MIRACLES ARE BUILT FROM SCRAPS

By DixieHellcat

“When I drift off, I will dream of you. It’s always you….”

Tony’s voice trailed off, and he rested his head against the glass of the Benatar’s onservation
window, too tired to even sit upright on his own anymore. He wasn’t sure if the lump in his
throat was from grief or low oxygen, if the burning of his eyes was sadness or dehydration.
Really, if he forced himself to think about it, he supposed he didn’t have any right to grieve. It
was his fault half the damn universe was snapped out of existence. Hell, there was no
guarantee Pepper would ever hear the message he had just put his last ounce of energy into
recording. If there was any chance at all that fate had spared her, though, he felt he could not
die without her having some record of his love.
His gaze turned toward the stars outside the pane. As a kid, he had loved space and dreamed of
building rockets and jetting off atop them; then after New York, the thought had filled him with
nothing but terror. So, once again, it was his own damn fault he was out here, stranded on the
crazy Guardians’ ratty-assed ship. Nebula had done all she could to patch it together, drag him
unwillingly onto it, and fly it; he had been so overcome with loss that it was hard for him to
even string words together, let alone thoughts or plans for the future. And now, of course, what
future he had was reduced to the few hours before their air ran out altogether.
The glass felt cool and pleasant against his sweaty face. Somewhere in the clouding depths of
his mind, Tony remembered the hot and cold flashes wereonly one uncomfortable symptom of
oxygen starvation. He hoped Pepper never knew he had lied, in that recording, when he had
assured her he would simply go to sleep. No matter how much his will wanted to let go, he
suspected his body would struggle for every molecule of air. Dying this way was not going to be
peaceful, but the way he figured it, he didn’t deserve a peaceful death. Peter’s death hadn’t
been peaceful.
The lights outside were like tiny needles stabbing into his aching skull, and he closed his weary
eyes. That seemed to help a little; the headache eased, even though he could still perceive their
light as a faint, subtle glow beyond his eyelids. He took a few breaths, feeling guilty for using it
up; Nebula didn’t need as much as his baseline human lungs, but if he weren’t here, she might
have been able to make repairs and reach a habitable landing spot. He never had had the nerve
to end himself, though; even the handful of attempts in his dissolute youth had been half-assed
at best, one of the few things he had tried that he didn’t give his all to. Now, he didn’t have the
strength. Another failure, he thought, his mind drifting.
Absently, he wondered how much juice the battered Iron Man helmet lying on the deck before
him still held. It would be nice to leave Rhodey a message too, assuming he had survived. Tony
didn’t want to think otherwise, and just to be able to say hey sourpatch, I’ll miss you, would at
least let his brother in every way but blood know Tony had thought of him before his end.
Maybe if Tony took a few minutes to rest, he could man up and give it a try, if he could just
remember how he had set the damn thing up. His brain cells, starved and choking, weren’t
working well, and he could almost hear them buzzing like shitty cheap light bulbs about to go
out.
He’d try, though, in just a minute. Leave Rhodey a message, and maybe Steve too. It sucked,
when somebody died and the last memory you had of them was bitter and angry…in just a
minute he would try, tell Steve he didn’t blame him for…what was it again? Thinking felt like
wading through syrup, slow and painful, with memories falling from him into the mire. It was
much easier to just not think; his stomach had even stopped cramping from hunger, and it felt
good to simply rest.
“Anthony.”
Tony groaned mentally. Now he was imagining things. That wasn’t Nebula’s voice; hers was
sharp, like gears grinding, like the metal her ‘father’ Thanos had half-rebuilt her from. Never
imagined meeting somebody with worse daddy issues than me, he thought and almost
managed a snort.
“Anthony.”
He sighed and shifted a little. Shut up, brain. The voice seemed vaguely familiar, which was even
more ridiculous when he was stranded in space billions of miles from anybody he knew. Beyond
his closed eyelids, light increased, and he wondered if they were nearing a star. Going that way
wouldn’t be nearly as bad. Better to burn out than fade away, after all.
“Anthony.”
“Shut UP, brain, lemme die in peace—” He opened his eyes in annoyance. A humanoid form
stood before him, limned by a faint but unmistakable glow that surrounded its body—his? Her?
There was a softness to the face looking down at him that seemed feminine, but the lean
muscles were defined and solid, so he decided on they. Weary curiosity at the apparition
washed away the next moment when he noticed the glow extended from the figure’s back,
outstretched past the shoulders, almost like—
“Fuck,” Tony croaked. “An angel. My atheist brain in its infinite wisdom has decided to present
me with a hallucination of a fucking angel.”
The figure shrugged, its wings shifting like waves of fire. “However you choose to interpret me
is fine,” they said, in a low but musical voice. “Your people call me Ambriel. Come, walk with
me, Anthony.”
