#ehsfanfic

[foolscapper]

Exploding Head Syndrome: A MCU Post-IW Fanfic | Ch. 1

(READ IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.)

It takes two years for them to right everything. Two long years — most of it spent in chaotic shades of tears, screaming, silent defeat, and a very unsuccessful five stages of grief for everyone involved. It's a world where billions of people have all had their candle wicks pinched in tandem between ugly purple fingers, their lights gone out in the pits of their mourning loved one's stomachs. There was not enough time in the day for funerals, not enough room or money for smoothed gravestones, and far too many people that will never, ever be identified as dead. Those people, the ones without families and friends, they simply never existed. Perhaps in the backgrounds of neighborhood photos they weren't meant to be a part of, but ultimately? They are vagabonds who just blew away in the wind.

And those who did have people left behind, who mourned and prayed for them?

They were just memories on walls.

Nobody from their team of heroes took their noses out of books or their eyes off screens, carving out new and old information on celestials, on resurrection, on righting the wrongs done by an arrogant bastard who decided to snap his fingers and purge the universe of any happiness; that same purple bastard had vanished without another word, and Thor had paced through the Avengers headquarters those first days with guilt etched into the lines of his weary face. His brown and blue set of eyes looked into Tony's, and his lips had pulled into something of a haunted grimace, and he said with no ounce of doubt, "This could have been over, had I aimed for the head."

The half of the Asgardians that Thanos had spared came to earth just a few months after; they filled in the broken pieces of a fractured glass Wakanda that had been devastated by the loss of their king. It was an intellectual gathering, more than anything, a concoction of mad sciences that would yield more together than apart. Steve Rogers kept in touch with them, eyes and ears waiting to be sated by something fruitful, about Thanos and his whereabouts.

They didn't need flip phones because they lived down the hallway from each other, and sometimes when Tony wasn't pouring through information with Bruce, he was letting the captain talk his ear off about world news that might matter if Tony would let it. With every passing day, the Sokovia Accords became a relic, something from the old world. The fight in Germany almost didn't feel real anymore. But it was, and it had been the catalyst in meeting a young man from Queens who loved Alt-J and Star Wars.

The scroll bar on the missing children's pages Tony's accrued is so tiny, he can barely see it on his screen. He sits there at the kitchen table while Morgan sits on his lap and slams blocks around like a tiny radioactive dinosaur. And he's tired and regretful as every face seems to blur and morph into Peter's (his goofy shirts, his awful Mets hat, the fifth Jansport backpack that month). Pepper makes Tony coffee, rubs his shoulders, makes breakfast for their daughter. He looks at both of them every day and reminds himself he doesn't deserve them.

Rhodey brings updates from Ross, as an exasperated courtesy more than anything.

Tony also cares very fucking little about that, too. Natasha is in full agreement.

Oh, and the raccoon stuck around, too. Two years, and Tony Stark made friends with a kleptomaniac trash panda who lost almost every person he's ever come to love, and the blue chick might as well be counted among the lost, because she hit the atmosphere running and never stopped (but if there's anyone Tony would bet on for killing Thanos through hate alone, Nebula might be able to accomplish it before supper). Rocket heads out from time to time to try and find clues in the deep reaches of space — "Where's Thanos? Have you seen where he ran off to? Where's that ugly son of a b—" And you know, it ends about as successfully as the last time the little garbage bear rolls back in. Truth be told, he likes Rocket a lot. Good eye for tech, familiar snark used to push people away, a raging hate-boner for a certain mass murderer...

Ah, yes. The bastard who sacrificed his daughter, go fucking figure. Tony looks at Morgan's freckled face as he changes the umpteenth diaper that day and can't fathom the concept of being her end. It's horror fiction, the pages ripped out of books conjured to be nothing more than a terrible daydream of a bored writer. 

It's the same horror fiction where Peter clings to him sobbing for help, falling when his legs disintegrate underneath him. 

Tony looks for that kid everywhere, despite knowing exactly where he is.

He waves the photograph in Pepper's face, inches from her, the sharp juts of his fingernails biting into the Polaroid like dog teeth — (retroware, a camera found in a dumpster, delicately and lovingly re-mantled into a working camera, pictures snapped in quiet labs on lazy Sundays where Tony pretends the kid shouldn't be there) — but Pepper just looks at him like he's a wild man, and maybe he is, with owlish imploring eyes and unkempt hair, but nobody is listening, they just talk about their day and nobody is looking at this kid in this photograph: the kid with the curvy brown hair and pinching, smiling eyes and thin lips, he's only a kid, he's missing, does nobody see that? But Pepper just puts her hands up at the sides of her head and shrugs like he's out of his mind, and she's talking about being behind schedule —

"Tony, honey, there's nothing there — I don't know what you want me to see." And she is getting progressively more furious at him, because there's nothing, but he can clearly see this teenaged boy's face looking back at him when he turns the image back to himself: he's in the lab, Tony took the picture (say cheese, and the kid said provolone, because he's a massive nerd, but Tony would have done it too, so what does that make him), and no, Peter's not in the lab, he's not anywhere. Not in the ground, not in an urn, not standing on his feet, not stuck to his hands.

"No. No no no, look at him, why - why are you not looking at him?" Tony asks, curled fingers pecking over the shirt on his chest, right where his blue heart used to be, and he's so fucking angry that Happy said it Pepper said it Steve said it Everyone says it, the same thing, different voices: "It's a black box, Tony. It's just a black box. The picture's not developed. Something got screwed up, sorry."

He looks at the photo again and wants to see a black box, wants this to just end, but he knows it can't. In the Polaroid, the kid is tied to a chair in sweltering heat in the middle east, under the shadow of cave walls, streaked with mud and blood and wet from torture, and Tony has it on good authority the human body was not made to live in the sea, not made to breathe the deep dark waters in a two-foot basin of murky water. But Pepper looks right through the photo every time and asks him if he's remembered to water the ugly office plant she put on his desk — he shoves it off and it smashes all over, dirt underfoot crunching with the same texture as Titan. The desk is covered in nothing but Polaroids of every waking fear he's had, but they all swear on their lives—

"They're all just black boxes."

He wakes up with a strangled sound of panic, the sheets ripped out from under Pepper's soft pale arms, and she darts awake alongside him with little choice in the matter. He isn't sure how to even begin to explain the nightmare, so he doesn't, which seems adequate enough for her at this point; she instead rakes kind fingernails over his scalp and he lets himself rest in his own sweat, until eventually it dries up with her ability to stay awake with him. But there's no sleeping now. Which is fine, because not an hour later Morgan's crying in a crib that Tony doesn't let leave their room. She's smart — not quite two yet, but she's got an eye for how to get what she wants. She slaps her hands on the bars like she's a chubby convict and says, "Juice!" like she hasn't already had enough juice in the day to turn into a berry.

