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waywardsou2 · 1 month ago

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Whumptober 2024 - "Don't move, you'll be ok"

Summary: An AU where Steve goes and finds Bucky. The results are no less heart breaking

Word Count: 1.9k+

Tags: Dismemberment, trauma, alternate universe, blood, hospital, memories, gore

Steve felt like everything inside of him had been sucked out. That his whole body had been dragged under the speeding train.

He knew it hadn't. He could still feel the cold metal underneath his gloves. He could still feel the harsh winds on his face. He could feel the solid metal underneath his feet.

But it doesn't mean anything, because his entire world, the person he had held closest to his heart had just been ripped away from him.

He heard rather than saw, the wind whipping the snow in his face and it was making his eyes water. Instead he heard the cry of fear as the bar Bucky had been holding onto gave way.

He felt the way his heart sank as Bucky fell away from him.

This couldn't be happening.

The part of his brain that wanted to sink to his knees was pushed away, buried as his logical brain took over knowing he needed to complete the mission. He pulled himself back inside the car, refusing to process what had just happened.

He made his way to the front of the car where Arnim Zola had been cornered by Gabe, a gun trained on him and the driver. They were taking the two of them to the meeting point where Colonel Philips and the rest of the 107th would be waiting for them.

After they get back to the camp Steve rushes to Colonel Philips leaving the Howling Commandos by their truck

"Good job out there Rogers, I had my doubts but your team pulled through" The Colonel looked around briefly. "I don't see Sargent Barnes"

"Sir, Bucky fell. We need to go look for him. It's about six miles down from here. I need to take my team to look for him"

"Rogers, we just bagged Zola I can't allow-"

"If he's alive do we really want him in enemy hands?" Steve was trying to play into the Colonel's reasoning and hoped that the idea that Bucky could give away critical intelligence would be enough to convince him. He knew Bucky would never, but Colonel Philips didn't.

The Colonel paused and sighed deeply. Looking like he wanted to say no, but there was an uncharacteristic softness around his eyes when he looked at Steve

"You and the rest of your team take the winter tank. You get an hour, get down there and get back. With or without Barnes"

Steve almost felt like crying, all of his buried feelings coming back in a sudden overwhelming surge. He had to move now, he couldn't stand the thought of Bucky, laying in the snow in whatever condition he was in. Alive or dead he was going to bring him home. Back to his mother and back to Becca.

He went back to the truck where the rest of his Howling Commandos were waiting. They were all staring at their boots forlornly. Gabe had told them about Bucky.

Marching past them at high speed towards where the tanks were stationed he called to them "Follow me"

Instantly they marched into the step with him, their guns now slung over their backs from where they were resting on the hood of the car.

Dugan's hands where curled into fists

"Where are we headed Captain?"

"Back, were going to find Bucky"

The group rushed to the tank and took off, heading back out of the camp and down the mountain. Heading for the ravine where Bucky fell.

As they were going Falsworth calculated the approximate search distance from where Bucky fell to where he could have landed. Calculating in wind, landing place and slope, potential debris intervention and if he was alive how far he realistically would have been able to travel on his own.

That gave them a 2.4 square miles for a search radius

They made their way back to the ravine and Steve's heart sped up, knowing that soon he would have an answer to his bruning question.

Would he be fine Bucky warm or cold?

They stopped the tank and walked the last 3 miles to reach the edge of the radius and spread out. Walking in a line down the ravine. One person on either side of a small half frozen lake. Steve took point, walking several paces ahead of the rest. Though he walked slow, his head constantly on a swivel, there was steadfast determination in each step.

He walked, his face searching the snow and the trees that dotted the ravine. He didn't care that his teeth were chattering and he couldn't feel his nose or his fingers. He had to keep looking until his hour was up.

He walked until he heard Dugan call out. He was crouched near the edge of the edge of the forest.

Steve sprinted, his leg carrying him across the ravine in 7 seconds flat.

The others joined him quickly and here they all saw what Dugan had found.

Bucky was lying on his back. Blood covering his face, a bruise on his eye and a bad gash on the right side of his head. He had blood in his teeth, the white turned stained with the fluid. His breathing was disjointed, full of spluttering and coughing. He didn't take a full breath in, the only indication he was actually breathing was the way his chest jumped. His exposed skin was slowly turning purple and blue. His lips, nose and holes in his gloves indicating as such.

But as Steve let his eyes rake over Bucky's body he realised why Jim had been looking away.

The arm of his vest had been torn away and it was ripped and fraying. The place where his arm should have been was pouring blood, what should have been his bone was stained red. It was snapped, fractured as it stuck out of him and the blood was everywhere.

His arm was laying a few feet away in the tree line. Steve followed the trail of blood connecting the two and he felt like collapsing

There was too much of it, and it just kept coming. He didn't understand how there was so much. The way it stained the dead twigs and snow underneath him. The way it pooled and ran like a river of death. It's warm and sticky texture melting away the snow and carving a trail down the slope to the frozen water below.

A younger Steve would have vomited at the sight of all the blood, his stomach felt queasy but he held up and instead he bent down scooping Bucky up in his arms.

Bucky groaned and cried out in pain. He hoped to God it wasn't irreparable back injury

"Don't move. You'll be ok" Steve said desperately looking down at Bucky in his arms.

