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The Quinjet was the quietest aircraft in existence. It was built that way, and with purpose. Its speed rivaled even the fastest SR-71 Blackbird — Rhodey helped with the test comparisons on that one. And yet unlike its opponents, it was subdued. Riding through the sky as if it were on sleek, perfect tracks.

It cut through the clouds with little to no noise, an engine that was inconspicuous and discreet. It was a deathly quiet, one that couldn’t be outmatched.

The same went for the inside. But unlike the jet, the silence produced wasn’t manufactured.

They had barely spoken since leaving the compound.

What few of them packed into the Quinjet, anyhow.

Still dressed in the blue and silver stealth uniform he’d worn earlier that night in Queens, Steve pushed himself through the array of equipment that cluttered the back of the jet. Slow, cautious steps led him along the empty seats circling the middle of the aircraft.

Only Wanda occupied one of the many.

It looked odd. Those seats were almost always filled. There were supposed to be more of them here. A team of them, assembled for the better good. And yet the chairs remained empty.

It was too risky to bring everyone onboard. A skeleton crew was their safest bet — only those absolutely necessary.

As he passed her by, the most he could offer was a wordless nod. One he hoped said ‘it’s going to be okay, stay strong,’ but in reality he knew it did nothing to dampen the fear she was undeniably facing.

She was their pinch hitter. And she wasn’t thrilled about it, either.

He reached the cockpit and grabbed the back of the co-pilot chair. It was also empty.

“Cloaking still engaged?”

Clint craned his head around before returning his focus to the control panels.

“Got no plans to flip that switch until I hear Toto bless the rains down in Africa.”

The archer laid a hand to rest on the throttle stick, while the other laid casually on the control wheel. If no one knew any better, it was as if he was driving his wife’s hatchback Honda Civic.

“Good.” Steve nodded, more contemplative than anything else.

He looked ahead through the large window of the cockpit. White clouds mostly kept the view at bay, though if he peered his eyes, he could vaguely make out the yellow lining the horizon. It was still early morning. They had left the hangar of the compound while the sun was still rising.

Left, fled.

Tomato, to-ma-toe.

Steve looked down at Clint, squeezing his hold on the headrest of the passenger seat. Any tighter and it was serious danger of disintegrating under his grip.

“How long do you think we’ll get away with our cargo before someone notices?”

Clint arched an eyebrow high up his forehead.

“With Fury? Not for very long. Having one eye doesn’t exactly keep him from seeing everything — and then some.” His fingers fiddled with a button or two, mindlessly and for no purpose. Steve was almost positive it was what controlled the air conditioning. “Luckily for us, SHIELD’s jurisdiction ended the moment we touched the North Atlantic Ocean. These waters are our safeguard now.”

Steve nodded again. This time more favorably.

“It’ll be one less thing for us to worry about,” he said, letting go of the headrest only after a tight squeeze ripped the seams of the cushions. A small pat to the broken fabric and he let his hand fall to his side.

Clint noticed, throwing the soldier a look before arbitrarily hitting a few more buttons. Steve wasn’t sure what those did.

“Let’s just hope these friends of yours can help,” Clint mentioned, a furrow in his brows noticeably wrinkling his forehead.

Steve’s response was cut short when a racket came bustling through the back of the jet —  the very, very back of the jet. 

A sharp whistle sounded, followed by, “Good god, that is a tight fit.”

Tony’s voice could be heard in the distance. A clamor of noise accompanied it — like metal kitchenware falling from a ceiling mounted pots and pans rack. 

Steve raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“We good back there, Stark?” Clint hollered, not even bothering to turn around and see what disaster awaited them. There was only so much chaos he could handle in a few hours time. If ignorance was bliss, than he was on cloud nine.

Exiting the lavatories of the Quinjet, and stumbling on his way out, Tony cracked his neck from one side to the next. The mechanics of his armor made a similar noise of their own. Though much louder, and far more acoustical.

“No better way to find out you’ve packed on a few pounds than to squeeze into some outdated alloy,” Tony chimed back, though not necessarily at a volume the men upfront could hear. 

His voice was kept far lighter than the mood that encompassed them. Nearly erroneous to the stress-induced air that filled the jet.

There was no questioning why he was putting on a show. And who it was for.

“Mark 43 probably wasn’t the best pick for our grab-and-go escapade.” Tony flexed his fingers and the red armor encasing it, making sure each digit bent and stretched properly. “Looks like I’m gunna have to cut back on aunt hotties cooking, spiderling.”

Half-laying, half-sitting on an upright cot tucked in the back corner of the Quinjet, Peter looked Tony up and down. His brows knitted together as Tony approached him, and he struggled to sit up for a better look.

He wasn’t alone. Bruce gave Tony a once over as well before returning to the machines at Peter’s makeshift bedside. 

“Or you can, you know...accept that this is what your body does when it consumes something other than a diet of coffee and gluten free waffles.”

Tony stopped flexing his fingers. The corner of his mouth lifted up into something that was a cross between amusement and snark.

“You’re just jealous the italiana bellissima sends me monthly care packages with home-baked, sweet iced cinnamon rolls.” 

Bruce frowned, his index finger pressing along buttons of the heart monitor with a deep V creasing into his forehead. 

“Is that what you’ve been feeding to the rats in the lab?”

Tony glowered.

Bruce smirked.

Meanwhile, Peter hadn’t let his eyes off Tony. Not even to blink. He could hear the quiet, almost muted sounds from the IV pumps and heart monitor that Bruce tampered with. But all of it was the least of his concerns. 

His palms pressed heavily into the narrow, flimsy mattress on the cot. His fingers began to tug at the edges of his blue and yellow Midtown School of Science and Technology sweatshirt — it was the first and quickest thing they could grab from his quarters in the compound. Sam practically tossed it his way, along with a hasty goodbye, as Steve rushed them to the hangar bay. 

Peter fought to lift himself upwards again, his elbows beginning to tremble. Nearly sending him flat on his back.

Tony didn’t seem to notice how unsettled he’d become.

“Oh! Check it out,” he said instead, turning towards Peter. One finger flipped open the panel of his forearm. It popped back like an old CD player, and Tony twisted his arm so Peter could get a better look. “It took a good amount of fine tuning. Had to make a few net decibel adjustments, not to mention a Quid Pro Quo for some Pym Particles — won’t lie, kissing Hank’s ant riddled feet hurt my pride a little bit. But viola! Finally installed that ultrasonic pulse annex.” 

For a fleeting second, Peter looked at the open panel of Tony’s Iron Man armor. The cylinder device, something he could’ve easily mistaken for a small pocket flashlight, sat nestled between a bout of wires and plates. It looked as if it had never been anywhere else in its life; especially not in Peter’s hands —  in the gym — where it tossed Sam a good ten feet across the basketball court.

“Kicked the can down the road long enough, don’t you think?” Tony went on as if Peter wasn’t looking at him like he’d morphed into some mystical creature with flying wings that replaced his repulsors, and scales that overtook the shining red and gold metal. “Didn’t have time for a test run yet. But hey, I never worked well with dress rehearsals anyway. Not my style. Maybe we’ll get the chance to iron out the kinks before heading stateside again. Clear out some rotting trees for the good King and his people. Just you, me, and mother nature under the stars of the middle east. Whacha think?”

The way Peter looked, he didn’t have a single thought running through his head.

Until he spoke.

“You’re in your suit.”

The observation was more than just a truism. It was redundant. As obvious as saying the skies they flew across were blue, or that Clint had counted the arrows in his quiver exactly thirteen times since they took off.

And yet Tony knew why.

“Precautionary measures,” he insisted, as casually as he possibly could. The breezy tone wasn’t fooling anyone, not that he cared what anyone but Peter thought. 

When he saw the kid wasn’t buying it, he threw out a dismissive wave.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff.” The panel on his forearm closed shut, hiding the oval shaped device from view. “We’re only playing it safe. Just want to make sure this little importune flight is smooth sailing from take-off to landing. After all, we’re still not one-hundred-percent sure on what triggers the...other side of you.” 

The scoff from Bruce came out loud and clear.

“How ironic,” he mumbled, fiddling with a IV line that trailed back to Peter’s arm.

Tony resisted the urge to roll his eyes — and it was a hard resist at that, he could feel the muscles twitch across his eyelids. An armored hand laid across Bruce’s back and he squeezed gently to get the scientist’s attention.

“Now, now, Brucey-bear,” he started, earning a not-so-friendly look from Bruce. “I know you like all the attention, but we already figured out what your buttons are. And when not to push them. We have two Jekyll and Hyde’s now, and one of them isn’t playing very nicely. You’ll just have to share the spotlight.”

Bruce sighed, annoyed and frustrated, and worryingly of all, slightly angry.

“We both know I shouldn’t be here, Tony.” He dropped the line of the IV in favor of stroking his thumb across his temple. If he pressed any harder, he would have left an indent in his skin. “It’s too dangerous. If that symbiote comes out and I’m near —” 

“It’ll be fine,” Tony was all too quick to interrupt, and definitely the reason that Bruce started taking deep, controlled breaths. “No code greens, promise. Pinky promise, if you want. Kid says those are law binding. Top notch, as good as it gets.” 

Bruce didn’t look the least bit persuaded. And he absolutely didn’t take Tony’s outstretched, armored pinky finger when shoved his way. 

With a frown, Tony inched closer to the man —  real close, going so far as to break personal space and any imaginary bubbles either of them had. 

He didn’t stop until his shoulder bumped into Bruce’s.

“You’re the only one who can keep Peter alive right now,” Tony all but whispered, his mouth inches from Bruce’s ear. His voice strained, losing all the nonchalance of an earlier performance that spoke of denial and desperation. “Please, Bruce. I need you.”

The rubbing on his temple had left a red mark, right underneath his glasses. Bruce went to straighten the wire-frames, dipping his head low as he did. 

“And the other guy?”

It was so quiet that Tony almost missed it. Even at close distance. 

