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“Hold up, kid, you need backup.”

“I got this, Mr. Stark!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m heading your — shit!”

Peter wasn’t sure what happened outside the warehouse. His comms erupted with loud explosions the moment he shot his webbing onto the absolutely, positively, enormous pile of reassembled Chitarui heads. Not a second later and he spun around, facing the broken windows of the warehouse; the mountain of alien tech disregarded as shouts from the others flooded his ears.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter tried to yell over the chaos. “Mr. Stark, what’s going on!?”

Only crackling static and high-pitch buzzing answered him, reminding Peter all too much of when May forgot to pay the cable bill — seriously, she needed to go on autopay by now. It happened at least once every few months.

Suddenly, Peter realized the static also reminded him a little too much of Times Squares. Not to mention his attempt at sneaking into the Avengers compound. The increasing hum in his ear vibrated hard enough to rattle the inside of his skull, the technology screaming as it failed to maintain connection.

And then it went silent.

“Uhm…guys?” Peter hated the way the panic made his voice squeak. “Anyone? This thing still on?”

One hand smacked ferociously at the side of his head, followed by the other doing the same on the opposite side. Any harder and he'd start seeing double. Before Peter could even part his lips for another attempt at reaching the team — and as absolutely bonkers as he knew it sounded — he could feel his suit go offline. The familiar whir of technology was the telltale sign that things were shutting down.

"Crap," Peter hissed. The explosions from outside had only gotten louder, like fourth of July on crack. And spinning on the balls of his feet to face the still enormous pile of reassembled Chitarui heads, Peter realized he wasn't sweating because of his nerves.

Not with the heat that was radiating off those suckers.

"Oh, boy..." Peter grimaced, watching as the once harmless pile of Chitarui heads started heating up. Each freakishly reassembled head glowed an eerily red and orange as they increased in temperature — and increased fast.

Double crap. They were ticking time bombs. There was no way he could let that many explode, there was no telling how bad the damage could be. An explosion like that could rock all of Brooklyn.

Without a second thought, Peter shot web grenade after grenade. Trapping the pile as best as he could — and frantically, at that.

“Okay, Parker, you got this.” Peter swallowed heavily, ignoring the trickle of sweat that got trapped in his hair and beneath his mask. “Web ‘em up. Contain them. Then go and help the others. No big deal, you got this."

The webs shot out faster than he could keep up with, each smacking like gum against the pile in front of him. He could do this. If he could stop a plane from crashing, he could totally do this.

The pile of alien tech had barely been covered when Peter noticed the rising fog from below, creeping up his ankles and pouring over the ground. It was thick; gray and dense, floating along the floor like clouds of smoke.

Peter froze, immediately thinking one and only one thing.

“Not so fast, pequeña araña.”

“Mysterio!” Peter spun around, his mechanical spider eyes wide at the sight of a green-clad, purple-caped man approaching him. Despite encountering him before, the fishbowl helmet still gave him a hearty chuckle. “Not-so-long time, definitely no see.”

The warehouse was beyond hot — it wasn't even an sauna at this point. It was hot hot. Sparing a glance behind him, Peter could see the Chitarui heads pulsating with energy, dimming from nothing into a burning, fiery red. The encasement of webbing spread across them had already melted into white goo.

Not cool. What a waste.

“Mysterio…” the man hummed, the sound echoing from within his helmet. “Felicitous. Almost…foreordained.”

Peter cocked an eyebrow beneath his mask. Of all times for this clown to show up, it just had to be when he needed to contain an flipping-fracking-impending explosion. The timing couldn’t be any worse.  

“Oh…kay,” Peter drawled out, shaking his head. Almost immediately after, he pointed at Mysterio. “Hey, you gotta tell me — what’s up with the Spanish?”

The man chuckled. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Peter stepped forward, both to approach Mysterio and to steer clear of the rising heat that began to burn his backside.

“Actually, no, not really.” Peter forced a deep breath when it didn't feel possible. Hot was no longer the right word to describe the heat. Blistering air entered his lungs and he nearly choked on the exhale. “What I would like is for you to turn yourself in to the Avengers.”

Mysterio titled his glass-encased head. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Peter pointed an accusing finger his way. “You stole Mr. Stark's...property." Okay, now he was gasping between words. Definitely not cool. "Stealing is...illegal, you know.”

Peter wiped at his brow, momentarily forgetting that it was covered by his mask. The panic in his chest was rising with the temperature. If he had any doubt before, there was none now. He knew, for sure, no doubt about it, that his suit was offline. The temperature regulating feature failed to provide any sense of cooling functions when he needed it the most.

The only thing worse than the scorching heat was the rising fog, growing in spades and increasing in thickness, rising all the way up past his waist. It obscured everything behind Mysterio, even covering the smoking hot Chitarui heads.

“That will be least of your concerns here in moment, Gluppy mal'chik.”

The voice was different, distinct with a heavy Russian accent. Though Peter could barely make out the figure through the fog, he did see an outline approaching him. Slowly but surely. Each step breaking through the clouds one limb at a time.

“Wow..." Peter drawled out, shaking his head along the way. "You guys are really making me regret not picking up more foreign language electives.”

By the time the man was side-by-side with Mysterio, Peter could see clear as day what he was looking at.

“Hey…” he gaped, the shutters of his eyes growing wide. “That’s Mr. Stark’s helmet.”

The man didn’t respond. Peter imagined he would've spoken in Russian even if he had. Fog circled around the stranger, swirling in thick waves around the crisp, white helmet that covered his head. Unlike the cartoonish, colorful costume that Mysterio wore, he was clad in all black; a sharp contrast to the colorless device on his head.

“Give that back.” Peter took one, hard step forward, as if ready to snatch the device right off the stranger's body.

There was still no response.

Seriously, what was with these guys being so mysterious?

Peter shook his head, frustrated, knowing he didn’t have time to waste. With one swift movement, he lifted his arm and pressed two fingers down on his web-shooter —  a stream of webbing heading directly for the man’s head.

It was dodged just as quickly as it came.

One more stream of webbing, and he rolled on the ground, concealing himself in the depths of the thick fog.

"Hey!" Peter made a face, the furrow of his brows leaking sweat straight into his eyes. He blinked to try and get rid of it. "Play hide and seek another day, will you!?"

The harder Peter tried to focus on detaining the man, the more his eyes began to burn, with an ache throbbing fiercely at the back of his head. It was eerily similar to when his the spider bite hadn’t fixed his eyesight and he wasn’t wearing his glasses — which he still almost always forgot, despite being blind as a bat. The teachers assumed he sat up front because he was interested, when in reality he couldn't see a darn thing, having always forgotten his frames on his nightstand.

Peter shook his head of the thought. The strain was taking a toll on him, and quickly.

Shit. Just like Times Square. 

“Your enhanced senses struggled greatly to see through the man’s fog." That's right; he remembered what Karen had told him.

Crap.

Peter shot web after web, aiming everywhere at the ground without any real destination in mind. The guy was fast and slick, dodging each one that came his way. Peter could hear as they went splat! on the floor. Even when using both web-shooters at the same time, his attacks were easily evaded.

The only other person Peter knew who was that agile was the Black Widow.

“Karen?” Peter squatted low to the floor, hoping to be unseen by the two men. “Karen, come on, give me something here!”

Two feet stepped into his line of sight, stomping harshly on the ground. They both hissed out a larger blanket of fog from the tips and heels of the golden boots; the shoes going on to release a mist thicker than clouds in the sky.

Peter looked up, expecting to see Mysterio looming above. He did, of course, but in the way that only Spider-Man's reflection stared back at him from the glass helmet.

“Technology dampening nanites embedded within liquid particulates to create a fog,” Mysterio explained, his head — and the fishbowl helmet — cocking to the side. “You should know by now that your tech won't work. ”

“Oh." Peter smacked his lips, ridding them of the sweat that poured down in layers from his forehead, trapped beneath his mask. "So, that’s what that is.”

Mysterio reached to his boots, tapping along the side and making an adjustment that let out a thicker stream of fog. “Add a dash of neurotoxin compound to mute that pesky sixth sense of yours."

Peter took the opportunity of distraction. He raised his arm and shot a strand of webbing to the ceiling, yanking himself up in the process.

“Wow, you guys have done all your research on me!” Peter flipped down from the ceiling. “I’m flattered!”

One single strand of webbing latched onto the chameleon helmet before he'd even landed on the ground. Peter figured — hoped — if he could latch onto it, he could confine the man and get him to the Avengers.

Only, his next attack was dodged.

Again.

And Peter ended up rolling on the ground, sliding to a halt by the soles of his feet.

"Give up, Spider-Man!" Mysterio hollered from across the way, the echo of his shout from his glass helmet barely heard over the sizzling Chitarui heads from nearby. "This is not your fight to win!"

Peter shot his head up, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

He wasn’t giving up yet. Not while the device was right in front of him.

They weren't going to get away again.

"You know, Mysterio," Peter shot another web and the stranger clad in black twisted to the side. One more, and he bent backward, the webbing going straight to the wall behind him. "You never did answer my question about the fish! Should I call PETA or —"

“You might want to focus on saving your webbing, gluppy mal'chik,” the chameleon masked man interrupted — so casually, it were as if Peter wasn't out of breath from trying to detain him. “Those devices will take down everything around us if allowed to explode. Perhaps re-focus attention to big boom, no?”

Panting, Peter came to a sudden stop. With eyes narrowed and yet wide at the same time, he looked between both Mysterio and the strange man, and then finally back at the pile of Chitarui.

How did he know about —?

And why would he say…

Peter spun around to the pile.

“You’re behind this?”

It had been so long since anything, or anyone, had taken Peter by surprise. So long that he didn't even register when someone kicked him behind his knees. Having his spider-sense always alerted him to any danger; even when he didn't fully understand what the tingle meant he at least knew it meant danger.

