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It feeds! It grows! It clouds all that you will know! Deceit! Deceive! Decide just what you believe —!

With flailing limbs and a sound far too high pitched for his liking, Peter jolted awake in the passenger seat.

“I wasn’t sleeping!” His shout was barely heard over the blast of Metallica, so loud from the cars stereo that he swore it shook the windows. “I’m — I’m awake, I swear, I’m —!”

"— soaking my custom designed leather upholstery with your Twizzler infused drool,” Tony dryly chided, his eyes held firmly on the road in front of him. His sunglasses concealed half his face, and yet somehow his expression was still telling. “You’re a terrible at riding shot gun, you know that, Parker?”

The same hand that had been gripping the stick-shift moved to the dashboard, where Tony’s finger tapped the fancy touch-screen display until the music returned to a semi-reasonable volume. Whatever was considered reasonable for him, anyway. The windows still vibrated, but that easily could’ve been from the patchy roads of the highway.

Peter laughed, the chuckle caught mid-yawn and turning into something completely unrecognizable. Drool had begun to dribble down his chin, and he lazily wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Most of the saliva rubbed across the sleeve to his hoodie, already stained with ketchup and mustard. And something else he didn’t remember getting on the over-sized sweatshirt. It was green. Or was it orange?

Gross.

Peter wrinkled his nose, harshly rubbing the sleeve against his jeans. Whatever hotel they stopped at next, he was in major need to utilize their laundry machines.

“Where are we?” he asked, sleep still coating his voice. With a sniff, he smacked his lips, riding what residual candy still stuck there. It left a funky aftertaste in his mouth, and ontop of laundry, he was long overdue for brushing his teeth.

Tony turned to look at him, briefly. The black framed, purple-tinted sunglasses dipped to the bridge of his nose as he evenly regarded Peter.

“Edge of Nevada.” As quickly as he spoke, Tony turned his attention back to the road. The car was hovering around seventy-miles per-hour, with little traffic in sight. “You dozed off not long after we hit the highway. Amazing feat, considering you could make the Guinness World Records of first human to convert their blood into pure cane sugar.”

A closed fist rubbed absentmindedly at his eye. Peter hadn’t remembered ever falling asleep. One moment they were leaving the diner in Reno, after dealing with a far-too-friendly waitress who fed Peter more mashed potatoes than even his stomach could handle.

And the next — well, here he was. A small piece of Twizzler still in one hand, and eye-crust making it difficult to blink.

Looking out the passenger seat window, Peter noticed that the sun had set and left a dim orange haze over the sky. The kind that would allow them to see the stars and moon far better than the city landscape could ever allow.

It was easily his favorite thing about their road trip so far.

“Speaking of.” Tony shot a hand across the distance between them. His fingers wagged wordlessly. “Hand some over.”

Peter blinked, still working off the daze of sleep and the crusty film that covered his eyes.

“Huh — wha —?” He sat up a bit higher, the tug of the seat-belt pulling on his neck. “Oh. I…” For good measure, Peter looked around the car seat, even reaching into his backpack, albeit his search was unmotivated. “I think I ate ‘em all...it's all gone.”

The look Tony proceeded to give him — which wasn’t really a look at all, more a side-glare hidden beneath high tech frames — was enough to speak volumes.

The sound he made said the rest.

“Let aunt hottie know that if you’re returned to her custody with rotting teeth and a mouth full of cavities, you can take on a paper route to pay off your dentist bills.”

Peter rolled his eyes, though a humorous grin curled at his mouth, stealing any chance of looking even the least bit miffed.

“Pft, this is nothing.” Peter gave a one-shouldered shrug, using the seat-belt to further pull himself upright. He stretched his legs the furthest they could go out, which wasn’t all that far, what with his backpack cramped between his knees. “You should see me and Ned on ‘May the fourth’ Star Wars weekend. One year we filled up a shoe-box with gummy worms and ate them all before we even finished the prequels. Aside from the green ones — neither of us like the green ones. So, like...a third of the shoe box was still full. We melted them down for our science fair project. It...didn’t work.”

As if suddenly having a memory re-surface that he’d forgotten long ago, Peter made a face, something that was caught between a grimace and a wince.

“We ruined May’s casserole dish. And the kitchen smelt like burnt lime for weeks.” A beat. “The stove’s never not been sticky since...”

Tony spared the road his attention as he craned his neck over to Peter, his eyebrows so high up his forehead that it kept his sunglasses in place.

“I have no words,” was all he said, before turning back to driving.

Silence fell, although it was a comfortable one. There was enough noise from the car to fill the moment, what with a slight hum from the engine combined with the softly played rock music from the stereo. Peter shifted in his seat — his butt was definitely growing numb — and he turned to look at the road from the backseat mirror.

It was growing darker, and the headlights of the cars that followed behind them were giving off more light than anything else. What little cars there were, anyhow. He could count on one hand how many he saw both in front and behind them.

“Where are we going to next, anyway?”

As if also noticing the setting sun, Tony carefully removed his sunglasses, placing them in a compartment above the rear-view mirror.

“Malibu,” Tony answered, shutting the compartment closed. He let his hand fall to the stick-shift, keeping one hand casually on the wheel. “Was thinking about swinging up that way and paying my old stomping grounds a visit. You ever been up to Point Dume?”

Before Peter could shake his head with an ever-so-obvious ‘no’, Tony plowed right through.

“We’re going, you’ll love it.” Tony adjusted himself in his seat, pulling his eyes away from the road ahead of them to steal a glance at Peter. “It’s a beaut, hell of a view. When you’re not free-falling hundreds of feet into the Pacific Ocean, that is.”

Peter arched an eyebrow, not completely sure if what he heard was actually what he heard, and if he should laugh or pretend he didn’t hear anything at all.

Judging by the smirk on Tony’s face, he decided to follow suit.

Sometimes he forgot just how many crazy things had happened in Tony’s life, long before they had ever met. It was coming close to a year now since Mr. Stark had taken him under his wing — truly, not just giving him the suit in Germany. Things changed after Coney Island, and Peter would be the first to admit that it had been a strange journey.

A really, really strange journey.

It was hard to forget that at first, it was all by force of May’s hand. She insisted Tony have responsibility in Peter’s ‘extracurricular activities’, as she’d call it. And to Tony’s credit, he did just that. In beginning he wasn’t always present, just allowing Peter the use of his lab to tinker on Spider-Man related stuff. ‘Do it right, not in pajamas’, as he’d say. But slowly, he was around more. And more.

And more.

And then one day, Peter got a phone call from him. From Tony. Personally. Inviting him to the compound. It was just earlier this year when out of nowhere, it became a thing. Happy would drive him there, they’d spend the day working on things that weren’t even Spider-Man related, and a time or two Tony even took him out to eat. Usually food cart hot dogs or tacos, whatever gained the least attention from the public.

There was only one rule — don’t go to the east wing of the compound. None of the Avengers could know Peter was that guy from Germany. No matter how badly Peter wanted to meet them some day, he wasn't quite ready to out his identity yet. And Tony wasn’t ready for that, either. So, it wasn’t allowed.

Until the day that it happened.

Peter felt a laugh somewhere deep in his chest, a bubble of joy he fought to suppress. Was all that really just a few months ago? He scratched at his head, pushing his hair back with his hand. Everything after that...jeeze. It was only more craziness that could be added to Tony’s already crazy life.

And here he was. A part of it. On their way to visit Tony’s old home — or, well, where it used to be, anyway.

“How far away is it?” Peter stretched his legs out even more, pushing his backpack into the depths of the passenger seat floor. It wasn’t like there was anything important in it. His cell phone was in his back pocket and his new camera, gifted by Tony himself, sat somewhere in the backseat between both their dufflebags.

Tony eyed the dashboard mounted GPS before turning back to the windscreen. “Seven hours, give or take.”

Peter nodded, stretching his arms out in front of him, aching to crack his back in a way the car wouldn’t allow him.

Halfway into stretching and he threw Tony a wild look.

“Can I drive?”

Tony laughed, curtly, before, “No.”

Peter’s hands fell dramatically to his thighs, slapping onto his jeans with a resonance of rockets.

“Just for like, an hour!” he begged.

Tony shook his head. “Still no.”

“You told me —!”

“I said we’d see—”

“Thirty minutes!”

“Answer hasn’t changed.”

“Twenty,” Peter compromised, having lifted from his seat and reaching halfway to Tony’s. “Twenty minutes, and I promise —”

Tony lifted his hand off the stick shift, placing an open palm in the air as if he was keeping Peter from climbing into the drivers seat and taking over.

“Bargaining is beneath you, kid.”

With a wine so dramatic that it reached a new octave, Peter threw his head back against the headrest.

“C’mon!” his voice squeaked in pitch. “I can drive!”

Tony snorted, and made sure it was heard.

“And I can design pre-programmed micro-manipulators to function within a napalm gel fragmentation grenade all while using electrosthetic conductors,” he argued. “Doesn’t mean I should.”

A flash of annoyance crossed Peter’s face, but left no sooner than it came. He plopped back down into the passengers seat with a huff far more exaggerated than it was genuine.

“Oh, whatever,” he drawled out, rolling his eyes. “You’re so extra, Mr. Stark.”

“Mr —” Tony matched Peter’s eye roll with his own. “Oh, for the love of God. Kid, I know I’m growing gray, but must you add insult to injury?”

A drop of confusion had Peter furrowing his brows deep.

“Huh?”

Tony side-eyed him, and he did it good.

