By The Dying of An Angel’s Light
Endgame AU. In which Spiderman does not exist, but Peter and Tony found each other long before. In which Peter is an Angel who helped Tony escape the cave, and has been watching over him ever since. When Tony sent Peter away for his own safety, Peter gave him a word to summon him, should Tony need him one last time.
Peter’s ‘light’ (his Grace) is a mix of Supernatural’s idea and Wanda’s powers, but a white/blue colour.
TW: Description of injury/dying. Mild gore.
Tony is dying. As Thanos’ ashes are still fluttering in the sullen, cold wind, Tony is falling, fading. The arc reactor glows dim, warped at his chest. Smoke curls in wisps from his jaw, dancing through his lashes on it’s journey upwards. As fast as the ashes of their enemies drift away, the light fades from his eyes.
Rhodey is the first to reach him, hands scrabbling under his arms, heaving him as carefully as possible to lean against a large chunk of what once helped form the Compound. It seems so horribly metaphorical, as if the Universe was wiping away as much as it could of Tony.
“Tony. Tony! Look at me, man. C’mon. Tony, look at me” he begged, voice thick with urgency, fingers light on the parts of Tony’s face that are not scorched. Charred skin stretched across his jaw, his cheek, a spiderweb pattern broken only by the steady, slow trickle of blood. During his pleading, Pepper lands at his side, shoulders him out of the way.
“Don’t fucking do this, Tony. Not now. Not ever. Don’t you fucking dare”. Angry though her words are, her voice is nothing short of desperate, hot tears smudging her mascara in thick, black lines down her cheeks. Tony’s eyes move slowly, finding hers. The very corner of his mouth lifted, the barest sign of love he could manage. Pepper’s choked sobs are a soundtrack as he turned away, raising a fist to his mouth.
The others are there, staggering forwards in their various states of bruised and battered. Steve Rogers limps onwards with a gritty determination, broken relief shading his expression when Bucky Barnes falls into step, takes his weight soundlessly and easily in a way only one matched to his stature could do so.
Clint Barton falls to one knee, a look of horror etched into his expression that Rhodey has seen only once before. The archer’s bow clattered into the blood-clumped dirt, forgotten and uncared for the man let his head bow, grief shaking his shoulders.
Through the red-orange-black haze of the destruction, light gleams white and pure. Bathes over Tony’s crumpled, broken form. Through tear-blurred eyes it looked almost like a wave, gentle and fighting the darkness that quickly seeps into Tony’s eyes.
Pepper shook him, fingers clenching against warped metal. As Tony’s head lolled, a sliver of blood ran down the corner of his mouth, as slow and as steady as a brook.
“Tony!” He urged, surging forwards and between them, unapologetic in the way he forced Pepper aside, scrambling in the dirt. “Tony. The light. You have to call him” he begged, reached down to grasp the lifeless arm at Tony’s side, pressing his palm over the reactor. “Please. You have to. You know what he said. Tony, please”.
He’s unashamed to admit it. He’s begging him. Would sink to both knees and beg for hours if only Tony would open his mouth, speak the word. Tony’s twitched, eyes drifting slowly to look up at him, lips parted. Even from here, Rhodey can hear the grotesque, wet rasps. Tony’s eyes are cloudy, hazed and unfocused.
Tony let out a pained, rough sound, blank eyes turning pleading. Rhodey knows. Knows it’s the last thing Ton would ever want. The thing he would deny himself, even with his dying breath. Another gurgling, choked off response.
“Say it” he shouted, pushing Tony’s hand harder against his chest. Pepper is on him, hands at his shoulders, pulling. Tony is dying.
Rhodey watches the fight leave him, watches his already weak body relax, his gaze turning skywards. And for a brief moment, his heart seized in his chest, tight and white-hot. It’s too late. It’s too late and their last, desperate bid for his life is over.
“Revenite”. It’s the barest, weakest form of the word Tony can manage. Barely a sound and more the movement of his lips, fingertips flexing against the glowing metal beneath.
Static charge fills the air, like breathable electricity. The dust around them seems to stop, time frozen. From the corner of his eye, Rhodey can see Thor bracing, Stormbreaker poised for another battle.
All the powers in the world could not stop this being. All the Avengers, all the Stones. They are nothing, in the face of what is to come. This is power unlike anything they have seen before.
From the reactor, a dust-like cloud begun to pool, swirling and almost too bright to witness. It’s not a true white. There are shades of blue and flecks of silver, raw magic and pure power breathing out into their world. Someone is shouting. Footsteps are pounding.
Rhodey scrambled backwards, grabbed Pepper by the shoulders and pulled her with, despite her yells. The hypnotic light is reflected in the wide, wild whites of her eyes. Steve falls by his side, one hand reaching for Tony. But the light is swelling, bright, yet soft. It encompasses the gritty, cruel battlefield that seems to drink it in. Greedy.
More light rolls in from the horizon, joins the swirling mass. Rhodey looks as long as he can, before he has to raise his arm, shielding his eyes. Around him the others copied, shying away from it. The sound was ethereal, if sound could pulse and breathe.
Rhodey thought back to Tony’s words, desperate for belief in the privacy of his penthouse, a whiskey and twelve cheeseburgers between them.
It was an Angel, Rhodes. A real and as there as I was.
I can’t explain it. He spoke in my head. I saved him.
He’ll save me too, one day.
Wings as white as fresh snow.
He looked again. As the magic swells, there is life within. Rhodey can see it. A figure, faint and only wisps between the coiling magic. It looks like a person. The soft slope of shoulders. A glimpse of fluttering hair. Slim, lithe arms that spread, as though for balance, as the figure rises.
