parent’s killer — over literally 117 countries, leaving and betraying me after I accepted you into my family, causing me at least 17 panic-slash-anxiety attacks, or the space thing? ‘Cos space really wasn’t that bad.”

Steve gapes, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, “the Accords were unfair, Tony —”

“My god!” he shouts, his voice bounces off the walls, “are you kidding me! Back on this again?! Is this the only topic of conversation you can have?! I'm over it, Rhodey is over it, Bruce is over it, hell, Ross is over it! Why can't you be?! ”

He draws in a long breath, calming down from his sudden outburst.

"Look. We used to be teammates, you were practically my only family. We are not teammates, not family anymore. I do not want to be teammates or family again. I am not going to accept you into my life or tell you about my time in the stars. That’s it.” he smiles, but it’s not Tony’s smile, the one he gives you at movie nights or at breakfast, it’s cold, impersonal, it’s the smile given to the press.

“You can go now,” he dismisses, and somehow Steve feels like the air has been knocked out of his chest.

He stays relatively clear after that.

(They never really talk again, not that Tony wants them too, but Steve tries to light up conversation a few more times, even if it’s just awkward small-talk about the weather. Tony smiles halfheartedly and tries to play along, but he can’t quite get the image of the brutal man slamming the rim of his shield onto his most vulnerable part of him out of his head. Steve leaves the conversation, enthused at the progress, but Tony just leaves shuddering, locking himself in his labs for a week.)

Chapter Text

Pepper finds him in his lab, crying silently. At first she thinks it’s because of Space,  or Earth, or her, but then the web-shooters sitting next to him tip her off. 

She enters the code, crossing the space with unusually loud footsteps, heels tapping like bullets on the floor, just to give him warning. It is unneeded, but well appreciated.

She doesn't say anything, just holds him tight in her arms, cradling him like a child, the child he really is, deep down. Scared and afraid and needing guidance, the part of him that was stunted from birth, the part that is human, that can accept help. That part of him has been shoved into a little corner in his time on Earth. Slowly, slowly, it has been brought forward, into the light during his time in Space.

“I went so many places, but I never forgot him,” he sobs into Pepper. “I told people everywhere I went, and now the tale of a boy with a heart too goddamn big for his body is spreading through the universe,” he whispers.

“I know, baby,” Pepper comforts, still cradling him, “I know," she murmurs into his hair. He has showered and shaved, yet he still smells alien. She wonders if that'll ever go away.

“Now I just need to do it here."

Pepper swallows. This is getting into obsessive, guilty, 'I-need-to-make-everything-better' territory now. With Tony that's a no-go. “He was a vigilante in Queens, people know him.”

“No,” Tony whispers, wild-eyed, “they will forget, and I can’t let that happen on his very home planet. It will not happen.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to set up the Peter Parker foundation, It’ll help smart kids that are too poor to get into a good school or college.”

“Sounds good,” she murmurs, the words curling over his earlobe and snaking down the into his auditory canal like incense, like the smoke from pipes that elders on Kuzman puff on all day.

People think badly of Tony Stark. It is partly his fault, how he puts on the indifferent, obnoxious, charming mask.

The real Tony Stark is scared, scared of being alone (like his playboy years, so painfully lonely, even if there’s a warm body on the bed next to him.) Of being abandoned (like when his mother and father died.) Of being betrayed (like Obadiah.) He is scared of being rejected (this one is cultivated from his life.)

“I’m not done,” his voice is rough, “I'm going to make him a legend too."

“How?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I will, Pepper. I will.”

And she believes him, because one thing about Tony Stark is that he will do the impossible, for the people he loves or just to prove the world wrong.

(he loves Peter.)

Chapter Text

When the endgame is drawing near, the final, final fight, Tony Stark sends out a distress call. It is a simple thing, sent from his ship to a contact on Zeenar. From there, it spreads like wildfire, leaping from planet to planet, from ship to ship, person to person.

It is simple a enough simple enough message: Come to Terra. Get revenge on the man who killed half of you. Watch him burn and get our brethren back. It is poetic in a way Tony Stark usually is not, and when asks he only shrugs, "people like it like that, war dressed up in pretty words."

Normally, it would not indict a big response, many have made peace with what happened, but such a message from Tony Stark ignites the hearth again, and it grows stronger and stronger. Soon governments and planets are leaping to the call, groups rallying and transporters selling fares to Terra.