It was strange. Bucky had always been the one to carry him. He had always been bigger. Stronger. But he somehow seemed too small in Steve's hands.

Without hesitating the group went back to the tank. Steve holding Bucky as close to his chest as possible. He had peeled back the top of his suit. Taking off his undershirt as he walked with Bucky in one hand. Taking the shirt and using it to stanch the bleeding until they could get back to the supplies in the tank.

Bucky's eyes were open but he couldn't see anything. He could feel movement and something holding onto him. But none of it was making sense inside of his head. The moving sky and the lack of cold snow under him. The muffled voice he knew were shouting but still couldn't hear were filling his ears amongst the ringing inside his head.

His head ached, his back aches, his arm felt like it was on fire and his face felt swollen.

It was all he could feel. His own body was so alive with pain of all kinds in all places. He wanted to cry out but couldn't manage more than a choked gurgle.

He felt whatever was gripping him tightly grip even tighter. Then he was being raised, his eyes seeing the sky come closer. And then it sunk away and he was taken into darkness, a small yellow light being the only source for him to see. Everything was fuzzy and the dim light made it hard for him to focus on anything.

He felt fear, immeasurable fear but all he could do was lay there. He thought of something else, searching his aching head for anything that wasn't the feelings coursing through him.

He thought of Steve. His short straw coloured hair and the way he always made sure to brush it flat and slick it still with gel in the mornings. A habit he's had since childhood.

Or the way he was before the serum, the small scrawny boy he had protected all throughout school. The boy who was too stupid to run away from a fight even though he never won.

He thought about how Steve was always sick. Catching whatever was going around at the time.

He thought about the time he had gotten sick and how Steve had refused to leave his side. The way Bucky would cough and Steve would hand him a glass of water or rush to get him food. The way Steve would sit and read him the Hobbit over and over again because he couldn't sit up long enough to actually get through a page.

He thought of Steve until everything went dark and everything disappeared.

Steve waited, he waited for a whole week by Bucky's side. They had gotten back to the camp and the field Doctors had spared as many men as they could to staunch the blood. Realising they didn't have the proper materials they needed to properly cauterize a wound of this size they took him in one of the medic cars and to the closest Austrian hospital. Steve of course was with them the whole way. The only time he wasn't allowed in was during surgery where they cauterised the wound. Howard had seen what had happened and had rushed off to a lab he owned in Austria and began working on...something.

Steve applauded Howard's brilliance but he had no clue how Howard would A) have have any machine that would help and B) create a machine that would save Bucky's life in time.

So Steve waited. Watching as the hands ticked by on the clock until a nurse came and addressed him. She told him that they were able to stop the bleeding and create a makeshift patch until Mr Stark got here.

He was stable, but he wouldn't wake up for a while.

Steve nodded and thanked her.

She lead him to the room Bucky was resting in. He was laying out on the white linens his face was just as white. They had him connected to an IV drip and a blood bag.

Steve reached and touched it tenderly. He didn't know why his hand stretched for the plastic. Possibly the check if it was real, he needed to know that Bucky would survive. That Bucky wouldn't just slip away and this would all be some horrible dream.

If it was a dream Bucky might still be alive and healthy. But he didn't think so. He'd had nightmares worse than this and had woken up once the worst was over.

'Maybe the worst wasn't over yet' he thought to himself

He mentally slapped himself trying to whisk the thoughts away with the fact that Bucky was right here. He was breathing and he would be ok.

He hoped

Ok guys I am turning this into a full AU but I'm only gonna start after promptober is over. You're gonna have to bear with me for a little while longer.

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jinxquickfoot · 7 months ago

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@badthingshappenbingo Prompt: Grief/Mourning

Find the fic on Ao3!

Inspired by @16woodsequ's wonderful The Alternate End

Part I: Nebula

He’s put this off as long as he can.

Tony knows he should have done this much sooner. God knows how much pain Nebula’s been in while he’s been skulking in his hospital room, refusing to talk to anyone except Pepper. They’re probably all too occupied with their own pain to care. They probably think he’s angry over the Accords, the betrayal that still lingers there. He's still angry. He hadn’t realized until he was face-to-face with Steve Rogers in the home he’d decided wasn’t good enough for him anymore.

But that’s not why he’s avoiding everyone. He knows it makes no sense—after a long month in the cosmos, wondering who had lived and who hadn’t, he should just be relieved that they’re still here. Relief isn’t the word he’d use, though. It’s resentment.

He doesn’t care that he wasn’t strong enough to go after Thanos. He doesn’t care that the Mad Titan is dead. He doesn’t even care that the remaining Avengers hadn’t been able to win, not in the way that mattered. Tony had known it was hopeless long before they left the Compound. He knows because he’s been fighting this war longer than any of them. He’d known since he’d flown through the wormhole that this day would come if they didn’t pull out every weapon in their arsenal. Ultron, the Accords, scoping the planet for new talent like P—

Tony swallows back images of a dying planet and Mr Stark I don’t feel so good to focus on the project at hand. Nebula is already nervous enough without Tony’s mind being on a past he can't fix. There was never going to be a ‘fix’, this war always had to be won before it was fought, and no one had listened to him.

“We can wait another day,” Nebula bursts out. She’s been quiet since getting on Tony’s operating table, lying still and rigid as Tony tries to get a hold of himself enough to do this. She pushes herself up, swinging her legs over the side. “There is no urgency.”