Well, shit. That wasn’t exactly a soothing thought.

Just entertaining the idea of what Bruce spoke about had his stomach in knots, which wasn’t helping his already fried and broiled nerves. They had been lucky so far; the last Hulk appearance was back in spring, during the Brooklyn Bridge Chitarui attack. Since then, they hadn’t needed to provoke the big guy into lending them a hand. 

And most importantly, he hadn’t decided to let his temper be known with an unexpected appearance. 

The latter was what mattered the most to them. 

It was the last thing they all needed right now. On top of everything else going on — and regardless of how much amusement Hulk got from using Spider-Man as his own personal baseball pitcher for disassembled Chitarui heads — an appearance right now was absolutely unwanted.

Tony forced a smile before slapping the back of his hand against Bruce’s forearm.

“Tell him to take a sabbatical.”

If Bruce had glared any harder, Tony would’ve been sure that Thor could see the look all the way from space.

Luckily for them both, there was a unifier situated between them. Someone who would fend off the growing aggravation — for the time being, at the least.

Peter had since given up on trying to adjust himself on the cot. The way his chest lifted, like he’d just run a marathon, proved that his efforts were fruitless. So instead, he settled on looking at the roof of the Quinjet. It almost seemed like he was trying to burn a hole through the dreary, dark panels that kept the sunlight from shining inside. 

It was only once he noticed Bruce staring at him that Peter broke out of his daze.

“How you feeling, Pete?” he asked, a singe of the obvious worry sticking to his words harder than Peter’s web fluid. 

It was a loaded question. Tony figured the answer was easy — it wasn’t like there was much alternative besides ‘this is the worst bug I’ve ever had, and I was once bitten by a radioactive spider.’

There was a pause before Peter answered. As if he had to actually think of a response.

“I feel...wired,” he finally settled on. Craning his neck up, Peter looked at Bruce and all the machines cramped besides them. In a rush, they had taken what they could, but it wasn’t a whole lot. Yet the small space of the Quinjet made it feel like much more. “What’s in all that stuff? It sorta feels like...Red Bull mixed with Starbucks...and a jump off the Empire State Building.”

Tony whipped his head around. “Have you jumped off the Empire State Building?”

Peter went to answer. 

Bruce beat him to the punch.

“It’s nothing harmful — I promise. But that’s an...accurate description.” Bruce adjusted his glasses once again before eyeing the infusion pumps they had brought along for the ride. “It’s a cornucopia cocktail of steroids. A lot of steroids. Lethal to the average person, no doubt. But hopefully enough for you that it should bolster your immune system with a little...revitalization until we arrive.”

Though it wasn’t said out loud, Peter heard the underlying message.

‘It’s gunna keep you alive until we can find the people to further keep you alive. And then hopefully they’ll keep you alive for good.’

With a nod that was barely cordial, Peter found himself bending both his legs and squeezing hold of his knees, resting his cheek along the soft material of his sweatpants. With one ear tucked away, the beeping of the machines became less noticeable.

“Speaking of —” Tony turned his back on both Bruce and Peter, front-facing the jet and shouting to those upfront. “Mr. I-don’t-share-well-with-others! What’s our ETA?”

A pause.

A mutter.

Definitely a bad word or two.

“An hour,” Clint finally hollered back. “Even less if we don’t hit turbulence across the ocean.”

Satisfied, Tony turned back to Peter, forcing a smile that only made the bags under his eyes all the deeper.

“Super! Look at that, we’ll be there in no time.” Tony spread his arms out wide, the armored whir sounding strange when accompanied by his flippant tone. “Why don’t you take a nap, catch up on some Z’s. When you wake up, we’ll be landing right in the middle of Birnin Zana. It’ll be like you never left good ‘ol New York.”

Peter lifted his head from his knees with an eyebrow raised high. Slowly, he worked to get himself sitting a little higher on the cot — this time succeeding. 

“I’m...I’m really wired right now, Mr. Stark,” he admitted, the edge of his voice shaking in a way only artificial adrenaline could produce. He looked to the IV lines in the back of his hands, and followed them to the machines that Bruce monitored. “I don’t think I’ll be sleeping anytime soon.”

As if to further prove Peter’s remark, Bruce went to hang yet another plastic bag of medicine onto the already-crowded IV pole. 

“Yeah, okay, fair point,” Tony muttered, shifting awkwardly in a suit that made him feel twice as heavy on his feet. “Okay then, Plan B. Let’s take your mind off things. No better time for small talk than now. What does Banner know about our trip? You gush all the details to him yet?”

Peter looked from Tony over to Bruce, meekly giving a small shake of his head.

“I haven’t —”

Tony turned straight to Bruce. “He tell you about the hotel charge in Chicago?”

It was downright astounding how quickly the color returned to Peter’s face. His skin went from an ashy pale to strawberry red at the drop of a hat.

“Mr. Stark—!”

Tony didn’t relent. 

“Get this, Doc Green,” he started, facing Bruce with an enthusiasm that only increased with Peter’s humiliation. “We finally get adjacent rooms, right? Unspoken prayers be answered, I’m given a night away from this rugrat’s obnoxiously loud snoring. It’s all I’ve wanted for days. And what does the little twerp do? He utilizes the time alone for some pleasant pay-per-view purchasing.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and made a sound all too similar to a whine.

“C’mon! I told you —!”

“Deep Impact, Peter?” Tony smirked. “Really?”

Peter glared at him, though it was far less threatening with the flushed pepper hue to his face.

“I thought it was the one with Morgan Freeman,” he muttered, deciding once again that hiding his face in the gray fabric of his sweats was far more appealing than facing reality.

Reality hurt. Reality was doing him absolutely no favors lately.

Tony chuckled, giving a firm, assuring squeeze to Peter’s shoulder. It was just enough to bring Peter out from his turtle shell hiding hole, though just barely. He rested the side of his cheek on his knee and kept it there. 

Off to the side, Bruce managed a small smile. “Sounds like you two had a good time.”

Looking down at Peter — the kid a far cry from how he looked during that trip — Tony nodded with a frown.

“Yeah…” he trailed off. “We sure did...” 

His thoughts went loose, running so far away they may have very well been in one of the many states they traveled to over the summer.

He wasn’t alone. Peter had a two-thousand-yard stare, looking at the empty seats of the Quinjet but never quite catching focus on them. 

It seemed that, like many times before, they both had found themselves on the same wavelength. Thinking the same exact thing without so much as saying a single word about it.

Things had started to get good. Great, even. 

Things were really great.

And then...

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark," Peter interrupted the silence with a hoarse, muffled apology. “This is all my fault.” 

Though Tony had tried his damndest since hastily leaving the compound, his charade finally broke. As if hearing Peter’s ashamed and penitent confession could possibly leave him in one piece.

Even Bruce looked torn up over that one. 

Tony sighed, taking a seat at the bottom edge of the cot, right near Peter’s feet. 

“We all make mistakes. I have more than my fair share.” The mattress dipped considerably at the weight of his body, not to mention his armor. Peter didn’t seem to mind. “But you couldn’t have expected this to happen, Underoo’s.”

Peter shook his head, even with his cheek still resting on his knee. 

“I should’ve never snuck into that lab,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them half-lidded. The whites, already stained with yellow bile, were fissured by fine red cracks. “I don’t even remember touching anything. I don’t remember anything touching me. I swear…”

There was a thing about Peter and his honesty, a thing Tony had come to understand over time. It was something only time could provide. Something only those close to him really understood. 

And to understand it, that required getting to know him.

Tony had been given that opportunity, ever since Germany. More-so since Adrian Toomes. Tenfold since Dmitri-aka-Chameleon and the bunker. It gave him the insight to know when Peter was lying. When he was trying to lie. 

And when he would swear on the bible that he was telling the truth. 

If Tony didn’t know better, he would say that pure, unadulterated honesty was flowing straight out of Peter’s mouth. Of all the truths he had been omitting lately, this certainly wasn’t one of them.

Unfortunately, it had been made painfully clear that not all could be trusted with him. Strange did absolutely no sugar coating when breaking down the horrors of damage being done to Peter’s brain. Gray matter was literally rotting inside his own skull. His memory was being stripped away piece by piece.

Even so, there wasn’t any other possible explanation. Where else would the symbiote have latched on to him, had it not been when he snuck into that lab?

But that wasn’t the question Tony wanted answers to.

“Why’d you do it?”

Peter raised his head, just slightly. Enough to look Tony in the eye, and unfortunately vice-versa.

Nothing like a disappointed Mr. Stark to liven the mood. 

“Do what?” Peter knew, but he also knew that he’d done a lot of stupid things recently. It wasn’t best to jump to conclusions. 

For the most part, Tony seemed to agree with that train of thought.

“When you were at OsCorp,” he clarified, without a single bite to his tone. If anything, he sounded disheartened. “Why’d you go sneaking around?”

Peter blinked. And again. And a few more times after that. It wasn’t until a painful silence had stretched on that he finally admitted defeat. 

Plopping his back against the cot, he decided that the Quinjet’s roof was once again the most interesting thing in the world. Because he certainly didn’t dare look away from it.

“I thought…” Peter sighed, balling his hands at his side, ignoring the pinch from the IV’s embedded into his veins. “I thought I could help you guys. With your case, with whatever it is. I thought...maybe...if I found something. I dunno. It could help you and whatever’s going on with OsCorp. I just wanted to try and help.”

Over time, there was a lot about Peter that Tony had come to understand.

He had a sweet tooth that couldn’t be satisfied.

He never took ‘no’ for an answer, even when the only answer was no.

He was stubborn. But in all the right ways.

And when he was honest about something, there was no denying it.

Which meant the kid just wanted answers to something Tony could’ve outright given to him. And completely avoid this mess all together.

The word preventable rang through his head for the umpteenth time today.

"Well…” Tony’s jaw clicked with tension. “You definitely found something.”