And they come, they all come, in waves and waves of ships, pouring into earth, hovering around the globe. A few hours after the message is sent out over a thousand ships are present, some sent by governments or tribes, others personal craft, bobbing next to the large ships like mini-sailboats next to a tanker.

They seem to be drawn to New York, and the ones around the globe traverse the earth to join them in the Big Apple.

The female warriors of D’iea that he told Natasha about, they come. They move like dancers, long legged and fluid, dark-skinned and unnaturally quick, like a striking cobra.

The Grandmaster, he comes, his contestants and ‘prisoners with jobs’ shackled and chipped, escorted out by guards and him himself making a grand entrance with smoke and music blaring. Tony bears his dramatics with a laugh, taking the man's hand with a familiarity that is not mistaken. Bruce shudders when he sees him, turning away. Tony leads them in the wrong direction when he sees his reaction.

The Ravagers, they come. Almost every faction in the universe abandons normal business. The first ship arrives and these frightening men troop out, all matted hair and tattoos, snarling faces and yellowed fangs. They soften at the sight of Tony in the same red coat, hands lifting off guns and faces relaxing. Tony greets them all, with a friendly yell, and they respond in kind, slamming him into hugs so strong they nearly break his back, yelling and crowing in a hubbub of excitement. They set up a camp along the docks, and each Ravager ship that arrives adds to the thriving black market. (the government isn’t happy about that, but Tony only laughs, “you want Fury back?” he taunts, “then accept the Ravager’s help, ‘cos it’s the best there is.”)

The Xisol, they come, they are large, blobby creatures, half a dozen tentacles sticking out their bodies with slurping suckers attached. Suspicion immediately arises, is this the same creature at the windshield with Tony? Apparently so, as the billionaire rushes up to one in particular, throwing his arms around the wobbly lump of slime. The Xisol gurgles like a wet drain and Tony responses with: “I thought you forgot about that! And no, for the last time, I'm not selling my eye!”

The Alka, they come, centaur-like creatures with thundering hooves. They are tall and broad, all rippling muscle and hefty bodies. They bow their mighty heads to Stark, and the media takes it as a sign of common courtesy. They forget that they do it to no other. Children cry out at the horsies, and they trot closer, letting kids stroke their glossy sides

Loki comes, a surprise to many. He is on one of the large cargo ships transporting assorted creatures with no particular allegiance or mode of travel. When he steps out and the crowds see him, they hiss like a cat, shouted threats and insults at the man who tried to kill them only a few years before. Loki only arches an eyebrow, smoothing down his tunic. He makes a beeline towards Tony. He says something and Stark replies, but the words are lost before they reach human ears.

Nebula comes, escorted by black police SUV’s. She steps out, smirking, with Rocket at her side. When she sees Tony, waiting for her with a sly, knowing grin on his lips she almost runs. When she gets there, there's a moment of silence, of looking into each others eyes before Tony pulls her into a firm hug.

They all come, and he greets them all, standing by the exits as troops ship out, assembling in neat lines. Some he greets with cheers and jests, other with diplomatic calmness. Either way, he is there.

The newcomers know their purpose. While the media and the press may be going crazy, ignoring the war at hand, they do not.

It is clear, in the way they move, in the way they carry themselves, in the weapons strapped and carried and slung across them. It is clear even more in the looks they give Tony, in the whispered words and the hands that reach out to grab at his, gripping tight for only a moment, then swept away in the tide of people.

The government tries to list them, set them up in barracks, but the aliens only shake their heads, returning to their quarters on their ships. Tony laughs with them, mumbling a few words lost in the rest of it all.

It makes sense that that the government would try to control them. Luckily for them, the aliens have already heard this tale before, a thousand times over, and even more how it ends, inevitably in dictatorship or anarchy. There is no other option, no other way.

Tony Stark disappears at night, coming back in the morning smelling either like cigar smoke or flowers. Pepper doesn't ask where he’s been, she doesn't need to. When a new inside joke or reference surfaces, she only casts a glance at Tony, smiling back impishly.

She does end up asking him, not for the information, just for his response. They're in bed, if she cranes her head, she can see something going on at the docks where most of the ships are set up, but Tony's right next to her instead, tangled in the sheets. 