Tony catches the flippant comment that comes to his lips. He’d gotten Nebula’s entire depressing backstory during their time slowly starving to death in space. He can’t imagine she associates body part replacement with fun and laughter. He nods at her damaged hand. “You can’t do anything with those fried wires. It has to be done sometime.”

“Some time does not have to be today.”

Tony pushes the rotating slideshow of Titan to the back of his mind, moving into her path as she attempts to leave. “Hey. You saved my life in space. I would have died of infection or, if I somehow survived, gone completely insane up there without our invigorating paper football tournament. Let me repay the favor.”

He forces himself to be patient as Nebula stares at her damaged hand. “You want to make us equal.”

That’s not Tony’s MO, but if it’s what gets this done, he’ll take it. “Yeah, sure. Equals” When she still looks nervous, he adds, “Besides, we don’t have to do the actual replacement today. I’m just mapping to get an extent of the damage before we take anything out or put anything in.”

It’s a straight-out lie as he’d been hoping to get this done all in one session, but Nebula’s shoulders finally relax. “Okay,” she allows. “We can do that. And you’ve done this before?”

Tony exhales, reaching for a holodisplay and moving it around so Nebula can see. He’d hoped to put this off until it was absolutely necessary. He doesn’t want to be reminded. He wants to take Pepper and find a cabin in the middle of nowhere and shut out the world forever. He shouldn’t have to fix things anymore. That’s what he’s been doing, for years, and he’s done it alone.

But Nebula shifts on the table, and Tony reminds himself that she wasn’t part of any of those fights, and it wouldn’t help to win the trust of a friend who comes without baggage. Bracing himself, he brings up the schematics for Vision.

Nebula’s breath catches as she takes in the holographic blueprints. “How much did you replace?”

“Replace?” Tony catches on and hurries to explain. “No, no, he was made like this from the start. He’s not a human we… Jesus, we don’t do that here.” He forces back images of a silver metal arm.

Nebula processes that. “He is all mechanics?”

“Was,” Tony murmurs. “Thanos…” He can’t bring himself to end the sentence. The death of half the universe chokes the Compound like a smog cloud, but the overwhelming nature of it has stayed in the abstract. Even now, weeks later, Tony cannot fathom just how huge a loss god knows how many planets have suffered. He can barely wrap his head around the death of four billion human beings.

But the knowledge that one of their own had been murdered in battle… That he can picture. That he can comprehend. Because one of his first ports of call when he could get out of bed without collapsing was Wakanda to retrieve Vision’s body.

He doesn’t know what to do with it. Vision had been very clear that in the case of his death, his parts were to be dismantled beyond repair. Tony knows he’s the best person left in the world for that job. It doesn’t mean he’s been able to bring himself to do it. He’s still not sure if the idea of keeping the corpse of a team member in the basement indefinitely is worse than the empty coffins they had buried on the Compound grounds.

“My father was a monster,” Nebula murmurs, staring at her toes. “I was never going to please him. And yet I tried to anyway. I would have done anything for him.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Tony scrubs at his eyes, zooming in on the blueprints for Vision’s arm that will become the basis for Nebula’s new one. “Here, you can follow along with everything I’m doing…”

He trails off when he hears a sob come from the operating table.

He freezes. Their entire time in space, he had not once seen Nebula cry. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him cry, either. It hadn’t mattered up there, not in any way that counted. They didn’t know who was gone. All they knew was that they would be gone themselves in barely the space of a few weeks, and then their grief wouldn’t exist.

But they didn’t die. Their grief didn’t pass into oblivion. They returned here, to Earth, and learned exactly what Thanos had taken.

Tony still replays that moment of seeing Steve sprinting toward the spaceship. Of Pepper following close behind. Seeing Rhodey, calling Happy. Realizing that, by some impossible odds, all the original six members of his team had survived the Snap.

Nebula hadn’t had that. Her team had crumbled in front of her. More than her team.

Tony moves over to her bedside to take her undamaged hand. “Thanos wasn’t your family,” he assures her. “You found a much better one. One who actually loved you. I know the feeling.”

"My sister..." Nebula angrily wipes away a tear. "She should not have shown him the Soul Stone to save me. I was not worth that sacrifice."

Tony squeezes her hand. "I doubt she saw it that way."

He sits and lets her cry into his shoulder as long as she needs to. He could have it worse. He could have lost so much more. He could still lose so much more if he stays in this mindset. He can’t change the past but he can stop it from changing him into a shape he doesn’t want to be anymore. Resentment is corrosive. He can’t afford it to spread when the rest of his life will revolve around construction.

Tony mentally puts aside Nebula’s repairs for another day. He has other building to do, anyway.

Part II: Thor

Clint’s gone and even Natasha can’t find him. Bruce is on the other side of the world, helping rebuild where he can, making vague promises about return dates. Tony’s not ready to face Steve. That leaves one.

The Asgardian refugees have taken over the Compound grounds. They’ve provided what they can for them but Tony still feels ill when he can see how few of them are left. Thanos had slaughtered half of those he'd found on the Statesman and then killed another half in the Snap. Asgard was gone, torn to pieces by an apocalypse they were never going to escape. Living on Earth feels the same way. They’d always known it would end here. Or at least, Tony had known.