Peter scoffed, a nod stiff to his neck. “Yeah. Parker Luck strikes again, huh?”

Tony felt his shoulders slump, a slight whir of armor making the whine that his mouth wouldn’t. None of this was Parker Luck so much as it was shit luck. If he had just included Peter in on the mess that he was — in all technically — already involved in, then none of this would’ve happened. 

The kid saw the Oz tank down in the base. He was taken hostage by one of the many maniacs Osborn had unwittingly created. He saw OsCorp’s depraved endeavors just as well as Tony, sans the documents that were now washed up in the sea.

Tony grimaced. It was his intent to keep Peter safe, to keep him away from all that. But he had been around it since day one. And instead of trusting him with that knowledge, Tony found himself pushing the two of them further apart.

He sighed, swiping a red-clad thumb across his nose before finally turning his attention back to Peter. 

“Alright,” Tony clucked his tongue and scooted closer on the cot. “We got some reconstruction to do — a lot of rebuilding, some overhauling, too. But the bones are still good, the foundation is still there. I think there’s hope for us yet.”

Peter gave Tony a look. One of absolute confusion. 

Tony didn’t hesitate to explain.

“You didn’t trust me because I didn’t trust you.” He tilted his chin low, the sincerity unyielding. “Let’s fix that.”

Peter rushed to babble on a thousand different variations of ‘I absolutely trust you, Mr. Stark!’, but Tony plowed right through. 

Like a steamroller. At full speed.

“We’re after OsCorp because...it’s more than just sentient rock androids and fishbowl wearing maniacs. It goes even further than radioactive spider bites,” he explained. The metal frame to the cot suddenly captivated Tony’s attention. He didn’t look anywhere else but at it. “In the middle of our little search and rescue sea mission, I came across a load of evidence that proved Norman Osborn has been performing illicit experimentation’s behind the government’s back. Most of which took place in that clandestine bunker. Most of which left participants deformed, or mutated. Some of them died. Some of them probably wish they had died.”

There was a brief pause as Tony tried to formulate the details into something that could easily be digested. It was like trying to make rotten food edible again.

“There’s a lot to unpack with them. More than I probably know of as we speak. Hell, definitely more than I know. But the most pressing — what got a fire under our ass — it was these blueprints to a formula they had left behind.” Tony looked up and over to Peter, not the least bit surprised to find the kid was all ears. “It was what you heard us talking about at your birthday. Oz. That’s what they call it, anyway. They’re trying to replicate the super-soldier serum, only with the added kick of immortality. Something that, in the wrong hands — in their hands...could be more trouble than anything we’ve gone up against.”

Silence stretched on between them. Peter didn’t look away, but he noticeably became uncomfortable. A mix between ‘shocking realization’ and ‘well, okay, that makes a whole lot of sense.’

Tony shared the sentiment. 

“So with all that said,” he adjusted slightly on the cot. “You can imagine we’re not eager to let them execute the test trials. But finding proof of that damn formula has been like grasping at straws. It wasn’t until you wandered into that lab of theirs that we finally got a one-up in the hunt.”

The words were followed by another silence.

Peter broke it.

“Oh.” He gulped, hard enough to shake the skin on his throat. “So...in that lab...all that slimy black stuff? That was —”

“No, that wasn’t Oz,” Tony quickly cut in. “Most we’ve found on the Oz Formula is a few documents and compound compositions strewn on their servers. But you, Mr. Parker, happened to come across the Symbiote Project.”

Confused no longer described Peter’s current state of mind.

Bewildered was far more like it.

“The what project?” he echoed, managing to both raise his eyebrows and scrunch his face simultaneously. Tony would’ve found the look amusing, had it not been for the current state of affairs. 

“Symbiote. Think symbiosis. Symbiotic. It’s what you’re infected with. Turns out Osborn wants to cure the world of cancer, and this is how he plans to do it. Only the symbiote — which is a symbiotic substance — it won’t take to just anyone’s body chemistry. They wanted it to. They tried to.” Tony’s lips pressed thin, his jaw growing tight. “In their theory, it would latch onto someone’s immune system, eliminate tumors and cancerous cells and any and all bad stuff going on inside. It would stay and live underneath the genetic footprint as an internal body suit. A sentient organism that would keep even the common cold away. It’s their sister conception to Oz. The generic version, over-the-counter knock off. The next best thing for them, since they can't seem to get Oz off the ground.”

Peter had managed to put on an impressive show of bravery, but the monitors attached to his every vital sign ratted him out faster than a vindictive sibling. It told of the building fear that he didn’t let cross his face, but absolutely ran his heart wild. 

“What went wrong with it?” Peter hesitated, his back noticeably stiffening. “Cause...no offense, but I don’t feel very...immune to cancer right about now. Or the common cold. Or, even...you know, seasonal allergies.”

Bruce, who was quietly off to the side monitoring the machinery, quickly hid his abrupt chuckle beneath a poorly executed cough. 

Tony shot him a glare.

“Beats me, to be honest.” He turned away from Bruce with an exhaustion that sank deep into his bone marrow. When he looked at Peter, the honesty in his eyes bled raw. “They don’t even know. They haven’t had a successful trial with this symbiote, not once. The only thing they’ve managed to do is create the damn sucker — but after that, they’re at a loss. It doesn’t stick to anyone..." Tony gestured a loose finger at him. "But you.”

Peter didn’t want to ask.

He really, really didn’t want to ask.

“Why?” he asked.

Tony looked as reluctant to answer as Peter did to asking.

His foot began tapping on the floor, the metal of his boot making a song against the metal of the Quinjet. Still, it was muted underneath the sound of his grinding teeth.

“That spider you were bit with...low and behold, it was bred with the intent to fuel the symbiote project. Its venom would have been used to generate the bonding power that it currently lacks.” A sour expression crossed over Tony’s face. Remorse immediately washed it away, like soil in the rain. “It bonded to you because it recognized the DNA of the radioactive spider. And it fused with that DNA. Just like OsCorp intended.” 

The words rang in Peter’s brain.
 
Shrill, and loud...

And for all the reasons that Tony wasn’t aware of.

“Mr. Osborn said that.”

Until he was.

Tony looked at Peter, now his turn to both raise his eyebrows and scrunch his face. The confusion was just that powerful.

That’s when Peter realized he’d spoken aloud, saying the thing in his head when he hadn’t meant to. He turned to Tony, his eyes wide with a realization he didn’t like having. It felt nearly as bad as the poison coursing through his veins — or, in terms he’d just been educated on, the feeling of his new DNA mutilating his very being.

“It was what he told me. That he had this, like...genetic bodysuit thing to cure cancer.” Peter’s voice was tremulous. The fortitude to look brave was quickly crumbling. “But he needed the spider to make it work. And he kept asking me if I knew where the spider went.”

Tony stared at Peter. It was all he could do, a loss of words making his voice obsolete.

“The spider died, Mr. Stark…” Peter trailed off, his eyes drifting over to Tony — unaware that he had ever looked away. “Am I going to die, too?”

An armor clad hand gripped Peter’s knee and squeezed. Hard. 

“Not if I have a say in it.” 

Tony sounded every bit as heroic as Peter imagined him to be, years ago growing up as a powerless kid in New York city. His words were strong, stubborn, and most of all determined. It managed to filter through the panic that was quickly settling over. 

Still, the knot in his chest tightened. 

They fell into a silence, one of many. It stretched on until Peter couldn’t take it anymore.

“Mr. Stark, I’m…” he lost his voice for a moment. When it returned, it didn’t sound the same. “I’m really scared.”

Peter was surprised at what he heard next.

“I know,” Tony quietly acknowledged, with the smallest nod of his head. “I am too.”

A bout of nausea came pulling at his stomach and Peter swallowed, forcibly. The battered and abused tissue of his throat screamed in protest but he did it again, forcing down a wave of sickness that didn’t stem from the illness in his body. Rather the fear in his mind.

The admission was crippling. He looked away from Tony, back to the dreary black and gray roof of the Quinjet. A part of him wondered how much of that fear was shared. 

A part of him wondered if he’d ever heard Mr. Stark admit to such a thing.

Beeping replaced conversation. Trite clacking and hypnotic button-pressing on Bruce’s side filled the dead air. Occasionally, the muffled sound of dialogue seeped from the cockpit towards the back where they sat. If Peter listened hard enough, he could catch wind of a few words here or there. Mostly from Clint. Only once or twice from Steve.

“One other thing you should know, kiddo,” Tony spoke up, abating the quiescence.

Peter looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. If there was anything more to add to an already nightmarish dilemma, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. 

Bruce went to hang another IV bag and — yeah, scratch that. Ignorance was definitely bliss.

Tony sighed, moving his hand off Peter’s knee and resting it on his own.

“While we’re on this little honesty escapade...I didn’t just pull the security footage from your school after the attack on your principal. I had access to it from the get-go.” Tony let his chest expand before he returned his attention to Peter. “Last year, after your whole...Vulture incident, I tied FRIDAY into the cameras on your campus. Last headache either of us need is anything Spider-Man related being tied back to some high-school in Midtown. This way, I’d have first-dibs on the footage, and I’d be able to safely tuck it away before your guidance counselor could lecture you on your questionable after-school activities.”

Peter frowned. Not mad, surprisingly, especially considering how angry he’d been at Mr. Stark’s apparent ‘spying’ as of late. It was more taken aback than anything else.

“Oh. O-okay,” he articulately managed. His fingers began to fidget with the seams of his sweatshirt. It didn’t feel like spying. It felt more like the Baby Monitor Protocol, than anything else. Annoying, but somehow helpful. “That’s...yeah, that’s – that’s fine. That’s...thanks. Thanks, that helps me. I think.”

Tony scoffed.

“Oh trust me, it does. For the love of God, you need to stop jumping out five-story-windows at your school. You’re bound to give some middle-aged calculus teacher a heart attack. And learn to tuck the suit inside the backpack if you insist on carrying it around with you.” Tony dryly said, before his voice softened. So much so that he almost sounded sad. “But the camera access is also how I found out about your fight with the Flash kid.”