“I have a name,” he said, flatly. “I don’t know if after all this time you’ve forgotten what it is, but —”

“You have a — well, yeah, of course. Duh,” Peter stammered, flummoxed. “It’s just —”

“Tony,” he interrupted. “Can you say it? Are you able to repeat after me? Is your tongue even capable of speaking those syllables?”

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but faltered along the way. He wasn’t sure what to say — both confused and somehow embarrassed, the sudden change of subject bringing goosebumps to his skin.

His lips clamped shut and he looked away, ducking his head where his face couldn’t be seen and hopefully neither could his red ears.

Tony stared at him, unguarded, before his eyes snapped back to the road.

“Tone. E. Let me hear it,” he teased. “I dare you. Break the epitome of manners, shatter the universe and the gravitational pull. Open a portal to the fifth dimension. You must think all these things will happen if you call me something other than Mr. Stark.”

Peter sunk further into the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his chin low.

“Now you’re just being extra extra.”

“I’m giving you permission, Underoo’s,” Tony reached over, lightly slapping Peter’s shoulder. “Nay, you’re getting the privilege — uh uh, the honor of calling me by first name. You know how few people get that? Did you know that it took five years before I let Happy look me in the eye?”

Despite how low Peter had ducked his head, it was impossible to hide the grin that crept across his face. “I’m not calling you Tony.”

With a range of volume that managed to reach over the car’s stereo, Tony snapped his fingers.

“So you can say it!”

“It’s weird,” Peter finally shot back.

Tony threw him a look, flourished with his own confusion.

“Why?” A beat passed before he turned his attention back to driving. “How? Explain your work, Mr. Parker.”

For a moment that felt as long as the miles they were driving, Peter drew a blank. He didn’t know how to put it into words — and for what it was worth, he tried, chewing on his bottom lip with deep deliberation. The kind that put a line between his eyebrows and wrinkled at his nose.

It wasn’t until two cars passed them on the road — showcasing just how slow Tony had started driving since their conversation began — that Peter finally managed a response.

“It just...is.”

An articulate response, at that.

Tony snorted to solidify as much.

Peter was quick to defend.

“You’re Mr. Stark!” He shifted awkwardly in the passengers seat. “That’s just...that’s who you are. It’s who you’ll always be to me.”

It was the most Peter could muster up. The rest of his argument fell flat on his tongue, and perhaps it was the dusk of the night making him tired, but he had no means to try harder.

Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe, just maybe, there wasn’t anything more to say because it was all that needed to be said.

Tony didn’t seemed bothered with the lack of an explanation. He fell quiet alongside Peter — a comfortable silence, albeit slightly electric, lingering with the fizzle of a once vibrant debate.

The sun had officially set and the dim orange of the sky was quickly replaced with rich, deep blues. The Nevada stars had started to light up the landscape, and far off in the distance the moon could be seen over the horizon.

Peter chewed on his bottom lip, admiring the sight from the passenger window. He was tempted to grab his camera and take a photo — his good camera, the new one Mr. Stark had given him. The expensive one that Mr. Stark had given him. It still made him nervous using the thing. He wasn’t sure it would’ve ever left his closet had Mr. Stark not taken him on this trip.

Mr. Sta — Peter looked away from the window, a heavy feeling settling in his chest.

He looked to Tony, the man too focused on driving to notice his staring.

“Did you…” Peter cleared his throat, sitting up a tad bit in the seat. “Did you...want me to call you Tony?”

The silence that followed became a lot less comfortable and far more ‘oh crap, oh crap, take it back, take it back —’

“Cause I — I mean, if that’s what you want,” Peter scrambled to say. “I can — I mean, it’s weird, but I can totally —”

“Pass me the Twizzlers.”

Tony outstretched his hand without so much giving Peter a glance.

Peter furrowed his brows tightly together. “I said I didn’t have any left —”

“Parker.”

Tony looked at Peter with just his eyes, a side glare so intense that it could be seen even in the dusk ambiance of the car.

For a fleeting moment, Peter played dumb.

It didn’t last long.

“Fine,” Peter relented, painfully at that. Bending down to grab his backpack, he dug deep into the many pockets, unzipping what felt like a thousand zippers until he got where he needed to be.

Random brochures he’d been collecting from different states cluttered most of his path, and with a twisted face, he reached deep inside until finally, a loosely covered piece of red licorice was in his grasp.

Peter glanced to see if Mr. Stark noticed him picking off the lint that covered the candy. When in the clear, he handed it off to the man, as if it hadn’t been in the depths of his backpack.

Tony placidly took it, biting it into with long, extended chews. Drawing out the silence even further.

Close to a year. There was a lot Peter had come to learn about Mr. Stark during that time. When to take him seriously, how to tell if he was joking — after all, the man almost never joked with a smile. It took time, and many lab nights spent together, but Peter liked to think he’d gotten to know Tony pretty well.

Staring at him — studying him — it was almost as if Tony wanted to say something else. As if there was something sitting right on the tip of his tongue, but he kept it at bay with the Twizzler dangling loosely in his fingers.

Curiosity got the best of Peter. As it always did.

“I can…” Peter cleared his throat, awkwardly. “I can...call you, Tony, Mr. Stark.”

Still, nothing.

It wasn’t even silent, for crying out loud. Peter could hear the hum of the radio in lieu of their conversation. It was nearly muted, but it was there.

And yet somehow, no response from Tony seemed like the ultimate silence.

“It’s no big deal,” Peter added, for the sake of hearing anything besides his own nervous breathing. “It’s...it’s just a name, right?”

Tony bit into the licorice for a second time, chewing hard. His jaw made pronounced movement, nearly suppressing the hum that sounded from his throat.

“No.”

Tony shook his head, much to Peter’s surprise.

Letting out a sigh that was somehow both pained and relieved at the same time — a complicated sigh, to say the least — Tony tapped his finger against the drivers wheel. The piece of candy bounced alongside it.

“No, it’s not just a name,” he finally said. “Mr. Stark is fine. Mr. Stark is…it’s you.”

There were half a dozen thoughts let loose in Tony’s head, none of which Peter could hear. But it could be seen, even in the darkness of the cars interior. Peter wasn’t sure how, he just knew what he saw — the heaviness that wore down Tony’s shoulders, the sudden look that crossed over his eyes — it said something that Mr. Stark wasn’t saying himself.

And then he spoke.

“You change that and...then it wouldn’t be you.”

The words held an echo in the small space enclosing them, in a car that had taken on miles of wear and tear, crossed east to west and traveled with their laughter along the way. For what was possibly the first time since their trip had started, mere weeks ago, a heaviness fell between them. Somber, a burden of reality that they’d almost forgotten existed.

That reality seemed to reflect the most in Tony’s eyes, highlighted by each high-mast light that bordered the roads ahead of them. They passed across his face, one by one, each time just long enough for Peter to catch sight of the weariness sinking into the lines on his skin.

The silence that followed only increased the sound of noise around them, beeping and humming from machines that further aggravated Peter’s senses. And yet, as Tony locked eyes on him, intently and sincerely, the sound began to dissipate. For a fleeting, brief moment, the IV drips and heart monitors could’ve been a world away.

“Yeah,” Tony said, softly, the nod of his head even softer. “That’s how I knew.”

Peter looked away, unknowingly swallowing hard. It was easier to gaze out the passenger window than keep looking at Mr. Stark. The stars in the sky were at least easier to digest. They glimmered with a sense of hopefulness, a soft goodbye to the day and rest to bring to the night.

There was a similar glimmer in Tony’s eyes, if Peter looked hard enough. It wasn’t nearly as redemptive.

Almost a year, and yet the last few months felt like a decade. Peter had no idea how Mr. Stark did it. Just thinking about the last few events they went through made him exhausted.

With a sigh he wouldn’t let out, Peter gingerly closed his eyes, resting his cheek against the door window. The cold glass sent a shiver down his back, but it didn’t bother him. It felt nice, putting his muscles at ease.

And just when the silence became a welcome resident —

“We’re going straight back to Queens if you don’t stop falling asleep on me,” Tony spoke up, snapping his fingers harshly. “Rules of road tripping, Parker. Passenger entertains the driver. That’s your job, don’t screw it up.”

With his eyes still closed, Peter smiled.

 

 

 

 

"—splsh—gkKK."

Vomit splashed down into the bucket that Peter cradled between his hands, his eyes clenched as tight as his grip on the small basin.

“There ya go, kid...just get it all out,” Tony meekly managed, his hand rubbing circles against Peter’s back, despite knowing it did shit-all-nothing to make the kid feel any better. “Don’t hold back on my accord. It isn’t anything I didn’t do myself in the college days.”

The weak attempt at a joke, as well intended as it was, fell on deaf ears.

Peter’s back spasmed as another heave struck him full-force.

“GuHck—” He choked on a gasp before more contents spilled from his mouth, almost rolling down his chin had he not lunged forward. What started out as waves of sickness was now a nonstop, steady bout of purging that didn’t let up before the next round started. “Mr — Mr. ‘ark —”

“Hush.” Tony didn’t mean to snap. The words came out that way regardless. “Just...hush.”

A sigh became trapped in his rib-cage, caught in the pounding anxiety of his heartbeat. Tony looked away, briefly, forcing himself to stay firm.

Breaking was the last thing either of them needed right now. If it meant holding himself together with scraps of duct tape, he’d be damn sure to do it for the kid.

“A-ah--AH-ck.” The bed-railing shook as Peter shot his hand out, gripping the metal with knuckles whiter than the walls surrounding them. His breathing began to quicken, nearing hyperventilating. “Thi-this-this s-s-s-sucks.”