"... I got her," he says with feigned exasperation, but more than anything, he just wants to hold onto the kid and remind himself she won't crumble into dust. He walks her through the hallways and stares out large windows, places where the memory of Peter Parker ghosts the halls in Tony's mind. He stands where Peter watched in boyish awe as the jets took off — where he'd lead him down a path towards reports and a new suit. Regrets dance like spots in his vision. Run along now, young buck. 

He misses the others, too. He thinks about them often, wants to get them back from the jaws of death.

But everyone knows Peter is a special case, for him. A special mission set aside to complete.

There's an aunt across the city that somehow manages to get up and go to work every day. She's all that's left of a family she'd married into — the last Parker, putting unopened Christmas and birthday presents in a room that hasn't been touched in two fucking years. Tony doesn't know how she does it, after the Parkers and her husband's death; perhaps it's not always the abundance of loss that breaks someone; perhaps it's the abundance of loss that helps steel them for the next blow.

Either way, he gives her as many promises as he can muster, and she just nods like she can actually trust him.

"If it isn't the terrible terror," Rocket slurs from the end of the walkway, as he rounds the bend. Tony can't believe his eyes; he's sure there must be some youtube video out there of a raccoon holding a vodka bottle, but seeing it in person is another thing altogether. The short-statured creature adds, "Not the gremlin baby, I mean you."

"Robbet!" Morgan says, gleeful and unaware of just how alike her and Rocket's walking performances would be toe-to-toe. 

Tony is less enthused.

"Did you — Did you fly back drunk?" And really, he's not one to talk after some of the stunts he pulled in his suits, but when he looks out the window there's a clearly tipped over spaceship on the front lawn of the headquarters, almost meeting the tarmac where the quinjet resides. 

Rocket wags a paw at him like he's nuts. "Seemed like the thing to do. You Terran nimrods are great at it."

"You could've hit the building, you jackass," he hisses, "There are people sleeping here you could've killed."

"Wouldn't be the worst way to go out on this stupid planet."

"You're so lucky I'm holding a toddler, or I'd kick you in the head."

"Bring it, old man." But the longer the squabbling goes, the more Rocket seems to completely lose whatever steam he has. They end up sitting right against the big glass windows, and Tony lets Morgan rub her grubby hands all over the panels, because he's pretty sure the cleaners here prefer her messes over the ones Tony leaves in the labs (you know, the ones that almost start fires). The kid eases something inside him, and he's not one to recommend having a kid as therapy (because it definitely didn't solve his panic over being a shit dad), but it at least keeps him grounded. Gives him perspective. Focus.

"Robbet," she commands, fidgeting with Rocket's ear. The raccoon's gotten used to the attention, so much so that he just lets it be, and Tony watches expectantly for words he knows are gonna come sooner or later. This isn't the first time Rocket's stumbled in like this, though he'd hesitate to say it's common enough for an AA meeting. 

"Nothin's out there, Stark," he says tiredly. "Thanos is in the wind after we pinned him in the rice terraces. Nebula's out there givin' her... I was gonna say blood, sweat, and tears, but I dunno how much of her is even left t'do that. But the universe is too damn big." He rubs his eyes tiredly in a way that is obscenely human. "We ain't ever gonna get the bastard, much less reverse the damage. I can't keep putting off..."

"Mourning?"

Rocket and Tony lock eyes for a moment, the billionaire's face unreadable.

Rocket looks away, and for once, he can't usher up a snarky, assholish retort. 

"Mourning."

And Tony could understand that much. The world has already been grieving and crying it out, but the Avengers? They haven't allowed themselves to do it. Scott's got his kid, and he's all his kid has now — the cops had found her wandering a park alone, crying for Ant-Man to save them, and Tony's paid for therapy but fuck if that always helps. Clint refuses funerals for the two children he and his wife lost, not until Tony can look him in the eye with complete certainty and say 'there's nothing else we can do'. And Tony is not gonna lie about that shit, not even for a moment. Steve always chases for Bucky, and Tony expects as much (both in a fond way, and in a resentful way that makes him wanna strangle the bastard; what, we can't all be perfect at making up)... He also talks about Wanda and Vision and Sam often, and the room always descends into pained silence by the time they both realize how many people they've lost.

"Sorry I called you a gremlin," Rocket suddenly says, and Tony's confused for a moment before he glances over and finds Morgan sitting between Rocket's legs, cupping his furry face in her hands like she's trying to figure out why his beard is so much more out of control than her father's. Suffice to say, the drunk raccoon eventually passes out against the window, and Natasha makes her cameo in the shaded moonlight long enough to click her tongue and heft the creature up. Usually it'd be a more violent affair, but he's so out cold, he doesn't even so much as twitch.

"I'll get him in the recovery position, I guess," she says with a quirk of her brow. 

One time he'd asked her in a moment of admittedly godawful anger how she managed to be a stone-faced robot in the wake of all of this; she had slammed him down onto a table and said it was the hardest thing someone can ever do.

"Could always throw him into a tree," is his reply, and she smirks — but tucks Rocket in, regardless.

They're all he's got now.

Two weeks later, Captain Marvel gives them the location of Thanos.

One week after, Thanos is dead and Bruce and Tony are staring at the melted, twisted remains of a gauntlet adorned with six stones.

It's a full month, when the snap is finally undone.

"W-what the flying fuck just happened?"

Probably not the most eloquent way Peter Jason Quill, Star-Lord and fearless leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy, could have reclaimed his life and body, but that's the way it happened. One moment his sinking despair had been blown away in the wind with the rest of his crumbled body; the next, he's gasping for air like a newborn baby with his hands on his chest — unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel helpless and lost. Then his name comes back to him, his age, where he's from, followed by the first of many memories: his mother and him, making cookies with The Rolling Stones blaring on an old radio in the background. 

Then all of it follows like a stampede trampling over each other: the ravagers, Ego, celebrations full of booze and old 70's and 80's hits with his team; he groans pitifully and remembers too suddenly that his mother is dead, Yondu is dead, Gamora is dead — and then he cries like he's never cried before in his goddamn life. Like, full-bodied sobbing, harder than he's ever allowed himself in the last thirty years. His fingers curl in rough alien soil and every nerve in his body is alight with something he can't really explain, leaving him shivering. When all is said and done, it's cathartic, but his head is pounding and his eyes are red and wet and — and his legs don't want to work, exactly, so he drags himself into sitting and stares all around him with a helpless, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Where are the others? 

Drax crawls out from behind the rubble with a bit-back curse as if summoned by Peter's sheer will alone, and Strange floats down from god knows where. Both of them wipe their faces and breathe like they'd just run a marathon, one you'd sprint for — to try and escape the returning memories. The questions bubbling under the surface can wait (when, why, how, who, where; where the fuck is Thanos so I can kick his head in and ignore the aching guilt of the stupid shit I've done). Peter's lips curl into a relieved grin despite himself and he staggers to his feet, rushing to meet Drax before the lumbering warrior can collapse on his knees; he steadies the two of them, and between four colt-like legs, they make it work until they can move on their own. 