There was no tingle. And as the foot collided with the back of his knees, two hands pulled his arms back. He didn't even have a chance to react.

"Ahh-ck!"

“I am behind everything, boy,” the man hissed, his Russian accent thick and heavy on his tongue. “Now come with me.”

Peter used the grip to his advantage, spinning around all at once. The swift movement shook the man off ever so slightly, just enough that only one arm was being held in his grasp. Peter shot out a strand of webbing that connected straight with his helmet — distracting him — pulling him forward and them smacking him right against his chest.

He needed to get that helmet off.

Now.

“No thanks, I’d rather stay here, thank —”

Distracted in detaining the Russian, Peter had forgotten all about Mysterio.

Mistake number one.

A hand reached over to grab his Spider-Man mask, ripping it off his head with one fluid motion.

Peter's mouth was abruptly covered with a thick cloth, pressing so hard into his face he could feel his nose squished up against the man’s palm.

“...you.”

Taking a deep breath in — mistake number two.

The smell was sweet and pungent at the same time. Peter didn’t have the chance to focus on it; his eyes went wide as he watched the man wearing the chameleon helmet flicker and blink, morphing into a rainbow of different hues. Colors of blue, pink and purple faded away in a light show that looked all too similar to when his phone would fritz out, or when his screen cracked too many times to repair.

And then, just like that, he was standing face-to-face with himself.

‘That can’t be right.’ Peter’s thoughts were hazy, clouded. Muddled. ‘Wait, no, that’s right. The mask. Appearance. He…and I…'

Within seconds, his muscles betrayed him, falling lax and useless like wet noodles. Peter's eyes fluttered and spasmed, fighting not to roll back despite how they moved against his will. He could have sworn he — Peter Parker — waved back at him.

'Huh?'

What?

The sound around him became distorted as he fought to stay conscious, everything suddenly slow and warped.

There was no fighting the drug.

Ultimately, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, his body going slack against whatever — whoever — held him up.

Mistake number three.

With Peter held by his grasp, Mysterio used his free hand to toss the Spider-Man mask to the Russian — the helmet impersonating him as Peter, who caught it with ease.

They didn’t speak; rather they exchanged a brief, curt nod to each other.

Mysterio teleported out, taking the unconscious Peter with him.

The Russian shoved the Spider-Man mask over his head — the chameleon helmet disguising him as Peter. And he waited for the fog to clear away from his surroundings.

Within seconds the building was clear of any offending vapor, and the comms from within the mask sparked to life. He smiled as the frightened, almost hysterical voices came pouring through.

“Kid, get out of there, now!” Stark yelled. “Peter, NOW!”

Briefly looking behind him, he could see that the pile of Chitauri was set to go off any second.

Perfect.

“I can’t — I can’t!” he yelled back, acting in a panic. “I’m stuck, I — you gotta help me, Tony, I’m stuck!”

He never waited for a response. Ripping the mask off and tossing it to the side, he rolled his eyes with a hard-pressed grimace, right as Mysterio re-appeared in the room and latched onto his arm.

Within seconds, they were gone. Teleporting out of the building in a blink of an eye.

Everything that occurred after was simultaneous, almost synchronized.

They disappeared as the Spider-Man mask landed on the ground.

And when the mask touched the floor, the building exploded.

Less than one minute later, Iron Man flew inside.

“Peter!?”

His shouts were barely heard above the blazing flames.

 

---

 

The room had fallen completely silent.

Everyone seemed to be caught in a tidal wave, stuck between shock and disbelief, and something far too out of reach to be named.

Tony, however, seemed to be the first to ground himself.

“That’s impossible,” he insisted.

Stephen glared at him, his cloak wavering with a breeze that didn't exist.

“Trust me when I say, nothing is impossible.” Stephen gave the entire room a brief once-over, before landing his sights back on Tony. “You should have heeded my warning.”

Stepping forward — cautiously, slowly — Steve found himself doing the same thing; directing his attention right at Tony.

“You know this man?” he asked.

“Never met him before a day in my life.” Tony didn’t dare to break eye contact with Strange, not even when Steve approached him and stood uncomfortably close at his side. Tony's stare was piercingly angry, highlighting the dark bags that sat above his cheekbones; adding exhaustion to his body that didn't seem physically possible.

It did nothing to deter Strange.

“Warning?” Natasha slowly approached them, lingering a few steps behind Steve. “What message are you talking about?”

Bruce moved to stand behind her. “When I came back from —”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tony quickly interrupted, turning his head over his shoulder to spare a glance at the others. “He’s too late.”

Stephen cocked an incredulous eyebrow, and Tony turned back to face him with his lips tightly pursed.

“You’re too late,” he repeated — firmer than the last time, darker than before. His eyes were narrowed and tight, carrying resentment that could be felt miles away.

The others didn’t dare to intervene. Not with that look spread across his face.

Stephen, however, titled his head. “Am I, now?”

”Tony…” Steve looked between them, his eyes flittering left to right. “What’s going on?”

Tony didn’t respond. He couldn’t — a sea of unraveled emotions pulled apart what little self control he had left. The desire to hide away, drink himself into oblivion — it was quickly replaced with an unruly, animalistic need to tell this man everything he had done wrong. Blame him for everything, all he allowed to happen.

Make him pay for letting one of the few people that mattered to him be ripped away.

He knew. The man knew, and he didn’t help.

That alone sent a bubbling rage to course through Tony's veins.

“He brought me back from Sakaar. From space,” Bruce timidly explained. Tony's lack of answer provoked him to step forward, hesitant and nervous as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “He gave me a message for Tony.”

Natasha dropped her shoulders and held in a sigh, shaking her head with growing exasperation. “Thanks, as always, for sharing it with the group, Stark.”

“You’ll have to pardon me," Tony's attention finally snapped. He twisted on his heels to face them all. "I’ve been a little preoccupied!”

Still, Rhodey shook his head. “Tony, I told you —”

“You knew about this?” Steve turned to him, jaw sagging; suddenly looking as exhausted as Tony did.

Rhodey held both hands in the air. “I plead the fifth."

Steve's scoff didn't go ignored. Neither did the next mumble that barely made it through his lips. “This is unbelievable.”

Tony heard it — loud and clear. “Do not start with me, Rogers.”

“It’s been secret after secret." Steve wasn’t backing down. While the others stared on with quizzical expressions, he approached Tony head on, his movements flowing with stern anger that leaked right into his voice. "Peter, the alien tech, now this? If this is your way of getting back at me for —”

“Not even remotely close,” Tony hissed, turning to Steve with a vein swelling on his forehead. “I’ll have you know I was planning on telling everyone! Sue me for wanting to figure out what it meant before I brought it to the round table. So, on that note —”

Tony turned right back to Strange.

“What gives you the right to show up now?”

Stephen folded both his arms over his chest, his cloak still making movements behind him as if there were a wind that brought it to life. There wasn't; not in the conference room located on the fourth story of the Avengers compound, without a single window in sight.

“I shouldn’t have to be here to begin with,” Stephen's voice was firm in his answer, direct and straightforward.

If Tony's eyebrow shot up any higher, it'd reach new heights not even the Iron Man suit could achieve.

“Oh, really?” Tony retorted. His eyes blinked a few times, and a few more after that to force off the effects of alcohol. Sobering up wasn't hard in his current predicament. “What exactly did you expect to happen when you gave Banner your meaningless, cryptic message?”

Stephen narrowed his eyes Tony's way. “I had hoped you’d put the two and two together, like the genius you supposedly are.”

Tony barked out a mixture of a scoff and laughter, turning away from Strange at the sheer audacity. By the time he turned back around, he was slightly more composed; though the stress still wore heavily on his face.

“This an apology visit?" he asked, sarcasm lacing his tone. "We didn’t crack the code in time, so you want to say sorry for everything going to hell in a handbasket?”

Vision, who had been sitting idly near the conference table, slowly got up from his seat.

“You stated that Peter Parker is still alive, am I correct?”

Wanda suddenly looked up, her eyes growing wide. “He is?”

“He’s not,” Tony spat back — so forceful, actual spit coated his lips.

“He is,” Stephen argued, quickly trampling over Tony.

“Yeah?" Tony arched his eyebrow even higher. "Where’s he at, then?”

Stephen didn’t respond.

The moment of silence gave Tony a sense of vindication. 

“That’s what I thought.”

“Even if I knew," Stephen started to say, letting a beat briefly steal his next words. "I wouldn’t be able to tell you."

Tony rolled his eyes hard enough for them to fall onto the floor.

“No, of course not,” he bit back, waving his hand at Strange in a floppy, slightly drunken manner. “You’d inscribe it in a poem.”

Across the room, Sam grabbed the sides of his head, going to rub his temples so harshly that the whites of his cuticles could be seen from afar.

“Okay, can we just —" Sam paused, the sound of his jaw unclenching audible through the conference room. "Take a time out here, for a minute? Rewind or something?”

Despite the urgency for answers, everyone obliged. The moment of silence was much needed, whether the others wanted to admit it or not. While Strange looked on with a sense of impatience, and Tony stood tall with growing agitation, they used the break from arguing to comprehend the situation as a whole.

It was a few minutes, at max. If anything, it gave them time to remember just how bizarre their lives were. And this was no different than the odd occurrences that had come before.

The many, many odd occurrences that had come before.

“What the hell is going on?" Sam finally looked up, drawing in a deep breath. "Who the hell are you?”

Stephen looked slightly annoyed as he turned to face Sam.

"I’m Doctor Stephen Strange," he repeated himself, letting that annoyance slip into his voice. "Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts.”

Natasha narrowed her one eye. “Magic?"

Stephen craned his head towards her. "Something like that."

Steve stepped forward with the most poise he could muster up, holding up both his hands open palmed as if to surrender.

“You’ll have to excuse us," he started to say, stopping right as he caught sight of the cloak wrapped around Strange's neck — watching for a moment as it caught a draft of wind that didn't exist. "We’ve had some trouble regarding…magic, lately.”