Tony’s hand migrated away from Peter’s back, and two fingers pinched tightly at the bridge of his nose. He shut his eyes with force, not that Peter noticed.

The kid had been expelling every single ounce of his insides for over ten minutes now. Tony was well aware; he’d been watching the clock intently.

The wizard said he’d been back in a half hour, insisting on discussing Peter’s condition with the medical staff. Thirty minutes was what he said it would take.

That was fifty-six minutes ago.

Tony clenched his jaw, tight enough that his teeth ached. The room they were in had grown frighteningly small with the array of equipment cramped inside. It trapped their body heat like a sauna, Peter’s morose than anyone else. Sweat poured off his skin like a rainstorm let loose, drenching his hair and plastering brown curls onto his forehead.

Still clenching the guard-railing, Peter threw his head back, smacking into the pillow behind his neck.

“Ugh — god —” He gasped, followed by a hard grimace. “Mr. Stark, I don’t...I don’t feel so —”

“Hush.” Tony fully intended to snap that time. He looked down at Peter, his expression hard and yet his eyes softening. “You talk way too much, kid.”

For what Peter couldn’t say, the wires attached to his body spoke in unison. They beeped and chirped with a shrill noise that made Tony want to punch a hole through the nearest wall, leave an indent where his words couldn’t do the job.

Granted, it wasn’t the sound that bothered him, so much as what it all meant.

It was like a warning. One he didn’t need to hear, one that he was fully and frighteningly aware of.

He stole a glance to the clock, hung high in the corner of the wall.

Fifty-seven minutes.

“Just...trying not to...think about this.” Peter clung to the basin in his hands, squeezing the edges so tight the plastic was starting to leave marks in his skin.

In moments like these, Tony didn’t always have a way with words.

“Then don’t.”

He ran a hand down the length of his face. It was good to know some things hadn’t changed.

A harsh cough rattled in Peter’s chest, wet with the contents of his stomach. He spit harshly into the bucket below. Once, twice, and three times before forcing himself to stop — he practically swallowed the rest down, as if refusing to allow his body to purge anymore than it already had.

His back still spasmed but his mouth stayed quiet. Almost disturbingly so.

It earned a look from Tony. It went without saying that the sudden, suppressing quiet was a change that brought on his confusion. It was a stifling kind of sound, holding the room hostage.

And it wasn’t until he turned to Peter that he realized why.

“I don’t think…” Peter weakly swallowed, his eyes growing wide as saucers. “I don’t...think that’s Aunt May’s meatloaf.”

Tony could hear Peter’s breaths coming in heavier, somehow falling weaker at the same time. He heard it, but paid it no attention.

It was hard to look anywhere else but the vibrant pool of red, beginning to swim circles in the bucket full of bile.

“It’s fine.” Despite the coldness of his tone, Tony pressed a firm hand against the nape of Peter’s neck, squeezing hard. “It’s a little bit of blood. You’ve survived worse. It’s fine.”

His voice did that thing, the one they both realized had become a little too common these days. His tone dripped with a false nonchalance, trying to play off something incredibly not okay as being okay.

Who he was convincing, Tony wasn’t sure. It certainly wasn’t himself.

With a shaking arm, Peter wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, staining his skin with the tint of crimson.

“Mr. Stark —”

“Hey, remember how you’d see New York license plates all the way down in Cali?” Tony immediately cut him off, desperately, frantic to talk about anything else.

If Peter saw through the act, he certainly didn’t point it out. Not that there was a moment given to him where he could. Another spasm shook his back and he leaned forward with a dry heave caught in his throat.

Tony sniffed, hard, and looked away as he talked.

“You’d point out every single one, always wondering where they came from. Where they were going.” The sound of retching interrupted Tony, easily overlapping his voice. He squeezed Peter’s neck before moving his hand down his back, resting it there, feeling each tremor shake his arm. “You’d make up some crazy story about how they must’ve been from Brooklyn just because they were driving a Pontiac. Then you’d start rambling on about the rodents you’d see down that way on your patrols. What was it that you’d say...something about how you knew you were in Brooklyn just by the size of the rats.”

Peter went to chuckle, the laugh stolen by a bout of sickness so strong, it pulled his whole body forward.

Tony let out a curse, baring his teeth tight. He didn’t even want to look at the clock anymore. The damn thing only added to his growing anxiety.

“We can go on another road trip after this. If that’s what you want.” He could barely even hear his own words over Peter’s vomiting, the gurgling bouncing off every corner of the room. “Hell, you can even bring Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Or just Tweedledee — don’t think I’m not oblivious to the way you talk about her. You’re as smitten as a kitten with that one, and don’t even try to deny it because it’ll be a waste of your time and mine.”

A deep breath rose Peter’s back, and another after that. He inhaled slowly, forcing himself to breathe slowly, his eyes held shut as if he could fend off another round of retching.

Tony gave him credit where credit was do. The kid was trying his damnedest not to look like death warmed over twice. Unfortunately, much of that was out of his control.

Adjusting on his feet, Tony broke the stare he had on the nearest wall and finally gave Peter a once over.

“We’ll stay in Missouri longer this time, learn more about that Quill kid you were so fascinated with. The one abducted by aliens. Or so they claim. It’s still a bunch of hoopla to me, straight up Roswell nonsense to make the town feel like a big shot. But if that’s what you want...anything you want.” Tony’s voice somehow faded towards the end, nearing a whisper in his throat. “How does that sound?”

Much to his dismay, and with what Tony swore was a cry stifled in his throat, Peter gurgled with the vomit that spewed from his mouth.

At the same time, two automatic doors whooshed open and rushed in a breeze of fresh air — fresher than what the quarantined room contained, anyhow.

“Jesus Christ, about time!” Tony snapped, whipping his head around in the direction of the entrance way.

Watching Bruce scurry through was one of the last things he expected to see.

“Damn it, you’re not —” Tony shook off the disappointment, not letting himself dwell on it any longer than he had to. He gestured to Peter, the kid still hunched over with what had become quiet, albeit painful, dry heaves. “Christ, Banner, tell me you can do something here.”

Bruce lifted his hand, showcasing a small glass vial in his grip.

“I got meds.”

The relief was enough to break the sigh that Tony had been holding in for so long.

“Finally,” he exhaled. “What the hell has been the hold up?”

Bruce didn’t waste any time. Already at the opposite side of the bed as Tony, he gently placed the vial between his teeth so he could slap on a pair of latex gloves. Once done, he took the vial and the syringe he had in his pocket, unwrapping the needle and plunging it deep into the medicine jar.

“Cho’s team is finally allowing us to administer to treat. They wanted to wait until they were sure no external practices would further agitate the…” Bruce glanced up at Tony, his eyebrows high. “Well, you know. The symbiote.”

Tony grimaced. “Where is she?”

Bruce’s thumb pushed on the plunger of the syringe, shooting a small amount of liquid into the air as he released what bubbles it contained.

“She’s with Strange. They’re...conversing.” he supplied reluctantly.

Tony’s jaw tightened as his frustration began to grow. The answer felt like salt into an ever-growing wound.

“Yeah, they’ve been conversing,” he put emphasis on the word, “for almost an hour now. You know, I didn’t ask him to come here so he could have tea time with his fellow doctor pals. I asked him to come here to fix this problem and fix the kid. And you know, I don’t see any of that happening, so —”

“Pretty sure Peter can hear you,” Bruce dryly chided, interrupting him without so much a second thought. He eyed the syringe, making sure the numbers on the barrel matched what he wanted them to be. Only then did he fixate his gaze to Tony. “We determined this thing had psychological neuropathic tendencies, didn’t we, Tony?”

Tony narrowed his eyes, dropping his hand from Peter’s back in lieu of grabbing the beds guard railing. It was his turn for his knuckles to grow white, his grip holding all the tension building in his body.

“And your point?”

“Just saying. Coming from someone who also deals with a second entity who takes control when emotions run high…” Bruce turned his attention to the tubing attached to the infusion pumps, grabbing a line and fiddling with it meticulously. “It might be best not to get Peter worked up.”

Tony pursed his lips, but otherwise stayed quiet. As Bruce worked with the lines connected to Peter, he looked away, once again finding his eyes landing on the godforsaken clock in the corner of the room.

One hour.

A harsh, discordant sound rumbled in his throat. For someone who valued the power of time, something that dangled off his neck — strapped within some fancy Tiffany and Company jewelry — Strange sure as hell wasn’t considerate to the rest of them.

Time was Tony’s enemy. It always had been. If the wizard didn’t realize that by now —

“Hey, Pete,” Bruce’s voice cut straight through his thoughts. Tony turned to look at the bed, watching as the man gently laid an open palm on Peter’s shoulder. The other hand held onto a line of tubing running from Peter’s arm and to the IV pump. “Having a rough time, huh?”

Meekly, and with what strength he could muster up, Peter turned his gaze towards Bruce. He managed a lopsided smile, the grin ruined by the stain of bile and diluted blood that coated his teeth.

“Nah.” Peter swallowed hard, forcing a chuckle that sounded downright awful. “Just...loved last nights dinner so much...decided to have it again. And again. And...again.”

That elicited a smile from Bruce, at least. Though it didn’t quite erase the worry lines that they all knew he was trying to conceal.

“Sounds like you’ve had a rough couple days,” Bruce settled on saying, patting Peter on the shoulder before letting up. “You okay if I give you something that’ll help you sleep?”

Peter eyed him for a moment, his lungs refusing to cooperate as he worked to drag in breath after breath. Part of him strugged to take in what was said, the other part slowly realized what it meant.

“Will it help…” he swallowed again, this time practically gulping down his tongue, “keep my stomach...where it belongs?”