He wonders if that is why his grief feels a little more tempered than the others’. This wasn’t a sudden loss for him. It’s the result of slowly losing a war, piece by piece, over the span of years. He always knew that they would only get one shot at victory. He’ll never know the future Strange saw where they scraped a win. He just gets this one and he has to do what he can with it.

He doesn’t find Thor with the rest of the Asgardians. A few conversations are enough to guide him to a tent in the far, far back, stationed away from all the others. Already a bad sign. So is the fact that the tent is dark as he approaches. Tony awkwardly paws at the tent cover to announce his presence in lieu of knocking, then calls out for good measure. “Thor. It’s Tony.”

He doesn’t get an invitation to come inside. He doesn’t get a refusal either. Good enough.

Thor doesn’t move from his prone position as Tony unzips the tent and steps inside. There’s no blanket over him or mattress underneath him, with barely the base of the tent to protect him. “You have a room at this Compound, you know. I built one for you. Just in case.”

Thor doesn’t look at him. He just keeps staring at the roof of the tent. “I will be with my people. Least their king could do after my brother sacrificed half of them for me." He spits the name of king out like venom. "After I could have killed Thanos when it mattered."

Tony still hasn't been able to wrap his mind around the image of Loki dying in a heroic attempt to kill Thanos. Whenever he thinks of the trickster god, the memory that tends to come to mind is Loki throwing him from a window or the mass of black clothing at Phil Coulson's funeral. If Bruce hadn't been the one who had told him the story, including Loki handing over the Space Stone to spare Thor's life, Tony wouldn't have been able to believe a word of it.

"I don't have siblings," he says. "And I know things between you and your brother were... complicated. But there were a lot of steps a lot of other people could have taken and didn't. It's not all on you." He's suddenly back on the spaceship again, listening to Strange lecture him about how he wouldn't give up the Time Stone even if Peter's life was on the line. Tony doesn't want to know what choice he would have made if it was up to him. "Guess it's easier to say you'll give everything up to save the world than to actually do it. You gave up more than most already."

Finding the Asgardians a more permanent new home is on Tony’s to-do list, but losing half a population apparently wreaks havoc on a planet’s infrastructure. There’s been so much to do, from getting hospitals up and running, to restarting supply chains for food, to getting entire cities’ electrical grids functioning again. After months of work, the world is somewhat physically functional again. Tony doesn’t know how many decades will pass before the human race emotionally recovers. He knows it will be a long, long time after his lifetime.

“Well. It won’t be tents forever. I can promise you that.”

“Promises,” Thor scoffs. Tony fights the sudden urge to bolt in the other direction. It isn’t right, seeing one of the strongest Avengers and one of the last to lay down in a fight so utterly void of spirit. Then again, none of them are themselves these days. “Wouldn’t make any promises. They just end up broken.”

“A lot of things have ended up broken.” Tony sits cross-legged in the tent, plucking at a stray thread in his jeans. “Luckily, I’m pretty good at fixing things.”

Thor’s next words are a whisper. “There’s no fixing this. It’s gone. It’s all gone, and it’s not coming back, and we’re all just going to have to live with that.”

Tony closes his eyes. He knows that’s true. He knows that they will never, ever get back to where they were. But they can take baby steps in the right direction. He reaches into his pocket. “I know you’ve lost a lot,” he says, the words so unbelievably inadequate that he almost quits then and there. He stays, though. He doesn’t get to quit. That’s not a luxury he’s had since Afghanistan. “More than most of us.”

Thor shifts slightly. “It does not help to compare losses.”

The guilt Tony’s been feeling since he returned to Earth swells, but now is not the time to voice it. “I can’t bring Asgard back,” he says. Even now, with half of Earth’s life lost, he can’t comprehend the magnitude of losing his entire planet. “Or anyone you’ve lost. But I’ve been thinking…” His mind trails to Nebula’s newly equipped arm, which he had put the final touches on that morning. “We have to focus now on what we can get back. Or find replacements for, at least.”

Thor finally looks at him. “Do not suggest that there is any replacement for…” He trails off, anger abating when he sees what Tony is holding. “Is… is that for me?”

“The talking raccoon told me the one you’re using… well, actually, you don’t want to know where it came from.” Tony holds out the mechanical eye he’s spent the past week perfecting. “Besides, I don’t think you’re really pulling off the whole heterochromia look. Thought you looked better in your classic blue.”

Thor gently takes the eye, marveling at it. “Thank you, Stark. And for letting us all stay here.”

“I’m not letting you do anything. I built this place for the Avengers. That includes you. Use this place as you see fit—hm, I could have used some warning there.” Tony barely has time to look away before Thor casually pops his fake eye out, tossing the brown iris aside. Tony waits until the squelching sounds have stopped before he risks looking back.

“How does it look?” Thor asks.

Tony takes in the two symmetrical eyes. To his trained gaze, the mechanical one is ever so slightly glassier. It’ll never live up to the original. But it’s a start. “You look great.”

“I doubt that is true.”

Tony hovers awkwardly, not sure what else to say. “Can I do anything else?” he tries.

Thor is quiet for a long moment before he speaks. “Perhaps…” He suddenly reaches out, grasping for Tony’s hand. Tony lets him take it. “Stay, for a while?”

A part of Tony rebels against the idea. He’s got so many things he’s supposed to be doing, to be building, to be fixing. Then he looks at his friend, sprawled and miserable on the ground, and realizes that fixing doesn’t always have to require tools and a workshop. “Sure. I’ll stay.”