Just like that, Peter’ face fell flat.

His heart didn’t stop — it couldn’t have, not according to the monitors stuck to his chest.

“...what?”

 But it sure as hell felt like it did. 

His back stood up straighter than a stiff board.

That meant —

“It wasn’t May,” Tony admitted. “She didn’t break her promise to you. She didn’t tell me anything. Actually, she called me that night and chewed me a new asshole for invading your privacy. Which I yielded to. I’ve said it once before, I’ll take a hit to my pride and say it again. I overstepped my boundaries. You don’t need me watching over your back —”

“May didn’t tell you?” 

Peter’s ears were ringing. He wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to find out someone had set off a grenade in the Quinjet. Especially one that exploded right into his face. 

Because he didn’t catch a single word Tony said after the initial confession. 

He didn’t hear anything past ‘it wasn’t May.’

Tony gave a curt nod, but all Peter saw were his lips moving. 

“She didn’t say a word.” 

Peter visibly gulped.

It wasn’t May.

All he could hear was ringing.

“I know I’ve been overbearing. Rhodey’s always telling me I go one extreme or the other.” Tony kept talking. Peter didn’t register any of it. “Hell, here I am telling you to stick to the gray area but I can’t do it myself. Walking hypocrisy, thou be my name. I’m just trying to do right by you. I worry about you, kid, and —”

“Where’s my phone?”

The abrupt question — demand? Tony furrowed his brows. It came so suddenly, without warning, that he almost gave himself whiplash looking towards Peter.

“What?” Tony cocked his head to the side. “Come again?”

Any color that had managed to liven Peter’s skin quickly drained away, his complexion growing as pale as the white clouds outside the jet. It was unsettling how fast his cheeks grew ashen. A corpses gray. 

Tony noticed. 

He immediately didn’t like what he saw.

“Where’s my phone?” Peter asked again. He hastily — frantically — struggled to sit up on the cot, failing more times than not. “I need to call May.  Right now. I need to — Mr. Stark, I need my phone. Now.”

Peter swung his legs over the edge of the bed with force, planting them on the ground with a thud that startled Bruce. He briefly glanced at Tony, the look not returned. 

No, Tony was far too busy eyeing Peter up and down. Wondering where the hell this burst of energy was when they needed it back at the compound. It would’ve been far more useful on their escape route to the hanger bay, that was for certain. 

“Pete, it’s…” Tony’s frown deepened and he sighed, offering Peter the most apologetic look he could scrounger up. “I can’t do that, bud.”

“Why not?” Peter went to stand up. He didn’t get very far.

Tony quirked an eyebrow.

“Because I’m pretty sure May would rather you wait than deal with the roaming charges that come with a phone call across the Atlantic ocean.” He inched over on the cot, nearing closer to where Peter sat. One hand outward as if to catch the kid from falling flat on his face. “Listen, you don’t need to worry about this right now. I spoke with her not long ago. She’s —”

“I need to speak with her.” Peter turned to Tony and glared, beads of sweat beginning to glisten across his skin. The temperature in the jet hadn’t changed. Tony would’ve been the first to know. “Do you, or do you not have my phone?”

Both hands gripping the nearest monitor, Bruce stared at Tony, his thumb mid-push on a button that remained untouched. 

Tony barely gave him a courtesy glance. 

They were both thinking the same thing. Neither were in a hurry to acknowledge it.

“Yes, but —”

“I need it.” Peter wasn’t asking, and the look on his face wasn’t the cranky, pouty type of look Tony normally saw when he wanted something. It was a scowl. A heated, fervent glare. “Please. I need to talk to her. Where are you keeping it? Where are you hiding it? Where —?” 

“Whoa, whoa, okay, take a breath there, kiddo.” Tony went to lay a hand on Peter’s knee. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Peter threw that hand back. “Hey! It’s okay. I’m not hiding your phone. It’s somewhere safe, you have my word. You also have my word that I already talked to May. She’s in the loop. She’s not upset, she’s —”

“You don’t know that!” Peter’s shout quaked his body, and damn near the foundation of the jet. “You don’t know her like I do! You don’t — you don’t understand, Mr. Stark. You don’t know what happened, you don’t — you have to give me my phone. You have to let me call her.”

Bruce was definitely staring at them now, and Tony had no doubt the others upfront were as well. Surely questioning what the hell was going on.

They weren’t alone.

“I promise you, Peter,” Tony started, cautiously. Gingerly. “You can explain everything to her when this is all over with.”

Peter clenched his jaw, baring his teeth in a way that showed even his back molars. They scrapped against one another, bone dragging across bone with each word he churned out.

“It’s my phone.” The sweat that glistened on his brow now trickled down along his face, sliding far down his neck. Dripping onto the collarbones that jutted out from beneath his sweatshirt. “Give it back to me.”

Despite spending his entire life in the mindset of business deals and negotiations, Tony always had shit luck when it came to calming people down. 

Just ask Pepper. Her namesake existed for a reason. 

“I have your phone, yes.” He tried. Good Lord, he was trying. “But it’s turned off. Location untraceable. We can’t risk them tracking you, Peter. We can’t risk —”

“You don’t get it, Mr. Stark!” Peter’s hands flew to his head, fingers latching onto his hair and tugging until his knuckles turned as colorless as his face. “I screwed up! I thought May was the one who told you — I yelled at her, I said terrible things to her, I — I need her to know, she needs to know I didn’t mean it, I didn’t —!”

A balled fist flew downward and hit the metal frame of the cot.

“Crap! MJ!”

It caved and bent. 

Right where Tony sat. 

“I haven’t even gotten a chance to apologize to MJ! I haven’t —” Peter’s breaths began to quicken, oxygen suddenly a rare commodity to his lungs. Each breath that poured out of his mouth left the space between them humid. Dewy with a rancid smell. “I can’t believe I did that! I can’t believe —!”

Tony cocked his head to the side. “Did what, Peter?”

If Peter heard him, he elected to ignore the question.

The monitors nearby began to sound quiet alarms, matching the increased breathing that rattled Peter’s chest. His shoulders wracked with hyperventilated words.

“I need to say something to her. She’s gotta know — she can’t think  —” He was gasping now. “I don’t want her to think that I  — shit, what if she thinks I hurt Principal Morita on purpose? What if she thinks — I need to —”

“Tony...” Bruce warned, a chilling tone lacing onto his tongue.

Tony craned his neck around, watching as Bruce studied the machines cramped around them. His eyes were glued to the screens. They didn’t so much as flicker Tony’s way.

Tony understood why.

“Alright, Pete…” he slowly — slowly — rose off the cot, standing where there could be distance between them. “Listen to my voice. Listen to it good. The only thing you need to do right now is take a nice, deep breath —”

“No!” Peter shot his head up, his eyes wide. Frighteningly large. “You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

A nauseating flare began to lodge itself someone deep in Tony’s gut. He cursed inwardly, desperately trying not to think about how similar Peter sounded to the night that had passed. 

Right before it happened.

Right before it had appeared.

“What’s going on back there?” Steve’s voice came with the sound of his footsteps, already halfway to the trio by the time he called out. 

Because of course he was.

Tony shot his head around at record breaking speed. 

“Nothi —!”

“Nothing good!” Bruce hollered over him.

It was Tony’s turn for a heated glare. Thrown straight at Bruce. 

Steve peered over the crowd of empty seats in the middle of the Quinjet, bypassing Wanda in the corner — who watched silently. Both of them noticeably frowning.

“Tony,” he started, nearing closer. “Is everything —?”

“It’s fine!” Tony snapped, quickly diverting his attention back to Peter. “It’s fine, it’s — Pete, it’s fine. You just gotta —”

A balled fist came crashing down again, this time against the cot. It ripped open the mattress, spewing feathers in the air like a cloud of dust.

"Mr Stark, let me talk to May!"

The shout hurt his ears. Tony tried to keep his face neutral, to stay calm in the wake of a building storm. But Peter’s yell pierced into his eardrums like a banshee’s shriek. By no means he could explain, it sounded that way. 

Like two sets of vocal cords overlapping one another. 

He didn’t realize he had taken a step back. Not until he saw that he’d gotten closer to Bruce.

Further from Peter.

“Tony,” Bruce began, his voice hushed, his eyes flitting from monitors to Peter. Rapid-fire darting that nearly made him dizzy. “Are we really not gunna let him make one phone call?”

It wasn’t a question of curiosity. It was a matter of bargaining. 

That negotiation was out of the question.

“Not unless you want Fury’s ass riding us all the way to Africa.” Tony irritatingly spoke just as hushed as Bruce, words coming out through clenched teeth and a tight jaw.

Steve’s eyes somewhat narrowed as he approached.

“If this is about a phone call —”

“It’s not.” If only looks could kill. Though Tony wasn’t sure even that superpower could take down Cap. So he settled on words instead. “Now, this flight needs attending to, so—”

“Clint has the wheel. And FRIDAY’s on stand-by for autopilot,” Steve needlessly stated. He raised a worrisome eyebrow. “If there’s a problem —”

“The only problem is you butting in where you don’t belong!” Tony finally snapped. Honestly, a part of him was proud he had lasted this long.

Steve raised two arms in the air, open palmed. 

“I’m not trying to stir the pot, Tony.” Brown gloves covered his hands, but the blistered skin around the his fingers showed. Knuckles still raw from an earlier fight. “Maybe Peter just needs someone else to talk him out of this —”

Steve made an attempt to draw nearer. Tony rounded on him before his foot could touch the ground.

“Do not come closer!”

The whir of the Iron Man suit hummed between them. It wasn’t because of Tony’s movements. 

His palm glowed, just slightly. 

Just enough that Steve noticed.

He gave pause, eyeing the burning energy coming from Tony’s repulsor with a fixated look.