Bruce nodded.

“Yeah, it’s pretty strong stuff. It’ll do the job.” For a second, Bruce looked away, the lines of his face deepening with a hardened bout of indignation. Once it passed, he looked back to Peter. “But only if you want it. I’m not giving you anything you don’t agree to. It’s all at your consent.”

Tony’s jaw dropped, his eyes ablaze and eyebrows skyrocketing to his hairline.

“Ouch,” he tossed back, dry as dust.

Bruce went to say something; his lips parted and his throat made movements of an argument ready to happen.

“It’s okay, Doctor B,” Peter panted, his interruption weak but resolved. He pushed the bucket aside with shaking hands, nearly spilling the contents into his lap had Tony not quickly reached out to take it. “Mr. Stark did what he had to do.”

Gently setting the basin onto the nearest table, Tony furrowed his brows, never once moving his eyes from Peter. A conflicting look crossed his features, washing over whatever frustration had been pulling at his body.

Peter turned to him, weaker than when he had looked at Bruce. But still, he fought to lock eyes with Tony; half-lidded, yellow covered, and red-rimmed.

“It’s okay...I get it.” He sounded painfully tired, opening his mouth like a fish out of water for a single breath of air. “You did it cause you had to. I don’t...I don’t wanna hurt anyone. Please don’t let me.”

Tony stilled, finding himself at a loss for words. If he had tried to look confident in himself, he was sure to be failing.

Luckily for him, Peter broke the stare that held them both wracked, managing to look at Bruce with eyes no longer half-lidded and instead wide as saucers.

“I didn’t…” he sucked in a breath of air, his chest heaving for oxygen. “I didn’t hurt you...did I, Doctor B?”

Bruce abruptly laughed.

“Oh God, no, no, no,” he shook his head wildly, nearly dropping the tubing in his grip. “That was...that was absolutely not a fight we were going to let the big guy join.”

The tension lessened slightly, though not by enough. The look of concern that clouded Bruce’s face was enough to tighten the pressure in Tony’s chest, and if Peter noticed the worry coming from either of the two men, he had been electing to ignore it.

“Good,” Peter managed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Cause...Hulk’s starting to like me. Don’t wanna...mess that up.”

His grin, so tiny that it barely pulled at the corners of his lips, was the final straw for Tony.

Releasing his hold on the beds guard railings, Tony practically pushed himself away, turning his back to both Bruce and Peter as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He took a few steps away, enough that neither could notice the quickening of his own breath.

Bruce threw Tony a look before returning his focus to Peter. “You’re definitely the only person the Hulk has wanted to play baseball with. I’ll make sure we don’t taint the experience, okay?”

Peter managed a shaky thumbs up before dry heaving into the sweaty skin of his forearm.

“Just let that do it’s job,” Bruce whispered to Peter, already injecting the medicine through his IV. “You’ll feel better here any second now, okay?”

Tony cleared his throat, multiple times. A lump had lodged there and he worked ferociously to get it out.

Things were getting bad, and fast. This wasn’t just a downhill spiral, it was a full on descent at high-speeds. And worse of all, it was completely out of his control.

If there was one thing Tony had found to be his biggest weakness, it was just that.

Stuffing his arms beneath his elbows, he spared a reluctant glance to the clock. ‘Where the hell is he!?’

Tony craned his neck around, his need to ensure Peter was okay dominating his rising anxiety. Low and behold, the medication Bruce gave just seconds ago was already taking effect. The kid had sunken back into the bedsheets damp with his own seat, his eyes finally closed, though his face looked far from restful.

If he could manage just a few hours of rest...it was the least he deserved right about now.

Spinning around, Tony all but hissed his next words at Bruce.

“You’re gunna tell me not to work up the kid?”

In the midst of tossing the syringe into the nearest sharps container, Bruce looked up and over to Tony, his brow creasing with indignance.

Bruce matched his low-whisper with his own. “I was simply telling him —” 

“It’s not like I wanted to —” Tony hissed.

“You still did,” Bruce hissed back. “I’m not giving him any drugs without his perm —”

“Dick move,” Tony said, full volume.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Real mature, Tony.”

A snippy response sat right on the tip of Tony’s tongue.

The sound of a rattled breath stole it straight from underneath him.

“...mr’...’ark…?” Peter slurred, his head lolling to the side.

Tony was there in two large leaps.

“Yeah, bud?”

Though Tony placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder, gently yet firm all at the same time, it gained no response from the kid. His breathing had evened out — finally, Tony thought. And the lines that pulled his eyebrows so tightly together had begun to loosen, his features relaxing with the effects of the drug.

Whatever he was going to say had been lost in the sands of sleep, too strong for him to resist the tug that pulled him under.

Tony sighed, squeezing Peter’s shoulder. He watched in silence as Peter fell further down the rabbit hole of sedation, far more peaceful than the sudden, unheeded instance near the bridge.

It was something Tony never wanted to do again. The mere thought turned his stomach, the look he saw in Peter’s eyes as he went down — the look of betrayal, of mistrust — was enough to stir a self-loathing fury in the depths of his core.

It wasn't supposed to come to that.

A whoosh of fresh air flooded the room once again.

Tony shot his head to the doorway with neck-breaking speed.

“Gentlemen,” Stephen announced, his hands deep in his jean pockets, though hidden by the red cloak that hung over his shoulders. “Now would be a great time to discuss a few things with you.”

“You don’t say,” Tony snapped, storming away from the bedside faster than Bruce’s eyes could keep up with. “Were you just making yourself at home, or —”

“Patience is clearly not your virtue, is it, Stark?” Stephen waited until Tony reached the doorway before turning around, both approaching the automatic doors together.

Tony ground his teeth as they walked towards the exit. “There’s patience, and there’s —”

A sound akin to blades scraping across one another tore through their conversation, followed by a blast of red light so bright, it nearly forced their eyes closed.

“Whatever needs to be said,”Wanda shouted, stepping forward from the corner of the room.“It can be said here!”

Her accent was heavy on her tongue, clouded by a wetness that soaked her throat.

Both Strange and Tony spun on their heels at her voice.

Frozen where he was, Bruce blinked, his eyes growing wider than how far his jaw had unhinged. “Uhhhh...—”

“How the hell —” Tony stepped forward, one leap at a time. “Exactly how long have you been there, Maximoff?”

Stephen, though surprised, seemed less shocked than the other two men. He dropped his shoulders, his face softening with a touch of sadness.

“Wanda —”

“Say it.” It wasn’t a request. Wanda demanded it, her voice growing stronger with a lace of anger. “Whatever you are going to say about Peter, you say it here. Now."

Tony wasn’t able to keep his eyes latched on any one thing in particular. Strange, then Wanda, then Strange again before landing on Bruce.

“Has she been here the whole time?” Tony turned to Bruce, incredulously. “Was she hiding here this whole time?”

Bruce gave a dramatic shrug, as clueless as Tony, and not afraid to show it.

“Wanda,” Stephen stepped forward, never diverting his attention from the younger woman. It seemed she had been doing the same, their eyes locked so intently it were as if no one else was in the room. “You can’t do that. It’s an invasion of privacy, it’s —”

“Wait, exactly how long have you been able to do that?” Tony quickly asked, his interruption noticeably frustrating Strange. “Is that, like...something you cooked up on a whim, or are we going back weeks? Or months? Because invasion of privacy is right, if you’ve been sneaking around watching us —”

“I...didn’t think invisibility was a power of yours, Wanda,” Bruce chimed in, quick to derail Tony and even quicker to get answers.

“It’s not,” Stephen curtly said, to them both. “It’s chaos magic.”

Wanda pressed her lips together, thin as could be.

And said nothing.

“Cha-...chaos magic?” Bruce echoed, swiveling his head to all occupants in the room. “That – that doesn’t sound good.”

Tony whipped around to Strange, a finger pointing threateningly at the man. “You trained her to do this?”

Stephen shook his head, stiffly. “To be frank, I wasn’t entirely sure chaos magic existed. There’s universal energies, extra-dimensional forces...but even in the mystic arts, chaos magic has been considered superstition for centuries. A pagan myth that was built off fear. And distrust.”

Wanda swallowed, her jaw clenching, her frown deepening.

“It is nothing,” she argued, her tone tremulous and hot.

Stephen arched an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I have to disagree. It’s the start of something far greater than you realize. What you’ve started to do, what you’ve dipped your toes into…it’s manipulation of reality as we know it.”

“That really doesn’t sound good,” Bruce murmured, lowering his head with a sigh blown through his lips.

“I could sense your loss of control last night,” Stephen went on, another step forward bringing him closer to Wanda. She didn’t back away. “The explosion of your magic, the ripple it sent through New York. You’re getting stronger, Wanda. And yet you lack the control to tame it. Your emotions bind you, they —”

“You change the subject.” The words were biting and harsh, and held an angry passion that was oddly foreign to her voice. Her bottom lip began to quiver, just slightly. “What is going on with Peter? I want to know. I deserve to know.”

From where he stood, Tony’s glare darkened, the annoyance and anger now clearly marked on his face. She wasn’t the only one who wanted to know — he had been waiting far too long for his liking. And now here she was, putting a hold on things.

Strange stared at Wanda with a look in his eye that Tony didn’t even want to begin to figure out.

“My dear...your emotions are tied to your magic as severely as Peter’s are to this symbiote,” Stephen’s voice grew alarming, his tone reaching a pitch of gravity they hadn’t heard since he first appeared to them all those months ago. “What you’re doing...what you’re involving yourself in...you have no idea just how dark it gets.”