Part III: Steve

Things don’t get better, but they do get easier.

The number of global catastrophes has reduced. Supply isn’t where it used to be, but at least most people have access to food, power and clean water. The daily body count of new Blip-related deaths reduces. Tony had provided whatever resources he could, but even his wealth couldn’t keep up with locating and identifying the bodies. There were those who had died on the roads after drivers had Blipped or had been on suddenly pilot-less planes that had tumbled from the air. There had been those who died in hospitals with drastically reduced numbers of doctors and nurses. And then, worst of all, the orphaned infants and small children who had perished from neglect.

A grateful universe, Thanos had called this. The Mad Titan title has never felt so fitting.

Tony finds Steve by Bucky’s grave.

They’d given each Dusted Avenger a tombstone: a place for the living to mourn the dead. Tony deliberately does not look at Peter’s as he approaches.

Steve must hear him coming but he doesn’t raise his head. He’s bent over a compass, holding it so tightly that Tony fears it might break. He figures that’s as good a place as any to start the conversation. “Careful. You remember you have super-soldier strength, right?”

Steve’s hold doesn’t loosen. “It hasn’t broken yet.”

Tony takes his place by Steve’s side. He wishes the pain of what happened in Siberia would dwarf in the magnitude of the Blip. It hasn’t. It’s just been buried, pushed aside until Tony’s heart has room to feel it again. “Rhodey says you spend all day out here.”

“There’s nowhere else to be. There’s nothing else I can do.”

Tony knows the feeling. “Still. It’s freezing out here.” It’s not, really. It’s just something to say to fill the silence.

Steve pulls the compass close to his chest. “Bucky gave this to me. Two weeks before he died. He was different after Azzano. Like he knew. And he followed me onto that train anyway. ”

Tony casts about for something to say to that. “Weren’t they already… doing stuff to him in Azzano? Winter Soldier stuff? That might be what he had been feeling. Not some kind of death premonition.”

Steve doesn’t react mollified by the words. He doesn’t react at all. “You know he had the offer to go home after Azzano? He could have. He didn’t. Because he chose to follow me. Then, in Wakanda, he was at peace. And I brought a war right to his doorstep.”

“I don’t think the narrative is that simple.”

“If I had—”

“What?” Tony interrupts him, a little harsher than he means to. “If you had made Wanda kill Vision earlier? It wouldn’t have mattered, Steve. We lost the second Thanos got his hands on the Time Stone.” He ghosts a hand over the scar disfiguring his abdomen. Why? he wants to scream at Strange. Why would you do it? I wasn’t worth it.

“Wanda could have killed Vision the second we knew Thanos was coming to Earth. It wouldn’t have mattered,” he continues. “And as for going to Wakanda—that wasn’t just your choice, Steve. All the Avengers with you chose to do that. T’Challa chose to open his borders to you. Everyone in that battle chose to fight. You didn’t pressgang them. In fact, I don’t think pressganging the Dora Milaje is humanly possible. Wakanda was the most prepared place on Earth to tackle an alien invasion of that magnitude and their technology probably prevented the pre-Snap damage from being even worse. Those aliens would have torn apart the Earth for Thanos.”

Steve is quiet as he absorbs all of that. “You’ve thought a lot about this.”

“Yeah. For six years.” One future where they win. Tony’s been ripping himself apart trying to imagine what it would have been, what step they didn’t take. Maybe there were more futures, earlier in the timeline. Roads not traveled that didn’t end with a line of empty graves.

“I know you tried to prevent this,” Steve says softly. “I have been thinking… Ultron, the Accords, if those had played out differently--”

“Don’t,” Tony cuts him off. He’s done dwelling on this. He can rage and storm and shout I told you so all he wants. It won’t fix anything. “It’s done. We’re here. We need to make what we can of it.”

Steve is still staring at Bucky’s tombstone in a way that’s becoming increasingly unnerving. “This is the second time I’ve buried an empty casket for him."

Tony swallows, all too aware that he nearly made that a full casket in 2016. If Bucky was still here, Tony would have apologized with an arm, like the one he had built for Nebula. But unlike with Nebula and Thor, there is nothing Tony can physically build here to offer comfort. At least, not anything he’s thought of yet. "I know I ruined things that day in Siberia," he manages. "That I made you choose between the two of us. That wasn't fair. That isn't who you are."

"Tony—"

"No, just let me say this. And fine, maybe, we could have made a few more sacrifice plays along the way and not ended up here." If Gamora had given up Nebula, it Loki havd given up Thor, if Strange had given up him. If Steve had given up Bucky, all those years ago, instead of fighting entire governments for his freedom. "None of us had the strength to do it. The only person who did was Wanda and then that didn't even matter. And maybe if we had... well, maybe we stop being the good guys the moment we start trading lives."

He's not sure how much of his own argument he believes. But, for the first time since he can remember, he has more goals than trying to prove that he's right. “I was relieved,” he finds himself saying. “When I stepped off the Benetar, and found out Pepper and Rhodey and Happy had all lived.” He doesn’t mention Peter. He hasn’t been able to put into words what exactly a teenager from Queens had meant to him. “I still feel relieved. And that feels awful. And it also feels awful that it doesn’t feel more awful.”

“I’m glad,” Steve murmurs. “I’m glad you got to keep them.”