“Take it easy...” Steve softened, grounding his feet where they were. “I’m not going to hurt him —”

“Like hell you aren’t,” Tony sneered. His arm stayed at his side, but the repulsor grew brighter. “You sure as hell didn’t hesitate back —”

Steve frowned. “That was different.”

Restless movements from on the cot began to sound like a panic frenzy, nearly tearing the mattress to shreds. Peter gripped his knees and squeezed, tight. Hard enough that Tony swore he could hear a mild cracking underneath his grip. 

He threw Peter a look before locking his eyes on Steve. An unwavering stare that etched deep into the stress lines of his face.

“Rogers, you’re only here because you have to be.” Tony realized he was making a harsh, irascible sound in his throat. He didn’t care. “This white flag? It’s not a blindfold.”

A look crossed over Steve’s face. Rare and unaccustomed to his features, breaking through the hardened burrows that held bold valour and fearlessness. 

Tony didn’t have time to dwell on it.

The monitors pitch increased. The frequency of beeps accelerated.

Steve took notice. His demeanor hardened with a vigilant eye. “If he wants just one thing, I think it’s best we give it to him.”

Tony managed to keep one eye on Peter while simultaneously glaring at Steve.

“We’re cloaked for a damn reason,” he bit back. “We turn on that cell and—”

“We can find a way,” Steve argued. “Let’s just let him —”

“Back off.” 

The hum of a repulsor firing to life had definitely increased, but even that was hard to hear underneath the surrounding strife. Monitors became louder, with Peter’s growing stress overtaking that. Unnerved murmurs that were quickly becoming something more.

“Tony, it’s one phone call.”  Steve may have not intended to sound patronizing, but it’s how Tony heard him. Per usual. “SHIELD can’t track us and we’re past government territory. Let’s give him a phone. Before things get out of hand.”

Tony’s lips pressed thin. “That is not the solution here.”

“I didn’t think drugging him last time was the solution but we all did it anyway,” Clint hollered from the front.

To his benefit, Tony tried counting to ten; desperately pushing back the overwhelming urge to punch the nearest thing in his line of sight. Which happened to be Steve, now dangerously close to his personal bubble.

It took every ounce of strength Tony had not to make the man see stars that didn’t decorate his shield. 

“Guys…” Bruce chided. Nervously.

On the cot, Peter muttered and blathered, but none of it could be heard between each wet, heaving gasp that stole the coherence of his words. He shook with a cold sweat that began to seep through even the heavy material of his sweatshirt. 

That sight was all Tony needed to send his anger packing. Even his anger towards Steve — gone. Sent running the moment he took a long, hard look at Peter.

Tony hadn’t seen the emergence happen when they were in Queens. Not with Peter’s face concealed, not with the Spider-Man mask hiding it from view. 

But he certainly saw what came after.

A hard swallow forced the rising knot further down his throat. He didn’t want to believe that was occurring now.

Not now. 

Yet the dark bags underneath Peter’s eyes had deepened, burrowing until they were black crevices that had his cheekbones protruding outwards. His skin had grown waxy, bloodless. Glistening with the sweat of decay. 

“Bruce?” Tony asked, underlying stress tight-fitting into his words. “Can you throw some NyQuil in those lines of his?”

Bruce viciously shook his head. “Not after what happened last time, Tony!”

Tony pressed his fingers against his temple, the Iron Man armor pushing hard against his skin.

“It’s not like last time —!”

“I’m not talking about the bridge, I’m talking about the compound!” Bruce’s retort began to match Tony’s volume, the two now shouting over each other in a brash feud. What didn’t match Tony was the bulging veins standing out along Bruce’s neck. They began to swell in a way that was all too noticeable. “We can’t risk heavy sedatives in multi-organ failure! It could kill him. You want me to keep him alive?”

Steve frowned, deeply. “Bruce —” 

“I can’t keep him alive if he’s dead, Tony!”

“Bruce.”

Steve noticed Bruce’s breaking composure before anyone else, stepping between the two men to create distance. Not so much that Tony didn’t notice, more-so that he was preoccupied with Peter and the increasing uproar quickly unfolding.  

If the kid tugged at his hair any harder, he’d be bald before they ever got over the ocean.

“You’re not l͠i͢s̵̸t̨҉e͜n͟͠i͡ng to me," Peter muttered and rambled, his head so low no one could see his face. “You never l̶i̛st̵e̶n͘͠͠  to me —”

“Okay, okay, alright! Alright, Peter — hey, you gotta calm down.” Tony shook his head, leaning over just far enough that if Peter had looked up, his face would be the only thing to see. He could feel each puff of steamy air that blew from the kids nostrils. Like a raging bull ready to attack. “Remember what happened last time you got worked up? C’mon, let’s not air re-runs here.”

“For once, Stark, we agree on something!” Clint blurted out from the cockpit. He threw his head around, noticeably concerned at the commotion. “Hold it together back there. We still got a thousand miles to go. And I can only take this thing so fast.”

Button after button began to ding and chime as Bruce swiftly worked on the monitors.

“His pulse is through the roof,” he mentioned, turning to mess with lines that attached to Peter. “His vitals are completely up the wall. Something’s gotta be done. And soon — very soon.”

Steve reached out to Tony, grabbing his arm by the bicep.

“We brought Wanda for a reason —” 

Tony threw his arm off like it had burned through his armor, straight into his flesh. 

“She’s not touching him unless absolutely necessary.”  

A rustle of noise came from the middle of the aircraft. No doubt the person they spoke of.

Yet she didn’t dare approach the men. As quiet as a deer hiding in the woods.

Shifting forward a bit, Steve tore his eyes away from Tony and towards Peter, a growing concern washing over his face. 

“This isn’t that?”

Tony made a sound caught between a growl and sneer. And made sure that Steve heard it. He opened his mouth to argue —

"Shut UP!" Peter yelled, his jaw unhinged, his blistering sore throat fracturing his shout. "Just SHUT UP!"

They froze. 

For a split second, the lights to the jet dimmed. 

The machines attached to Peter flickered and fritzed. Whining before growing silent.

The aircraft shook. A choppy bump before resuming steadiness. 

Bruce’s hands flew off the machines mid-configuration, throwing Tony a look that said more than any of his words ever could. His eyes had grown wider than saucers. 

Tony didn’t chance looking his way. His eyes stayed locked ahead. 

Locked on Peter.

“Okay...” Tony drawled out, raw unease filling his tone. “Everyone be quiet.”

It wasn’t a request. 

No one — not even Clint upfront — dared to make a sound. 

Only Peter could be heard. Soft murmuring filled the space, his head down low, his face pressed mostly into his knees. His hands gravitated from his hair down to his ears, practically smothering his palms into his eardrums. Pressing so hard the force of his hands shook his arms with harsh trembles.

“You won’t help me.” Peter’s words shivered along with the rest of him. His whole body began to vibrate. “Stop saying that, you won’t help me.”

Tony furrowed his brows.

“Peter…” his voice had to claw its way out of his throat. “I haven’t said a thing.”

The only sound Tony could hear was his own pulse, thumping erratically under his skin.

That, and Peter’s mixed octaves. Vocal folds of different tones twisting into one.

“It wasn’t my f̧a̸͢͝ul̵͟t̸͘͟ . ̸͘͟ .” And again. Two sounds, slithering out his mouth. “It wasn’t my fa̧ul̢t.”

Steve threw Peter a look, mixed concern and apprehension stealing his resilience. 

“We know you didn’t mean to hurt your principal, Peter.” 

No acknowledgment.

No recognition. 

“I wǫn͠’͝t҉ l͡et̡ you,” he kept saying, over and over again. Distortion twisting his voice with rotting erosion. “I wǫn͠’͝t҉ l͡et̡ you.”

Slowly, Steve reached over his own shoulder. Clenching the tip of his shield, but not daring to bring it forward.

Any other day, and Tony would’ve blasted the man straight out of the Quinjet. Let him sink back into the arctic and freeze over for another seventy years.

Instead, his repulsors began to accelerate with steady activation. The blue glow swelled to life. 

And he didn’t point it at Rogers.

“Kid...you gotta clue me in, here,” Tony timidly said. His hand began to shake at his side, his feet chained to the ground. “Talk to us. Tell us what’s going on.”

Though Peter's hands still covered his ears, Tony doubted it had any part in his failed acknowledgment. His voice began to garble, caught with an invisible liquid inside that made it sound as if he were underwater. 

“I won’t let you. I won’t. I wǫn͠’͝t҉ l͡et̡ you.” A gurgle nearly surged up his throat. It warbled his words astray. “Go away. G͢o ͏a͢w͞ay !”

“Peter…” Tony looked to Steve, hard-locking his eyes with the soldier before turning back to the cot. “Can you hear us?”

The question was so quiet, Tony almost wondered if he’d even spoken.

"You d̡on̡’̷t̛ ̵c͠on͘"tr͟ol m̧e."

It wasn’t his voice that had been hushed. 

It was Peter’s overtaking his.

“You do͜͝ņ͜’̕t̶҉ ͞͏͢ç͝o̷̴n҉̨͠t̛r͢o͘l̛ ̨͘͘m͢͞e͏ … ” His voice grew louder.

Harsher. 

The sound of sizzling began to escalate, a sweltering noise that cooked the air hot. Steam began to emit from each and every IV that traced back to Peter. 

“ Y̛oud̸̡o҉̧n’̶t̕͜c̕͜on͝trol͢m̢e̷ … ” His voice crackled like burning grease. “ Y̛oud̸̡o҉̧n’̶t̕͜c̕͜on͝trol͢m̢e̷ … ”

The crystal clear liquid inside the IV’s boiled over, tiny bubbles filling the plastic lines. Colorless fluid transmogrified into something darker. Blackness surged through; a thick, curdling sludge that started from Peter, birthing from his veins until it shot right back into the machines tied to him.

Alarms blared. 

The plastic IV lines melted apart.

With wide eyes, Steve stepped back, whipping the shield out in front of him.

“Tony, get —!”