Tony’s dry, scratchy eyes blinked at the hand the entity held out to him. “What the hell,” he
mumbled, and pondered whether he had the energy to imagine lifting his own hand to meet it.
The next instant, he was standing beside the form, looking down at the deck. The emaciated
body and skull-like face that lay there were unnerving, and doubly so when he finally realized
they were his. “Damn. I really do look small.” Smol, the way Peter had said it. Tony had never
believed in a literal life after death, but he had read studies that showed brain cells, breaking
down and using up the last of their fuel, had final bursts of hyperactivity. Maybe they would
concoct some vision to ease the transition into darkness. “Can I program this?” he said
suddenly, because if so, if he could make his cerebrum project comforting fantasies, then he
was selfish enough to ask for—beg for—
Footsteps sounded on the metal of the deck. Nebula slipped through the hatchway and moved
toward where Tony’s body lay; she gasped and dropped to her knees beside him. “Stark! Wake
up!” He liked the way she said his last name, in the same calm way she said any other, not like
all the people in his life who had said it like a profanity, spat it like a curse, made him hate it so
much that, when Pepper cautiously mentioned she wanted to keep her last name after they
married, he had shocked her with his delight and even admitted he would rather take hers.
Nebula was not calm at this moment, though; she took hold of his wasted shoulders and shook
him in a panic. “Don’t leave me here alone, Stark!”
The finality of his situation began to sink in. “Sorry, bluebell,” he said, numb and resigned.
The figure, Ambriel, took hold of his hand again, and Tony found himself standing on a low hill
overlooking a beautiful beach. It reminded him of Malibu, of all the time he and Pepper had
spent below his old house there, first with her riding herd on her headstrong boss, and later
with him keeping up with his beautiful, fierce lover. I’m not gonna see her again, he thought,
and the pain of it would have taken his breath if he had been breathing. A soft brush across his
back drew his attention, and a moment later one fiery wing curled around his shoulders like a
blanket.
Ambriel’s eyes were golden, and their gaze was gentle and reassuring. Tony bit his lip, nodded
once curtly and returned his focus to the beach. There were people down there, he noticed
now, alone or in pairs or small groups, splashing in the water or playing in the sand, sitting or
standing. A woman glanced toward the hill and called out, pointing up toward them, and Tony
unaccountably wanted to dive for cover. More people appeared, walking, then running, from
up and down the beach, converging at the foot of the hill, probably noting the angel’s presence.
None of this is real, dumbass. There are no people, there is no beach, and there sure as hell is no
angel. As with the rare lucid dreams he had had, though, knowing that didn’t change the set or
setting, so as with those, it seemed easier just to go with the flow. And the flow, clearly, was
not directed at his winged companion, but at him. Of course it is, he realized, recognizing the
frisson of dread he had felt at the first cry. Suddenly, he was shaking, and could not stop. He
pressed his hand to his chest, his terror amplified by the absence of a heartbeat there, or even
an arc reactor. “Make it stop,” he mumbled. “Make ‘em go away. I can’t…”
“Anthony? What’s wrong?”
“This isn’t real, I should be able to stop it.” The techniques he had learned to calm panic attacks
wouldn’t even work now, because he wasn’t breathing, fuck, how could he be having a panic
attack when he was dead—
His knees buckled, but two arms, slim but more powerful than Thor’s, held him up. “Talk to me,
Anthony!” Ambriel demanded.
“I have to face them, don’t I?” Tony wheezed. “Before my brain will let me die. Those fuckin’
neurons, spreading depolarization, ionic breakdown, what the fuck ever it is, they’re dragging
shit out of the farthest locked closets in my head.” Ashamed of his cowardice, he could not
even look back at the beach; he turned away, into the embrace of the wings, and only waved a
feeble hand in that general direction. “They’re the people whose deaths I’m responsible for, the
ones whose blood’s on my hands.” So this is what hell actually is, he thought, and remembered
the confrontation with Miriam Sharpe at MIT, the agony he had felt at her grief and blame. He
wondered if it would ever end, or if it would feel eternal, the never-ending punishment that he
knew in the depths of his heart was his just desserts.
“No!” Ambriel’s tone was horrified. “No, Anthony, not at all. They’re all here to welcome you,
to thank you. You saved most of them. They’ve passed since then, but you gave them more
time.” Hands caught hold of his face; he resisted for a moment, then surrendered and let their
firm grip turn him back toward the approaching torment. “Look. That woman there, she had
just had a child when Ultron attacked Novigrad. Because you saved the citizens, she was able to
watch her baby grow into a healthy little boy before illness brought her here. The fellow there?