“Sometimes I think I’m more alien than human,” he tells her. It’s almost sad in the way it’s said, but also with a degree of finality. He can’t change it, she can’t change it, nobody can.

And that's okay.

“So do I, Tony,” she whispers back, closing her eyes,  “so do I.”

Chapter Text

“I thought you dead,” Thor says later, in Loki’s quarters, voice brutish yet carrying an undercurrent of something like vulnerability.

Loki laughs, “have you not learnt, brother? I am never dead.”

“You...I touched you, I watched you die!”

“And have you not the other times?”

“How, Loki?” he asks, so, so tired, “how did you do it?”

The mage smirks, whispering, “a magician never reveals his tricks,” Thor blinks in confusion. “Stark taught me that Midgard expression.

“How do you know the Man Of Iron?”

“I took the time to make connections, travel the universe. I stumbled into Stark, as he was doing much the same. Anyway, he tried to kill me, I tried to kill him. Neither of us were successful, and we ended up swapping tales. Ever since we have looked out for each other. I saved his skin in the tribal wars of Nigapus, and he helped repay my debt to the Grandmaster.”

“Shield-brother is... successful then, in the universe?” Thor asks hesitantly.

Loki laughs harshly. “You would not believe, brother,” his tone carries wonder, awe, amazement, sheer, hush reverence for the man, “successful is not a word to describe it. People seem to revel in his tales, and even I am impressed at all he has been through. He has the universe wrapped around his little finger,” Loki holds up a pinky, “and he did it with ease.”

Thor frowns, “I did not know Tony possessed such qualities.”

“Not many do,” Loki says, a wry smile playing around his lips. “That’s his main weapon, being underestimated.” Then, as if predicting it, Loki turns towards the door where Tony appears not a moment later.

“Hey, Lo, wanna play poker with some of the Ravagers?” he asks, his gaze sliding to Thor, “oh, hey, Thor. Guess you heard about Civil War?” At Thor's rumbled affirmative he nods, swallowing hard.

“It is good to see you again, Man Of Iron,” Thor says, breaking the awkwardness that settles after the mention of his friends falling-out.

“Yeah, you too, buddy. Talk to you later?”

Thor nods and Tony turns to leave with Loki, the two talking quietly, heads together.

Thor watches them go, understanding why brother seems to like the genius so much. They are both smart, they were both cast aside in favour of the stronger hero and they have both been through so, so much it is a wonder they are alive today. They both have that sharp wit that earns them both friends and enemies. They are both diplomats, politicians, able to smooth over the biggest crease with hardly a thought.

It is no wonder they are friends, perhaps if things had been different, they would have been from the start.

Thor mourns, in his own private way, for all that his brother has lost, all that Stark has lost. He watches them go, and he finally buries them. Nor Loki or Tony are the same men. He shoulder consider them as such.

Chapter Text

The human forces are discussing battle plans, the alie forces gathered close, but not included in stragising.

"We should—” the commander is cut off by a snort.

He turns, raising an eyebrow, "what’s so funny?" he asks the closest alien when he sees most are suppressing smiles.

“We do not take orders from you,” one of the D'iea informs, long limbs poised and ready to fight.

The crowd rallies under that statement, passed on with gurgles and yells and murmurs and crunches until the entire legion is vibrating with it.

“Then who do you serve?” Captain America emerges from the ranks, stepping up with a fierce gaze.

They do not slink down, instead laugh, laugh and laugh until Steve yells, “we demand an answer!”

Some of the Ravagers and other warish species take offence, bristling with a physical comeback until Loki pushes to the front. “Quiet!” he yells, and, amazingly, they do. “We serve the terran, the god, the harbinger of war or peace, the soldier, the genius, the Ravager,” he lists. When the human army does not understand he laughs highly, mocking them somehow, “we serve Tony Stark.”

“Who else?” the same D’iea says elegantly, a smile like knives.

The soldiers are baffled, absolutely awe-dropped. Nobody knows what happened during Tony’s time in space, but it is clear these people will fight for him, they will kill for him and die for him. Such loyalty cannot be bought.

Tony himself steps forward, pulling Loki over to whisper words in his ear. The god nods, striding back into the crowd, who swallows him in one swell, so plentiful are the warriors.

Tony Stark is left, the man standing between the universe and Terra.

