Spider-Son & Iron Dad one shots

Aftermath: What Hell Looks Like

a/n: I watched the ending of infinity war again and now I'm making it y'all's problem

The dust of his son is stuck in the red blood of his hand. He can't let him go, for Peter's death is quite literally in his hands. He feels bile in back of his throat, bubbling with the pressing weight of a world of grief. He's waiting to be next, but realizes that the prickling of his skin is only connected to the horrific feeling of death that lingers on the planet, and that he isn't lucky enough to turn to particles just yet.

 There is work to be done. He thinks of his wife, probably waiting anxiously in front of the television, if she wasn't already dust as well. Tony promised he would never do this again, that he wouldn't be as self-sacrificial, especially until he sat down and got his will properly rewritten. He wanted to rewrite it, before this, knowing that he was going to edit his original plans after he had kids. Pepper had brought up that he had Peter, and that's when the conversation ended with a thoughtful hum. But that was all water under a burning bridge now.

Sorries echo around his hollow skull, and he can't get a grip on anything, so he makes a fist in his hand and presses his chin against it, forcing his eyes closed. It's quiet. It's so quiet. He hasn't looked behind him, he may be the only one left on this godforsaken planet. Selflessness is what makes a hero, they say, but all Tony wants to do is selfishly fall asleep here forever with the remains of the ones he's lost. He deserves it; to rest, but something tells him that now isn't the right time. While Tony may be selfish, there was also a gazillion questions left to be answered, and his curiousness of which started his life is the very thing that will keep him alive now.

There's a voice behind him, over his shoulder, something like an apology. Tony adds it to the mixing pot in his head. Everybody was sorry for something, even the ones who don't need to be. Peter was sorry when he died. (Peter was dead. Peter was dead. Peter was dead. There was no body to bury. No respect for justice.) What was he sorry for? Was he sorry for the loss? Was he sorry for the pain? 

Tony's heart feels like it's in stasis, and he really does feel like he's dying here. Constant push and pull. He's definitely having a panic attack, he's had enough of them to identify it. And even though it feels like every nerve is screaming for his health, he ignores it and stands up to turn to the voice. He'll die when the questions are answered, whenever that will be. He can rest when it's done right.

("Do it again."

"Dad," Tony complained. "I've rewired this like eighty times. It's a little slow, but it stills works! It's fine. Please can I go play now?"

"No. You'll do it until it's right," Howard tore at the wires until the parts were scattered on the table and back at square one. "Do it again."

Tony sighed and began again. Repeat, rerinse, repeat. Do it until it's right.)

As Tony looks around at this barren wasteland, he realizes that this is what Hell looks like. There are no flames, no dark and deep blood red, no boiling lava and tortured screams. Hell isn't anything like that. Hell is silent, Hell is floating ash and a glowing orange sky that mimics the everlasting eternity of an exploding sun, never fully reaching the explosion but leaving you in a horrified anticipation forever. Hell is the grief of a lost battle, and the dusted corpse of your son stuck to your bloodied hands.

"We need to get off this planet," the lady speaks, her tone almost remorseful but remaining serious. "It'll kill us both if we stay."

"Let's not waste time then," Tony says dryly. 

He finds the courage to stand, and begins brainstorming their survivor's descent back to Earth.  He has no idea how he'll pull it off—but he'll manage. Somehow, he always does. He's always the survivor, despite never wanting to be. 

"There was no other way."

"I'm sorry."

Tony sighs. "Alright. Let's go."