Chapter Text
It happens all at once, and it’s agony.
He’s put back together new, something or someone twisting back the arm of time and making it like it never happened. Rot reversing, the green tint of his skin clearing, the bloating going down, eyeballs and hair growing back in. Like death never touched him, like there was no embalming fluid, no tears, no funeral.
Except he’s still under ground.
It happens all at once, and it’s fast. Like a lightning bolt, jolting his body back to life, and he wakes up here good as new—exactly as he was, whole, living—gasping ragged, panic pumping through his veins, his weak heart stuttering, nearly stopping his second life before it even begins.
The smell of death still clings to him, to the three piece suit they buried him in.
His mind is a chaotic mess but he remembers the moment—remembers his death, remembers the red hot pain and Peter screaming, Rhodey rushing to his side. How he knew he’d never see Pepper again—but they’d fixed it. They’d fixed the world, erased the lost time, set things right—and the kid was back. The kid was crying, the kid hated him for doing what he did, but he was back. He was alive.
Tony Stark was dead. But now he’s breathing again, trying to think, gasping, hands tracing the box surrounding him, covering him, suffocating him.
He’s in a coffin. He’s under the ground. He’s under the fucking ground.
He tries to scream, tries to yell for help because he’s fucking buried, because he’s not fucking dead anymore he’s not dead he’s not dead—but he doesn’t have a voice. He only croaks, desperate huffs of breath nearly choking him. He tries, tries and tries and tries. Nothing. For once, he’s speechless.
It’s so fucking dark. Pure darkness. Panic, panic, panic and fear, the deep-rooted kind that feels crippling, and he’s gasping, clawing at the too-soft walls surrounding him. The voice in his head is screaming, begging, and he feels like he can’t breathe—he’s gonna die again and they’ll never know—they’ll never know he came back, he woke up, he defied death and it snatched him back just as quick—
Relax he thinks—his head is full of static but he tries to hone in on his own voice because it’s lost somewhere inside him. Relax, you’re still you. You’re still Tony Stark, relax, you can figure this out.
Part of him isn’t so sure. He’s never been buried alive before, he’s never come back from the dead before. The silence feels threatening. He can only lift his head a little bit, and he feels around—it’s so goddamn dark—there’s a dead flower on his chest, and it crunches when he touches it, a pair of sunglasses next to it—and a fucking repulsor gauntlet beside his hip. He traces the outline of it, and clicks something. It glows blue, giving him a little light.
He stares down at it, trying to determine whether or not he’s hallucinating. He tries to keep his breathing shallow. He covers it with his hand. It’s real. As real as anything can be anymore.
He looks at the outline of his coffin in the new light. He’s crying—he doesn’t want to be but he is, and he covers his face with his hands. The despair is heavy, weighing on him like the dirt above. He doesn’t know how long he’s been dead, how long he can survive down here, what the world is like now, who’s still left—he sobs, pressing his fingers into his eyes.
The moment of his death keeps replaying. Over and over. The moment that put him here, lead to this. He can almost feel his arm throbbing the way it did. He can almost taste the blood. He can hear Rhodey talking to him, softly. He can hear Peter crying, begging him not to go.
He has to get out of here. He can see them again. See Happy. See the team.
See Pepper.
He settles. He takes the flower, brittle and breaking, and puts it inside his suit jacket. He sees a couple envelopes stuffed into the pocket there and stares at them for a pointed moment—another incentive to make it out. He sucks in a breath, a big one, because he knows the dirt will start falling in on him as soon as he breaks the lid and he has to be ready.
He silently thanks whoever it was that left him the repulsor. It feels like a Peter move.
Tony slips his hand inside the glove, and it comes to life along with him, lighting up brighter. He doesn’t have room to extend his arm and he’s glad he’s not claustrophobic on top of everything else. He rests his elbow next to his ribcage and holds his hand palm up. Then he shoots a beam.
The dirt comes in a tidal wave and he shoots another one, closing his eyes. He punches and kicks, widens the holes he makes, and groans as he boosts himself up, thrashing and pulling and falling, the dirt in his eyes and his mouth and his throat, under his nails as he struggles, shooting a beam below him to try and push him forward. He can barely think and the earth is smothering him—he’s drowning in death, all around him, the dirt crumpling as he tries to maneuver through it. He feels too weak, but he can’t give up. He can’t, he can’t. They have to be out there, somewhere. He has to make it back to them.