“We are not here for a pissing contest, to fight over leadership. We are here to fight, to get back our loved ones. If you do not wish so, leave,” Tony points two arms, one towards New York, and the others towards the massive ships hovering impassively, watching with metal eyes.

The alien crowds huff and rumble, as do the terrans. In that time, Steve pushes forward, landing a hand on Tony’s shoulder with a terrible jolt. He flinches, the only thing keeping him upright the amour.

“Tony,” Steve says desperately, either ignoring or not noticing his reaction. “C’mon, this is our planet, you can’t tell the military not to—”

“Yes, I can,” Tony cuts in. “Just because this is Terra does not mean the government can control everything. This is not a Terra issue, these people are not here for Terra. They are here for their homes, for their families, for them, and,” Tony leans in, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper, “they are her for me. So, I would advise you are careful," his lips curls, "especially considered your track record with political matters."

Steve is left gaping as Tony strides away, consulting with a wart-hog like creature armed with dozens of spears carved out of bone.

When Thanos arrives in a portal made from time itself ripping open, edged in green like broken glass. He steps forward, chuckling slightly when he sees the armies assembled and waiting for him.

"All this for me?" he booms, some twisted sort of amusement on his face.

“No, we’re waiting for someone else,” Tony says dryly, cutting the metaphorical legs out from under the titan.

“What do you want, Stark? Why fight still? The battle is lost, after all.”

Tony blinks, huffing a deranged laugh, so, so terribly close to madness. “What do I want? I want my son.”

The terrans blink in confusions, and the otherworlders nod, understanding with terrible clarity. The stories told late at night over a bottle of strong liquor have spread. They know of Peter Parker, of the boy who had the audacity to apologise while dying. They know and they will kill Thanos for destroying such a man as Tony Stark.

(Maybe he was destroyed long before Thanos, long before the Avengers, long before even Afghanistan.)

Thanos laughs, hand crowned with his gauntlet. “You pretend to be a god, yet you are so mortal,” he spits, as if is an insult.

Instead the crowds rumble with laughter, and Thanos looks up, at the smiles, at the peals of sweet, rueful, almost-sad laughter that surges forward from the D'iena gathered at the front, at the assorted gurgles, clicks, neighs and crunches that come from the non-humanoid races, and at the rambunctious, crowing guffaws that are sent from the Ravagers.

Everyone knows that Tony Stark is mortal, that is his main descriptor, and he’s not ashamed. Why should he be? He’s suffered — and survived — much more than a mortal’s form allows, and yet he perseveres, yet he is here, fighting. Such a thing should not be looked down on, and the fact that Thanos is fuels the hate-fires already burning.

When the laughter dies down and they are left, a galaxy against a titan, Thanos speaks again. “Why do you worship such a man so?”

Loki steps forward again, emerging from the crowd to Thanos’ surprised face. “Because, he is us, he is our struggles and our victories. He continues when we do not," he yells, voice growing louder. "He is flawed, and he does not pretend otherwise, unlike other heroes —” he spares a not-so-subtle glance at Steve Rogers, “— he makes mistakes, and owns up to them. And through some twist of fate, he’s been to our planets, our homes, and we have accepted him. Because, again, Tony Stark is all of us, and we fight for us, we fight for our family.”

There is a moment of silence, and then Thanos speaks, "I thought I killed you.”

“You thought you won, too,” he smiles darkly, two knives flicking into each hand.

“I’ll just have to try again,” Thanos says darkly, raising his fist and shooting a bolt of energy.

The rest is history, literally in the history books. They detail the battle, long and hard, and there are many different versions, but some things always stays the same: that Tony Stark was the commander, yelling into coms as he fought, pouring his lifeblood into the death of the man that stole so much for him. That the armies obeyed his command ruthlessly, battering against Thanos like a storm against a cliff. That even when some fall, more stand up in their place, rising with a vengeance unparalleled to anything seen before.

It was a long and weary battle, even with the might of so many. Six stones are infinity powerful, and even as Thanos falls he blasts a rank of attackers, bodies flying through the air in a terrible wave of death.

Then he is dead, and people are reforming, stumbling back in surprise at the alien races.

Tony Stark looks around, his helmet melting  into the rest of his armour. He grabs a woman as she screams. He tells her — very briefly — what happened and she nods shakily, returning to the crowd of earth-dwellers who are forming already. Then he moves onto the next, a boy (about Peter's age) and the next, and the next, until everyone is safe and understands what has happened.