"Drax, holy shit. I'm so happy to see you right now, I saw you and — where's Mantis? And... Stark and the kid?" 

He's not gonna pretend the last two weren't cliff notes in his order of priorities, compared to Mantis. That's his sister, his family, and his heart is pounding at the thought of losing anyone else from his team... because Gamora's so fresh in his mind, an abrasion so new and raw and — don't think about it, Quill, don't think about it right now, not until you can make it to a ship and find somewhere to lick the wounds. It's so hard to breathe, so hard to keep his memories in check. Judging from the pinched expression Drax has, he can only imagine the miserable television show going on in that thick skull of his. He had family, he had a life, a home, and now it's all coming back in thunderous waves. 

Drax perks. "I hear her. This way!"

And like clockwork, Mantis sobs more loudly from over the hill of debris, and Peter is already leaping over and down it, displacing rubble in his wake. It claws him up as he goes, but what's one more injury if it means getting to his team sooner? Add another wound to the dozens lanced in his heart, whatever, he can take it. What he can't take is finding someone he loves gone again because he wasn't good enough—

("I love you, more than anything.")

"Mantis! Shit, dammit — hang on, we're coming, hang on!" He skids to a stop at the bottom with Drax hot on his heels, and it's only there that he's relieved to find she's unhurt, curled up and sitting on her legs; her back is trembling, hands poised in front of her — no, no, hands pressed to the temples of a crumpled figure with shaggy brown hair and a terribly youthful face. He swallows hard at the sight, guilt coiling in his guts, because he had made this kid a footnote in his concerns all but fifteen seconds ago.The other Peter.

("Peter, huh? Samesies!" the spider kid laughs.)

The kid is on his back, and his eyes are open, face lax under Mantis' shivering fingertips. Quill automatically assumes the worst: that he didn't make it, because even if his skin has a healthy color, he doesn't look alive. Why didn't... he come back, too? What went wrong? Crouching down beside his friend, he examines the boy and his listless gaze that looks right through him, right through everything. A death stare. He's seen so many in his life — from ravagers and enemy alike — that he doesn't question it further than that.

"... Mantis, it's okay," he says softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He's gone. We gotta move."

"No, no, Peter," she weeps, freezing him with her desperation, "You're wrong. He's still here. I can feel him. But th-there's so much pain — something is wrong, and it hurts."

"She's right," Strange says with a surprisingly soft voice, "He's still breathing."

Quill watches with wide eyes the rise and fall of the kid's chest, and then the surprising drip of tears into the shells of Peter's ears.

"It hurts," Mantis says again, black hair curtaining her pained expression. "He's further and further away. I can't do anything. He is so afraid."

Peter Parker's eyes are open, half-lidded, without any sign of life behind them. But Quill feels like every word Mantis sobs is a memory he can't quite bring into focus... like — like a dream he'd forgotten in the time he'd been nothing but ash. Like a beacon, scrambling all of his senses and blinding him just before he had burst back to life from under the current of death. He remembers a snippet of what it was like on the other side, rolling over and over like he's stuck in a sea — a sea of souls. He remembers it was the kid's voice, calling out from oblivion as they were hoisted back into their bodies.

He remembers hearing his own voice... remembers saying, thinking, screaming: Hang on, kid, I got you!

— it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—

He puts his hand gently on Peter Parker's cheek.

It's warm. His body breathes in steady rhythm.

So why isn't there any life behind those eyes?

The lab is quiet, save for the rambling of an excited high-schooler bragging about their odds at the new decathlon competition. Tony doesn't really mind so much, though he's not about to tell that to the kid sitting there in his old thrift shop sweater; the same kid whose hair is curling out of control now, escaping the prison of hair gel he adds in the early morning. Peter's always so animated with his hands, most of all — always fidgeting, always moving, always so eager to sign and gesture faster than Peter's mouth can move.  "And Ned's got a brand new video-game he's dying to try out, but I dunno if he can handle it; it's a horror game, you know? He's kind of a big softy — oh."

Tony glances at Peter with a scoff and a raised eyebrow, though his smirk fades a little at what has drawn the kid's already battered attention span from the conversation. Peter holds an old trophy in front of him that he had taken off the nearest shelf: a replica, actually, but still no less important. It's the arc reactor, etched with those intimate, familiar words that Pepper still whispers to him when they're alone and living in their own little world.

"Aaww, look at that," Peter says with a playful smile, pressing the trophy against his chest, where the reactor would've resided in Tony's.  "... Proof that Tony Stark has a heart."

Peter's smile softens painfully, his eyes reflecting a long and sad goodbye before he crumbles away into nothing.

[foolscapper]

Exploding Head Syndrome: A MCU Post-IW Fanfic | Ch. 3

(READ IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.)

"I can promise you, it's no mistake — the Guardians and those who were behind on Titan, they will be arriving on Earth sooner than later," T'Challa later tells him, over the translucent feed glowing from the center island of his work space, and Tony's eyes flutter closed with overwhelming relief. Watching transfixed as the people he cared about reappeared in his life, sprouting like seeds after one hell of a metaphorical volcanic eruption? It was almost too much. He'd lived with the deaths of billions for far too long, and though the world is alight with celebration and confusion and everything in-between, the feeling hadn't settled between Tony's ribs until Sam Wilson walked his way into the room with a lopsided grin, or when doors parted and Wanda's furrowed brow and uncertain expression graced the halls of the headquarters. People were alive again, and all it cost Tony personally was a broken arm and leg and ribs and — okay, the healing process wasn't the best, but Wakanda sure did make it easier. Everyone had hoped the snap would be set straight the moment that purple bastard's blood bleached the ground, but not so — no, it took another month just to figure out how to reverse it, none of which would have been possible if not for Captain Marvel. She'd come and gone like an angel, and if Tony were a man toeing the line for an early grave, he'd offer a smooch of gratitude. Italian-style. He's got at least 10 or 20% in his bloodline somewhere. She'd taken the Power Stone and vanished into the stratosphere (too literally) with it. That leaves five stones that needed to be displaced securely. Thor would see to the Reality Stone. The Guardians wanted to return the Soul Stone. And of course Strange had a raging boner for the Time Stone. The Space Stone... The Mind Stone... who knows. Still working on it.

But Tony couldn't care less about those shiny bits of misery; he's given up enough of his time the last two fucking years (and then some) in a cold sweat about stones that he'd lob into the sun if he could. No, he wants to see Peter. That's the last piece, the thing that he tosses and turns over, the one good thing that came out of Germany that day — meeting this kid, but also damning him by proxy, and fuck if he didn't want to fix that. Once Peter is back home with his ridiculously attractive aunt, goofing off and building weird robots with his pal Fred, stammering about some girl that looked at him funny while he helps Tony in the lab... that's gonna be the real endgame. That's when it all actually ends and he can close his eyes and actually rest.