Tony keeps an ear out for any bitterness in those words. He doesn’t hear it. Steve is being honest. Tony swallows past the stubborn lump in his throat. “I was relieved as well… when I saw you. When I got my feet back on land and saw you were there. I was relieved.” More than just relieved. In those first few minutes, none of their fighting had mattered. Tony had been grateful to tumble into the arms of a friend—someone else to hold him upright for a few moments.

Steve nods slowly. “I was too. I didn’t want to hope too much, not after weeks of not knowing, not after we’d lost so many. But I couldn’t kill the hope entirely. And then you were there, alive and…” There’s a small hitch in his voice. “God, Tony, if it had been Bucky and Sam and you, I don’t think I would have…”

Without letting himself think about it too much, Tony reaches out to grip Steve’s shoulder. “We’re still here. Still fighting. That’s something. That has to be something.”

Steve nods again. “We’ll make it something.” It’s the first time he’s sounded like himself in months.

“That we will.”

"Maybe..." Steve shifts his gaze, past Bucky's grave to Sam's. "Maybe fighting looks different now. Like... like what Sam did. At the VA." He straightens at little at the promise of a mission. "Maybe it would help."

"I have no doubt it would. God knows how many people out there need someone to talk to." Tony looks from the grave to Steve. “You know, I had the wild idea I might cook tonight. Want to make sure I don’t set the kitchen on fire?”

For a terrifying moment, he’s sure Steve is going to say no. Then, the man seems to pull some of his shattered pieces back together. “Well, we can’t have a fire, I guess. Been putting out enough of those already.”

It’s not a miracle cure. No one is magically better. But Tony gathers whoever is left and makes something hot and homemade with minimal kitchen damage, and for once the conversation is more than about the work they’ll have to do tomorrow.

He can’t fix the world. But he will fix what he can.

#bad things happen bingo #bthb card #grief #mourning #mcu #marvel #post-Snap #the Blip #avengers: endgame #whump writing #emotional whump #Tony Stark #Steve Rogers #Nebula #Thor

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melles1276 · 4 months ago

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Excerpt:

Chapter 9 - Despair

"Okay." As clear as his decision has been before, Steve now feels miserable and scared as he kneels down next to Bucky. He can't make out any details in the dim light of the tunnel, so Bell has given him a headlamp to provide the necessary lighting. After a moment of deliberation, he decides on the saw, even though he has absolutely no idea what to do next. They lack pretty much everything. They have no anesthetic, no IVs to compensate for the blood loss. The disinfectant is enough either for the wound and his hands, or for the rusty saw. But definitely not for anything that is about to come into contact with Bucky's arm. “Okay,” he repeats himself again. Ignoring his own pain from the leg wound, he stands still for a moment. The stitches tug uncomfortable in this position, but he focuses his attention on the task before him.

Eerie silence arises.

“First the morphine,” he finds his voice again. Steve's heart is pounding wildly in his chest, the nervous tension causes an unpleasant ache in his stomach.

Bell presses an injector into his outstretched hand. They have four of them in total, but Steve doesn't know how long the effects will last or how strong the dosage actually is. He definitely doesn't want to overdose, so they have to try one vial first. He only manages to pull off the protective cap on his second attempt, because his hands shake so badly. He hesitates for a second, even though he knows that the needle prick is probably the least of their problems.

With a deep breath, he rams the hypodermic needle into Bucky's right thigh and pushes the trigger. “How long until the drug takes effect?” he wants to know from Bell.

“Up to 15 minutes, I think?” Bell replies doubtfully.

“We can’t wait that long,” Steve shakes his head. “You have to hold him so he doesn’t move too much.” He sits on Bucky's pelvis, but he can't block his right arm. Bell will have to take on this task.

Bell complies with the request somewhat hesitantly, appearing unsure while he places the flashlight on the floor. In the cold white light of the headlamp he looks even paler and doesn't seem particularly composed.

Steve can't blame him. But now there is no going back. He checks the fit of the belt again and places the saw on Bucky’s forearm just about 10 cm below the elbow joint. Nausea overcomes him and he stops what he’s doing. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His fingers open and close around the bow handle of the saw. Then his head jerks up. “We need something for him to bite!” he proclaims.

“The belt,” Bell replies. “It’s long enough.” He has sat down at Bucky's head, ready to press his shoulders down with both hands. With his left hand he reaches for the part of the belt that isn't wrapped around Bucky’s upper arm and nods.

Bucky's breathing shallow and there is no other movement.

Steve hopes it will stay that way, but he can't rely on it. He looks at Bell one last time, then closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath, starts the saw and presses the saw blade into the flesh with all his strength.

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sunnysideprincess · 1 year ago

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He lost Tony on Vormir.

He lost Tony on Vormir because the soul stone demanded life in exchange.

He lost Tony because ", if it comes to a fight, Steve- no, shush I'm talking, it always comes to a fight, you have to be the one to lead them. Lead them to one final victory. I promise you, you can rest after, okay?"

"What about Morgan? What about Pepper? What about the kid? What about-"

He had woken up alone, with a heartache that terrified him more than the ice. He had woken up and pulled the stone close to his chest and yelled and screamed and grieved. "What about me?"