He can see light, movement, and he keeps going, pushing his burning muscles, and he feels like his heart is gonna give out. Everything hurts, his bones aching, and he feels raw and exposed, despair and pain clinging to him. He doesn’t know if he’s gonna make it or if he’s gonna move the wrong way and slide back down—the dirt stifling him, snuffing him out.
Then someone grabs him. Grabs the hand not wearing the gauntlet, and Tony doesn’t care who it is, the feeling of someone else, anyone else gives him hope, and he kicks and fights harder against the webbing of the soil as whoever it is pulls him up. He feels air, tastes it, coughs as he reaches the surface, the person hauling him up the rest of the way as he goes boneless with exhaustion. He coughs, nearly chokes, but he’s here. The ground sags underneath him.
He made it.
“Oh my God,” a familiar voice says. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh God—oh my God.”
Peter.
“Oh my God,” Peter sobs, and Tony can feel his hands on his back. “This—this—oh—oh my God—”
Tony’s whole body feels like it weighs a million pounds, and he knows his unprotected hand is bleeding, but he puts everything he has into pulling his head up.
Peter looks the same. His hair is a little longer, but that’s it. That’s the only difference.
He’s one of the most beautiful things Tony has ever seen in his life. Both of his lives. He’s real. A real person that’s here, with him. His kid. A person Tony loves, a person Tony gave his life for. It could have been a stranger, some random groundskeeper in the cemetery, but fuck, this is another miracle. Peter’s eyes are filled with tears and he’s clutching at Tony, brushing dirt off him like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
“Am I—am I dreaming is this happening oh my God,” Peter says, all in one breath. “Oh my God.”
Tony remembers. He can’t speak. He doesn’t have his fucking voice. He tries again but nothing comes out, only a small, terrified-sounding groan. And he is terrified, he feels like he’s gonna have a heart attack.
“Tony,” Peter says, holding tight to his shoulder. “Tony, are you—oh my God, I can’t believe this—Tony, Tony—”
Tony is close to a panic attack. He’s shaking, terror coursing through his veins, and he starts trying to push himself up. Peter takes Tony’s forearms gently and tries to help, and as soon as Tony is even slightly vertical he collapses into Peter, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight. He doesn’t want to freak the kid out even more but he can’t think straight, he’s shaking like a fucking child and he’s glad it’s Peter, fuck, he’s so glad it’s Peter. He closes his eyes.
“I’ve got you,” Peter stammers. “I’m—I’m, I’m—I’m here, it’s—oh God—it’s okay, it’s okay.” He rubs Tony’s shoulder, pats his back, and Tony tries to level out, focus. Not think about the fact that he was dead less than twenty minutes ago.
He tries to breathe.
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna call—I’m gonna call Pepper, Bruce and Rhodey are there already—they’ll come get us, we’ll figure this out…I’ve got you, it’s okay. Tony, it’s okay.”
Tony can tell Peter’s trying to be strong for him. He wonders how often he comes here. Why he was lucky enough to have him here tonight. He opens his eyes—the sky is dark, tinged with pink from a dying sunset. He can see the Empire State Building in the distance, and Stark Tower. It’s still there.
He can see his gravestone over Peter’s shoulder.
ANTHONY EDWARD STARK
MAY 29TH, 1970-SEPTEMBER 18TH 2018
FOREVER LOVED
“No stop signs, speed limit
Nobody’s gonna slow me down”
Jesus Christ. He closes his eyes again and holds onto the kid. He feels insane, in this suit, covered in dirt, wearing one repulsor gauntlet, his other hand bleeding.
But he’s alive. He’s alive.
He can feel Peter pulling his phone out of his pocket, one hand holding tight to Tony still.
“Bruce?” Peter says. “Bruce, I—I need you to come get me—I—yeah, I’m still here, but I need—something’s happened, something—God, I don’t know. It’s important. Just come get me. Bring Pepper.”