The light swells, the pressure building around them. Rhodey can hear frantic yelling. The desperate uncertainty. Through the dancing light, Rhodey caught a flicker of eyes, a brighter, glowing blue than ever thought possible.
He hadn’t believed him. Who would? He had been tortured. Starved. Dehydrated. Who knows what a broken mind could see? Except for one thing, one glimpse of proof Tony had revealed, weeks later, drunk and panicked in his room.
A single feather. As pure and white as anything, shimmering in the lights above. He could feel the power, off even one small scrap.
The light begins to fade, slow and rippling like waves. Through it, the figure stands stooped, head bowed as though in respect. From the shrinking span of it two wings, as large as trucks unfurl as though in slow motion, from slim, lithe shoulders.
Pepper is lax in his grip, frozen in fear and awe. At his side, Steve is slumped on one knee, hi whole body torn between fighting and bowing. At last, it fades, seeping back into the figure’s body, though he still glows, soft, though beaming through the murk.
As pale as cream, a head of soft, dark curls. The wings are a white-blue, glowing as the rest of him does, crouched on one knee in the dirt. He looks no older than a teenager in human years, but Rhodey knows differently. This being is as old as time itself. Contained only by the unified power of the Stones.
“Oh, Tony”. The boy’s voice is soft, filled with a sadness Rhodey knows even his own broken heart cannot compete with.
Wet tears glisten in Tony’s eyes, and there’s that pathetic attempt at a smile once more. The gentle incline of his head, filled with a fondness Rhodey has not seen for a long time.
A being as old as creation crawls on its knees through the dirt, settled between Tony’s splayed legs. The wings move down, curling around them to form a protective barrier between them and the others. At Rhodey’s side, Pepper surged forwards, yelling. Rhodey held her back, tightened his hold.
“Let him go” he urged, voice cracking. “It’s okay. He will save him”.
Fingertips like a gentle breeze brush over the charred, crisp skin of Tony’s cheek, and if the being could cry, it would. “My sweet, brave Tony. Look what they have done” it murmured, sweet and low. Under its touch, skin heals. Knitting back together slowly, as though the damage was never done.
Chapped, split lips curved into a tiny, weak smile, and Tony twitched his hand enough for the Angel to notice, to grasp broken fingers between its own. Slender, cool to the touch. “Hey, Angel”. Fond. Broken.
At his other hand, the Stones pulse, rainbow light competing against the soft hue of blue-white-silver. The Angel looked down, expression twisting in one of pain. “Of all the things” he murmured, pressing closer. Wings fluttered as though agitated. Eyes as blue as turquoise flit back up, bearing into his own.
“Ask me” it told him, as gentle as it touched. “Ask me, and I will do it”.
The sad smile given in return is as much a request as the Angel needs. It reaches down, fingertips bushing over the stones, which shudder and splinter, the bursts of power absorbed as easily as they are made. The Stones became the Stone, one pulsing oracle of power that floats, sinking deep into the Angel’s chest.
Bright, blue light bleeds from the wound, but the Angel looks only at Tony, eyes wide, sorrowful. The tips of several feathers scorch, blackening and withering. It is the cost. It is the price willingly paid.
“Don’t” Tony gasped, tongue heavy with blood, hand twitching in a desperate attempt to touch, to stop. It’s not a price he is willing to pay. He has played his cards, made his sacrifice. Dying was his price.
“Stop me” it replies, voice teasing, challenging. For a brief moment, dark pink lips curve into a smile, easy and tender. And then it is gone, replaced by a heavy, gentle expression. “Ask me to do it” the Angel whispers, leaning closer. If it breathed, the exhales would be soft over Tony’s lips. A kiss, by any other means.
Outside them, the Angel has frozen time. Tony’s friends, his comrades, stuck in their grief, their fear. This is a selfish action. A moment stolen.
“Kiss me”. It isn’t a question, and it burns the entire way up his throat. There is as much demand as a burnt, broken throat can muster within the words, it’s company a weak but doting smile. Power gleams in un-earthly eyes and then the Angel is moving forwards, slim body pressing against shredded metal, hands settling on the chest plates.
Time breathes in, breathes out. And the Angel kisses the man, an action as tender and loving as could be made. Celestial power coaxed open sore lips, the skin healing at the touch. Blood marred the gentle glow, mattified perfected skin.
As they kiss, the light moves, licks it’s way down the Angel’s arms and between the cracks and breaks in the armour. Fills the spaces, seeps into damaged skin. It moves like water and heals. Charred flesh fills with life and blood. Broken bones move painlessly back to their rightful places.
Tony gasped into the plush mouth on his own, moved his destroyed arm upwards, grasping smooth, bare shoulders. At their sides, wings flutter, twitching restlessly. The Angel should not feel pleasure, but at the wet stroke of a tongue, it feels.
As Tony moans, it pulls away, one thumb stroking over a perfect, unblemished cheek. Tony is healed. The arm that lay shrivelled and broken now flexes, fingers curling into the strong muscle, skating the area where skin bleeds into feather.
Around them, the wings tremble. Charred and burnt, the feather are crisped and fragile. Torn, broken. Though the Angel smiles, his body is taut, shakes with pain. “I will heal” it murmured, electric eyes roaming his face.
Light seeps, steady, from it’s chest. The Stone, or Stones, as they were, are the only power that can rival its own. They were born at the same time, magic as old as anything in existence. Tony opened his mouth, tried to push upright more.
Shushing him softly, the Angel kisses him once, firm and sweet. It is everything it cannot say, promises it cannot make. And then the beat of two wings, battered and twisted. With a whisper of sound, the Angel is gone, and time resumes, no trace left except the way that light rolls out like mist, dissipating into the smog.
They are all upon him at once, hands touching, voices demanding, desperate for answers.
His lips tingle. His body thrums.
Until the next, last time.