Angry, so angry at time, at Tony, at the world and at the universe, he threw himself into the battle wearing the gauntlet Tony had used to trick him into staying alive, using the shield as a weapon of destruction. It felt good. It felt like finality when Steve used the nanites to swap the stones from right under the Titan's goading nose.

It felt like finality when he used the stones, when he heard their chorus, their power.

It felt like finality when his skin seared clean from his bones.

It felt like the end when he woke up young, freshly defrosted and saw Tony waiting for him, younger than he ever remembered him to be, watching an eternal sunset.

It felt like the end when they embraced.

It felt like the end—and then he opened his eyes to Natasha's face, solemn and a little too knowing.

It felt like the end right there when he tried to feel the missing limb, tried to see beyond the blurry input from his right eye, tried to bear the eternal memory of pain from the stones.

It felt like the end when he woke up in the middle of the night, Tony's name on his lips and tears streaming down his face.

It felt like the end when he realised—there is no end for him.

Not in this lifetime.

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winteratdusk · 10 months ago

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Bucky’s long bangs, the ones Steve used to tease him for so meticulously styling before nights out together, had been shaved away. He’d been left with the high-and-tight style required of all the new recruits, so short on the sides that he shivered at the cold of Steve’s fingers when they finally made contact there.

It had hurt more than he’d thought it would to sit there under the razor, watching as tufts of his hair fell to the floor around his feet. It hurt almost as much now watching Steve giving him that look, like he was cataloging all the ways that the person Bucky was now had changed from the boy Steve grew up knowing.

“It’s different,” Steve decided finally. “The way it frames your face, it’s different.”

Steve’s eyebrows were furrowed as he fixed Bucky with that familiar, appraising artist’s eye. He looked so intensely focused that Bucky almost had to smile.

“Maybe it’s just my face that’s different.” It was true, he knew; the same strict training regimen that had built up the muscles in his arms had hollowed out his cheeks, the concavity there only made more obvious by his short hair and clean-shaven chin.

“No,” Steve said. He ran a thumb down that new hollow in Bucky’s cheek. “That’s still the same. I’d know that face anywhere.”

Chapter 8 is up, which means that what pain it was to drown is now complete!! I’ve really enjoyed working on this fic and exploring some different ideas with it. I appreciate so much anyone checking it out, and would love to hear your feedback :)

Please do mind the tags! Specific warnings are in the notes for each chapter as well.

#stucky #bucky barnes #steve rogers #pre war stucky #1940s #ao3 #fanfic #writing #angst #hurt/comfort #whump #alcohol cw #mind the tags #new chapter #finished fic

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nix-sacrificium · 1 year ago

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A Little About This Page

★This is a dark / trash blog, please only be on this page if you're above 18 and can handle the content.★ -> That's your TW <- Most everything goes through my queue

Icon and banners made by me

About Me ->

- Timeless / Nix / Wynn / Anarchy (depending on which era you found me at lmao) - She//Her out'a convenience, any pronouns work ^^ - 21+ - Been in this trashfire for a hot goddamn second - Main blog is -> @hypnxrchy

LINKS :

- My Art - BlueSky

#hydra trash party #htp #whump #anarchy’s art #anarchy writes #about me #about #winter soldier #bucky barnes #brock rumlow #captain america #steve rogers #crossbones #marvel

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aelaer · 2 years ago

Note

for the whumpy prompt list: 🎧

I don't even know if you remember submitting this babywarg, and I *know* it took 3 years, but in my defense, 2020 was a shitshow after I asked for whump icon prompts. If you don't remember, this one stood for sensory deprivation. And here's a 6k fic to fill it!

This originally started very differently, then Wong took the reins and never let go. The first two parts were deleted/moved around entirely, and Stephen's POV disappeared as Wong decided this story was going to be from his POV. I would apologise that I am using the kidnapping trope *yet again*, but I'm not that sorry, either.

So canon Endgame doesn't exist in this fic world though I don't get too much into it beyond some hints with character endings and the timeline. It's probably mid-2019 in terms of timing (no 5 year jump). I'm not sure who, if anyone, is Sorcerer Supreme because of this. I also accidentally did the "insert plot into the prompt" thing that I have a bad habit of doing and made this way long. And finally, I don't know Latin; I just used a dictionary and a conjunction table to try and make something cool.

Grem's a character from a side-issue comic that I've appropriated and who has appeared in some of my earlier works. He's "played" by Rupert Graves. With a beard.

Thanks to @coolnemmythings for betaing the majority of this and helping me brainstorm an ending because it finally pushed me into completion (more on that below).

———

Finding the Way Back Home

The Avengers found out Stephen was missing by happenstance. Peter, once he had discovered where Stephen lived, made it a habit to visit the Sanctum on what he called "slow days" when he was in the area. Wong had gotten used to him over time.

Naturally, one of his visits corresponded with when a team of sorcerers uncovered Stephen's ambush site. Normally this would be fine as official Kamar-Taj matters were discussed nowhere near Peter. Wong couldn't hear the passing conversations of the distant apprentices and acolytes in the hallway adjourning the foyer of the Sanctum, so it should have been fine. He would entertain the young man for a few minutes, tell him Stephen was busy, and then lead him out.

Just as Wong was about to give his excuses, he learned that the kid had super-hearing and that the conversation Wong couldn't hear was very, very audible to Spider-Man. It was a rather unfortunate time to discover such a fact.

And once Peter learned the news, it was just a matter of a few texts before every Avenger knew.