Tony’s eyebrow raised in growing incredulity. If he had looked to Bruce, he’d see the look was something they both shared. Apprehension bubbled up in his chest as he realized exactly what was being spoken about.

A second later, and those thoughts were confirmed.

“You’re playing with the fabric of our existence,” Stephen grimly stated. “Of our cosmos.”

The words were like a vice on Wanda’s temper, washing over the frenzied rage that vibrated off her skin, a building storm that sizzled in the surrounding air. Tony swore he could feel it searing along the tips of his fingers. Either that, or exhaustion had finally started to play tricks on his mind.

Wanda didn’t budge an inch, her feet grounded to the floor, her arms locked tightly at her side. Pieces of stray red hair dropped into her face. She didn’t move to brush them away. Not as they covered her cheeks, not as a single tear fell from her eye.

It rolled down along her skin, sliding to her chin until finally, it dropped to the floor.

Stephen frowned, but stay firm nonetheless. “And you’re in no shape to be doing so.”

“Please,” Wanda begged, her plea followed by a beat. “Just tell me how we will fix Peter.”

Stephen cocked his head to the side. “Where are you learning it, Wanda?”

“It doesn’t matter —!”

Wanda’s voice was cut off mid-sentence. A burst of maroon heat erupted from her chest, outpouring across the room, smacking into the walls and even causing equipment to skid along the floors.

Tony threw a hand across his face, shielding his eyes with his forearm.

Stephen’s cloak wafted in the air, drawing closer to the man, almost protectively.

Bruce, now clinging to the guard rails and half looking at Peter, half looking at the others, found himself with wide eyes and shaking grip on the metal bars.

“Okay, let’s…” He forced himself into a calm, steady breathing pattern. “Let’s take a breather, everyone.”

The very moment that the magic began to sizzle to the ground, dissipating with a crackling hiss, Tony uncovered his eyes and leapt forward.

“Maximoff, get out —!”

“No, Tony,” Bruce curtly intervened. He threw his hand out, blocking Tony’s path and preventing the man from going any further.

Out of courtesy — and what was surely fear of a possible code green — Tony respected the boundary placed in front of him. 

“Let her stay," Bruce insisted. "She’s worried about Peter, just like you. There is absolutely no harm in that.”

Tony clenched his jaw. “Banner, if she so much as —”

“She’s not going to,” Bruce said, waiting a moment before lowering his arm. “She never has. She never will. I think it’s best that you and Doctor Strange go discuss things, privately.” He turned to the woman, his eyes softening for her. “Wanda, you can help me monitor Peter’s vitals until they come back. You’re more than welcome here...so long as you...you know. Show yourself.”

Wanda’s brows creased together with what distress of hers remained. Slowly, her features relaxed, leaving way for a calm, but deep, sadness to take place.

“Fine,” she reluctantly agreed, taking a small breath that ended with a smaller sigh.

Tony blinked, his brows twitching briefly together. He exchanged a quick glance with Bruce, the scientist looking far more worried than he was frustrated. He turned his head to Strange, briefly noticing that the cloak had lowered its protective stance in favor of a relaxed dangle.

“Wanda…” Stephen suppressed a sigh. “Your magic is tied to your instability. The further you deluge into this, the further you will lose yourself.”

The beeping of machinery seemed to pick up in place of dialogue.

Stephen went to turn away, only to stop at the last minute. With his back half-turned to the group, he locked eyes on the young woman ahead.

“Please,” he started. “Be careful.”

Wanda failed to acknowledge him.

It wasn’t until Bruce ushered them away with just a look of his eyes that both men turned around, short steps leading them to the doors of the room.

“So…” Tony looked at Strange, discreetly. “You didn’t teach her that?”

Stephen kept his gaze locked straight ahead, but his expression remained troubling, etching deep into the lines of his face.

“That’s a problem for another day,” he muttered, quietly under his breath.

The two automatic doors closed behind them, sending a rush of air up Strange’s cloak as they departed down the hallways.

For a time, the room fell quiet. Only the machinery spoke, chirps and beeps that filled the lack of dialogue between who still remained in the room. Bruce occupied himself with them, monitoring the numbers and making sure everything was as it should be. Wanda simply stood idly next to the bedside, hands finding their place on the guard rails as she watched Peter, intently. Counting each breath that rose his chest and waiting for the next to follow.

Suddenly,

“Guess we’ll keep it on the down-low that I’ve been up here for a while now?” A voice echoed from the vents, high above them in the ceiling. “Just reading the room, and all. That didn’t seem to go over too well, so…”

Bruce snapped his head up, looking to the voice that came from the ceiling. It echoed with the sound of metal, vents that rumbled with the weight of someone inside.

No sooner than that did Bruce turn to the only other person in the room.

“Wanda —” he chided.

“I did not know he was there!” Wanda insisted, going so far as to raise her hands in the hair with outpouring innocence. “I swear.”

Despite her answer, a small grin pulled at her lips.

Bruce sighed, removing his glasses and pinching his nose.

 

 

The door behind them closed, and as it did, an array of digital displays lit up. Monitors lined the walls like decor, screens that had no space between one another. They were cramped in a room barely large enough for just a few people to comfortably occupy.

Each contained a different image. They all held the same story.

Tony’s eyes scanned the walls like rapid fire. Desperate to analyze them, study them. It was a long shot, but perhaps if he understood the finer details to everything he saw, the situation would become a little less frightening.

A little more in his control.

“Don’t bother,” Stephen bleakly said, noticing Tony even with his back turned.

A wave of his hand and the displays went dim, a pale blue light that spoke of their idle stance. X-rays, MRI’s, ultrasounds — with just a flick of his wrist, Strange made them disappear.

“There’s absolutely nothing there that you aren’t already informed of.”

Tony pursed his lips.

So much for that theory.

Stephen, already leaning against the nearest table, kept his head low. His chin practically pressed against his chest, his eyes looking only at the floor. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d swear the man was staring at his otherwise casual foot attire. The sneakers matched the jeans. The red cloak hung over his shoulders — well, that was a different story.

It felt like an eternity before Stephen lifted his gaze.

“Why the hell didn’t you come to me sooner?”

Tony balked, spinning on the balls of his feet fast enough to give himself double vision.

“I’m – I’m sorry?” Sarcasm stuck to his voice like molasses. “Here — why don’t you lend me that newfangled, gaudy time necklace of yours. I’ll go give past me a heads up on the dilemma, save you the trouble of coming over. Fair warning, it might take a hot second. He’s a stubborn person, after all.”

Stephen rolled his eyes, noticeably, even in the dim lighting of the room. "Likewise is he obtuse."

“I didn’t know, Strange!” Tony took a step forward, his foot pounding on the ground as he did.

“How could you possibly not know?” Stephen was fast to bite back. “That boy is in there actively dying —!”

“Are you here to berate me,” the rage in Tony’s voice was just scarcely held tame, “or are you here to try and fix this?”

Stephen looked away.

His hands gripped the table he leaned against, tight enough that the tremors in his knuckles couldn’t go unnoticed. They shook his forearms and the wood he clung to. But there was nothing where he looked; displays had been shut off, the computers weren’t running.

Yet he kept his eyes fixated there. For no purpose other than avoiding Tony’s gaze.

“You call it a symbiote, right?” he finally spoke, though his voice had fallen gruff.

Tony cocked his head to the side.

“No,” he tossed back, his eyebrows pinching together tightly. “I call it ‘the fifth pain in my ass so far this year.’ OsCorp is the one that calls it a symbiote. Did you not read through the documents I gave you?”

With frightening speed, Stephen whipped his head towards Tony.

“Yes,” he answered, grimly. “I did.”

Like flicking dust off his fingers, Stephen tossed his hand in the air, gesturing to no one thing specifically. And yet the motion lit a screen to life. A singular display, one of the many digital screens that lined the walls. It lit up with a white glow that projected a reflection over his face.

Tony craned his head around, staring at the image with a faint line between his forehead.

“What you’re looking at is an MRI of Peter’s brain,” Stephen spoke softly, yet with an objective firmness. “Just minutes after he arrived here from the bridge.”

Though Stephen stayed exactly where he was, Tony found himself walking closer to the display for a better look. It was just narrowly portrait size, and the glow made it hard to see from far away.

With each step he took, the picture became clearer.

He didn’t like what he saw.

“From a clinical standpoint,” Stephen went on to say, “what you’re seeing here is gross swelling of the membranes. Combined with those lines near his cerebral cortex, it indicates complete loss of function to the frontal lobe. Everything containing his personality, motor control, decision making — it’s frying up like a hot dog on fourth of July. Neural tissue along the parietal lobe — controlling memory and perception, is quickly following suit.”

Distantly running a thumb along his goatee, Tony got as close to the image as possible before coming to a dead stop. He craned his neck around, eyebrow high up his forehead as he looked to Strange.

“In layman's terms,” Stephen pushed himself off the table with a sigh, “his brain is rotting away inside his skull. These images might as well be on an autopsy report.”

Tony didn’t know what to say to that.

He found himself saying nothing at all.

Stephen shook his head, this time with frustration. He pocketed his hands away inside his jeans, covering the tremors that had noticeably increased with time.

“Presupposition without further knowledge would suggest poison,” he said, distantly, as if talking to himself. “An infection, rapid spreading at that. Which isn’t too far off from what’s actually occurring.”

Tony turned to face him head-on.

“And that is?” His voice fought to dig its way up through eight layers of exhaustion.

Stephen didn’t seem much more energetic himself. Firmly, he pressed the tip of his finger against his temple, squeezing his eyes shut with a discernible, and troubling, silence.