Stephen simply nodded. “I know.”

Wanda stood up from her chair, the legs squeaking harshly as she did.

“What else is it that you know?” she asked, stress lining each word she spoke.

Strange arched an eyebrow her way, not turning his head to face her but acknowledging her with a flicker of change in his expression.

No sooner than he did, he returned his attention to Tony.

“It's as I’ve said,” Strange calmly reiterated. “Peter Parker — he’s still alive.”

“Where is he?” Tony snapped, harsher than anyone had heard him before — and yet not harsh enough for his liking.

The cloak on Strange's back finally came to a calm, settling in place and looking no different than any other piece of outerwear. With it, the lines on his face deepened, creating a look of disturbance that couldn't go unnoticed.

“That…” Stephen paused, holding back a grimace. “I don’t know.”

Tony caved with a snort — drunken or not. A chuckle broke through the heated demeanor of anger and a full blown laugh came after that, growing so hysterical that Rhodey began to walk towards him.

"Tones —" he tried to start.

“Does anyone else appreciate the fact that Houdini here is able to tell us that Parker ‘isn’t dead,’” Tony's fingers used air quotations on the words, easily ignoring Rhodey's attempt to draw closer to him. “But he can’t whip out his crystal ball to let us know where he really is?”

If his disbelief had any effect on Strange, the man didn't let it show. Long, purposeful strides broke the distance that separated them, creating a real draft of wind to his cloak as he stormed forward.

“Let me ask you one thing, Stark," he said, standing close enough to the man that he could smell the whiskey on his breath. "What do I have to benefit from being here right now?”

Tony made a face of exaggerated pondering.

“Did you want to compare whose facial hair is better?” he asked, rubbing at his own goatee.

Stephen rolled his eyes. “For the love of —”

“Because I strongly believe I win that criterion.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an arrogant asshole?” Stephen asked.

Rhodey raised his hand in the air. “Everyday.”

Steve stepped between the two men, hand on Tony’s chest while he refrained from touching Strange.

“Why are you here?” Steve calmly asked, ignoring Tony as he slapped his hand away. It dropped down to his side and he let it stay there, all the while he remained sandwiched between the two men; his gaze fixated and unwavering on Strange.

Stephen looked between both Tony and Steve before keeping his focus on the latter; as if he could tell who was the most composed — possibly, even, who was the most sober.

“My job is to defend this universe from otherworldly threats. I protect reality as we know it,” Stephen explained, a pause lingering between what he said next. “Yours is currently being warped.”

Steve frowned, taking a few steps back until he was standing behind Tony.The others seemed just as perplexed, staring at Strange as if the cape and outfit weren't the weirdest thing about him.

They weren't; not with the answer they just received.

Only Bruce seemed to understand, removing his glasses and rubbing harshly at his eyes.

“Nothing is as it seems," he all but mumbled, aiming to talk to himself but gaining the rooms attention in the process.

Stephen nodded his head in the direction of Bruce, all while keeping his gaze firmly on Tony. “He understood it.”

Rhodey joined Tony's side, standing not far from Steve as he approached the huddle of men.

“Yesterday my concept of magic involved a fifty-two deck of cards,” he said, his voice as leery as each step he took forward. “How are you…how is this even possible?”

Of all the questions everyone had, Rhodey managed to ask the one that mattered the most. And Stephen took note of that, taking in everyone's hesitation and skepticism with a much more placid sense of patience. 

"It's not quite magic as you know it," Stephen began to explain. “I harness energy drawn from other dimensions of the multi-verse. In doing so, I am aided by magical patrons. A group of entities known as the Vishanti. A trinity of godly beings comprised of Hoggoth, Oshtur, and Agamotto.”

The team watched as Stephen slowly — but surely — crossed his arms, with his forearms overlapping and his index and pointer fingers spreading out wide like two peace signs. There was only a brief pause before he brought them together, both fingers firmly touching one another.

No one expected the silly ritual to do anything. And yet, within seconds, movement from the golden necklace worn around his neck began to shine a vivid, luminous green. So bright, it nearly illuminated the entire conference room.

A shimmering, radiant stone cast a light over them all, reaching every corner and landing on every face. Their shock only dissipated when Vision walked closer to the source, his head noticeably sticking out with a growing sense of curiosity.

“Am I correct in stating that is an infinity stone?”

Steve shot his head over to Vision with neck-breaking speed. Bruce and Natasha exchanged an apprehensive glance, as if their memories from just a few years prior were as fresh as yesterdays breakfast. And the others didn't dare tear their eyes away from the glowing gem, the green coloring their skin with a magical emerald sourced directly from the necklace it'd been attached to.

“It’s the time stone," Stephen's answer came with a nod. "It has the ability to manipulate time, even beyond where time exists — places like the dark dimension. It was contained inside here, the Eye of Agamotto, under the protection of myself and those who are left in the mystic arts. We have sworn to protect it with our lives.”

If Tony threw his arm out any quicker, it would've smacked straight into Strange.

“Well, there you go!” he all but exclaimed, gesturing wildly to the necklace. “That’s our Deus ex machina — use your shiny jewelry and take us back before this all happened.”

Stephen turned to him, his expression falling sour. “It doesn’t work that way."

Tony furrowed his brows, harshly. “You’re saying you have magic, but can’t use your magic?”

“I’m saying," Stephen stressed, "it doesn’t work that way.”

Tony pointed sharply at the necklace, his hand so close he could've ripped it right off the man's neck if he chose to.

“I don’t buy it.” Tony poked at the amulet with a stern finger, never once breaking eye contact from Strange as the necklace rattled in place. “If a machine doesn’t work, you repair it until it does. If you can’t use your magic on this, you fix that problem until you can. Every equation has an answer and every answer has an explanation.”

Stephen shook his head. “This isn’t science.”

Tony grounded his teeth. “Science is proving to be a lot more useful than whatever Illuminati black magic bullshit you have up your sleeve."

"Tones —" Rhodey's sigh didn't come close to reaching over their bickering.

“You throw around the term black magic, but this is far beyond the pale, weak sorcery you’ve been raised to believe in," Stephen tossed back, and harshly at that. "It comes at a cost…and we are not prepared to pay those prices."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Cut the cryptic —"

Rhodey tried, again. "Tony —"

"Using the time stone for any reason deemed unjust violates natural law," Stephen continued on. "If I were to have any more information, any more than what I already know, it would drastically change the events set in time. You’re looking at breaking apart the time-space continuum.”

Tony’s argument was on the tip of his tongue.

“The butterfly effect,” Bruce managed to speak before him. 

They all turned to look at him, Tony included.

Bruce slowly returned his glasses to his face. “One localized change in a complex system having large effects elsewhere. The theory that a single occurrence, no matter how small, can change the course of the universe forever.”

If Tony wanted to argue anything else with Strange, the fight died on his tongue. Especially as Bruce looked directly at him, catching his gaze head-on; as if knowing science was a language he best understood.

"If he's saying he can't know the details of our future, it's because knowing would change the future as it stands," Bruce spoke out loud, but kept his words directed to Tony. "It would make the knowledge he has...worthless. The future will change every time he learns more about it."

Tony made a face, but said nothing in response.

“You came here to tell us Peter is still alive." Wanda looked up at Stephen, the expression that fell on her face tighter than the words that thickened her accent. "You want us to find him.”

It wasn't a question. Rather, an acknowledgment of his task.

Stephen simply nodded, turning towards Tony with a noticeable frown. “I have been warned, by the Vishanti, that the death of your ward, Stark—”

“He wasn’t my ward,” Tony snapped.

Stephen noticeably rolled his eyes. “Whatever relationship exists here — it’s the catalyst. If not taken care of, it will start a chain of events beyond our control of stopping. Beyond even my control of stopping.”

“What chain of events?” Tony asked, hard-pressed, the liquor that left his system no longer at play for his anger. “What’s so awful from one kid kicking the bucket?”

Stephen didn't answer right away. The silence that followed seemed to be the longest yet, with a faint line deepening across his forehead.

Finally, “I have not been granted that knowledge.”

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Or perhaps the day’s events finally took a toll on him. Maybe, even, he couldn't handle his whisky as well as he could in the past. But for a moment, Tony stared ahead blankly, unable to think of a proper response. His mind went empty, and he blinked, once and then twice, before wearily shaking his head.

“Alright, I’ve entertained this long enough.” Tony turned around, shooing him away with his arm. “Grab your rabbit and leave through your top hat, or whatever pyrotechnic light show you have in your back pocket. I’m not sending anyone to walk you out, so you’re on your own —”

“Your kid is still alive!” Stephen argued, stepping forward — his feet hit the floor as loud as his voice broke through his throat.

Tony spun fast on his heels, the rage in his eyes blazing hot. “I watched him die!”

Stephen shook his head. “You watched a building explode.”

Tony pointed an accusing finger his way. “That he was in.”

Stephen slammed an open palm against his chest.

And the world stopped.

Tony felt it before he saw it. A sudden displacement from his body, as if his mind had become its own entity; disconnecting from everything that held him grounded in the real world.

Stephen used one hand to grab the wrist of the finger that pointed at him, yanking him forward with one harsh tug. In one fluid motion, he slammed his open palm against Tony's chest. The strike was so hard it knocked him off balance.

Or at least, it would have.

It should have.

Tony was witnessing real time in milliseconds, possibly even slower. Fractions of milliseconds. Fractions of fractions of milliseconds. He stared at his own body — his own body, caught in slow motion, stumbling backward.

Stephen's hand was still on him, covering his t-shirt, the balls of his heels barely having barely lifted off the ground.

With shaking panic, Tony realized that he wasn’t in his body anymore.

He stared at his hands with disbelief. The rough, callous fingers were so faint, so tangible that he could see the floor below him, like his skin was made of sheer glass. His physical body continued to fall backward, centimeter by centimeter, destined to hit the floor. The surrounding world around him moved like molasses; all as he floated away, a translucent form with no control.