"I'm eager to finally meet this kid without a mask, after all proud parent talk," Steve says from the couch in the break room. He hadn't been able to stand for very long anymore after what Thanos had done to his knee a month back, but Tony's at least helped hook him up with a prototype brace he'd started way back when for Rhodey. It whirs a little when he straightens his leg out. Despite the new scars that grace them — one on the arm here, another on the forehead here, the imprint of a stab wound— Wait a goddamn minute. He glowers at Steve. "It's not 'proud parent talk'." "If it quacks like a duck," Sam says as he walks by with a cereal bowl, like he's drifting along on conveyor belt that dispenses wise cracks. "Begone, Wilson, you wretched creature," is the apt reply, as Tony wags a hand for him to leave (he already has). "And he's a — good kid, so yeah, maybe I talked up a big game for him so he starts off on the right foot. Someone has to prep you so his awkward puberty-stricken self doesn't ruin his credibility right off the bat." Steve just shakes his head, smiling at the ground. He looks so much younger than he had even just a couple months ago. But maybe that's all of them. There's a light in their eyes, a feeling of victory they hadn't felt in over two years. We've won. Vision would think so, too. Him and his stupid sweater vests, and his terrible cooking, and his scarring everyone else by ignoring doors. ... He'd be proud of them. Tony's sure of it.

  "Aaww, look at that... Proof that Tony Stark has a heart." And then, gone. Every night.

His heart is hammering in his chest when the Benatar touches down on the central landing pad, which is stupid and unprofessional; Tony Stark does not anxiously flutter around like a student worried about their test grades; he scores 101% every time. But now he's here, and his palms are sweating, and Pepper is telling him it's gonna be okay — "Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good." — and to relax before he sprouts a couple more gray hairs to add to the others — "I don't wanna go, please, sir, I don't wanna go...!" — and Rhodey grips his shoulder, tight enough to hurt. He blinks. "Hey," is all his friend says, but it grounds him. Tony nods. I'm alright. There are few people in the facility that are aware of the post, or traumatic, or stress. Pepper and Rhodey and Happy are his key confidants when he detaches from all common sense and loses himself to places like Kunar, or the emptiness of space, or — or places like Titan. It's gotten better, but only before it's gotten much worse, and the months that followed the dusting of half the universe he was hardly capable of handling standing on his own two feet, let alone moving to solve anything. "Hey, it's all good," he'd tell them at 3 a.m. in the lab, "I took a Xanax." Beside him, Rocket and Groot stand transfixed, and Tony can only imagine how much more wrecked Rocket is about all of this — it's been two years since he's seen his family alive. He honestly wasn't sure if they were going to be able to pull him away from the tree-kid when he'd been flown back in, and though the raccoon will never hearken back to that moment he'd cried into Groot's chest, it'll at least be a reminder that good things come to those who wait. And drink excessively.

The doors of the Benatar open to a field littered with curious Avengers and workers, and the first to step out is Drax and Mantis — well, more like rush out, and Groot and Rocket are running to meet them with outstretched arms, as you'd expect from sweet reunions; and yeah, Tony's glad, Tony's grinning. More good news playing out right in front of him, fruits of their overworked, overwrought labor. From where they all stand, they can crane their heads to the side and listen for Rocket's wobbly, teary berating: "You freaking morons! How dare you guys just go off and get yourselves killed — this is what happens when you're not being babysat by yours truly, you bastards, you — " Quill emerges from the shadows of the craft's interior soon after, a sad smile gracing his lips as he drops a hand on Groot's jagged scalp. Not quite a whole family. Tony can see that in the weary lines of Quill's face. And he hasn't forgotten the desperation he himself felt, knowing that the Star-Lord had been one step away from exploding on Thanos back on Titan... knowing there was no way to turn the tide in their favor, once the floodgates were smashed into chalky bits. Quill turns, locks eyes with Tony, and... something shifts in his expression. Something drops. Worse — Something is wrong. The thought occurs to Tony, the moment he realizes that nobody should've been leaping out of that ship before Peter Parker. That kid had a hell of a time on Titan, yes — that'd be an understatement. But he's Pete, the teenager who can't seem to sit still for five minutes, the plucky one with a five-mile long list of shower thoughts and embarrassing factoids, the pain in the ass who doesn't do a single thing he's told, because he's going through a super-teen rebellion phase. Tony's worked too closely with him the years before Thanos; he knows him too well; he'd be out here already like a lightning bolt, smiling like nothing's wrong and cashing in on a real hug for once (and Tony'd let him and pretend it was grudgingly, but everyone knows better)— (— nobody is listening, they just talk about their day and nobody is looking at this kid in this photograph: the kid with the curvy brown hair and pinching, smiling eyes and thin lips, he's only a kid, he's missing, does nobody see that? But Pepper just puts her hands up at the sides of her head and shrugs like he's out of his mind, and she's talking about being behind schedule —) He dreamed this, like he dreams everything. Quill steps toward Tony and away from the Guardians as they stand on the ship's ramp, one hand out, placating, brow furrowed. "Stark, man, I'm sorry; we didn't want to tell you over some shitty line, but there's something..." His voice tapers off as Strange and Peter walk out from the darkness. Peter isn't smiling, he isn't frowning, he isn't anything. He's just looking at Tony — through Tony — and the scarred hand on his shoulder is doing all the leading. What do they mean? Something's what? He's whole and healthy, isn't he? There's not a scratch on Parker's head, not like the scars the Avengers have collected the last couple of months. He's fine, he's safe— (No. No no no, look at him, why - why are you not looking at him?" Tony asks, curled fingers pecking over the shirt on his chest, right where his blue heart used to be, and he's so fucking angry that Happy said it Pepper said it Steve said it Everyone says it, the same thing, different voices: "It's a black box, Tony. It's just a black box. The picture's not developed. Something got screwed up, sorry.) "Tony, something went wrong," Strange starts, in rhythm with the pounding of Tony's heart. "He didn't come back with the rest of us." If he doesn't breathe right now, he won't stay upright for long. Peter's eyes are looking right through him, and his arms dangle at his sides, which doesn't make any sense, because that kid could never keep his arms still for five goddamn seconds— ("Could you not move while I adjust these? Lord, do you want to plummet to your doom because they jam?" "Oh, oop, sorry, Mr. Stark!") Morgan whines uncomfortably in Pepper's arms, tired of standing in the heat. "Mama, m'tired." Steve hobbles forward, and he's saying something, but Tony can't hear it anymore. Peter was the endgame. Tony's having a hard time remembering how he crossed the distance from the grassy knoll to Peter, and he can't really recollect how his hands ended up on either side of the kid's face, looking for any sign that things are actually messed up — but before he knows it, he's gripping the kid's shoulders just as tightly as Rhodey had gripped his own, his hands trembling. "Pete, kid, c'mon. Say something. If you don't say something I'm gonna seriously lose it here. Don't fucking do this." A pair of headphones rattle around Pete's neck. Tony's shaking him. Maybe he'll come to, like a half-drowned puppy you pull out of the gutter. Then just as suddenly he's not shaking him, because Quill is prying his hands back from the kid protectively, and Strange's palm is pushing Tony's shoulder to put some distance between him and the boy. Everyone knows Peter is a special case, for him. A special mission set aside to complete. He promised May. He promised Peter. He held him while he disintegrated. He washed him down a sink and apologized in multitudes. Someone seethes, "What do you mean, he didn't come back? What do you mean?" and he recognizes it belatedly as his own. "Tony, look at me," Strange orders, and usually Tony would tell someone like the good doctor to shove his orders up his own ass, but for once he listens. Quill and Strange stand like guards posted at a gate, safeguarding the unresponsive boy, and Tony's senses come back to him like eardrums popping on an airplane. Strange continues in that agonizingly calm way, "You're having a panic attack. You're no good to the kid like this." He takes a step back, eyes burning, tongue heavy in his mouth. Usually, he has a funny quip he can sling to defend himself, or some jagged-edged retort that's bitter enough to cut through just about anything. But he has nothing to offer, right now. He just stares blankly, remembers how to breathe again, and turns his head away. Focus. Focus. Okayokayokay, you're a billionaire genius with a complex full of smart-asses, you've got magical glowy rocks, you've got Wakanda on speed dial. "What happened?" Answers, he needs answers. "He is not in there," Mantis meekly replies. It's not the answer he's looking for. "Judging from what we've gathered," Strange clarifies, "His body has likely somehow resurrected — without his mind." "What does that mean, exactly?" Happy asks, voice edged with frustration, with disbelief (when did he get there? when did he end up standing beside Pete with his hand hovering so helplessly?). "How does that happen?" ("I don't feel so good.") "Get him in the medical wing. Now," Tony orders, cutting through the quiet. He is more than ready to bury the coiling, ugly panic brewing under the surface now, turning to Bruce — who stands sheepishly to the side, concern and sympathy casting shadows on his face. He's told him plenty of stories, told him how excited Peter was to ever get the chance to meet him. The kid loved Bruce Banner more than he loved the Hulk; Bruce was beyond happy to hear it, smiling down at his work. Thor's not here — he's not here yet. Pete wanted to meet Thor, too. He wanted to meet everyone, without the mask. And that 'everyone' is here now, looking at him with little else they can do (this isn't a battle, they can't fight this), and Tony grits his teeth and promises Peter one more thing: he's not gonna lose it right now, when he needs him the most. He turns and plants a firm hand on Pete's shoulder again, this time looking into his eyes and steeling himself for the way nobody looks back. He tells Bruce, "I'm gonna need your help again. If this little asshole thinks he can Casper out on us, he's got another fucking thing coming." He'll have to call a rain check on that whole concept of resting. Good to know his nightmares are as reliable as ever, though.