“Have you ever heard of the Leucochloridium paradoxum?”

Tony frowned, the question so out of left field that he briefly wondered if he heard things correctly. The confusion written on his face must’ve said enough — it didn’t take long for Strange to continue.

“Sometimes called the green-banded broodsac. Most often known as zombie snails,” Stephen explained.

His lips went thin for a moment as he paused, tension seemingly pulling his shoulders taut.

“It’s a parasitic flatworm. It exists by feeding off other species, typically starting with the snail. These worms stay alive through mind control. It takes over the snails brain, extending its own life through its host. The snail then becomes possessed. It’s doomed to follow the parasites will, do whatever it wants, go wherever it wants. And the Leucochloridium paradoxum? It does everything it needs to do so it can survive. Even if that means killing the snail in the process.”

The scoff that scratched along Tony’s throat really didn’t do his aggravation justice.

“Alright, so, the kid’s a walking Halloween horror movie. Feel free to sell the script to John Carpenter, he’ll bank millions,” Tony dryly retorted, taking heavy and cautious steps in approaching Stephen. They were barely a few feet apart, and somehow it felt miles away. “What’s going to be our to plan to get it out?”

Stephen furrowed his brows with a grim, sullen look.

“You asked me if I read these documents,” he started. “Did you?”

Tony stiffened. “Of course I did —”

“The design of the symbiote won’t function without the DNA markers of its original conception," Stephen reminded him, harshly. His eyebrow cocked high. “Arachnid Number 00.”

A pause flitted between them, and Tony knew the word that sat on the tip of Strange’s tongue long before it ever broke the silence that hung in the air.

“Peter.”

Yet knowing didn’t ease the pain of hearing it aloud.

His hands curled into fists at his side.

“Why are you telling me things I already know?”

“Because clearly you don’t,” Stephen objected. “The symbiote is now a living being inhabiting Peter's brain. It’s a Leucochloridium paradoxum — it’s a parasite, feeding off his life so it can survive. As long as it’s bonded to Peter, it will control him.”

“So remove it.”

Stephen pursed his lips, shaking his head just enough that the motion could be seen. “It’s not that easy.”

Tony stormed forward, breaking through what little distance kept them apart.

“Boo hoo, for once in your life you have to get your hands dirty and do some tough work!” His eyes narrowed as he pointed a sharp finger in Strange’s direction, dangerously close to shoving the digit against the mans chest. “Remove it. Use whatever magical spell you have to conjure up. Extract the sucker. Put it in a mason jar for all I care! I want it gone.”

Stephen stared him down, far from intimidated. There was something to be said about he way he held himself; a breath held deep in his chest as he refused to look away from Tony. The incandescent glow of the monitor still highlighted the lines on his skin, the detailed imagery of Peter’s brain casting it’s reflection across his face.

“This isn’t some malignant tumor that can be extracted. It’s flowing through his veins, latching onto his membranes. It’s now woven into his DNA, his entire molecular structure.” Stephen dipped his head, stoically. “You’re a man of science, surely you understand that.”

“What I understand is almost six months ago you were able to open a magical portal to the Bermuda Triangle and transport us from one part of the east coast to the next.” Tony grimaced, grounding his teeth harshly. “Now you’re saying you can’t lift a damn finger and pluck out some goop?”

Stephen looked at him, hard, his eyes never wavering from place. Despite it, his mind seemed to go elsewhere; his thoughts taking his voice captive and quelling the argument that had begun to sprout.

It was a flicker, a mere twitch that he looked elsewhere. Just for a second, before he looked back at Tony.

“There is only one spell that I know of which could possibly remove a poison from any living thing.”

Tony practically jumped back on his heels, clapping his hands together with vigor excitement.

“Then let’s go!” He made wild gestures towards Stephen, energy of both optimism and raw anxiety causing his nerves to go astray. “Say the magic words, do the spinning hand thing, conjure up some hocus-pocus—”

“It’ll kill Peter.”

Tony froze.

A throbbing silence assaulted the room. It matched the beat of Tony’s heart, each thump creating a growing pressure against his chest.

Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he was breathing.

Stephen shifted weight on his feet, a frown crossing his face that seemed to age him by years.

“Removing the symbiote will remove...all of him. Everything the symbiote has bonded with. His veins, his muscles, his tissues — it will kill him. There is simply no doubt about that.” Stephen dipped his head low, before looking up and pulling his shoulders back with assertion. “I won’t perform that spell.”

The very idea sent a chilling shiver down Tony’s spine.

He clenched his jaw, warding off a shudder by tightly folding his arms cross his chest, stuffing his hands deep underneath his armpits. As Strange looked at him, Tony looked away, unable to hold eye contact. Not after hearing that.

Never, not in a million years, would he ask that spell be carried out. There was simply no arguing with Strange on that. Just thinking about it made his stomach twist in ways that had his throat convulsing with rising bile, burning hot in his chest.

A horror movie didn’t describe this anymore. Neither did a nightmare — at least those, Tony knew he could wake up from.

This had become something unspeakable. A raw terror like he’d never encountered before.

Tony’s head whirled around as an idea hit him, full force.

“Unbond him.” He ignored the look Strange gave him. “That’s the core problem, no? It’s bonded to him, stuck to him like some sentient, unholy glue. So we unbond him. Write up the divorce papers, break the connection, get the bastard out of Peter’s DNA and voilà! You abra cadabra the son of a bitch where it can have tea time in some other world far, far away from here.”

Stephen furrowed his brows. “Stark, it’s —”

“You sever the wire —”

“It’s not poss —”

“We’ll grab the sucker out and —”

“It doesn’t work like —”

“The kid lives, we call it a day — hell, maybe you’ll get an invite to my wedding. Least I can do for your good deeds, right? I’ll even throw in the plate of steak instead of the chicken —”

“Stark!” Stephen huffed, his chest expanding with a frustration that didn’t match his expression. While his voice grew indignant, his face tapered off into a softness of regret. It etched deep into the aging stress lines of his face. “I have no means of doing that. What you speak of...that’s far more science than it is magic.”

Tony threw him a look that could have lit the entire room on fire.

“Bullshit.”

The words left a sting in the air.

Slacking his posture, Stephen sighed, giving a small shake of his head.

“I know you like to think otherwise, but I’m not willfully choosing this. Believe it or not, I’m not the all knowing being to this universe.” His voice suddenly grew quiet. “And there are some things that...I simply cannot do.”

Stephen looked behind Tony, at the MRI image that lit the room with its luminescence. His focus stayed there for a moment, the monitors glow shining bright on his green eyes.

A flicker of his hand, and the display shut down.

“I’m sorry, Tony.”

The monitor dimmed to sleep, leaving just an overcast of backlight to illuminate the room.

A knot in Tony’s chest tightened, to the point where his breaths were no longer steady, far out of his control. Rather, a stream of jarring hitches blew through tightly clenched teeth, flaring his nostrils wide, making the air in the room hot and humid.

His eyes never strayed from Strange. As the man looked back at him, offering nothing else verbally, Tony was left to read his expression for what he was too cowardice to speak.

It was loud and clear.

And it only fueled his anger.

“No. No, that! — that doesn’t add up. That’s a contradiction to your own story, your tale of the great...Vinci-whatever, all mighty, magical spirits from up high.” Tony dry-swallowed, suddenly finding his voice quavering with a sound he wasn’t accustomed to hearing. He raised a finger at Strange in hopes that it would harden his appearance. Even that shook. “You were assigned to make sure Peter lived. You said it yourself — his death was a catalyst. You had to make sure the kid lived, or else shit all went sideways. These are your words, Strange! All that came from your mouth — verbatim!”

Tony’s look hardened. And so did his words.

“So do it. Make him live.”

Stephen arched an eyebrow, giving Tony a challenging glare. His cloak rustled as he took small, cautious steps forward.

“Verbatim, I also informed you that — just like the butterfly effect — one action can drastically alter the effects of the future. Which is exactly what we did rescuing Peter from that bunker,” Stephen reminded him. He didn’t sound nearly as frustrated as Tony. More resigned, if anything. “We changed the course of our lives and many others that we’re not aware of. What we exist in now is a whole new timeline from what the Vishanti had shown me. What happens from this point forward...it’s not a future I’ve seen. That’s not knowledge I’ve been privied to know. What happens from here —”

“You can’t seriously be telling me that of everything you can do, you can’t fix this!?” Tony stood his ground, fixating a glower on Strange that pulled every muscle on his face. And then some.

It didn’t threaten Stephen. It didn’t provoke him, either. He gravitated a little closer, just enough that Tony could question the wet gloss that shined his eyes brighter than before.

“Does Doctor Banner have medication that’ll keep Peter comfortable —”

“No!” Tony snapped, his eyebrows meeting in the middle with a furious scowl. “No, you don’t talk about Peter like he’s being shoved off to some nursing home to live his last days. You don’t give up on this! If you don’t know, you find out. That’s what you do!”

Stephen frowned. “If I had the time —”

“You have it wrapped around your neck!”

If they had been any closer, Stephen was sure Tony would’ve ripped the pendant straight off his body.

If Stephen was being honest, he was surprised he hadn’t done so yet.

Tony was spiraling. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. Slowly, and placaintingly, Stephen lifted both his hands in the air. Palms outward. Shaking no more than Tony’s voice had.

“Tony, my time is, quite literally, not my own,” his voice softened with a heaviness that neither of them had heard before. “And while I sympathize that Peter is very close to you —”

“Then do something!” Tony’s voice finally grew hoarse from yelling, his words gravelly at the end. He felt his insides twisting so painfully that he nearly threw up where he was standing.