And then, he was sent soaring.

Tony could feel the air knocked from his lungs at the forced momentum, losing all connection with the world that once was. He could feel the wind fly through his hair, hitting his skin, his stomach rolling with waves of nausea as he flew faster than Iron Man could ever dream of going.

It was a blur and spectrum of colors. A roller coaster caught within a kaleidoscope. Tony was vaguely aware that he was shouting, possibly even screaming — hysterically screaming. But he couldn’t comprehend anything that was going on.

He couldn’t connect with what was around him.

And then he stopped.

Face to face with dazed, glassy, brown eyes.

 

Young eyes.

 

Panicked eyes.

 

Peter’s eyes.

 

Tony could hear the kid's breathing — each inhale raspy, forced.

Alive.

Living. 

One blink, and everything was gone.

He came back with a gasp, the inhale so hard that it rattled his entire body. Tony barely caught his footing, his body stumbling back from Strange's push. His hands reached for his chest with trembling hands.

“What was that!?" Tony didn’t even bother hiding the uncharacteristically flustered tone that cracked with a bit of hysteria. "What vodoo did you just use on me?”

Stephen remained unfazed.

“I pushed your astral form out of your physical form. I utilized the time you spent outside of your body to connect with your memories and seek out Peter’s soul. You saw what I saw. Nothing more. Nothing less,” he explained. His head titled to the side, just slightly. “The boy is alive.”

Tony, for once, was speechless.

The others didn't seem much better off.

“I don’t understand." Tony was still breathing heavy, and it showed in each word he spoke. "I saw it. We saw it!” And yet he just saw his own physical body, a literal out of body experience. He still felt light on his feet, as if he'd forgotten how heavy his physical form weighed. Muscles suddenly felt like led, and he couldn't stop them from trembling. “There was nothing left of him, his suit, his body — all gone. I even went into that building to find him and —!"

The fire spread across his skin. The air became hard to breathe as his lung constricted, the flames that didn’t exist threatening to burn him alive. Tony's fingers clutched tightly at his t-shirt, pulling the fabric away in hopes that it would help him breathe easier.

He didn’t know if he had the strength to steer away a panic attack right now. The thought of remembering the burning warehouse brought to life a monster that sat heavy on his chest, threatening to consume him alive. 

Normally cool, calm and collected, there was no denying the unraveling of his behavior. He was panicked. He was past panicked, he was full blown frantic. Everything that made Tony Stark having been thrown out the window the moment he thought Peter was dead.

“I’m stuck, I—you gotta help me, Mr. Stark, I’m stuck!”

His blood went cold. The nightmares that had been keeping him awake flashed to the front of his mind and replayed like a movie, scene after scene stuck on repeat.

But something seemed wrong.

Suddenly, something didn’t click.

Tony closed his eyes to remember.

“I’m stuck, I—you gotta help me, Mr. Stark —"

How did it go down?

"You gotta help me, Mr. Stark —"

How did it really happen?

Remembering that moment was a pain he couldn’t bear; the smell of ashes still present, the burning skeleton in his nightmares ever so vivid. The soot lingered on his tongue, the pressure of grief gripped at his heart. But the memories were corrupted; twisted into something his mind wanted him to believe.

He told Peter to get out. And for the longest time, the kid didn’t respond.

But when he did…

“I’m stuck, I—you gotta help me, Tony, I’m stuck!”

Tony's eyes shot open. Any wider and they would've fallen straight to the floor.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice it sooner," he muttered, all in one breath.

Steve craned his head over towards him, his eyebrows furrowing deep.

“Notice what?” he dared to ask.

When Tony turned to look at Steve, the clarity in his eyes stood out more than the emerald glow of Strange's amulet. The glaze was gone, the alcohol long since wearing off. In its place was sobriety — absolute, undoubted certainty.

“He called me Tony." The words struck hard. "When he called for help, when he said he was stuck…he said my name.”

Rhodey tried not to look confused, and tried even harder not to look indifferent.

"Okay...?" Rhodey drawled out, giving Tony a long once-over as he did; gauging his friend's demeanor for whatever he was missing, and failing to find it along the way.

Tony looked to him, so quick his neck made an audible crack.

“The kid never calls me Tony," he stressed, a waver in his voice speaking to the severity of it all. "He’s like the epitome of perfect manners. Which means either it wasn't him, or —"

Tony's face fell flat.

And then flatter after that.

"Son of a bitch.”

Like pieces of a puzzle, everything began to fit together.

Tony felt like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

“The chameleon helmet." Tony looked over at Stephen — this time not with anger and not with disdain, but with realization. "It wasn't him. It was the freak show carnie with the chameleon helmet.”

It wasn't a question. It was a fact. And judging by the expression of Strange's face, it was an accurate one at that.

“Whoa, whoa, wait, hold on a minute.” Steve held a hand in the air, each five fingers spread so far they didn't stand a chance at touching one another. “Are we sure that it was Mysterio?”

Sam's scoff, as quiet as it was, blew right through the room.

“And are we really sticking with the name Mysterio?” he asked, the mumble not standing a chance at being unheard in a room that was otherwise deadly silent.

Natasha craned her head over to him. “You have anything better?”

Sam met that gaze with a roll of his eyes and a shrug of his shoulders. “It just sounds so…ridiculous.”

“Matches his outfit, then,” Rhodey muttered in turn.

“His name is Francis Klum,” Stephen went on to explain, folding both his arms tightly across his chest. “And he’s not working alone.”

There was a pause.

Steve arched an eyebrow. “Well, why didn’t you just lead with that?”

 

 

---

 

Drip.

 

Drip.

 

Drip.

 

Peter frowned, his forehead creasing as he struggled to grab a hold of consciousness. The leaking water was the first tangible thought he managed to piece together, each drip exacerbating the pain in his skull.

‘Ugh…’ he bit back a groan only for another to leak out of his mouth. ‘My head is killing me.’

The pain stabbed fiercely in his temples, tracing all the way to the back of his skull and even trailing down into his neck. It was an aching throb, pulsating with every beat of his heart, matching his pulse. For a moment, Peter wanted to pin the nasty migraine on his growing nausea. The type of stomach ache that came with a headache that only got worse.

A brief parting of his mouth told him otherwise.

"Ecckkggh," Peter stuck out his tongue and smacked his lips, desperate to rid the taste. It was sweet, almost bitter and tart. The grogginess made it hard to even lick his lips, a weight that sunk into his every muscle and threatened to pull him back under. 

Chemicals. It tasted like chemicals.

If he could focus on the chemicals, he could stay awake.

Staying awake was a good thing. He needed to stay awake.

Peter ran his tongue across his upper teeth, and then again around the inside of his cheeks. Ether, for sure. That one was easy to pin down. The other lingering taste made his lips tingle and his tongue run dry. Chlorine. It brought back memories of lab class and his teacher shouting at them to remember the dangers of…

“Oh man,” Peter groaned, letting his head roll to the side. “Was I seriously just chloroformed?”

The sound of wheels rolling on the ground startled him, the presence he'd been unaware of making itself known.

“He’s awake.”

Who’s awake?

Oh, wait, he’s awake.

Peter forced his eyes open, the simple task dauntingly difficult with the pressure in his head. It was like his eyelids had become cement bricks, the mere effort of pulling them apart leaving him breathless.

“Then handle him.”

Two voices. Two different people.

Crap.

Peter looked around frantically, realizing that his eyesight was fuzzy and the room was a giant blur of dark colors. It didn’t take long for his common sense to return and his thoughts to click into place.

He was pushing himself up against the wall in a hurry.

Wall.

Wait, wall? He was sitting up against a wall.

Peter looked down at himself, so fast that his neck hurt from the sudden movement. His feet were chained together, stretched out in front of him and bounded by the ankles. And his arms locked tightly at his side, pressed flushed against the wall that sent chills down his back. It was cold, the chill of metal against his back like an ice pack straight out of the freezer. The red and blue fabric of his spider-suit dressing his legs and feet slowly came into focus as the hazy film across his eyes dissipated.

It was at the same time he realized it wasn't just his incoherence keeping his vision impaired. There was a fog roaming along the floors, covering the toes of his spider-boots and wafting over his thighs.

Well, double crap. He'd definitely been taken. Kidnapped might even be appropriate, as much as he hated the word.

I'm not a kid,' his inner-voice protested. Man-napped was more like it.

And worse of all, he had no idea where he was.

It was cold, musty, and smelt of mildew. Not to mention there was abandoned tech all around him. The structure of the room reminded him eerily of laboratory — a high tech lab, one like Stark Industries or even OsCorp.

The only difference was how dark it was. Very dark, with very little light provided anywhere. Peter was pretty sure the dim ceiling lights were powered by weak juiced batteries, especially as they flickered every few seconds.

“Who forgot to pay the electricity bill?”

Peter wanted to slap himself the moment he spoke. May’s voice had become so ingrained in his head that he could practically hear her calling him a smart-ass for not keeping his mouth shut.

The wheels came rolling again, this time directly in front of him. The sound belonged to a swivel chair, and the person sitting on it approached him silently. Giving no attention to his poorly thought joke.

It wasn’t hard to figure out who the man was.

For a moment, they stared at each other; Peter dazed, while he seemed slightly amused.

“Mysterio…” Peter swallowed, a little harder than he expected. "We meet again. I’d shake your hand and all, but…”

Peter nodded in the direction of his restraints, where thick straps of metal wrapped around his biceps and bolted him to the wall.

Mysterio rolled his eyes, the action visible without his infamous headgear. He still wore his ridiculous costume, because — of course, Peter figured — all the way down to his golden boots. The table across the room held the glass dome, sitting neatly next to the crisp, white chameleon helmet.

Mr. Stark's chameleon helmet.