[foolscapper]

Exploding Head Syndrome: A MCU Post-IW Fanfic | Ch. 2

(READ IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.)

Nebula is the next person Quill sees, and god is he glad to see her — something that would've been insane to think a couple of years ago, when she was murderous and... okay, well, she's still murderous, but it's not towards the Guardians. And that's a good enough bridge to make them something more, something good (he used to mentally consider her a... sister-in-law, but now the thought makes him want to shoot someone who'd deserve it in the face, because he can't think about that kind of shit right now). She lands the Benatar on Titan's uneven soil about three hours after they all wake up, which is really nice, because Quill had absolutely no plans on how to get off this shit-heap of a planet.

Nebula's not a hugger, and Quill wouldn't dare try it, but there's a relief and understanding when she steps out into the oppressive, humid air and their eyes meet.

The kid — Little Pete — is sitting beside Mantis on a smoothed piece of metal that probably used to be a chunk of ship, one of his hands sitting limply against his thigh while Dr. Strange holds the other between his scarred fingers. He's quietly trying to assess the rhythm of his heartbeat through the thin skin of his wrist; he ends up having to move to Peter's neck, because the Iron Spider suit doesn't leave room for accurate readings. The spider kid is pliable all the while, blinking lazily every ten or fifteen seconds while the good doctor is adamant about putting his PhD to use — the PhD in actual doctoring, and the fake one he's got in the mystic arts. Quill hates to watch it, honestly, because — because part of it feels like it's on him. He freaked out, he ruined the plan, he lost control (Ego's face overlaps Thanos' — "I had to, I did what I had to, it broke my heart to put that tumor in her head-"), and now they're awake after two freaking years of nothing, and this kid is sitting here like a victim of wartime with no trace of self in his eyes.

"I've seen such a look before," Drax says, arms folded. "Many times, on warriors.”