Tony felt the scream before he heard it.

He saw it before he felt it.

“ Ȳ͍̤̏͊͜o̢̠̤͖̻ͭṳ̷̝̩̳̞̿͂ͪ̚͟ͅ ̙̻̣̜̱̮͕̋̒̃ͦ̾̽̓̓́͟͟d̘̰̒̄͒̔͟ȏ̲̪͇̗ͧň̻͕̠̈́ͩ̍ͮ͘͞’̵͔ͧ͂ͭ̆ͪͥ̎͂t̢̳͇̬̻̭͛ͭ̌ͩ̐̕ͅ ̸̨̧̘̳̹̘̜̞̫̔͌ͮ̋̒C͚̬̫̑ͨ͆́ͮͫ͛ͮ͟ͅO͍̬͙̼̦̩͇͙͂ͪ̓͘͞N̦̤͔̱̞̙̖ͦ̊̍̄ͧ̅̈̍͜T̝̭̬ͣ̉̆̔̓͡R̴̡͚̆ͨ͂͝Ỏ͓̼̰͙̣̫̞̌͊ͬ̅͝Ľ̸̛͙͎͎̥̘̗̬̺ͥ̊̏̊ͧͅ ̶̲̯͔̱̦̃͌ͮ̇̿̂͒̐ͩ̚͘͜M̿͛͆̄ͭ҉̕͏͇̥̰͖Ę͇ͯ͗͟ ! ”

The IV lines broke open with the eruption of a geyser. Curdling strands of sludge shot outward, latching out at every direction. Screeching with a sound inhuman. 

It knocked into his chest, sending him reeling back. Flying through the air without the need for his thrusters.  

“OmFP!” Tony landed on his backside with a thud that was never heard. Not over the shrieks of withering tendrils, multiple black stems growing larger with every pulsating second. 

More alarms blared. This time from the cockpit. 

“Barton!?” Tony crawled to his feet, only to slide straight into the nearest wall. His hip smacked into one of the empty chairs before he was tossed to the side, landing on his knees and tumbling from there. He didn’t stop until he crashed into the furthest wall.

A weightlessness took his stomach out of his body. 

“Barton, what’s —!?”  

“Yeah, we’re going down!” Clint practically had to scream over the blaring alarms. He fought to unbuckle his seat-belt, fighting even harder to get out of the pilots chair. “Sucker’s knocked out power to all the controls! I got nothing up here!”

Tony couldn’t get his bearings, couldn’t stand up straight. 

Gravity didn’t exist. Not as the jet began to plummet to the ground.

“Tony, we got a problem over here!” Steve did scream, and it sounded every bit as unnerving as Tony expected it to.

He gripped the armrest to the nearest chair, forcing himself up with the quick aid of his repulsors.

“No shit, Captain Obv —!”

At the distinctive sound of a growl, the insult died on his lips. Tony didn’t need to look over to know who it belonged to. 

It was the only noise he’d ever heard that had a color to it. 

His hands gripped the chair harder, his eyes growing large.

They locked ahead, right where Wanda kneeled on the ground. Clinging to that same chair for support.

Tony’s breath shattered in his chest. “Now, Maximoff!”

Wanda shook her head — timidly, wordlessly. The fear reflecting in her eyes saying what she wouldn’t speak.

Bruce’s roar quaked the falling jet. Limbs of the symbiote convulsed as they entwined with machinery, slithering across the ground and latching onto anything in its path.

Tony shot his head over to the cot. To Peter. Watching in horror as an effusion of ooze poured out from within him, an entity that covered the Quinjet with a shadowy cast of oil. 

He whipped back around to Wanda with painstaking speed. 

“Do something!”

She shook her head again. More frightened than the last time. 

He resorted to a sidesplitting shout. 

“Wanda!”

“I could hurt him.”

Tony just barely heard her. She didn’t yell. Her voice quivered, a wetness clouding her words with tears lodged in her throat. 

She couldn’t yell. 

Bruce’s growing rage made up for it.

Clint fell to one knee as he scrambled to make his way out of the cockpit. 

“Sun’s getting real low, buddy!” He slid to the side, cursing as his shoulder collided into the nearest wall. “Almost dinner time! Moon’s coming out — clear sky, all the stars you can see —!”

“Unless you’ve suddenly turned into Jessica Rabbit, that’s not gunna do us a lick of good!” Tony rolled his eyes as he gripped the chair keeping him upright. It was the only thing that planted his feet to the ground.

That was, until a force of turbulence shook the spiraling Quinjet. It twisted onto its side, toppling every loose thing in its wake.

With one arm, Steve clung to a beam that lined the ceiling, his legs dangling freely beneath him. 

Machinery hurtled away to the front of the jet, nearly crashing into Clint had he not forced himself up against the wall; making himself as small as possible to avoid getting pummeled.

Steve’s shield slid across the floor, landing somewhere in the cockpit. Blackened tentacles latched onto it, eating away at the Vibranium until it could no longer be seen.

“Tony!” Steve shouted, his face contorting. He grunted with exertion as his other arm grabbed onto Bruce’s ankle, keeping him from sliding away like everything else. The limb grew underneath his grip, noticeably changing colors along with size. “Get this thing back in the air!”

Tony craned his head around — and then up, where Steve dangled from the ceiling. Clinging onto the smallest beam his hand could hold onto. The other hand held Bruce — what was now Bruce, and very soon not to be Bruce.

Tony grimaced. 

It was his fault. He jinxed it.

“Goddamn it!” Tony could feel his throat close up as his thrusters sounded to life. He spared Wanda one last look — a plea — before letting his jets take control.  

He shot off, his boots propelling him to the furthest wall on the Quinjet. Right where the door hatch was. Right where he could get outside, get underneath the jet. Stop its fall and get the thing back into the air. 

His hand was mere inches to the handle when a hardened, viscous fibril hooked around his arm. 

“Ofphm!” 

A strand of symbiote. A limb — alive — entombed his body like wax once melted, quick to a harden. 

"Shit —!” 

It pulled at him, throwing him against the floor and pressing him firmly to the ground. Black sludge encased his arm like a cast, gluing him where he couldn’t rise up. Trapping him face first to the floor of the Quinjet. 

From across the way, Clint watched — eyes widening beyond what felt humanely possible. His face pressed firmly against the wall, unable to fight gravity's nature. Unable to move even at the slightest. 

“Wanda,” he gasped for air to yell. They were losing oxygen in their plummet. “Please!”

Wanda heaved out a shaking breath. Her knees trembled as she forced herself to crawl, using the seat nearby to inch her way forward.

She swallowed hard, and then again after that. “If I hurt him —”
 
“We’re falling 45,000 feet in the sky —!” 

As it to prove Clint’s point, the Quinjet began to nosedive forward. The front of the aircraft began hurdling toward the ground, nearly taking Clint straight through the cockpit window had he not quickly clung to over-head beam from above.  

Both hands gripped the single, metal bar as his legs dangled freely below him. The steel cap toes of his boots clacked against the glass of the cockpit window.

“It’s him or us!” This time, he managed not just a yell. But a scream.

Wanda heard what wasn’t spoken in his words. What was barely seen through the spiraling fear that took his face hostage. 

But it was there. She saw it, through the panic, through the frantic terror that paralyzed his every muscle. 

Someone begging to see their family again.

Someone begging for their life.

Begging not plunge to a certain death in a spiraling out of control aircraft that just seconds ago he had perfect control over.

A sickening wail tore through the chaos engulfing them. Wanda shot her head around, her eyebrows furrowed deeply. Her face twisting in building distress.

The pain wasn’t just hers.

Each drag of her knees required the support of something to bring her forward. A seat. The wall. Tony’s armored leg that had all but been fused to the floor with convulsing, greasy tendrils. 

She grabbed hold of the cots frame, and the limbs of black branches that kept it in place. Like a tree rooting itself into the ground. They spurred out in growing numbers, each making a sound of its own. Each crying for release.

Peter was center of it all.

"Pavuk dytyny...." One hand of Wanda’s clung to cots metal frame, and the sinew that wrapped around it. The other lifted into the air. Her fingers shook harder than the aircraft itself. “Can you hear me?”

A glow of magic began to spread from the tips of her fingers. Gradually. Just enough that her fingernails had turned a crimson red. Highlighting her cuticles with a shining, ethereal cherry tint.

In front of her, Peter said nothing. His mouth laid ajar, dribbles of burnt ooze crusting his lips and chin. Agony twisted his face tight. Unmistakable pain giving a silent scream for help.

The symbiote emerged from his center, from the depths of his core. She kneeled at his side, bringing her hand closer to his face. Inches to where their skin could touch. 

Magic was their only barrier. 

“Please, Peter…"

Wanda could feel the pull of gravity in her gut. Her hair flew wildly in her face, locks of red tangling and catching in her eyes. “Hear my voice. Hear me. "

Her eyes burned as they watered, but the tears weren’t shed — not as the violent force of their free-fall pulled the skin of her face painfully taut. 

“I know it has not consumed you yet...I know you are still in there.”

A thundering roar sounded from above. She barely flickered her eyes in that direction. 

“Tony!” Steve shouted from above, dangerously close to loosing his grip on Bruce’s ankle. The green coloring to his skin was now undeniable. “You gotta—!”

“I can’t!” Repulsors ceaselessly rumbled over Tony’s voice. His palms lit ablaze with jets that ignited, but led him nowhere. The symbiote cemented him on the ground.  “FRIDAY! Set controls to —!”

“The wheel is covered in gunk, Stark!” Clint’s voice fell hoarse as he shouted over the deafening sounds of rushing air seeping through the Quinjet. Any louder and his eardrums would surely burst. “Ain’t no way FRIDAY is —!”

For Wanda, the chaos was a world away.

“Please…” Her face contorted, the joints of her fingers cracking in demented ways. The luminous intensity of magic swelled, pooling around her hands and growing closer to Peter’s face. Her nails brushed up against his eyelashes. “I cannot control your fear. I can only control my own.”