He was a struggling writer in New York City, out making the rounds of publishers the day the
Chitauri attacked. You took that missile away from the city, and because of that, he had almost
ten more years, in which he got published, became successful, was able to marry his husband,
and left a legacy to be proud of.”
Tony stared in disbelief, his mind blank. For once, he could not think of a single thing to say, in
response to something so outlandish.
Four people, three men and a woman, were closest to the hill. After a brief exchange, they
started to climb up the slope. “And some,” Ambriel finished, with a hint of satisfaction creeping
into their voice, “came not to welcome Iron Man the hero, but to see Tony Stark the man.”
One man moved more quickly than the others, his steps sure and eager. As he neared, Tony
could make out details of his appearance: tall, thin, bearded and bespectacled. It wasn’t what
he would have consciously chosen, had he been asked to design a dying phantasm, but it took
hold of his heart as few if any others could have. “Yinsen,” he breathed, pushed away from
Ambriel’s support and stumbled forward.
“Stark.” The lilting accent of the physician’s Afghan village was as warmas his embrace and
kisses on the cheeks. “Peace be upon you, my friend.” A smile was spread across his face when
they separated. “I have watched over you in the years since we parted, and I am so, so proud of
you. You gave me your word you would not waste your life, young prince, and you have kept
that promise.”
Tony’s heart, lifted for an instant, crashed like a deactivated Iron Man suit. He opened his
mouth, to speak the truth. Instead, all that came out was, “How is your family?” You moron,
fuck, could you please stop indulging this damned fantasy?
Yinsen’s smile broadened. “They are well, of course, but weary of hearing my stories about you,
I fear. It will be a joy to finally introduce you to them.”
The other three people had reached the top of the hill now, but they looked Caucasian, so not
Yinsen’s relations. A pleasant-faced man stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Honor to meet
you, Mr. Stark. I’m Ben Parker, Peter’s uncle.” He gestured to the couple approaching. “This is
my brother Rich and his wife Mary, Petey’s parents.”
Horror roared in Tony’s ears and almost drowned out the woman’s words. “We’re so
appreciative of all you did for Peter; taking him under your wing, so to speak, was so good for
him—”
“No,” Tony choked. “Stop, please, stop.” He started to shake again. The people facing him
moved closer, concern crossing all their faces. He had to wipe that false compassion from their
features, now; it was only delaying the inevitable. “I failed,” he rasped. “I didn’t keep Peter safe.
I couldn’t. I couldn’t prevent Thanos from doing what his madness told him to do!” Anger rolled
through him, swamping the fear for the moment. He looked down toward the gathering crowd,
then around him. “Where’s Peter? He’ll tell you. Fuck, if my brain is trying to ease my dying by
—by manufacturing some sort of heaven, he’d have to be here, he’d have to—"
His knees gave way, and Yinsen eased him to the ground. He covered his face with his hands,
halfway expecting stones to start hitting him at any moment. The only thing that touched him,
however, was a hand on his arm. “He’s not here,” Ambriel said.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Tony tried to snap, he really did, but the words ended up a watery near-
sob. “I get that I don’t deserve it, if anybody knows that it’s me, but couldn’t I at least have
made up a chance to—tell him I’m sorry, to—”
He fought the urge to break down and cry; tears would do no good here. Over his bowed head,
he could hear Ambriel quietly say to Yinsen and the Parkers, “He believes this is all a figment of
his imagination.” Soft noises of understanding replied. Shit, brain, you can shove in tiny details
like this, but my guilty soul won’t even let me say goodbye to my kid? “Anthony, none of them
are here. The ones Thanos took with the Stones—they are not dead.” The angelic entity’s hand
moved to his hair and rested there as though to comfort. “The whole situation is, as your folk
say, above my pay grade, but we understand they are trapped between life and death, within
the Soul Stone.”
It was possible, Tony supposed, though he couldn’t recall having consciously considered it. The
thought shook him, and then enraged him. “Can’t something be done?” The corner of his
thoughts that still clung to logic reminded him this wasn’t real, and acting as though it were was
supremely irrational, but at this point, the pain that suffused his being left him past caring
about rationality. He lifted his head and glared at Ambriel. “If there were angels, if there was a
god, then something would be done, some plan would be in the works. Half the damn universe
wouldn’t be left in limbo, and the other half broken!”
“Something was being done,” Ambriel returned. “Have you ever heard the story about the man
caught by an approaching flood? He said ‘I’m not worried, God will save me’. A boat came by,
then another, then a helicopter, but he waved them all off and waited for a divine hand. It did
not come, and he drowned. When he reached his destination, he challenged the Holy One. ‘I
had faith and you didn’t save me!’ God sighed, ‘I sent two boats and a helicopter, what more
were you expecting?’” They smiled. “Miracles wear mortal faces, more often than not. There
was a plan. Stephen Strange surrendered the Time Stone because he saw a chance for a
miracle. That chance was you, Anthony.” Their hand slid from his head down to his shoulder
and patted him. “Your body couldn’t hold up to the hardships involved, so that plan is no more.