The memory came flooding back to him. Peter could see it in his mind’s eye — rushing to the warehouse, being confronted by Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and then being very unfortunately outmatched by both of them.

Probably not the best nickname for the two, considering his circumstances.

The only problem was — that was the last thing he remembered.

Peter had no clue on how he ended up here.

Suddenly, a wave of fear flooded through him. He didn’t even know where here was.

'Triple crap,' Peter panicked. ‘Mr. Stark’s going to kill me.’

Mysterio still hadn’t spoken, staring at him like he was some sort of twisted project to be examined. The silence was actually a bit intimidating — party city costume excluded.

Peter took a deep breath and tried to control his nerves — he’d be a victim if he lost control. He needed to gain the upper hand. What did Mr. Stark always say?

“If you’re ever in a situation where you don’t know what to do, stop and think. That brain is more powerful than any weapon I can give you.”

Right. Okay. Get information. He could do that.

“These restraints are really strong,” Peter said, forcing casualness where there otherwise was none. "They made like Cap’s shield? Vibranium? That'd be...that'd be pretty cool. If they were. Made of Vibranium, that is.”

No answer.

The silence brought on a wave of coldness, the chill hitting him all at once. Peter's whole body practically buckled forward with a shiver. It felt as if it stemmed from the very  walls of the room.

Where could they be that it was so cold? It wasn’t nearly this temperature back in New York, not in the middle of April. The other day he was wearing shorts, for crying out loud.

“Come on, Mysterio," Peter tried to say. "You don’t have to be afraid to talk just cause I see those pretty blue eyes of yours.”

Mysterio quirked an eyebrow, staying otherwise quiet.

Peter half-shrugged. “Okay, so I have no idea if your eyes are actually blue, I can’t really see them. But you get the point.”

 

Drip.

 

Drip.

 

Drip.

 

With the man being persistently quiet, Peter turned his attention to the leaking water from above, the dripping liquid making a puddle on the far end of the room. Though only a few old, flickering, and definitely battery-powered lights illuminated everything, he could tell that the ceiling was breaking underneath pressure. Cracks spread across the cement like lightning bolts, and water damage was evident from the cement floor below the drip.

Was it a leaking pipe? Did they need to call a plumber?

He almost opened his mouth. Almost.

For once, Peter restrained himself from being a smart ass.

May would be so proud.

“You know, the mask kind of makes the costume, so if you could return that…” Peter let out a heavy sigh. “That’d be great.”

As much as he missed Karen’s company, Peter knew having his mask back wouldn’t do much of any good. The fog covered the tips of his toes and he could feel it graze against his gloved hands. Mysterio flooded the room with the stuff, possibly even the entire building they were in. As long as it roamed freely, he had no way of contacting anyone.

Which meant he had no way of getting in touch with Mr. Stark.

Which meant he needed to get free — fight back. Do something.

Peter tried to keep his attempts at breaking the restraints discreet. But the longer he pushed his muscles against the straps of the metal, the harder he strained with effort. A grunt unwillingly escaped his mouth, vocalizing his desperation to pop off his binds.

What the hell — he lifted a multi-ton jetway back in Germany! He stopped a plane from crashing.

A louder grunt tore through his throat and Peter clenched his jaw tight as he forced himself harder against the metal. It wasn't coming loose, not even a little bit.

“Don’t bother trying to break them,” Mysterio finally spoke up. His voice echoed a lot less without the glass helmet. “You won’t be able to.”

Peter huffed and panted for air, gulping it in like water on a hot day.

“I don’t know about that, I’m…” he grunted, pulling himself forward with such strength he was close to dislocating his shoulders. “…pretty…strong!”

He gave up with a gasp, panting heavily at the exertion.

What. The.

Hell.

With profound confusion, Peter looked down at himself, baffled as to why he could lift an entire building off his back but somehow couldn’t break free of two metal straps. Two measly metal straps, bolted to the wall and holding him hostage.

So not cool.

“It’s an experimental metal called Adamantium,” Mysterio explained, answering his unspoken question. “Virtually indestructible. You won’t get out.”

“Experimental metal,” Peter repeated, nodding his head all while still panting. “Of course.”

Because of course. Could his Parker Luck get any worse?

As crushing as the fact proved to be, it at least provided him with something to go off of. He was gaining information. Mysterio had said that the fog used nanites to block any functioning technology and even had a neurotoxin to dampen his spider-sense. With the amount enclosing around him, it was safe to say no one could locate him via his suits GPS. He was also held down by a metal that could easily match the strength of Cap’s shield, which while one hundred percent a bad thing, was also pretty cool.

Next, he needed to find out where he was.

“So…this must be your evil lair,” Peter said, all too awkwardly. “Sweet crib. Much better than the last guy I went up against. Although he did knock down a whole building on top of me, but it was still nowhere near this high tech —”

“Shut him up.”

The thick, Russian accent interrupted him without any hesitation.

As Mysterio swiveled his chair around, Peter could see clear as day where the voice originated from.

“Aw man, why’s it always the Russians?” he groaned, so loud it echoed off the walls of the room. “It’s so stereotypical. It’s always the evil Russian guy who wants to dominate the world. Dude, you even got the look. Bald head and all.”

Mysterio looked between Peter and the other occupant, the later sitting hunched over a work table reviewing stacks of paper like coursework.

“Why are we keeping him?” Mysterio asked, speaking as if Peter wasn't right in front of him. “They all think he’s dead, why can’t we kill him?”

“Collateral,” came the answer. “We keep him until we know for sure plan will succeed.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot high.

“Uhm, hi,” he squeaked out. “I’m right here. I can hear you.”

They didn’t even acknowledge him.

“You’re not making sense. Stark thinks he’s dead,” Mysterio reminded him. “That was your plan — goal achieved.”

The bald head shook back and forth. “You still think too small, Klum. Boy is leverage.”

That was when he spun around, a stack of papers still in his hands and glasses pushed low to the bridge of his nose. Though it was dark, Peter could make out a small amount of his facial structure; the man's pale white skin almost blended in with the fog.

“Say they find out his death was greatly exaggerated…say Stark tries to come after us…well, I disembowel boy in front of them all. Leave them intestines as souvenirs. Then I snap Stark’s neck and you return his body to his home with noose wrapped around him. If he won’t do dirty work for us, then we do it ourselves.” He pointed a finger in Mysterio's direction. “If it comes to that.”

Peter watched the conservation with an ever-growing sense of fear. If there was anything for him to take away, it was that they were both were downright crazy; the Russian more so than Mysterio. And considering Mysterio's getup, that realization alone was disturbing.

He swallowed heavily, forcing himself to emulate false confidence.

“They’ll stop you,” Peter insisted, fighting off the waver to his voice. “The Avengers. Whatever you’re planning — you won’t get away with any of it.”

For the first time since Peter noticed him, the Russian looked his way. Their eyes briefly locked onto one another, finding one another through the weaving fog around them.

Then, he turned away before Peter could blink.

“Handle him.”

Mysterio wheeled his chair back into view, blocking the sight of where the other man sat. With his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward with a sick, twisted smile.

“Let’s get something straight, spider-kid," Mysterio began. "The whole world thinks you’re dead.”

Peter shook his head. "No, they don't —"

“That warehouse that exploded? They think you were in it." Mysterio smiled, going so far to show every yellow stained tooth in his mouth. "No one is coming for you. Not even Tony Stark.”

Peter froze, his lips pursing tightly together. He fought for the next breath of air that lifted his chest.

“You’re wrong.”

Mysterio's chuckle was the loudest thing Peter had yet to hear. It sent a shiver up his spine, one not brought on by the chill of whatever room he'd been held captive in.

“You have no idea what’s going on here," he said, scooting his chair a little bit closer; staring down at Peter until the wheels of the stool touched on the soles of his red-clad boots. "Even if I begin to tell you, your adolescent brain wouldn’t be able to comprehend half of it.”

The determination in Peter's face didn't falter.

“Yeah? Try me.” Peter tried to sit up on the ground, forcing himself to seem taller. “I know you stole Mr. Stark’s chameleon helmet and gave it to that wannabe Bond villain over there.”

Mysterio cracked a grin that pulled at the side of his mouth. “That barely scrapes the surface of how deep this goes.”

“What do you need me for then?” Peter sneered right back at him. “You told everyone I’m dead, but why? What’s your endgame here, Mysterio?”

The man was a leaking pool of knowledge, already having told him so much. And probably not even realizing it. Had it not been for the other occupant interrupting their conservation, Peter was sure he would have gotten more information from the moron.

And yet,

“Klum," the voice was deep and snarly, and so, so thick in its Russian accent. "Use your stuff to quiet him. Now.”

Mysterio smiled, so wide that his yellow-tinged teeth could be seen. Peter’s stoicism rapidly degenerated, watching as the magician crossed the room; gathering in his arms an oxygen tank and mask attached to it.

Peter tried to keep the determination on his face. He wouldn't deny that this time, it faltered.

“You won’t get away with this,” Peter insisted, fighting against his restraints one pull at a time. “They’ll find out.”

Mysterio squatted down in one fell swoop, his cape tangling in his legs as he lowered himself to the ground. One hand grabbed at the back of Peter's head, clutching a handful of his hair tightly along the way.

“Don’t touch me — get off!” Peter fought against him, his hips buckling as his arms stayed firmly restrained against the wall.

The oxygen mask was strapped around his face quickly and swiftly, elastic straps the only thing holding it in place. But with his arms trapped beneath the metal forcing him to the wall, and his hands locked down at his sides, he had no way of ridding the offending device — no matter how hard he swung his neck back and forth.

Peter heard the hissing before he felt the gas. It poured out from the tank sitting next to him, sizzling like a balloon losing its air. He shot his head over to his side, his eyes growing wide with panic. The tank was big. Because — just his luck — of course it would be.