Peter makes a soft sound of acknowledgement in his throat. "... How long does it take to come out of it?" Drax glances at him, more somber than he's been in Quill's company in a long time. "There is no measurement for such suffering." And isn't that just the reply Quill was hoping for? No, no it absolutely wasn't, and he thins his lips in helplessness at the scene. Mantis has obviously found some kind of emphatic kinship with the boy, and she leans in and listens to Strange's clinical ramblings with intense focus. Her hand ghosts Peter's, just grazing the skin, as if she's trying to keep him from fading further and further away. Little Pete had saved her, when Thanos threw her. In the end it didn't matter for any of them, but that's not the point — the point is, the kid threw himself into danger every chance he got, to make sure none of them died. Crumbling into nothing doesn't change that. He had his heart and head in the game, and... Quill closes his eyes, headache pulsing. "I'm sorry, guys. For freaking out, for fucking up, I just—" "There's no point in apologizing," Strange cuts him off, not coldly, but not warmly, a sort of fact-of-matter reply that belies no blame. "It was what was supposed to happen. This was our sole victory, the only future that could have possibly worked." "Okay, cool, but just because something's fated to happen doesn't mean it wasn't a stupid move," Quill mumbles.  Mantis says with cooled sorrow, "It was for Gamora." Nebula's hands turn to fists at her sides and Quill swallows a lump in his throat, the name immediately raising goosebumps, sinking his stomach, burning his eyes. Dances on terraces and battles scattered across the galaxy like stardust and — and promises that Quill never got to fulfill, promises for things that never would be. The loss is another in a long list that leaves scar tissue, thick keloid nightmares, on his heart. He'll survive, like usual. But he won't like it. Rough and worn, he mutters, "... Yeah." And that's all that has to be said among them about that particular topic, right now. The next step is finding Thor, because it'll help them find Rocket and Groot, and then... he's not sure. But what he does know is that they've got a doctor and a kid who needs to get back to earth, pronto. And Quill is not about to ditch these two on some godforsaken planet. "You two come with us, and we'll get you to Earth in no time," he finally says. "That would be appreciated." Strange nods. "There's little I can do for the boy here." "Can you tell what's wrong with him?" Mantis asks. Strange looks at Little Pete, pressing a hand to his forehead, to his temple. It's surprisingly gentle and careful; Quill doesn't remember doctors being nearly so kind, but to be fair, every doctor became 'the asshole who couldn't fix my mom' at some point. They might as well have grown fangs and claws. Strange says at last, "I'm not completely sure, but if I had to fathom a guess... I imagine it's not something grounded in anything medical. The soul stone might have had something to do with it — it's the portion of the gauntlet that would have no doubt carried out the ebb and flow of our spirits through the astral plane." "Oh," Quill quiets for a moment. "Oh, shit. Yeah. I remember..." "You remember?" Strange's brows raise.  "Y-yeah. I remember a little bit. Like, being dragged back through... something. It was bright, too bright to really see anything. But there were a lot of voices, but I could make out the ones close to me — like, um. I heard Drax and Mantis. And then I heard... the kid... I dunno. Maybe?" "I don't remember anything of the sort," Drax grumbles. "It's probably because of the 50% of him that isn't stupid," Strange says, and Quill flatly ignores him to continue talking. "Right. Anyway. I remember, I was..." He stops, squinting as if it'll all just come back into focus. And to his credit, the memory is a little less foggy. He can see Peter's wide eyes looking back at him in a veil of orange-tinted mist, but the teenager was staring at him like a deer in the headlights, his body refusing to crumble into thousands of blinding particles like everyone else's already had. Or maybe... Peter was refusing to let his body crumble. "I was reaching my hand out — for him... to try and get him to get a move on, I guess..." He extends his hand toward the teenager's still figure, sitting in front of him. He doesn't move or react, predictably, but the picture in his head is enough. "... He said it was hurting." Quill's voice is soft and sympathetic, as he looks at the dirt etching the lines of his palm. "He just kept getting further and further away, and it was so bright, and there were so many people pushing me back... I couldn't follow. I don't remember anything before or after, though. Just... that." Strange nods as a contemplative silence falls over the star lord, and then looks to Mantis. "... Can you feel anything at all, when you touch him?" Her hands wrap around Peter's palm, squeezing. "I have not felt anything in some time, now." Quill has a feeling the kid's not coming back, either. Not like them. But there's no point in dawdling, and Strange stands Little Pete up (the name's catching on) and helps walk him toward the ship with easy steps. It's weird to see something so shell-like move, shambling like a corpse from an old zombie flick — he watched Night of the Living Dead with his mom and couldn't sleep alone for a week straight, and now he feels that same uneasy clench in his chest, which isn't really fair to Pete. The ship is as they'd left it, funnily enough; Nebula hadn't changed a single thing about the set-up. Maybe it's because she needs so little to function, she doesn't bother upsetting the ecosystem. But Quill likes to think she wanted to keep it nice and familiar and cozy for them, when they came back. "What now?" she says, glancing at him.  "First, I'm gonna make a few calls to earth," he says, buckling in for take-off. "Then you're gonna tell me everything that happened since we dusted.

Make no mistake, Stephen Strange did not enjoy being the hard-ass with a mission. He did not enjoy going toe-to-toe with Stark like some kind of alpha dogfight, because he knew that at the end of the day, they both had wanted the same thing, essentially: peace, safety, a world — a universe — that is defended and safeguarded from the worst of what was out there. Their ideas for doing so were different, mind, but their hearts were at the same board meeting. And make no mistake, though Strange was willing to lose comrades in this and choose the stone over Stark or the boy, it didn't mean his heart didn't ache for the kid who had been dragged into all of this. Looking at him now, lost somewhere he couldn't reach, was igniting every surgeon's nerve in his body. This wasn't something an operating table could fix, and the shaking hands digging through the Benatar's medical supplies could do little other than make sure he was physically alright. Mantis can't do anything other than hover, and Strange doesn't mind the company, however odd the young woman was. The antenna on her head and her coal-black, full eyes were far less jarring to him than her awkward social mannerisms, and he spends some of his time in-between checking up on Peter Parker to talk to her about anything that came to mind: answers about earth, about his powers, cleared up confusions on where handshakes originated from. She's a good spirit who has her heart in the right place, so he can see why she gravitated towards Peter's side. "I managed to get in contact with this place, uh — Wakanda?" Quill calls back from over his shoulder. "They're the only bozos down there with decent reception, go figure. They're playing a game of telephone with me and Stark right now, and I guess Groot and Rocket are safe, but they're already back in New York City with a bunch of those Avengers guys." "Thor's Avengers," Mantis says cheerfully, as Stephen turns his attention back to Parker. It's a bit cold in the medical area, so he nudges his cloak until it gets the hint and leaves him, to curl around Peter's shoulders. As he sits near the unresponsive boy with little else to do but wait, he glances back to Mantis with interest he'd kept at bay until a more appropriate time. "So you're an empath." She looks at him, eyes dark and rounded with something close to innocence. It's not a common sight, around such weathered fighters, and her movements are slow and non-threatening as she considers his words. "That is correct... I feel feelings. I can sense things, sometimes." "You knew when people were dying," he responds with kinder cadence. "I suppose I did... there was a feeling of... despair. It was distant, but it grew and grew before..." "I see." "I wish I was able to do more. I was not very much use, when we were fighting Thanos. I felt helpless, with my abilities as they are. And now... Little Peter... I just sit and listen for his fear or pain, but nothing has happened since Titan. It feels like I should be able to do something, but I cannot." Quill's head turns just slightly from the pilot's seat. Strange sees that he's listening, solemn. But the answer is easy, however, and Strange replies with little room for doubt, "Don't disparage yourself, Mantis. Your powers are both unique and important, even in times of war... Listening to someone's heart is one of the most powerful things anyone can do." She smiles, before her eyes are drawn to his oddly marked hands. "May I?" He offers his trembling palm upward without fear of baring anything he wouldn't otherwise, and she takes it, enveloping his knuckles in soft, warm hands; they've seen little manual labor, if any at all, and he supposes that makes sense. Her master, from what little she told him in the last few hours, sounds like someone no being should ever have to endure. Her antennas glow softly in the cool colors of the interior ship; in the corner of his eye, he sees Quill turning more fully to watch them. She says, eyes closed, "You are calm, but worried. And you are reminiscing... fondly of someone, but they're gone now. They inspire you to stay determined, though." Strange smirks a little, the hand in his not calloused, and yet so familiar now. "I think she would have liked you a lot." "I hope so! I would be happy to make new friends, like I have today. You and the Iron Man, and — and Little Peter." Little Peter does not so much as twitch. "If only there was a way to bring him back to himself," Drax says, chewing loudly on food rations; Strange is not a fan of the texture. Bit too chalky. The muscular warrior squints at Peter, then looks to Strange like he's perhaps found a solution to the whole problem. "Would he react if I suplexed him?" "You are not suplexing anybody!" Quill blurts, standing up from his chair to wander over.  "I am just trying to help!" Drax complains, hands out in front of him. "He's very durable!" "You're not suplexing a catatonic teenager," Strange says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. The Ancient One is laughing at him from somewhere out there in the cosmos, he's almost sure of it. Meanwhile Quill nudges passed Drax with a roll of his eyes, turning his full attention on Parker's expressionless face, on his prone, iron-gloved hands. The annoyance left over from Drax fizzles as he studies the other Pete. Then he sighs through his nose, looking at the kid with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "These guys, am I right? I bet you're sick of this whole trip by now." It takes Strange a moment to recognize Quill's efforts as he sits crouched in front of Parker, but he appreciates them. "Hang in there, kid... It's gonna be a kinda long ride to Earth, and between you and me, space can get kind of boring the more you float through it. Especially on a road trip." He fidgets with a decently crafted pair of headphones he'd retrieved from the captain's chair, and the others fall silent as he slips them over Peter's boyish ears, Mr. Blue Sky muffled as it plays; it's a gentle sort of moment that Strange finds rare and difficult to ascribe feelings to, watching the small crew huddle with some semblance of hope and optimism for someone who may very well be completely lost to fate. Perhaps he'd had too fast of a knee-jerk reaction to the Guardians of the Galaxy, after all. Not an hour and a few Paul Anka songs later, Peter Parker is curled up in his seat, swaddled in a determined red cloak and, one could only hope, listening to the distant melody of earth and all he's left behind.

