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In his final moments, between the time when Strange lifted that one finger, and when he snapped his own, Tony had a second to think.
Within the last, brief, choking pause, while he waits for Thanos to notice the missing stones, his heart sits in his throat as the small vindication he knows he'll feel when their eyes lock swells under the surface. It will be short-lived, he knows, as will he. The victory comes at a cost, one he's always known he would one day have to pay. He's come to terms with that, had done all those years ago as he prepared for 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦, when he finally knew 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰, when he knew, in his heart, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.
But still, no matter how willing he's always been, how 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺, he can't help that bone-deep chill he suddenly gets as he brings his hand up to his face. The last five years have been hell, and yet, in his small house off the lake with his wife and daughter, he'd managed to have everything he'd ever truly wanted. Between the ache of grief that had set up a permanent home in his ribs, squeezing softly at his heart in every breath, he'd found happiness. He realises, in this moment, with his fingers drawn together, uttering those words he first spoken so, 𝘴𝘰 long ago- when he was 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, when he was just the 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘶𝘴, 𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘦, 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘺, 𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘵 -that he doesn't want to die. He never really has, deep down. Even with all the self-sacrificing bullshit he's been putting everyone in his life through over the years, he knows, right now, in this exact second, as he's gone full circle, when it's all coming to a close, 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦.
But he doesn't let that stop him. Doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even flinch. How could he? He's known his fate all along. It's a price he's always been willing to pay.
(𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯.)
And after, as he lays back against the rock, the life ebbing out of him, fatigue hitting him in waves that grow stronger and more consistent, pulling him under for longer stretches of time, he has one more moment to think.
Rhodey pulls away slowly, his face bearing a tight smile full of acceptance, of 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, a bone-aching sorrow of grief, but not suprise. He's known, since sixteen years ago, as he pulled Tony off the floor of his workshop three seconds away from death, that he would do this until it killed him. That he would push and push until his body gave out beneath him, didn't allow him back up. They both knew It wasn't like Afghanistan this time, because this time, Tony wasn't coming back.
Peter's begs and sobs remind Tony of how much of a child this boy, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 boy, really is. Ridiculously young yet has endured so much suffering. He's fought valiantly in three wars all before his seventeenth birthday. A different kind of ache washes over him at that, easy to seperate from the pain from the power of the stones. This one settles more firmly into the slowing staccato of his heart.
Pepper's face suddenly comes into view. (He wants to die with her by his side, he's always known, hands clasped and hearts held tightly in each other's embrace. It's been an anchor, a definitive certainty, ever since 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, that he wants her to be the last thing he'll ever see.) He knows she won't let herself cry until he goes, and selfishly, he's grateful. He's always hated seeing her cry. Hated it so much more when he knows it's because of him.
When she tells him, with the finality of one setting a butterfly free, the easy tragedy of watching your firstborn leave home, that 𝘸𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺, his chest loosens, and he suddenly finds it easier to breathe.
In the final second, when he looks at her face with blurring vision and fading light, he sees Morgan. All of a sudden, he wishes, so desperately it makes him feel just the slightest bit alive, that he'd read her that story she'd asked for. If only for a few extra stolen moments. If only for one final chance to leave an imprint that will outlast her four-year-old memory, if only to tell her he loves her 𝘐𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺, so much more than three thousand he doesn't know where he keeps all that love in his broken, weary body.
He dies with his eyes open, refusing to look away for even a millisecond, praying to the God his mother could never really convince him to believe in, that this won't be the last time he'll see them.
(𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸.)