Despite her words, Peter remained unfazed. His mouth bled oil, drips of sludge that fell from the tip of his tongue. His eyes, wide open, gave frantic twitches and spasms.

Brown irises were gone, consumed by the same blackness that overtook the jet.

“Wan…” His voice convulsed with two overlapping sounds. Two vocal cords, spoken from the same mouth. “ W̬̯͉̪̲̹̬a̯͢n̺̗̝̙̬̰̪.͇͇̯̰̹.̫̩̞̭̠͎.҉̼̝̮̫̝̪d̟͕̭̜̱̩̜a̹̻͕̹̰̯̲͘ . Get...g̨͈͈̯̲͚̳̥e̝̱t̶̞̪ ̦͕̗̱̞̕aw̸̰a̟͉y̪̭̗ . ”

Wanda crawled closer.

“I fear for you, Pietro. I fear your loss.” Her voice croaked, and her knees leaned heavily into the oily twines that that weaved intricate webs around them. “I fear losing you, just as I have lost before.”

Blackened symbiote that started as twines slowly germinated, increasing in size. Growing into vines that latched on any empty space.

They sprouted out towards Wanda. Squirming at the magical barricade that kept them at bay.

She paid no mind to any of it. Refusing to look away from Peter.

“I cannot lose another brother.”

With a cry that stemmed deep from her chest, Wanda pressed the palm of her hand directly against Peter’s cheek. 

The burn of crimson disintegrated the shell of black encrustation, right where her hand rested. 

If there was any noise in the jet, if any sound had been made outside of her own, she didn’t hear it. Not over her own cry. Certainty not over Peter’s.

A howl tore through Peter’s throat, only growing silent when a sickening retch spewed sludge from his mouth.

“When I lost Pietro…” The feel of loose tears smeared across Wanda’s eyes, pushing back against her temple where the force of gravity took it. It got lost somewhere in the tangles of her hair, whipping wildly in the air. “When my brother was taken from me...it felt as if I had died as well.” 

She kept her hand in place, gently. No more force than if she were to cradle a child. Her palm highlighted every vein, every capillary that sat underneath Peter’s skin. 

Still, he didn’t move.

A barrier of scarlet built between her skin and Peter’s, forcing her hand away like two opposites of a magnet. The branches of sinew that grew from his core began to convulse, twitching with an unspoken pain. Seizing with escalating intensity.

Wanda didn’t let up.

“If I lose you...I just know I will feel the same.” 

Her hand drew further away. The wall of crimson grew stronger. Brighter. 

Casting over the entirety of the jet. 

“I cannot lose you, too.” The sound of rushing air blowing through the plummeting jet could no longer be heard. “I won’t.”

An ear-splitting hum increased in frequency, piercing through the chaos of panic.

Creating its own chaos in its place.

It accompanied the out pour of red that radiated from Wanda. Birthing straight from her. The magic intensified beyond her handling, her face writhing with growing agony as the joints of her fingers bent in unnatural directions.

Wanda’s eyes squeezed shut as she screamed, deep from within her chest. 

"I won't lose you too!"

The hum started to drone, rumbling with a vibration that had Wanda’s teeth chattering and aching. Just as quickly, it pulsated into a deafening throb. 

A second lasted a lifetime. 

Noise was muted, down to the beats of their heart.

And the burn of magic blinded every corner, every inch that surrounded them. 

Wanda screamed, open-mouthed. Soundless.

The explosion coursed through the Quinjet with powerful waves. Crashing into the walls with ripples of magic that engulfed them. Submerging the space, if only for a moment. Drowning them in an electrifying crimson light.

It didn’t stop with a sprinkle or rain, nor did it fade back to its source. Her magic stilled. Evaporating with a tired, sizzling whimper. 

When it was over, Wanda opened her eyes, wide and terrified. They latched onto Peter’s — still in front of her.

Eyes as terrified as she was.

No sooner did the blackened vines around them recede by the tenfold. Limbs shaped like branches withdrew, slithering back from where they came. Losing grip on anything they had attached to. 

Squirming with palpating shrieks as they drew back from where they were conceived. 

Peter’s eyes never left Wanda’s. Not as each tendon of symbiote retreated inside the pores of his skin. Not as the strands of toxic substance reversed back inside him.

The final strand withdrew, and with it Peter took in a shaky, tumultuous gasp. 

And then another. 

Before his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fell over sideways. Limp on the cot.

Wanda stayed frozen, hands still in the air — albeit trembling with the same strength that her chest shuddered. Her breaths came in quicker as each puff of air she let out shook.

She never heard the Irish accent flood through the jets speaker system.

She never even heard the armored footsteps come hammering her way.

FRIDAY continued to speak, almost quietly in comparison to the mayhem that subsided. Or perhaps her ear drums had taken too hard of a beating.

The footsteps only got heavier as they approached her. Thundering against the metal floor of the jet. Nearly toppling her over.

Wanda stayed kneeling, even as Tony fell to his own knees right at her side. 

Desperately, he reached out for Peter. But stopped halfway there. 

There was sound around them. Sound of Steve talking to Bruce, the sound of Clint frantically working the controls of the jet. Noise of machines being tossed aside, or brought back to their general vicinity. 

Wanda knew there was sound, but she couldn’t hear any of it. Too focused on where she looked. Too focused on the sight of her hands, shaking in front of her. But no magic to be seen. 

“Did you just put that thing back where it came from?” 

Tony’s question was the first thing she heard.

His voice was too shaky, even for her own liking. Yet expected, all things considered.

Wanda failed to nod. She couldn’t even look his way. Her eyes were glued to her hands, as if it were the first time she’d ever seen them.

After what had happened, it might as well have been.

“I think so,” she finally managed, so quiet Tony almost didn’t catch it.

Tony didn’t bother asking her to repeat what she’d said. He noticed her instability – not just physically. Not just the aftershocks of an adrenaline high that came from a crashing aircraft.

Her eyes only grew wider as she continued to stare at her hands. Disturbed by her own actions, her own abilities — unleashing a chaos that Strange had warned her about, and instilled a fear in her of all she could do.

Tony, on the other hand, let out a breath of relief that caved his entire body inwards. With it, he laid an open palm on Peter’s chest. The kid didn’t budge an inch.

“That hat trick is going to come in handy,” he said, his voice finding a tad bit more footing than before. 

As if that were the thing that brought her hurling back to reality, Wanda swiftly threw her arms across her chest and stuffed her hands deep underneath her elbows. She shook her head at a maddening speed.

“I do not think I can do it again.”

The distress that spiked in her voice was evident, almost painfully so. Tony’s head shot over to her fast enough to leave his brain spinning, as if the sudden tailspin of a roller coaster ride hadn’t just done that.

His hand still laid resting across Peter’s chest, lifting with the slight, uneven breaths that came out of Peter’s lungs. But he kept his gaze locked on Wanda’s, noticing how rigid her arms stayed at her sides. 

As if she didn’t dare to bring them out ever again.

Tony gave a nod. Just one bob of his head. “Fair enough.”

There was still chaos around them. Tony gave a brief survey to inspect the damage. Steve had rushed Bruce somewhere quiet, no doubt staving off a code green that came far too close for their comfort. Whereas up front Clint worked to get the monitors and infusion pumps out of the cockpit, pushing machinery aside with murmurs too quiet to be heard.

And yet aside from the damage brought on by a drop at 45,000 feet in the sky, the jet remained unscathed.

Not a stain of black in sight.

Tony looked for it. Everywhere, every corner his eyes could latch onto. And then back down at Peter, with his brows crinkling harshly. 

There wasn’t even a dot of ink on him. 

“FRIDAY?” he croaked out, his one hand remaining on Peter while the other ran down the length of his incredibly exhausted face.

A flash of sweat briefly coursed over his skin, hidden underneath the metal of his suit. His eyes slid closed, just for a second. He didn’t dare let them stay that way. 

“Take the wheel.” Tony’s head tipped forward, cautiously eyeing Peter. “And step on the gas.”

Though nearly everyone else in the jet had departed for their own reasons — Tony was almost sure now that he could hear classical music playing from the bathroom — he didn’t dare move from his spot.

Neither did Wanda.

Tony took pride in his intelligence. Always had. It wasn’t something to be modest about, after all.

So to find himself at a complete loss — unable to explain anything, why there wasn’t so much a fleck of symbiote leftover from an outburst that had strewn the jet into pitch darkness…

Peter remained unmoving. Unconscious, with no signs of coming to. 

For the rest of the flight, Tony didn’t take his eyes off him. 

 

 

 

 

Their arrival couldn’t have come soon enough. It made no difference that they reached their destination nearly an hour earlier than expected. Tony wanted them — needed them — to get there sooner.

Any second wasted was a second they didn’t have to lose.

“Drop to 26,000. Heading zero-three-zero,” Steve quietly instructed from the cockpit. “Keep her steady on the absolute altitude.”

The aircraft swooped down low, and if Tony hadn’t known better, he would’ve braced for impact. As it were, his hand may have clenched the headrest of the co-pilots chair a tad bit tighter than before. Seams that were already ripped open dug deep into his fingernails.

If anyone noticed, they kept their mouths shut. 

In his defense, to watch them practically barrel straight towards the ground — straight, straight towards the ground, no ifs, and’s, or butts about it — his rather impressively restrained panic was justified. 

The Quinjet tipped forward, aiming right into the luscious green trees within a jungle that went on far past what their eyes could see.

And yet, despite what it first looked like, they never so much as kissed lips with the wilderness below. Technology disintegrated at the very touch of the aircraft, dissolving away as if it had never been there to start with. 

Tony could distinctly hear as the optical illusion broke away; losing the image of an impossibly vast, barren rain forest. 

Just like that, reality materialized as quickly as they could blink. Forgoing the camouflage that hid the continent. 

And exposing the wonders ahead.