Only then do they celebrate, cheering and crying, toasting fallen friends and comrades as they tip back their heads to swallow bitter-tasting Ravager liquor. All except Tony, who sits with them, yes, but whose mind is far away, at the little planet far above these stars where a boy named Peter Parker is trying to figure out how to get back home.

He sits in silence, surrounded by the chaos and madness of celebration until a black-haired Loki leans down next to him, slipping past a rowdy Ravager.

"You are a sorry sight for a man who has just won a war."

“I have had happy days and sad days, and most of the time the two are coincidental,” he murmurs, inspecting the swirling pattern of wood under his fingers.

“I have a few friends passing by Titan. They are leaving soon, if you wish, you may accompany them?”

He looks up, and says, “how soon?”

Loki grins, “we have a few hours yet, you have hard-earned this victory, let it be known.”

Tony smiles grimly. “Okay.”

And he does, accepting a drink, and another, and another. He fights and dies and lives and cries all over again. It is a merry time, but soon many retire, ready for the journey home tomorrow. And so, Tony Stark is left, sitting at a table, empty drink in front of him and all alcohol in his system burned away.

“My friends are departing now. Do you still wish to join us?” Tony turns. It is Loki, propped up next to him and smiling faintly.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Tony blurts, leaping at this chance with outstretched hands. Then it hits him, he’s gonna see Peter again, finally, finally see Peter again. He hopes he’ll be proud of the name that Tony has built for himself, all that he has done. He hopes that when he learns half the universe knows his name he’ll be excited.Tony thinks he will be. 

Loki only smiles, all seeing, all knowing, all feeling. “Haste, warrior. It will do us good to hurry.”

Chapter Text

Loki leads him towards a little spaceship. Inside are two men, short and squat. They introduce themselves, shaking hands and blessing the newcomers — as is Dwarf culture. Their names slip though Tony's ears like water and he can only smile and do the same.

The journey is quick, they have a fast ship. That or he zoned out for most of it. Everything aches and hurts and surely he is getting far too old for this now, but he has to see his kid.

Before he knows it Loki is shaking him gently, murmuring in his ear, “we are here, Stark.”

He get up far too quickly, and the sluggish cut to the side of his head pulses blood. Loki frowns, fingers dancing over his temple before he can speak.

He nods to Loki in lieu of thanks and makes his way to the cockpit, looking through a large window to Titan below.

They zoom closer, and the dancing dots moving across the red-dust surface become people.

“Hey, look there’s a ship! A ship! Hey! Hey!” Peter calls, jumping up and down and waving his arms. The others do the same, but less enthusiastically… except from the egg-laying girl, she’s just as stupidly excited as the kid.

Tony scoffs, we’re here for you, idiot.

The ship hovers, landing gently. As soon as it make contact with the ground the group is heading over.

The door hisses open, and Tony is the first out. Peter catches sight of him, “Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark?! Oh god!” he rushes forward, and 130 pounds of kid slams into his gut. He exhales heavily, and Peter lifts his head up, “Oh my god, Mr. Stark! I’m so sorry!”

He huffs out a laugh, still catching his breath, and just hugs Peter back. He’s shaking, and gripping Peter with fingers that won’t move, but he doesn't seem to mind.

“I missed you, Mr. Stark," Peter says solemnly, almost nervously, like he’s not sure if Tony missed him too.

Tony remembers nights lying awake, thoughts consumed with guilt and longing and regret and can only choke out, “I missed you too, kid."

“How long have I been gone?” Peter asks, question muffled into Tony's neck. It seems he doesn't not want to move, and Tony can return that sentiment whole-heartedly.

And Tony thinks back, to every planet he’s ever been on, to every night he’s ever spent under the stars or clouds or empty sky, to every trip he’s ever made, travelling between worlds with old 70’s music blasting and Nebula by his side, to the days with no measure of time, underground or in a ship so massive windows are few and far between.

The feeling that rolls up inside of him is too much, and it floors him like massive wave crashing his head, frothy, foamy sadness, regret and relief. He sucks in a breath from the ocean that's trying to drown him and hides the glimmer of tears along his lower lash line in Pete's floppy hair. 

So he just says, “too long, Mr. Parker. Far too long.”