There was only other time in his life he felt this way. It was covered in a haze of crushing emotion, but he remembered it. He remembered fracturing at the seams, the weight of anguish shattering him until his throat went raw from the screams and his chest caved in from the pressure of a tragedy too great to withstand.

He remembered the tidal wave, the grief that washed over him. The heat of a burning building simmering hot in his chest 

He thought the same thing then as he did now.

This isn’t happening.

This isn’t real.

This can’t be happening.

And yet the small, wretched shake of Stephen’s head said otherwise.

“It’s unfortunate, and for this I’m very sorry...but in the cosmetic scheme of things, urgent business is no small thing for me. If I don’t attend to other matters, this whole world could crumble to pieces.”

Standing still, the quivering that shook Tony’s shoulders made it look as if we were splitting apart.

“That kid is my whole world.” The words were barely a whisper. For a second, Tony wasn’t sure Strange even heard him. Until the gloss in his eyes became unmistakable for what it really was. “There has to be...something...you can do.”

“If there was…” Stephen sighed. “I’d have done it already.”

The weight of his words — and the reality it introduced — was almost unbearable.

Tony was sure now that he was going to be sick.

“I just got finished telling Parker that he’s not going to die.” His back shook with a sound that was both half growl and half sob. As if they both needed a reminder to what stood outside, Tony threw his hand carelessly to the doorway. “That kid, the one who — turns out, has a surprising but rightful fear of death, considering all the shit he’s been through. I promised him we’d fix this — we’d fix him. And now you’re telling me to spill the beans that he’s a goner?”

It wasn’t until Tony’s voice cracked that he turned his back to Strange. Two hands scrubbed forcefully at his face, as if he could wake himself up from the hell he’d been thrown into. He didn’t stop until his skin felt raw and his eyes saw spots that weren’t there.

He wasn’t alone. Stephen looked away as well, gnawing just slightly on his bottom lip in what seemed to be deep thought.

The silence that followed was hollow.

“When I was a neuro surgeon…” Stephen trailed off for a second that felt too long. His voice had fallen quiet. Unguarded. “The most difficult thing I found was never the act of operation itself. Difficult, yes. But no where near as bad as telling —”

Tony rounded back on him, knees buckling in the process.

“No!” he yelled, his glare turning full-on glacial. “No, you don’t get to spin this around! You don’t get to play victim. Congratulations, you’ve told countless of people they’re good as dead. Good for you! Go do it now, then! Go look that kid in the eye and tell him —”

“It was telling the family.”

The sincerity was undeniable.

As was the sorrow.

Suddenly, Tony could feel his heart beating in his throat. It surged there, and stayed there, and he’d have clawed it out with his bare hands if he could.

It did nothing but bring him pain and trouble.

A deep breath through his nose, and out through his mouth, and Tony grabbed the nearest thing to keep himself from falling to the floor. He gripped it, tight, and bowed his head as low as it would go.

“I’m not asking, Stephen.” Tony closed his eyes. He kept them shut. “I’m begging.”

His voice, albeit audible, was paper thin.

He wondered again if Strange had heard him.

Silence stretched on. Tony started to question if the time stone had been used just to stall the inevitable.

And then,

“There might be —”

Tony’s head snapped up.

“Do it.”

Strange rolled his eyes and huffed. “I said there might be —”

“And I said do it,” Tony didn’t hesitate, his tone angrier than he intended.

“I don’t know what it is!” Stephen yelled right back, his frustration finally showing. He gritted his teeth and briefly rubbed at his temple. “Performing a spell of this nature, removing the entirety of another being’s DNA without resulting in death...it’s far beyond the realm of any spell I’ve ever cast. I have no idea where to start.”

Tony arched an eyebrow. He didn’t hide his officiousness. “But?”

Stephen breathed out hard — not just a sigh. It contained far more than even he realized was sitting inside of him.

“But I’ll go back to the Sanctum. Speak with Wong, look into the book of the Vishanti.” He looked to Tony, offering what little optimism he could scrounger up. “I’ll see what I can find.”

Tony wasn’t buying what he was selling.

“Yeah,” he said anyway, rubbing at his lips before deciding to pull his shoulders back with a confidence that seemed as fake as it felt. “Yeah, okay, sure. We’ll uh...take it one day at a time, you know? You got our number. Call me when you find something.”

Stephen’s frown deepened.

“Tony?”

Tony’s eyes shot towards him, but he didn’t say anything.

“This could take days,” Stephen admitted, his voice sounding painful, and jarring. As if he were forcing them out of a throat that didn’t want to be at fault for what was said. “Peter doesn’t have that sort of time.”

The unspoken didn’t need said.

Tony didn’t want to hear it, anyhow.

He distantly shrugged, looking away with a sigh that twisted his mouth to the side.

“We’ll do what we can do on the homestead.” The defeat in his voice overrode the overly cavalier tone he threw into his words. Not that either of the two were at the point of caring.

A rustle of fabric followed the sounds of footsteps. They grew distant, dwindling as they reached the far end of the room.

“Go be with Peter,” Stephen said, not minding the fact that Tony wasn’t paying him attention. “I’ll be in touch.”

If Tony acknowledged him, it was with no more than a hum.

Much to his surprise, Strange didn’t depart through a gaping hole of crackling, amber magic. Instead he quietly, and respectfully, made his way to the door they’d both come through.

He spared Tony an apologetic glance over his shoulder before leaving, ensuring the door closed without so much a sound on his way out.

It left Tony in silence.

 

 

It was sunrise by the time he returned.

Had it not been for the windows that lined the hallway on his trek back, he would’ve never known. Just scarcely, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the pink and yellow sky, dappled with a growing tint of orange. The sun was peaking over the horizon, starting to shine a reflection against the compound and the glass that encased it. It told of a new day, a fresh start with new chances.

Tony already didn’t like what the morning had to offer.

Judging by the looks of those surrounding the outside of Peter’s medbay room, he wasn’t alone.

Tony couldn’t have scowled harder if he tried.

“Congregations are for Sundays.” He didn’t grace the trio with so much as a glance, rather a cold shoulder and a mildly repressed growl. “Everybody shoo.”

He was nearly at the rooms entrance when a hand pressed to his chest.

Tony looked down at that hand with outrage.

The audacity.

“Not right now, Tony,” Steve practically hurried to keep him in place, his voice firm but lined with a hint of desperation. His forearm stretched across Tony’s chest, with just enough force to stop him in his tracks.

It did. And Tony shot him murderous daggers because of it.

“You wanna pass that by me again, old man?”

Tony went eye-to-eye with Steve. For what it was worth, Steve didn’t return the sense of anger with his own. In fact, he seemed to appear all the more remorseful.

“You can’t go in there,” he tried saying, as placating as possible. “Not right —”

Tony turned on him, fast. “Tell me what to do one more time, Rogers, and you’re going to find out real quick —”

“They’re pumping Peter’s stomach, okay!?” Clint’s frustration had finally reached a boiling point that came exploding out of his mouth. No sooner than he yelled did he turn his back on the two, rubbing a hand across his mouth as if it was the only thing keeping a parental-like rant from escaping.

If it were any other time, he’d probably have thrown both men in a corner and deemed a time out. He had never been shy about telling them when they were acting like children. Right now, though — well, Clint decided to count the ceiling tiles instead.

It was a good thing, too. Tony’s expression morphed into a combination of angry and horrified.

It wasn’t a look they saw often.

“Say what?” He didn’t ask. He demanded.

Steve didn’t seem eager to answer, and Clint was on thirty-six of god-knows-how-many-ceiling tiles.

“He asphyxiated,” Natasha was the one to explain, coldly. With exactly zero emotion. “Not long after Bruce sedated him. His stomach was filling with blood and that concoction of a painkiller you two created made it so he wasn’t able to expel anything. It overflowed into his lungs. He nearly asphyxiated, and now they’re performing a gastric suction.”

Tony looked to Natasha as if she had grown five heads, six arms, and grew twenty feet tall with a monstrous face not even a mother could love. The way she spoke was so void of tone — not an inkling of even the slightest grievance — that had it been anyone else, Tony was sure he’d have punched their lights out by now.

It was cold, callous, downright heartless. More clinical than how the medical staff spoke.

It was Natasha. And Tony realized with an overwhelming sense of vulnerability that she was distancing herself.

Shit, this was bad.

“Goddamnit…” Tony muttered, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. His shoulders slumped — really slumped, practically down to his feet, and he gave an exasperated huff that held a surfeit of his stress.

His resources were quickly being spent. He didn’t like that feeling. It brought with it a lack of control that — by experience — would be the start of many bad things to come.

“What did Strange say?” Steve asked the question that was on everyone’s mind, breaking the silence only after it started to suffocate the room. “Is he able to help?”

Tony shook his head, barely glancing his way. “Not soon enough.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Clint didn’t turn around but he did crane his head over his shoulder, showcasing a pair of furrowed brows that heavily wrinkled his forehead.

“It means we’d be squeezing water from a stone if we expected anything from him.” Tony’s answer was a bitter as citrus. He gave Clint a side-eye and nothing more. “Glinda the Good Witch wasn’t even able to offer a finger in the dike. Doesn’t know a way to get the symbiote out of Peter. Doesn’t even know where to start.”

The silence that followed could’ve gone on for eight years and two months, and no one would’ve questioned it. It felt like that, before Steve finally spoke up.

“But he’ll find a way?” he asked, a frown deepening what little stress lines etched into his face. They seemed to have grown over the last couple of years.

Months.