He wished he hadn’t looked back up. Mysterio grinned — large and wide, with a low chuckle that sent goosebumps across his skin. Still not brought on by the chill of the cold room.

When the cold air hit his face, Peter began to feel sick almost immediately. The gas was sweet — nauseating, pouring through the mask, flowing against his mouth and nose. By instinct he held his breath, refusing to breathe until his face went red. He only managed to spare a few minutes, at most, before his body betrayed him.

The inhale rattled his whole body. 

Almost instantly, his head floated away from him, with his stomach rolling in waves.

“Mr. Stark will…find…me.”

Peter lost the fight in keeping his eyes open, his head slowly tilting forward until his chin met with his chest. His body slumped forward, held up only by the strong metal that wrapped around his biceps.

And the world around him dissolved into wisps of fog.

 

---

 

“So if he’s alive, where do you think he is?” Steve was the one to ask.

They had relocated to the R&D side of the compound, the computer lab within the room aiding Natasha in her research and verification on everything they discussed. The others, minus Tony, sat at a large round table surrounding Strange.

Tony was off in a corner pulling up his own data, with his own holographic screens — his arms waving and swiping at the images. They were working fast and working quickly, and the others weren’t afraid to ask any question that came to mind.

Stephen leaned forward in his chair, his hands folded together neatly. “I believe this false magician has him held captive.”

“Captive?” Sam frowned, clearly unhappy with what he heard.

Stephen nodded. “Yes.”

Of them all, Stephen remained the most detached — almost seeming cold with his direct answer. The others, though, didn’t hide their horror at the revelation. Some were more obvious; Wanda covered her mouth and shook her head, hard enough that pieces of red hair blocked her eyes from being seen. Rhodey leaned back in his chair and furrowed his brows, the lines on his forehead aging him by years.

Vision was the only one to remain neutral, observing the conversation silently.

And Tony kept working.

“You said he wasn’t working alone.” Natasha typed quickly on the computer’s keyboard, not even looking over from the screen as she spoke. Tony wasn't the only one to occupy himself with the systems. If her fingers moved any faster, the screen would've started lagging input of what she typed.

“Correct.” Despite his answer, Stephen noticeably hesitated. “But I haven’t been able to find out enough information on the other culprit. I’ve spent months utilizing every artifact I have at my disposable, and I keep turning up empty handed.”

Tony looked up from the holographic smart screens, one hand stuck in the air mid-swipe as he took in what he heard.

“So you expected us to know what to do?” he asked, his jaw practically to the floor.

Stephen managed to resist the urge in rolling his eyes.

“I expected you to buy me time,” he retorted. “Unfortunately, you fell right into the trap they set for you.”

Tony opened his mouth to argue, but Steve spoke up first.

“How do you know about this Francis Klum?” he asked.

Stephen worked his jaw, looking around the table as he sighed — just slightly, enough to rustle the cloak that hung over his shoulders.

“The Orb of Agamotto can detect any magic used in this world and others,” Stephen began to explain. “Earlier this year it picked up manifestations of dark magic originating from a being called Dorammu. He’s a primordial, inter-dimensional entity who wields apocalyptic levels of supernatural power…and, he’s the ruler of the dark dimension.”

“Very bad guy." Bruce swallowed heavily, nodding along the way. "Got it.”

Across the room, Tony swiped his hand along one of the holographic images, turning it around so it faced the group at the round table.

“You’re telling me this guy is a force to be reckoned with?”

The image displayed someone who appeared to be relatively normal; a man in his mid-forties, thick black glasses and wavy, unkempt hair. At first sight, he looked like an average civilian.

“He looks more ridiculous without the fishbowl helmet,” Sam mumbled.

“Klum isn’t the threat,” Stephen stated. “What he’s done, that’s the threat.”

Tony swiped the screen away, crossing his arms over his chest not a second after it disappeared.

“Sharing is caring," he dryly insisted.

Steve let out a muted huff and an equally muted mumble. “Says you?”

“It says here that Klum was a participant in one of OsCorp's research experiments,” Natasha was quick to stall any rising argument between them, all while looking up from the computers. It was the first time she met Stephen's gaze since they entered the R&D room.

Stephen nodded her way. “In participating in those experiments, he gained the ability of teleportation.”

Wanda hummed, almost sounding as if her own painful memories with experimentation lead her to be biased. The shrug of her shoulders even suggested lack of sympathy.

“That does not sound so bad,” she impassively mentioned.

Natasha frowned, still reviewing the documents — almost as if one eye was on Stephen and the other the computer screens. “Why would he voluntarily participate in these…”

As her eyes darted across the documents, Tony walked over to her, hovering right behind her shoulders. He wasn't alone; Bruce had also risen from his seat at the table, cautiously making his way to the two. He didn't stand nearly as close as Tony did.

The fact that Natasha even allowed it spoke volumes to the situtation at play.

“It wasn’t all that voluntary." Tony pointed his finger at the screen. "Look.”

Bruce adjusted his glasses, skimming over the document himself. “He was admitted to a psych ward.”

"Uh, no,” Tony corrected. “He was admitted to a psych ward,” the finger quotations were heavily exaggerated.

Natasha kept typing until suddenly, she stopped. Leaning back and folding both arms over her chest with a sigh firmly restrained.

"It was a front," she told them. "It says here that his brother molested him as a child, and when he sought psychiatric help for the trauma, he ended up with these assholes. OsCorp claimed it was an experiment in memory erasure. Looks like it didn't pan out the way either of them wanted it to."

Sam made a face. It wasn't a happy one. “They probably assumed patients who were already mentally unstable would be more cooperative in their inhumane experimentation."

Natasha casually gestured ahead to the screen. “The money probably helped.”

There was a pause where she stepped away, letting the others review the information first hand. The screen was big enough that even those sitting far away at the table could see the many numbers that imprinted itself on the display.

“Yeah..." Bruce let out a long whistle. "That’s a good chunk of change.”

“He never got it,” Stephen announced, abruptly. “They performed their experiments and released him and everyone else without payment. Right after, they were shut down by higher officials. Of course, they never considered that they had let loose a psychopathic, mentally unstable man with a vengeance for money and enhanced human abilities to achieve his goal.”

“You seem to know a lot about this guy,” Rhodey cautiously stated, leaning forward across the table where he sat.

Stephen briefly looked his way. “I’ve done my own share of research.”

“Why the desire for money?” Steve suddenly asked, turning away from the screen and to Stephen.

Natasha craned her head around to look at Steve.

“If any of this is true, he wanted fame,” she explained. “He pursued magic — worldly magic — long before any of this. All the way down to a magicians school in his early twenties. He needed the money to become well known — to be famous.”

Tony scoffed with an eye-roll that followed. “The next Criss Angel, everyone.”

“Where did it go wrong?” Steve leaned forward, his elbows resting on the round table with his hands clasped tightly together. "How does worldly magic and...your magic," he gestured to Stephen, "play any part in this?"

“He lost control of his abilities," Stephen answered, straight-forward and with no hesitation. "He began to teleport between universes."

Vision — standing quietly in the corner of the room, suddenly stepped forward. “One can do that?”

Stephen gave a concise nod.

“He wound up in a universe where a man, going by the name Quentin Beck, ruled as a criminal called Mysterio," he slowly explained. Letting each word process for every individual that surrounded him — and for those that didn't, like Tony across the room. "Having teleported to that universe, Klum began to idolize him, and followed his every move. But Beck wasn’t mutated like he was. This Mysterio made a deal with Dormammu to enhance his illusive abilities.”

Sam arched an eyebrow high enough to hit the ceiling of the large R&D room.

“What’d he have to give up, his first born child?” he quipped.

Stephen quirked an eyebrow right back at him. “He became trapped in his helmet for the remainder of his life.”

Sam clucked his tongue, seemingly without a response to give.

Natasha looked away and back at her research, while Tony stepped aside and pulled up his own screens again.

Bruce, between the two, furrowed his brows with confusion.

“Okay…" he trailed off, giving the others a glance before landing back on Stephen. "But what does that have to do with our Mysterio?”

"Was his name really Mysterio in that universe?" Sam suddenly pressed, earning an exasperated glare from Steve along the way. "Or are you just pulling our leg with that one?"

Stephen cocked his head to the side. "The multi-verse is vast, and largely beyond our comprehension. But it contains many similarities to the lives we live — all our lives, each one different and yet very same in each universe."

Sam bit back a sigh. "That's a yes, then?"

Stephen stood from the table, his cloak flowing behind him as he did.

“Klum had contact with Dormammu on that universe," he answered Bruce's question without preamble. "He sought to find someone to aid him in his quest. He clearly didn’t understand the threat and dangers that Dormammu held, and he got in way over his head. When he returned to our universe, he re-opened a portal that I had closed earlier this year. That portal sealed Dormammu off from our universe and this Earth, and the destruction he planned to cause. Dormammu and I had an agreement — he was not to return to our Earth again." Stephen noticeably frowned. "Now that the seal is broken, I don’t expect him to uphold his side of the bargain.”

Steve knitted his brows tightly together. “And Klum…”

“He’s a zealot of Dormammu," Stephen answered what wasn't directly asked. "His contact with him brought him back to this Earth, and in so, he’s become a susceptible host for him to enter from. If he's not eliminated, then we risk Dormammu seizing control of the entire planet as we know it. And I can make no promises at stopping that a second time."

Sam's eyes fluttered with rapid blinks. “How did we go from Klum's not a threat to he'll destroy Earth as we know it?”

Stephen's cloak moved despite no movement coming from him. He stood still; the red material waving with no wind around.

“As I said, Klum himself is not the threat. His actions have proved to be…weak — cowardly. He is incapable of making moves on his own. It’s his presence that proves to be the problem. Once I banish him to another realm, the seal will be closed. It will eliminate the threat of Dormammu returning to this plane of existence,” Stephen said, all with heavy determination flooding his tone.

Tony spun on his heels, the glow of his holograms bright against his face.