It was Tony’s first time seeing it all, with his own eyes —  the real deal. A part of him wished he could’ve enjoyed the awe inducing splendor that came with such a sight. To bask in the technological wonders that made his eyes glow and his heart skip a beat. 

He looked back at Peter — still motionless. Still stricken sick. The reflection of the Wakanda city lights highlighted his face, and Tony frowned. 

There wasn’t time for that.

They’d be lucky if they had any time at all.

Though they arrived early, Tony wasn’t surprised to be greeted by a swarm of armed forces. They circled the Quinjet before the aircraft had even landed. Troops of soldiers flocked the landing pad in front of the Citadel, surrounding them in a besieged fence of red and gold. 

“They have spears,” Clint dryly stated, moving his hand to the controls that retracted the wings of the Quinjet.

Steve leaned over the pilots chair, standing right beside Tony. They both watched the slow descent of the aircraft with intent focus.  Though it was hard to tell if Steve was concentrating on the landing, or the cluster of women that enclosed around them.

“Take it slow,” he absentmindedly ordered, his attention clearly elsewhere. “Land nice and easy.”

Clint pressed a few buttons on the control panel before pulling the wheel towards him, twisting it tight.

“Nah,” he sarcastically drawled out. “Think I’ll just drop it from here. Piss off the girls with the spears. Sounds like a good idea in my books.”

Steve looked like he wanted to sigh. “It’s just —”

“Precautionary measures,” Tony finished for him, and no dryer than a desert. Not a second later and he was heading towards the back of the Quinjet. “Put it on the record that I draw the line at having to do any tribal dances. Sacrifices are up for discussion.”

Tony had expected the welcome wagon of forces. It was naive to think there wouldn’t be any. They had plead for sanctuary with a dangerous sentient being onboard — they were lucky to even be granted access to their mainland. 

No, when the Quinjet door slid open and revealed those outside, Tony had fully expected it. Not so much the spears, but hey, a tribe of African descent special forces using traditional weaponry wasn’t all too surprising. In the grand scheme of things, spears was the most normal part of the whole conundrum. 

What was surprising — what Tony absolutely was not expecting — was to see the King himself waiting at the entrance of the Quinjet. 

The King. 

Of Wakanda. 

Staring him down like he was a Tuesday night guest who had a plate set out for him at the dinner table.

Stunned, Tony barely had time to register the group of women that came marching inside. They barreled past him without a second thought, knocking into his shoulder and taking him off balance.

“Hey—!” Tony twisted around, his eyebrows dipping low as he watched the women hurriedly push the cot — and Peter — out of the jet. 

He barely had time to register what was happening. 

“Whoa, whoa, cool your jets there, She-Ra!” Tony tried reaching out for the cot, but the women had already quickly, and efficiently, made their exit. He all but stormed after them. “At least give me an itinerary before you go taking my stuff!”

The spears might as well have been decorative with the way the armed women proceeded to stare him down. 

Tony balked. 

And he thought Pepper knew how to give looks that could kill. 

“Fear not,” the voice came from in front of him, drenched in a Xhosa accent so thick that it coated his every word. “The Dora Milaje have no ill intent. They will be transporting the boy inside the Citadel, and from there, to our medical center. We will brief you on our methods shortly after.”

Tony spun his head around, watching wordlessly as the Dora Milaje took Peter away. They rushed past the King and the many guards that stood at his side, disappearing into the large tower not far behind them.

Gone. Just like that.

Though he wanted to say something snippy, Tony could barely manage a scoff. He couldn’t seem to split his attention, an act typically so effortless he could multitask in his sleep if he really wanted to. But his concern for Peter — now out of his reach, and most importantly out of his control — took his every focus.

If his eyebrows had furrowed any deeper, they could’ve created permanent dents in his forehead. 

T’Challa took note of his unease.

“Rest assure,” he stepped forward, closer to Tony. Breaking the personal space bubble he normally had for strangers. “He is in safe hands here.”

Tony went to say something — though in hindsight he had no idea what — when Steve came marching out of the Quinjet, quickly passing him by.

“It seems like I’m always thanking you for something,” Steve earnestly spoke, his arm reaching out towards T’Challa with an open hand to shake.

T’Challa readily took it. And he smiled in return. 

“My father would always say — in times of crisis, the wise will build bridges, while fools build barriers.” T’Challa used his other hand to cup Steve’s forearm, squeezing firm before letting go. “It is a privilege that Wakanda can be of assistance. Our resources are not, and should never, be limited to just my people. We are more than happy to help.”

Steve forced a tired smile, just enough that it tugged at the corners of his lips. His exhaustion seemed to be understood, as T’Challa took no offense to his candor. They were in crisis, after all. It was time to build bridges, and that meant work to be done.

Tony was noticeably staring far off into the city skyline when T’Challa tuned towards him, reaching out for a handshake that he at first didn’t notice.

“Mr. Stark,” T’Challa gained his attention. His hand stayed hanging in the air. “It is good to finally meet you in person. I have heard many things of your name.”

There was something in his tone that couldn’t go unnoticed. Either that, or Tony was smart enough to read between the lines. He quirked a high brow before taking T’Challa’s hand for a firm shake. 

“None of which were exaggerated, I’m sure,” he practically mumbled. The exhaustion wasn’t just limited to Steve. Though the sun shined brightly overhead, their night had been far too long. 

And to be faced with the conversation of his namesake — well, Tony would rather deal with an emerging Hulk again.

Still, T’Challa remained evenhanded on the matter.

“The past is a place of reference, not a place of residence,” he said, his grip on Tony’s hand tightening. “Don’t be wary. The stories I have heard to your name will not effect the care provided to your son.”

Tony dropped the handshake, a little too fast. He moved to rub the nape of his neck, acting nonchalant, as if it were his intention the whole time. 

He knew it didn’t look that way, but he tried, goddamnit. It felt like there was little to his pride left these days and he wasn’t going to let the remaining bit die on the soils of Africa surrounded by the Princesses of Power. 

“He’s not my…” Tony sighed. A hard grimace pulled at his face, as the armor covering his hand pressed harder against his neck. His eyes fell to the space between them. “It’s not like that. Parker’s...he’s just a kid I took under my wing. That’s all.”

When Peter was honest about something, there was no denying it. It took time to know that about the kid, but once he did, there was simply no going back. 

Tony had known himself his whole life. Since the day he was born. He still couldn’t figure out when he was being honest or not. 

But something told him this wasn’t one of those times.

T’Challa tipped his head to the side. 

Just by a fraction.

“We take family very seriously here, Mr. Stark. Blood or not.” The gravity in his voice was unmistakable. As was the sincerity. “Family is family.”

Tony wasn’t too sure how to respond to that. So he decided not to.

It was easier that way.

Dealing with the look Steve was giving him — that sort of look — he also decided not to respond to that. Because ignoring that was also far, far easier. 

Things fell quiet. Tenfold once the engine of the Quinjet shut off, the aircraft finally coming to rest in its landing spot.

It made the conversation that stemmed from inside all the louder.

“Should we bow?” The voices became more intelligible as they approached the outside, their footsteps hammering on the metal ramp that led them there. “I feel like that’s something we should do — he’s a King, right? People still bow to Kings?”

Tony’s head began to throb from the sheer force of how hard he rolled his eyes.

“Your sweater is ripped in six places and the button of your pants is indented somewhere in the cockpit.” The mechanical whir of arrows loading into a high-tech quiver briefly overlapped the voices. “Bowing isn’t going to make a lick of a difference.”

Steve turned around and Tony reluctantly followed suit. They watched wordlessly as Clint ambled down the ramp, counting the arrows inside the quiver that bounced across his chest.

Not far behind him and Bruce managed an awkward wave, all the while gripping the waist of his pants with one hand, keeping them from falling below. 

Because mooning the King of Wakanda was now on Tony’s radar of things to be worried about.

What had his life become.

“Gentlemen,” T’Challa greeted them as if nothing were awry. Tony gave the man credit for that — Clint was still counting the load in his quiver, for Christs sake. “Okoye will lead you through the Citadel. Those who need to disarmor will do so before entering the medical labs.”

That caught Tony’s attention.

“Hard pass on that, Pantera.”

It seemed to rustle Steve’s feathers just as much.

“That’s – that’s really not the best idea.” He stepped forward, his gestures firm yet his eyes somehow remaining soft. A stern form of command that always managed to get both sides to work for him. “In fact, it might be wise to up the security wherever you take him. Things have turned a bit more...problematic since we last spoke.”

T’Challa lifted an open palm to curb them both.

“It is okay,” he disclosed, clearly not troubled by Steve’s warning. “We have developed something that will help.”

Steve furrowed his brows while Tony arched his. Bruce continued to grip the waist of his pants, and Clint — that finally got him to stop counting his arrows. 

“Really? Already?” Clint looked around, more incredulous than anything. His eyes landed on Steve, no doubt needing reassurance from their leader. “Exactly how long ago did you send these people the documents?”

Steve turned towards him, sharing the same expression. 

“Around three hours,” he distantly answered. “Right before we left.”

Even Tony seemed taken aback, though his reaction was far more intrigued than skeptical.

T’Challa noticed, taking on a genuine smile that nearly melted the stress of the situation. 

“Avengers...you are in Wakanda now.” His smile grew — proud, and full of charm. “Only expect the best from us.”

The finality in T’Challa’s tone left no room for argument. Not that anyone wanted to stir one up. And certainty not that anyone wanted turn down the helping hand.

Tony found it hard to deny the flutter of hope that stirred in his chest, making breathing just a tad bit easier. They had bested their resources back home, after all. What options they had left were little to none, and statistically speaking, the outcome to them all were bleak.

But hearing T’Challa speak — and seeing Wakanda for himself — well...maybe they weren’t so screwed after all. 

“Please, follow me.” There was a contemplative silence, though not for long. T’Challa gestured to the Citadel that towered behind them. No sooner did he lead the way there. “My sister will be quite eager to show you what she has come up with.”