“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; / Or close the wall up with our English dead.”
--- Shakespeare's Henry V, Act III, Scene I
No.
Not again. Not ever again.
He had made his peace with this nightmare as best he could, finally—finally—able to tell himself that it would never come to pass.
But he'd been wrong. He'd been so wrong.
Tony steels himself, and opens his eyes once again. It's the least he can do, to honor the victims of his own carelessness, his own inability to protect them.
He should have heeded the warning more strongly; he should never have forgotten, and should have worked harder at protecting the world from the threat he'd been shown was out there. Even after Ultron, after JARVIS had—been torn, ripped, stolen away, and killed—gone, he should have kept going—because he'd known, deep down inside of him, that he was right. That the Chitauri—and worse—would come again.
But he hadn't. He'd let himself shy away from everything, mired in his own guilt and shame, beaten, broken...
And now… now there's no one to blame but himself.
All Tony can do is stare at the pile of bodies in front of him. He forces himself to look at their faces, each and every one of them. They were his partners, his colleagues, his friends, both old and new, and those who had only just returned to the fold—
"Cap, fuck, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"
"I'm here, Tony. I know. I know… We'll get through to the other side and then we'll… we'll talk."
—and he forces himself to look so that he can give them their proper due, honor them in the only way that's left to him: his memories.
They'd fought valiantly, courageously, and with great conviction and strength and with every last breath in their bodies. They'd all been together at the end, fighting Thanos and his horrific army, everyone gathering in one place so that they could stop Thanos from slotting that last stone into his gauntlet.
Tony had moved in, seeing his chance, his opening to take down the Mad Titan, to save everyone at the cost of himself. He'd calculated the odds, and if it was him that went in then everyone else had the highest chance of surviving as unscathed as they possibly could while fighting this other-worldly army.
Instead, the titan had turned towards him, malicious glee clear as day upon his face, and moved to slot the mind gem into the gauntlet…
And then this.
Tony had failed, and he’d been spared.
But for what purpose?
Suddenly, drawing him sharply out of his thoughts, Tony catches something out of the corner of his eye, and he turns his head slowly around to see what it is. There's nothing there, and he could've sworn that there had been, and then… then there's a distortion, and he can see… sunlight?
That can’t be. There’s no way.
Tony is officially, undeniably, insane.
And good, he deserves it. Let him lose his mind, let him die from neglect, from ambivalence, from regret and guilt and everything else he deserves. It would be far better for him to die than to live alone in this dead world, where everyone he loves is gone, taken away before their time, heroes and warriors and brave civilians who stepped in when their whole world was crumbling to dust around them, to answer the call to protect their home, their whole planet... and Tony's being kept alive by Thanos' cruel whim, so that Tony can see what destruction his lack of foresight has caused.
No.
He deserves to be kept alive to witness what he’s brought to bear upon the world. He deserves to suffer. Doesn't deserve the peaceful, welcoming arms of Death, and the blissful nothingness that he could slip deep down into, never to wake again…
Another flash, this time to the left, and he's quicker to turn, so he's able to see the tear in the air for a handful of seconds before it disappears, but he can still, he can still…
He hears voices speaking in low, hushed tones which are too soft for him to be able to make out what's being said, and then there's frantic shouting in the distance, and the sounds of explosions and gunfire and of thousands of people, animals, something, thundering upon the ground.
Tony's eyes widen, and there's a flicker of hope—but then he squashes it down, deep down, because he must be imagining it all. It's a cruel thing for his mind to do, and he would rather die than be subjected to such false—
And then it all breaks, and Steve—Steve, holy fuck, his brain is sure working overtime to fuck with him—is holding him in his arms, kneeling on the ground, and there's Barnes standing over both of them, protectively, watching all directions as he shifts fluidly on the balls of his feet to take in everything around him.
His mind can barely process what's going on, but slowly his surroundings come into sharper focus, and he realizes… he realizes that he's not alone anymore. There's the whine of repulsors and suddenly there's Rhodey standing above them, guarding them just as much as Barnes is doing, and past him Tony can see Sam, Clint, T'Challa, Peter, Wanda, Strange… and on his other side—oh Christ, it hurts to move even just that much, where had the pain come from, oh fuck—there's Bruce, Thor, Scott, Natasha, and others he's never even met before, or had only seen in passing, and he just, he—
He's not alone.