“And this other guy?” he asked.

The hardest expression they'd seen so far from Stephen crossed over his face — frustration.

“I don’t know his name," he admitted, reluctantly, and aggravated at that. Not at the others, rather at himself. "I have only been told that if he succeeds with his plan — whatever his plan may be — it will be what causes your downfall, Stark. It'll drive you into madness...and set off a chain of events far beyond our stopping.”

Sam swiped roughly at his nose. “So Mysterio is actually the Igor to Doctor Frankenstein.”

Tony didn’t seem convinced. Heavy steps brought him closer to Stephen, until there was little distance that separated them.

"You’re telling me that after everything I’ve encountered," he started to say, the lines on his forehead deepening with each word. "Of everyone I’ve gone up against, two nobody clowns will be my downfall?”

The way Stephen looked at him didn't go unnoticed. Not by a single occupant in the room.

“They made it personal for you,” he bit back.

Tony pursed his lips. “Wouldn’t be the first time."

“Maybe not." Stephen simply shrugged. The movement didn't cause a single rustle of his cloak. "Either way…”

For a moment, their eyes locked.

For Tony, it felt as if Strange was telling him everything that he already knew — that despite the Ten Rings, despite Obadiah, Vanko, and Killian, despite almost losing Pepper and Rhodey and his own life — something about losing the kid was enough to break him.

Maybe everything leading up to this had torn him apart so badly he couldn't withstand anything else happening.

Maybe he was fooling himself by believing that.

Maybe Parker meant more to him than even he realized.

The few seconds of deliberation made Tony uncomfortable. He was quick to return to the computers.

“So we need to figure out where Klum is keeping Peter, and who his boss is in all of this,” Steve recapped, sternly, each word he spoke laced with his own fortitude. “I assume you’ll want to handle Mysterio once he’s found?”

Stephen nodded. “Finding him has proven to be the difficult part. I’ve spent months trying to pin down his location.”

“I imagine poofing around town doesn’t help that,” Rhodey casually mentioned.

“It’s not just that." Stephen shook his head. "I believe he’s under the protection of Dormammu, and in so, the other culprit may be as well. As long as Dormammu doesn’t want me finding them, I won’t. No matter what spell I conjur.”

Natasha deeply frowned. “How are we supposed to find these guys with absolutely zero leads?”

Strange hadn’t broken his stare with Tony. Feeling like eyes were burning into the back of his head, Tony turned around, sighing when he saw that he was being watched.

“Yes, dear?” he sarcastically drawled out. “Can I help you?”

Stephen titled his head to the side. “How good are you with meditation, Stark?”

Rhodey barked out a laugh. It surprised them all.

“Tony’s hasn’t shut off his mind since the day he was born,” Rhodey stated, leaning back in his chair with both arms crossed over his chest.

Tony pointed his way. “Admittedly, he’s right.”

Stephen went to approach Tony, slowly.

“If I can hone in on the temporal lobe of your cortex — what contains your memories and emotions — I may be able to call the Vishanti long enough to utilize the time stone and see a glimpse of your future — our future — as it stands.” Stephen turned right back to Natasha. “It may give us a lead on who Klum has partnered with.”

Steve slowly, and cautiously, sat up from the table. His palms pressed down firmly on the surface, silent as he stared Tony down. It was as if the moment of acquiescence was enough for them all to remember how Tony felt about Wanda getting into his head — a scar, no different than the one between Steve and Tony, that had never fully healed.

He expected an argument to spin out of control. Retorts, barks, shouts even. Steve was ready to pacify whatever came his way.

“Alright." Tony nodded vigorously, with his jaw set tight. "Let’s do it.”

For a moment, the group was unsure of what to say. Let alone how to proceed.

Natasha, at the computers with an eyebrow high in the air, audibly cleared her throat.

“Clint’s ETA is an hour out,” she announced. “Hopefully you’ll have something by the time he arrives.”

Steve was still looking at Tony; struck still with the surprise that coated his every feature.

“Do we need to light some incense?" Tony took a deep breath in and exhaled with a clap of his hands, rubbing his palms together to release his nerves. "I’m sure Pepper has candles around here we can —”

“Let’s go somewhere that’s more… " Stephen smirked. "Quiet.”

Tony hadn’t even blinked when it happened.

Suddenly, and with extreme disorientation, Stephen had whisked them out of the research and development lab. He wasn’t even sure how — whether it was some Bewitch nose crinkle or silently spoken magical spell, Tony was clueless to it all.

One second they were there, and the next they were gone.

He stumbled on his feet, grabbing the nearest object to keep himself from falling over. Looking down at what he had clung onto, Tony was confused to see a sleek, mahogany, wooden dresser. It was the same model that he had personally picked out to put in the sleeping quarters of the Avenger's compound.

Looking up, Tony immediately realized where Stephen had taken him.

Peter’s bedroom.

 

---

 

Snow piled at his feet.

It covered his boots like a white blanket, soft like powder; innocent, untouched and pure. The cold winter wind whispered against his skin with harsh bites. Bitter and frigid.

“Peter…”

He never looked up from his feet. He couldn’t break his eyes away from the accumulating snow, flake after flake dropping down and adding to the layers of pristine softness.

And then the blood trickled down.

One thick drop broke through the surface before three more fell just as quickly, melting through the snow and staining his boots.

“Peter…”

His hands trembled when he went to look them. They were dripping with red liquid, pouring off his knuckles like running water.

“It’s okay, Pete.”

He wasn’t standing anymore. He was on his knees, hands pressed firmly against the cotton material that gushed blood between his fingertips, the pressure of his weak teenage body doing nothing to stop the flow.

He wasn’t strong enough. He never was.

“It’s okay, Pete,” the voice said again, this time grabbing the hand that laid firmly against him. “Listen to me, son, it’s okay.”

He choked a sob. “Uncle Ben, no. Please, no, Uncle Ben…”

“Hey, hey…” Uncle Ben smiled, his teeth stained bright red with blood. “You listen to me, Peter. You-you take care of your aunt, you hear me? You take-take care of her. And you take care of-of yourself. You…you have a responsibility, son. You…you have the power…to ch-change the world. And with-with great power…”

Engines roared from above. His head shot up to the sky, the airplane dangerously close to the ground before it disappeared in the distance. When he looked back down below, Uncle Ben was gone.

Only a chalk outline showed where he once laid.

“Petey, sweetie, give us a kiss before we leave!”

When he turned around, he wasn’t on the ground anymore. He was standing in the kitchen of his uncle and aunt’s apartment. It hadn’t been remodeled yet — it was older, and he stood low to the ground, shorter.

His mother approached him, arms open wide.

“Oh look at you, I’m going to miss you so much.”

Mary Fitzpatrick Parker. It was the same face he stared at in his photo albums, hairstyle the same as the day when they traveled to Disney Land and body weight similar to his first day in kindergarten. But her voice was warped.

He didn’t remember how she sounded.

“Come on, Mary, our flight takes off at six. We can’t be late.”

The man stood behind her — Richard Parker, brown-tousled hair and shining bright eyes reminding him of…himself. But his voice wasn’t warped, it wasn’t muffled and it didn’t even copy his own likeness.

He didn’t even know what his father sounded like.

He never really knew the man.

“Please,” his voice squeaked, young — too young. A plea that cried out. “Please don’t go. You won’t come back.”

Richard, once standing behind Mary, crouched low to the floor where he stood. He could see his reflection in the man’s glasses, a six-year-old boy with tears streaming down his chubby cheeks.

“Promise me you’ll be a good boy, Peter.”

The voice didn’t match the face. Richard Parker stared at him, the voice that he spoke with was distinctively similar to another man. A different man.

A man Peter knew.

He nodded. “I’m good.”

“You-you’re good?”

When he looked up, yellow tinted sunglasses stared back at him. Now, the voice matched the face.

“How are you good?”

His breath caught in his chest, intimidation pouring off the man and making him shake with nerves.

“Well, I — I mean — I’d rather just stay on the ground…for a little while. Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

Tony stared at him. The world around them disappeared, blackness engulfing them both. When he looked down, the spider emblem of his suit glistened and sparkled, the blue and red fabric blurring and melting together.

When he looked back up, they were in the workshop of the Avenger’s compound. Tony’s back was facing him.

“Once again, you have gotten in way over your head,” his voice echoed, bouncing off the walls. “You’re the one who wanted to stick to the streets, stay low to the ground, remain in the neighborhood —”

“He was in my neighborhood, Mr. Stark! If you just hear me out —”

Wait.

The words fell from his lips. He looked around. His sight locked on the empty glass case across the room.

“Mr. Stark, I know who took the chameleon helmet! I —”

“No!” Tony spun to face him. “You’re going home.”

He shook his head frantically. “I need help. I need help getting home!”

The eyes that stared back at him flooded with disappointment. He choked on his own saliva, panic tossing his stomach into knots.

“You’re on your own, kid.”

Mr. Stark was halfway out of the room. He tried to follow him, to grab him and stop him, but his legs wouldn’t move. They were heavy and weak, and the muscles trembled with fear.

“No. No, Mr. Stark, please! I don’t — I don’t have anyone, I need your help, I…”

He sunk to the ground, collapsing on his backside and hitting the wall behind him. Mr. Stark was gone, the lights in the workshop turning off with his departure. Leaving him in the dark.

“I don’t have anyone, Mr. Stark.” He wasn’t sure when he had closed his eyes, his head leaning back against the wall as the world around him dissolved. “Please don’t leave me.”

He was alone.

He was alone, sitting with restraints that trapped him against the wall. The oxygen mask, forcefully strapped around his mouth, poured in chemicals that left his mind drugged and hazed.

Peter’s eyes were half-lidded, red and swollen, spasming every few seconds as the hallucinations ran his mind ragged.

 

---

 

The Star Wars posters were the first thing to give it away. Tony looked around the room, taking in his surroundings with a growing sense of confusion and very obvious sense of agitation.