Days.

Tony just shook his head, his thumb running along his bottom lip.

“Not soon enough.” Tony tried to hide the desolation coating his voice, attempting to sound annoyed, pissed off — not like he was on the verge of a complete and total breakdown.

He failed. Miserably.

Steve noticed.

He was smart enough not to bring it to attention.

They had a practice round with this, earlier in the year. When they spoke of Peter’s death as actuality, having lived two days of their lives under the impression the boy had fallen victim to the Grim Reaper’s hands. Steve remembered it like it was yesterday.

It was hard to forget — impossible to forget — the way Tony looked. The way he sounded.

The way he shattered into a million pieces, only put back together once Peter had been saved.

Mentioning the very possibility of Peter dying was like an emotional minefield. Steve didn’t go near it.

Clint, on the other hand,

“Hold up. I need to adjust this because there’s no way I heard that correctly.” Clint spun on his feet and tugged at his ears, adjusting the device nestled deep inside before facing Tony head-on. “You’re telling me a magical wizard isn’t able to...bewitch some kind of exorcism for us?”

When Tony didn’t respond — not even a witty comeback of some sort — Steve frowned.

There was something not being said.

“Tony?” he pushed, as gently yet urgently as he could.

A look flashed across Tony’s face, though what it was exactly couldn’t be determined.

“It’s bonded to his DNA.” His voice almost croaked, had he not cleared his throat immediately after speaking. He scratched a thumbnail across his eyebrow to try and distract anyone from the noticeable spike in emotion. “It’s not just leeching off him — it’s fused with him. Removing the symbiote will remove all of that — all of him. Down to the cuticles on his nails."

Steve folded his arms over his chest and squeezed tight, digging his hands deep into his armpits and slightly jostling the straps that held his shield on his back. Clint, not far from the soldier, had shifted weight from one foot to the other and stared at Tony inquisitively.

Natasha just stared.

Tony’s voice grew quiet. Nearly a whisper.

“It’d be a death sentence to the kid.”

The bombshell could’ve very well been an actual bomb. It blew though the group with a nonexistent shock way that, had it been real, would’ve put them all to the floor.

Instead, they stood in silence.

Steve squeezed himself tighter. It was obvious, what with his biceps bulging against the seams of his blue and silver stealth uniform. Natasha lowered her gaze to the floor, eyes studying the steel toe cap of her boots.

Clint looked back and forth — at the room, and then Tony.

At the room. Then Tony.

And again, before lingering on the window and the array of ‘Isolation’ signs plastered on the door nearby.

“Well….” Clint inhaled deeply, before letting out a breath that finished his words. “We aren’t doing that.”

If Tony had rolled his eyes any harder, they’d have gone straight to the back of his skull.

“No shit, Barton,” he bit back, throwing the archer a scrutinizing glare. If looks could kill, Clint would’ve already be buried six feet under. “It doesn’t even matter. Even if I wanted that, even if we were all completely onboard...he wouldn’t do it for a million dollars and all the persuading in the world. Homework is the best he could offer us. Maybe he’ll find something, maybe we’ll catch a break and get lucky —”

The same emotion that croaked Tony’s throat had returned. It was raw and strained his voice, and he swallowed thickly to rid it the best he could.

Though he and Strange weren’t on close terms, he’d been around the man long enough to never see that face come to light. It was a hard image to erase from his mind.

It was hopelessness. Distraught guilt. The look given by somebody who knew they should be able to do more, but couldn’t.

Tony frowned. “Either way, don’t hold your breath. He explicitly felt the need to say this is all way more science than it is magic. He’s out of his element, and made that abundantly clear.”

With a thud that startled them all, Natasha plopped herself against the nearest wall, raising her knee and letting the sole of her shoe rest there. It was the most movement she had made since Tony arrived.

“That seems to be a common denominator for us,” she practically mumbled.

The stiff ridge of his posture returned before Steve took a deep breath.

“Okay…” he paused before deciding on his next words. “If Tony said we can’t hold out for Strange, than we just have to think of something else.”

Natasha quirked a high eyebrow his way. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” a voice spoke up from behind. It was followed with the hum of mechanical legs. There wasn’t even a second of silence before the figure had approached them, standing hip-side by Tony. “But whatever you guys manage to think of, you need to do it away from here.”

Tony pivoted around at record breaking speed. The others followed suit.

“Rhodey?” Tony narrowed his eyes, the confusion overlapping any other feature to his face. “What are you doing —?”

“Just got a tocsin from Homeland Security,” Rhodey cut in, his no-nonsense tone speaking for itself. “Got here fast as I could to give you guys a running start.”

“Running start?” Steve echoed. His expression hardened, his jaw quickly growing tense. “Rhodey, what’s going —?”

Again, Rhodey cut in.

“They flagged an ultra-hazardous weapon here at the compound, not even a few hours ago. And they’re about to send in a troop to seize control.”

“An ultra-hazardous weapon —?” There was a single second of silence before realization hit Tony, like a falling anvil. From Asgard. “Peter.”

With a sigh that brought out every bit of air in his lungs, he ran a hand down the length of his chin, leaving his fingers on his goatee for a lingering moment.

He was starting to regret not asking Strange about the possibility of curses. Because he certainly felt cursed right about now.

“We can’t let Ross get his hands on this,” Steve needlessly cautioned, earning a not-so-subtle glare from Tony. “He’s been digging for dirt on us ever since the Accords were overturned. And Peter won’t stand a chance if SHIELD gets involved.”

Clint gritted his teeth and made a face. “If the air force got word of this, than Fury’s going to be three steps ahead of them. They’ll take Peter long before the government can even see his face.”

Just when things got bad, they managed to get worse.

Hell, double worse.

Infinitely worse.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tony hopelessly said. He shut his eyes and held them tight. “Ross, Fury, Joe Schmo — at this rate, Peter won’t make it to see the night. Whether SHIELD puts him out or the symbiote sucks him dry —”

“We’re not giving up on him.” Steve didn’t yell, but he might as well have. Somehow, his voice thundered over Tony’s, despite never raising his volume. It was the adamant tone that did it. Strong, dedicated. Every bit Captain America as the world made him out to be.

Normally Tony would find it patronizing. Right now, he was too tired to do anything but throw Steve a look of exhausted defeat.

“And what exactly do you suggest we do, Cap?”

The beat that followed wasn’t exactly encouraging.

“Something,” Steve finally said. Before Tony could roll his eyes, he continued on. “We don’t just call it quits. Just because there's obstacles in our way, doesn't mean we lay down and give up. We either find a way, or we make one. We don't stop believing, and we don't stop fighting.”

He didn’t want to, but Tony fond his eyes locked on Steve. He was half tempted to unleash the rage that had been building since they left Queens. The echo of Steve’s command still rung in his ears like a bullet leaving the chamber of a gun.

“Take Spider-Man down. At all costs.”

 

“If for one second, there needs to be a decision made between the kid, or me, or anyone else, you best believe the kid comes first. Every time.”

 

And yet, the urge to throw a punch was sidelined as Steve looked at him. Blue eyes highlighted the trademark expression of sincerity that normally would’ve triggered Tony’s gag reflex.

He refused to admit it aloud, but right now, it was mildly comforting to see.

He’d deal with that another time.

“Really inspiring. Very on brand,” Rhodey dryly said, before he gestured a stern finger down the hall. “But I’m serious. You guys need to haul ass. Now.”

Natasha pushed herself away from the wall, leaving an imprint of her boot on the paint.

“I’m going to scrub the data banks, erase all of Peter’s files from tonight.” Natasha was already brushing past the others, her lips pursed tightly to the side. “Only people that’ll ever know he was here will be us. And a few doctors, who certainly won’t need any convincing to keep their mouths shut.”

Clint gave a heavy sigh and tiredly rubbed at his forehead. “Nat, don’t —”

“I won’t hurt anyone,” Natasha insisted, barely throwing him a glance over her shoulder. “I happen to like Helen and her friends. I’m just going to...persuade them to keep quiet.”

No one decided to question what exactly that meant.

“You need to hurry,” Rhodey instead warned her, his brow pinching with a growing sense of concern. “There’s talk about sealing off this sector of the compound. You guys don’t have long.”

Finally breaking free of his stare with Steve, and with desperation leaking through every pore in his body, Tony turned to Rhodey.

“And where are we supposed to go?”

“I’m don’t know, Tones,” Rhodey earnestly said, wearily at that. He gestured to the entrance of the hospital room they camped in front of. “But if there’s any chance for Peter, you need to get out before they take him from you. You know as well as I do that neither party is going to ask questions first.”

Tony felt himself laugh. Not in a ‘ha-ha, good joke, Platypus.’ kind of way way. More of a ‘my life is in ruins and you’re asking me to flip some pancakes’ sort of way.

“Go where? General county hospital?” The fear that had been gradually building in his chest finally bubbled over. “This is as good as it gets. This is the most advanced medical facility in this country.”

Rhodey ran a head over his head until it landed on the nape of his neck, and he squeezed once it got there.

Tony looked at him with eyes that weren’t just desperate, they were pleading.

Rhodey had nothing to offer.

The corner’s of Steve’s mouth pitched downwards.

“In this country, yes…” he mused, just loud enough that the others could hear him.

Clint hastily stepped forward, his eyebrows pinched with growing curiosity. “Whacha thinkin?”

Steve never looked his way. Rather, he turned straight to Tony.

“Strange said that the symbiote was more science than it is magic, right?”

The only thing Tony did was nod.

Steve continued to stare at him for a few more seconds, until finally he spoke.

“I think I know a place that can help us.”