God will implement another, in the fullness of time.”
“Fullness of time, shit. The universe doesn’t have that luxury!” Tony realized he had been
swearing profusely, in front of an angel. Apparently, his subconscious didn’t have the pesky
issues Steve would have had in the same circumstance. “Aren’t people supposed to have a
choice in this? I admit, the squishy sciences aren’t exactly my wheelhouse, but I know I’ve heard
philosophy types talk about this free-will thing, and every cheap-ass show about near-death
experiences on Discovery Channel makes a point of saying you—” He stabbed a finger at
Ambriel’s face. “—don’t just drag souls off to the land of milk and honey. Consent, you know?
Consent is important.”
“Consent is important,” they agreed, “but it’s not always applicable. If someone is run over by a
truck and their body can no longer sustain life, consent is, well, moot. I believe I get what you
are thinking; you’re contemplating going back. But your physical form was in a grave state,
pardon the pun. If you return, Anthony, it’s most likely you will just suffer a more painful and
prolonged death, and return to us shortly.”
“Then I’ll go down fighting. Everybody keeps insisting I’m special, somehow. Not sure I’m
buying that, but let me try one more time. I can’t leave Peter, leave all those people, like that.”
A low laugh came from behind where he sat, and he twisted to see Yinsen smiling again. “One
more act of defiance from the great Tony Stark?”
For a beat, Tony allowed himself to bask in the smile, in the approval of this man who had been
more of a father figure to him in a few harrowing months than Howard Stark had in decades.
“You know me, I don’t know when to quit.”
“I know. I have seen you fall and get up, time and again, and make things better each time.
Once, you called yourself a phoenix. A rather apropos metaphor, isn’t it?” Yinsen unfolded his
long legs and stood, straightening his suit jacket and brushing dust off his pants legs in a way so
familiar it made Tony’s chest ache. Then, he reached down and pulled Tony to his feet. “You
built a miracle once from scraps. I have no doubt that if there is a way to do it again, you will
find it. Whatever happens, know that we will be watching and waiting and cheering you on.”
The Parkers nodded. Mary smiled, stepped toward Tony and unexpectedly hugged him. “From
what we’ve seen from here, I’m beginning to think you can fix almost anything. Bring them
back, Mr. Stark. Bring them all back, and give our boy our love.”
For all that Tony was still pushing back, certain that none of this was any kind of objective
reality, in that moment he could not have done anything but agree. “I will. I promise.”
Underoos might think he was crazy, or crazier than usual anyway, but one day, he thought he
might tell the kid about this dream. He thought Peter might get it.
Ambriel’s firm hand closed around his. “How much time has lapsed?” Tony asked.
They chuckled, and in a flash the Benatar formed around the two. “No time at all,” they said
with a nod toward the deck where Nebula still knelt beside Tony’s body.
“Don’t leave me here alone, Stark! Not now, not when I finally repaired the oxygen
concentrator. Please, wake up.” She shook his bony shoulders one more time, then made a
noise that might have been a sob, pulled him to her, and hung her head.
The oxygen concentrator was fixed? Tony wondered where she had found the parts; they had
cannibalized most of the ship already in attempts to get it running again. With air to breathe,
though, maybe they could rig a water condenser, and keep monkeying with the engines, tweak
the distress signal they were broadcasting to make it go farther…With one more chance, he had
so many ideas to try. He looked over at the angel. “No offense, but I hope I don’t see you again
anytime soon.”
“Likewise,” Ambriel replied with a grin, and gave Tony a little nudge forward. Briefly, he thought
of the peaceful beach, the welcome of friends he had never met. Even if every bit of it was a
construct of his imagination, that was okay. It seemed real enough that he chose to accept it,
and the idea of some kind of rest waiting for him when he finally died was—it was good.
Something like a stiff wind pressed at his back, and he stepped toward the limp form in
Nebula’s arms. “I’m coming, bluebell. We got work to do.”
Ambriel, angel of gemini and the month of may (tonys birth month) is the angel of intellectual ability, a
patron of those with psychic abilities (viz. tony’s a seer) and fights self doubt and fear. Inspires the love
of learning, and focus and the ability to learn (ie. Tony in av1 learning an obscure branch of physics
overnite) is a protector against evil (tonys survived shit that would kill anybody else) and sheds light to
help find the right path (as noted in this story where he doesn’t tell tony what to do but encourages him
to make his own decision about his future)