“Why are we here?” He realized that he wasn’t asking, he was practically demanding. 

“I figured it would be the quietest room around,” Stephen simply answered. “And....it’ll keep you grounded in your focus on the boy while I tap into your subconscious.”

Tony shot his head over to Stephen and narrowed his eyes. The man had gall and nerve that he wasn’t sure he could handle right now. He didn’t even know if he had the energy to handle it right now.

Not after the last few days.

“You don’t have the slightest clue on how my brain works,” he settled on muttering.

Tony watched as Stephen slowly sat down on the tan colored carpet, his back stiffly straight as he crossed his legs over one another. Tony hadn’t realized he wasn’t paying attention until Stephen cleared his throat, motioning with his head for him to join.

For a moment, he hesitated, eyebrow cocked in the air at the concept of sitting on the floor. Ultimately though, Tony caved with a deep sigh, lowering himself to the ground and slapping both his hands down on his knees with a sense of impatience he wasn't afraid to show.

“So…” Tony clucked his tongue. "What’s up, doc?”

Stephen already had his eyes closed.

“The Vishanti will not grant me the power to use the time stone in this matter. They have made it…abundantly clear that I am not to know this information. I will need to use methods I don’t normally use. I will only see glimpses — small bits, possibly only one fraction in time. It may be enough to give your team a lead,” he stocially explained. “But I will need you to stay focused. You cannot run from your thoughts. It will only make the Vishanti aware of my presence. The last thing we need to do is make them angry.”

“Right. Makes sense," Tony couldn’t contain the sarcasm from dripping off his tongue.

“Tony…” Stephen opened his eyes, noticeably using Tony's first name with a tone that hadn't been heard yet. “I understand your doubts. You're in a place that I've stood in myself, at one point in time."

Tony looked up, his tired and bloodshot eyes latching onto Stephen's. He couldn’t restrain the weariness that pulled heavily at his shoulders; his posture a slumped mess compared to the other man.

It really had been a rough couple of days. And while the whiskey had certainly hid his emotions from the others, it no longer coursed through his body to have any effect. The exhaustion in his eyes showed, with every red spider-crack telling a story.

“Before this — before I started this life, I was a neurosurgeon." Stephen softened his expression. "I believed strongly in western medicine. I never, in my wildest dreams, thought these things were possible. But the mystic arts have helped me save many lives, as well as my own.”

Though his eyes seemed magnetic, Tony fought the pull with the bitterness left in him. He rolled his eyes and focused on his crossed legs, with his hands sitting in the open space between them.

“Sweet. Sentimental," he forced out, wryly. "Let’s get this over with.”

Stephen shook his head, just slightly — letting his aggravation take a backseat to the tasks ahead. He adjusted himself, resting his forearms against his thighs with a deep, controlled breath.

Tony watched as he closed his eyes once more, seemingly in his own world.

He had expected more magic. Tony frowned, disappointed as he waited for another light show from the necklace, or even some form of world stopping illusion to take over. Minutes passed, no words spoken as the two sat across from each other. Only the chirping crickets from outside to be heard.

Tony looked over at the large bay window, mentally making note that if he could hear the bugs from outside his top-of-the-line facility, than he needed to pay more for soundproof walls. Peter hadn’t said a word about such noises keeping him awake. And that came as a surprise, what with the kid having senses 'dialed to eleven', as they both knew.

Yet again, the kid lived in Queens. He could probably sleep through the most aggressive construction taking place right outside his apartment building.

“Stark,” Stephen firmly spoke up, eyes still closed. “Focus.”

Tony huffed a sigh and scrubbed his face with one hand.

“Yeah, sorry, having a bit of trouble with that,” he admitted, ruefully. “You brought me to the bedroom of the kid I thought I had gotten killed two days ago.”

Stephen's eyes remained closed. “He’s not dead. You saw it yourself.”

“Why does it matter so much?" Tony shrugged hard enough for his shoulders to fall off his body. "I gotta know, why is it so important that Parker's alive?”

Stephen shook his head, this time with more frustration. His arms dropped from his legs and he looked up at Tony, clearly struggling to control his own patience.

“I have been granted the privilege and honor to see many things into the future, many timelines and possible outcomes. I’ve even changed the events in time before." Stephen paused, long enough that the moment of silence left a ringing sound between them. As Tony looked at Stephen, confused, Stephen met his gaze with a sense of gravity that couldn't be argued with. "Never has the Vishanti warned me that my knowledge of a foreseeable event is prohibited.”

Tony frowned. The next sigh that broke through his chest stayed in his mouth, lips sealed too tight to escape, but deep enough that it rattled his shoulders.

It seemed just when he had a grasp on earth’s mightiest hero’s, another one always showed up. There was no denying his relief in knowing the world would always have defenders out there — but there was still a side of him that hated to be surprised.

The past couple of days held a lot of surprises for him. He was more than ready for a vacation from it all.

“I do not know what makes Peter special,” Stephen continued, “and I certainly do not understand why you’re the key to our future — but you are. Losing him means losing you. The fate of the world will rest in your hands one day, Stark.”

Stephen paused, for a moment looking away until finally turning back to Tony, head cocked to the side.

“That hurt me a lot to say,” he admitted.  

Tony cocked a grin. "Didn't hurt me to hear it."

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Eh, too late.”

Stephen rolled his eyes, the brief moment of humor leaving as soon as it came. He returned his arms to his legs, his trembling fingers positioned oddly together as he concentrated once more.

Tony took a deep breath, this time through his mouth, and tried to hone in his mind. He even closed his eyes the second time around. The crickets chirped, and his own breath echoed in his ears, all the while he faintly heard Strange whisper under his breath.

“Clear your mind…”

Tony was never good at meditation. If he had an idea for an invention, he could focus on it for months. If given an object to fix, he’d do his damnedest to repair it. But mediation meant silence, and silence usually followed uncomfortable thoughts.

Howard, his mom. Afghanistan, Obadiah, Vanko, Hammer, Killian…

He shook his head, fighting to steer his mind in the right direction. These people brought his demons to life; they weren’t what — and who — he needed to be focused on. They were people that made his life hell. People who were out to get him.

Loki, Barnes, Ultron —

‘Come on, treat this like a problem.' Tony growled, the sound muted in his chest. 'You can fix this. You can fix yourself.’

It was a joke to even trick himself into that. He knew he could never fix himself. But he was lucky enough to have people around him to get him through the day. Pepper, Rhodey — hell, though he hated to admit it, he had the entire team of Avengers watching his back. He may be a hot piping mess, but he’d never have to be one alone.

And Peter. The kid was glued to his side whether he wanted him to be or not. Peter never saw the bad in him. Even with his entire history laid out in newspapers, recorded in videos, spread across the tabloids — Peter shrugged it off as though it didn’t bother him.

The kid had so much life in him. Even on his worst days, the kid smiled with more light than Tony could ever give back. For the longest time he believed he was mentoring the kid to be like him — but he soon realized that having Peter in his life was making him the better man, not the other way around. 

“When you can do the things I can…but you don’t, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you.”

For a moment, Tony stopped breathing. He didn’t realize it, but the air halted in his chest, stagnant with the thoughts that passed by in his mind. His forehead creased as he focused so intently, and so deeply, on the memories that made his arms quiver and his eyes twitch.

But he could see it — he could see a young Peter; sitting on his bed in his Queens apartment, the kid all but starstruck at the concept of talking with Tony Stark. He could see him ripping off his Spider-Man mask, giddy and excited at his first team-up with Iron Man. And for one short moment, he could feel him, his own arm wrapped around the lanky but built teenager as they walked away from the island together.

For a moment, he felt at peace.

Stephen was the one to come out of his trance with a gasp, a thud on the ground that startled Tony back to the present. From the way his clothes shook, Tony could only assume something magical had happened.

And he missed it.

Well, damn.

“What’d you see?” Tony was quick to ask — almost too quick, the words morphing together into one.

Stephen furrowed his brows, his eyes darting along the floor with a rapidly growing sense of confusion.

“You," he simply stated.

Tony frowned. “I would assume as much.”

“No, you." Stephen shook his head, still looking down at the ground as if he couldn't process whatever just happened. "You. Running your company, as CEO.”

His voice seemed softer and slightly deeper, his shock unreadable as he continued to search for answers within his own mind.

Tony tensed up. It showed on each line in his face, deepening as he forced out his next words. “That’s Pepper’s job.”

It seemed like stating the obvious, and yet it wasn't dismissed — not with the way Stephen looked, not with the same deepening confusion spreading over his expression no different than Tony's.

“You were in control," he started to say, his eyes bouncing like broken ping-pong balls along the length of the floor. Stephen didn't look anywhere but down below. "But you seemed…power hungry. A tyrant. You ran it like a dictator.”

Stephen finally looked up at him.

“You were…megalomaniac.”

Tony quirked an eyebrow and smirked. "Thanks, darling.”

The sarcasm went unnoticed. Stephen shook his head and slowly, yet somehow quickly, sat up from the ground.

“No, no…” he muttered, studying Tony for a moment. “I don’t think it was you — I don’t feel it was you. It felt like…an impersonation of you. Someone acting as you.”

The realization sent shock waves through his nerves. Stephen hadn't barely stood to his feet when it hit Tony — still seated on the ground himself, his eyes growing wider by the passing millseconds. 

“The chameleon helmet.”

Stephen watched as Tony scrambled off the floor as quickly as he could, darting to the door with lightning speed — tripping over his feet on the way there.

“FRIDAY, call Pepper to the R&D room.” Tony looked behind him, hastily motioning for Stephen to follow.

“Shall I tell her what for, boss?” FRIDAY asked.

The two were briskly walking down the hallway before they knew it, Stephen's cloak rustling behind him as Tony’s head titled low with unwavering determination.

“Tell her we’ve had a breach.”