[foolscapper]

Exploding Head Syndrome: A MCU Post-IW Fanfic | Ch. 4

(READ IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.)

What happens when you pile a bunch of doctors into a medical wing with a catatonic spider-kid? A hell of a lot of things going on at once, it turns out. Bruce can't complain about it, because it at least keeps him focused on anything other than himself; life has been one big roller-coaster he hasn't been able to get off of since Ultron (no, wait, way before that), and all he wants is to sit in a lab and work on anything that isn't his own self-worth and mental capsizing. Two years killing aliens for sport as a gladiator will do that to you. Yeah, he still hasn't figured out how to work with this, so he just went ahead and put all that in a way-too-small box in his brain. Hooray for compartmentalizing.  Back to work. Cho has already gently pulled a sample of Parker's tissue from one of his arms to study his particularly complex cell structure, as is her particularly crucial talent, and Strange has returned from his own collection of ancient texts, Wong hovering at his side to offer whatever knowledge he can in the ways of the soul — to which Bruce knows Tony's grateful, but he also is well-aware that the man is running on fumes by the third day of diagnostics. The genius had been animated with the news of Peter's return, and that scene outside is still fresh in his mind as he eyes the reports that have come back from MRI scans of Peter's brain. There's no damage, no signs of anything that would cause this kind of dramatic loss of self, which Bruce semi-expected with the way Dr. Strange had gone on about the potential effects of the stones on a kid like Peter. There are variables. It's possible someone did this to him — that he was targeted, that maybe Thanos did something specific in the snap that left Peter completely vulnerable to complications. That doesn't too much sense in the grand scope of things, but it surely the madman had some range of control over who stayed and who went. The thing is, Thanos was dead. This shouldn't be a complication. Should it? 

Perhaps it's someone outside of Thanos. Someone from his roster, maybe. But that would also be an odd way to handle payback, especially when the Guardians and Strange were also at their mercy. Bruce didn't rule out the possibility that something from the planet itself might have effected Parker, especially when Titan may very well effect every one of them differently. Strange collected some of the dirt and debris carried over onto the Benatar, and from Peter and Drax's boots, but the results of the study yielded very little. "He's not completely human, that much is certain," Cho says, not unkindly. "If you look at the way his DNA is structured, it is much different than any string I would pull from myself or any normal boy off the street. But if there's a correlation with the way he's reacted to resurrecting, I have not found it yet." Bruce glances at Tony, biting his lip. "His brain scans are clean, too. I've sent everything to Shuri, though, just in case they can find something we don't. Which, you know, is a... pattern... lately..." Tony was up at all hours after the kid had been put to bed, compiling all manner of documents highlighting medical complications and disorders of the mind, and at this point Bruce is tempted to lock him out of the lab (though he's also more than aware he may also be punched in the teeth for it, and the last thing anyone needs is for Hulk to finally decide to pop back in)... Three whole days, though. It's not healthy, and yes, he's not the pinnacle of good mental health himself, but... He twiddles with a pen in his hands, once the two of them are alone (well, Peter is here, too... so they're alone enough). "Hey, we've got this. You're not gonna be any good to this kid if you're passing out mid-conversation." "We've got a bigger problem than that," Tony mumbles, rubbing at the exhaustion all over his face. They're both sitting at a counter near the lounge chairs; why aren't they sitting on the lounge chairs? Bruce is seeing a missed opportunity for comfort here. Peter has the right idea.

Tony adds, "... He hasn't eaten anything."

And okay, that is a pretty important thing to bring up. He'd been putting it off in the hopes they'd find something sooner, to avoid what he figured might have to be done. But even with practically living in the lab with this unresponsive kid, they're no closer to closing in on what's making him tick — or not tick, in this case — and resources are waning. Bruce bites his lip, not happy with what he'll have to say. "He's going to need a temporary feeding tube of some kind, soon. Until we can get any kind of result." "Oh, god." And Bruce sees in his friend's eyes, the slow unraveling that comes with helplessness. He wishes there was something he could say that was any more calming, but the fact of the matter is that Peter is his patient for the meanwhile, and he has to say exactly what's in the kid's best interest, whether it's emotionally draining or not. He's tired, they're all tired, Peter's probably hungry, and nobody wins in this situation. "He's not a typical case, either. His metabolism is too high to do anything different, Tony, I'm sorry. He's already losing way too much weight for just being a few days back, and IV drips are only gonna get us so far. Even if he's not mentally there right now, it's not humane to—" Tony's fist is a sharp, echoing sound against the metal table under his arm. "I know, alright? I know!"  A silence falls over them where they sit, and Peter — as always — only blinks and breathes where he sits nearby. It must be so much, to watch someone you love look like this for so long. Too long. Every glance in the boy's direction is a reminder of just how powerless they can all be, despite their collective minds, their hours and hours of best efforts. Bruce leans back, almost affronted by the simmering heat in Tony's rounded shoulders, tapping his pen to his teeth a few times before he says with a raised brow, "... Are you gonna hulk out on me? Do I need to get the armor out?" It works enough to tame the beast. And maybe even earn a hidden, miserable smile as Tony's face descends into shadow behind his fists. "Ha, ha. Very funny." More softly, Bruce replies, "... It won't be a big deal. It's an hour-long surgery at most, and it's extremely noninvasive and basic, and Cho can do it in her sleep. It's just a little button, practically — you won't even notice anything's any different, and he'll be all the more healthy for it, right? It's for Peter's well-being." Tony cards a hand through his hair, looking at Peter, who is sitting as compliantly as the day he'd been walked in.  "... You're a fucking pain in the ass, Pete," he says.  It's a strained response, and Bruce reaches out to cup one of Tony's shoulders. His doctoring isn't just limited to Peter, and he can see just how drained Tony is; he wears the bags under his eyes like a fashion accessory, and while that's usually all fine and good and expected of someone like him, enough is enough. He can't watch his friend self-combust in front of him."And you need to rest. I'm serious, man. Do you think he wants you to overwork yourself to death here?" "He doesn't want anything right now, because nobody's at the door, Bruce. And I don't know what to do." "Right now? Sleeping is what you do. You're no good to him if you're not at your best." A pause. "I'm getting Pepper." He stands, and Tony looks after him helplessly.  "No, hey — goddammit."