For one agonizing moment, stretching interminably long, his mind fogged and cloudy, Tony cannot believe that this is real. It must be Thanos fucking with his mind, it must be—
He reaches out blindly with his hands, frantic in his need to feel, to ground himself, to know that this is real, and then he finds one hand clasped tightly in one of Steve's, and that's perfect, that's more than he ever thought he could ever have again, but it's not enough—he needs—he needs—
And then his other hand makes contact with the ground, his fingers digging deep into the dry grass and soil that's been churned up by countless feet, and he remembers. The heat of the Wakandan spring starts to seep into his bones, finally starting to drive out the cold agony of his fear, and he stares, nearly cross-eyed, at the sky, finally seeing it as it truly is for the first time since he'd been pulled from the terror of his nightmare come to life, and oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck oh—
Steve's blue eyes suddenly come into focus, and Tony narrows his gaze until they're all he can see. They're all he ever needs or wants to see, and his breathing slows down considerably as Steve reaches up with his free hand and cups Tony's cheek.
He doesn't care that the hand is caked with dirt, with blood, with gun powder and leather oil and sweat and Christ, it's better this way. This way he knows that it's real, because no matter how vivid the sight and sounds of the vision had been, there had been no smell, no defined texture beneath his hands, against the skin of his cheek, no warm breeze or even warmer puffs of air against his skin as Steve pulls Tony towards him and rests their foreheads together.
It hadn't been real. It had been a vision, a madness thrust upon him by Thanos.
It hadn't been real, but this is. And now he knows, and now he can shuck off the last, lingering doubts that were swirling in his mind, and he can look at Steve and whisper—
"I missed you."
For a split second, Steve's face goes blank, and Tony worries—he hates it but he worries all the same—that Steve will push him away again, that he's gone too far, been too forward. But then Steve smiles, that small little quirk of the lips that softens his features and always seems to be reserved just for him, and everything is okay again. "We just saw each other this morning, Tony," he says wryly as he pulls back just enough to look him more clearly in the eyes.
A sudden scream rends the air, the sounds of battle suddenly so close, and how had he not noticed, how had he forgotten that the world was ending? "You don't get it," Tony whispers hoarsely, his heart in his throat, threatening to spill everywhere with the depth of the feelings suddenly overwhelming him, and there must be something in his eyes because Steve tightens both arms around him and hauls him more firmly onto his lap, one hand cradling the back of Tony's skull so that he can look him in the eyes more steadily.
"What don't I get?" Steve asks when Tony doesn't continue immediately.
"You died," Tony whispers. He turns his gaze inward, the images pressing against his mind, taking over... "Everything I saw came true, Steve. Everything. You were all dead, everyone, all gone because of me, and I must be dreaming now. This must be a figment of my imagination. I must have finally broke, for good this time, because this… how could this be real? I failed, I failed, I failed, you're dead and I fai—"
Steve clutches him tightly to his chest, rocking them back and forth, back and forth. "Tony, you did it, you pushed him back just enough—"
"No," Tony rasps. "No, there's no way I did. I failed. I failed, Cap, Steve." His voice cracks and he swallows convulsively. "I couldn't do it, I was too weak. I just—I couldn't—I wasn't strong enough—"
And then suddenly Tony's being picked up, and he realizes for the first time that his armor is gone because he can feel the air cool against his sweat-slicked skin, and then he sees, he sees…
Death.
Destruction.
The tide of war had come, and is now being repelled—maybe not for good, but at least for the day, for the moment. The dark alien transport and combat ships can be seen retreating, streaming into the sky faster than anything of this world.
But what draws his eye is the object that every other Avenger is staring at as they slowly draw closer to it.
The mind stone, buried in the middle of a crater, blazing brilliantly.
Steve touches his fingers to Tony's cheek, drawing Tony's gaze back to Steve's eyes.
"You did it," Steve tells him gently, that same soft smile, just for Tony, playing at his lips, joy and hope sparkling in his eyes. "You knocked the bastard back on his ass."
Tony stares at him, barely able to believe it all, and then… then he smiles, wrapping his arms around Steve's neck even tighter than before, and dropping his head to rest on the other man's shoulder.
"I did it," he whispers. And nothing else matters in that moment except— "You're alive. You're here."