Stephen has met few as stubborn as Tony Stark, but he supposes that's one reason the earth had ultimately been in the best of hands, against Thanos and his unruly power. It takes a few arguments and a hell of a lot of coaxing and an unfair advantage of using a two year old baby, but eventually Tony relents with Bruce and Stephen's promise that they won't do anything until Tony can decide how to approach May Parker about this (this poor woman doesn't even know, she has no clue, and how are they going to explain to this poor woman that her adoptive son is here but not here at all?). Tony also adds an addendum, that he has to be present for every goddamn moment of any surgery involved here no matter how small, 'so help me god'. It's a fair request, one that Stephen gives his word to honor. He consults with Cho and Bruce, and they're in agreement: a percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy, however temporary it is, is imperative for their patient. It would have never been something he would have cared about, in his professional career. He would have not given Peter Parker a second glance in the hospital, would have passed him off to someone else like he had been the most minor of roadblocks. A thoughtful silence falls over them as Dr. Cho talks about their short-term gameplan. Strange admittedly has a lot he should be doing; the Time Stone is back in its rightful place, and the whole world is reeling from the events of the last few years. He'd only given himself enough time to comb through old records at the Sanctum and remind Christine, rather lamely, that he's back from the dead.  She had nearly strangled him in her embrace, but it was a soft moment he wouldn't trade for anything.   "... I'll oversee the surgery as well," he finally speaks, glancing back at Peter. He's been there for every step of the conversation, and part of him hopes that a teenager hearing the word 'surgery' applied to them will make them suddenly spring to life with anxiety, like a kid realizing he's on his way to a dentist. Nothing of the sort happens, but even Stephen is not allergic to hopeful optimism. "I can promise you, he'll be in safe hands," Cho says worriedly, but he shakes his head with a raised hand. "It's not that. I trust you to be knowledgeable; you're a credit to your field. I just want to know for myself as well, that everything goes exactly as expected." If he can't take an hour out of his day to look out for a teammate, then he doesn't deserve to wear the cloak. "We'd love to have you," Bruce says, then smiles a little. "Are you, uh. Close with Peter?" He considers it for a moment, and only a moment, fleeting. For some reason, most of that moment comprises of memories, of one Peter Parker excitedly rambling at him about magic and floating cloaks for an hour prior to crash landing. He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. "Not particularly, to be honest. I'd only met him on an alien spaceship a day before we all were killed. But — his involvement in our timeline can't be overstated. And... the kid did save my life. And helped me avoid a great deal of torment. So I suppose he's a temporary... ward, of sorts. I'm indebted to him. What about you?" "This is the first time I've met him, actually. But... he means a lot to Tony. And..." The doctor grows quiet for a moment with folded, contemplative arms, and Cho and Stephen give him a moment to continue. "And — I know what it's like." Strange cocks his head. Bruce sighs through his nose, eyes darkening with discontentment. A storm of ugly memories, all kept under lock and key; Stephen knows about the Hulk, of course, but he can hardly imagine the sorts of horror shows only Bruce banner is privy to. The man says, "I know what it's like, to be trapped in your own body. Maybe he's not, not exactly, and nothing like how I've been before, but... either way, he deserves to have it back." That's all that needs to be said. Stephen rises to leave after some time and a couple of warm drinks, hearing Bruce speaking effortlessly to Peter from around the corner before he fades further and further from earshot: "Hey kid, you're pretty good at this whole meditation thing; I'm a pro at it, myself. We should go out and get some air, maybe practice on the lawn. You could use some sunlight before you turn into a lab hermit like the rest of us old men." Wong hovers in the main corridor, newly arrived. A good sign. Stephen walks with him.  "Anything from the Sanctum about the stones that might help this?" "Not very much," Wong relents. "What little can be found are based in texts that predate most everything we know as masters. However... I was able to look into what the Ancient One left behind in her many records and found something potentially helpful — and that is not necessarily something about the infinity stones, but about astral projection. I'll have to show you when we return, so you can help me decipher her chicken scratch." Stephen laughs softly, and they enjoy the sound of each other's footsteps. "... Do you have any theories, about what's actually wrong with the boy?" Strange purses his lips, and says at cautious length, "It's all just a theory, but... the woman, Mantis, she had been able to sense him within his body for a short time, even if it wasn't for long. I think more than anything else, it's possible that Peter returned to himself momentarily like the rest of us — and then panicked and let himself sink back into... wherever we all were." "Panicked?" Wong's brow furrows. "Over being alive again?" "... Over the pain of it. Stark had a hard time talking about it, but from what I can gather from his recollections, Peter's death was extraordinarily different from the rest of us. He felt that something was wrong before he'd passed, and it took him much longer than the rest of us to die. If I had to fathom a guess... I think maybe his composition was his own undoing. He's a scared child who couldn't cope with re-living that moment of suffering." "And what is the solution to that? Is there any?" Stephen looks to the side, where Bruce and Peter are resting in the sun, not too far from where the Benatar had landed — with them and bad news. For a moment Stephen worries about the safety of a mentally lost boy and a doctor sorely lacking in control over his green rage-monster, but then he notices the blot of red on the rooftops — Natasha Romanoff, accompanied by a suited-up Sam Wilson, watching with bird-like eyes over the resting figures.  Stephen smiles faintly despite himself. "None that I can offer anyone right now. There may not be a solution. Even the Scarlet Witch couldn't find any foothold in the kid's mind... There's no link that we can find between him and the physical world. But if there's any hope at all, and if all else truly fails... my personal bet is on the Soul Stone." Though maybe — and this is a fluttering, unprofessional thought in the grand scheme of things — the extended hands of Peter Parker's worried team may be part of that solution, too. Stephen makes a mental note to compile as much as he can to give to Stark from the Ancient One's writings. And he gives silent thanks to her, that even after her passing, she's managed to help provide obnoxiously useful words of wisdom, be it in slowed thunder storms or old, time-stained scrolls.