"We'd like to help out," Tony said, being the first to call Wong. Wong had given his number to a couple Avengers on the off-chance Stephen was wounded while working with them. He hadn't expected his number to be used in this fashion.

"Us sorcerers handle our own affairs," was Wong's gruff reply. "Besides, aren't you supposed to be retired?"

"Special occasion."

Wong said, "We're fine," hung up before Tony could retort, then sighed. Stephen would be displeased if Iron Man ended up dying after all the work he did to save him in the multiple future fiasco. He was just happy Stephen managed to get to 16 million—from what he understood, a couple other "winning" timelines were absolutely dismal on a global scale—but that was another topic altogether.

Then Tony gave out Wong's number to the others.

"It really would be no trouble," Steve said. "We consider all of you our allies after Thanos."

"You're supposed to be retired, too," was Wong's exasperated retort.

A pause. "Well, I did pass on the mantle of Captain America to Sam, sure, but that doesn't mean I don't go out in the field here and there. Just less public."

Wong hung up on him, too.

"We really would like to see him safe," was Bruce's call.

Bruce was a little harder to hang up on; he had been visiting the New York Sanctum frequently for meditation purposes, to better understand and work with the other side of his personality and come to some sort of balance with it. According to Stephen, Bruce had achieved something like this on his own in other futures, but he was certain the resources at Kamar-Taj could help him achieve this faster and with potentially better results.

Still, Bruce Banner was not a sorcerer. "I appreciate the offer, Doctor Banner, but this is a matter for our order," he told him, then hung up before the other could retort.

"It's pretty slow right now; you'd be doing everyone a favor in letting us help," Natasha admitted when she called.

Wong pulled the phone away from his face to sigh; if it weren't for the very slim chance of Stephen potentially calling him, he would have turned off the damn thing. "Weren't you supposed to retire from field work, too?"

"People like me never retire," she answered. "Think on it, Wong."

He grimaced and hung up.

"You have to let us help!" was Peter's plea. Peter had been barred from the Sanctum until the issue was settled—Wong knew that Stephen wouldn't want the kid involved—but apparently Tony Stark was more than happy to give Peter Parker his phone number, as well.

"Stephen would want you to stay out of this," he told the kid without ceremony, and hung up on him, too, though he felt a little bad doing it.

This was getting ridiculous. The other Masters had decided the Avengers shouldn't be involved, but if they had to endure what Wong was enduring, maybe they'd change their minds. Besides, the extra eyes wouldn't be a bad thing to have, at least in Wong's opinion.

By the time a sixth call from an Avenger in under an hour occurred, Wong was ready. He surrounded himself with sorcerers in the Masters' strategy room as they discussed leads and next steps, then let the phone ring.

The Masters caved in less than two hours. Part of it may have been due to the Avengers' resilience, but Wong liked to think that setting his ringtone to Beyoncé's "All The Single Ladies" helped encourage the use of outside help. They agreed that the Avengers could assist them, though they were taking absolutely no responsibility if anything untoward or deadly happened to them. The Avengers didn't seem to care about the warning, which didn't particularly surprise Wong.

The dead security cameras near the site of the ambush suggested magical tampering, which meant that every two to three Avengers was paired with one or two Masters. The tracking was long and it took everything within their power to narrow down the search to the three most likely locations out of the many that Mordo had passed through over the last year.

(They were 99% certain Mordo was behind Stephen's disappearance. For the past several months Mordo had been stealing former students' abilities to do magic—and on three occasions, ended up killing the former student instead. The Masters of Kamar-Taj had been actively hunting him down for some time, doubling down when they learned Mordo was gathering followers. That Stephen's body wasn't found instead is a miracle, but it made Wong worry as to what Mordo could possibly want with him.)

They decided to infiltrate the three chosen locations as soon as they narrowed down the list. All the Avengers that had been allowed in (eight of them sans Peter because no, Wong wasn't going to be responsible for a minor no matter how close he was to 18) were on standby and allowed themselves to be split into groups by the Masters without contest.

Wong ended up with Master Grem of the London Sanctum and Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, and Natasha Romanov—all the supposedly-retired-but-not-quite-yet Avengers. Exasperating.

Still, he couldn't say that he minded having them at his back in such an unknown situation. With a lesser sorcerer, the Order could have set monitoring wards on all the rogue sorcerers’ known locations to go off whenever another made a gateway into the area. But Mordo was one of the best and such magic would immediately alert him and his followers to the order's knowledge of their current bases and send them into hiding, and all that work of the last few months in tracking them would be lost.

The original plan, before all this, had been to track Mordo's movements for a pattern until they could ambush him and his followers. With Stephen taken, though? The time for waiting was over. Still, it was largely unknown what they would find at their assigned location—a dilapidated, Soviet-era warehouse in Eastern Europe—so having experienced company was no bad thing.

He was especially grateful for the Avengers' presence when it turned out that the warehouse was not devoid of life. Ten of Mordo's recruits (only four of whom were former students of Kamar-Taj) were present and quite willing to kill him if necessary. He and Grem alone would have been very hard-pressed. With the three Avengers helping them, the fight took only a couple minutes, the most difficult of the group being two of the rogue sorcerers that proved more creative than their counterparts.

Those that survived the fight were quickly disarmed and restrained for later questioning, and it was easy enough for Wong to push a portal around each person to the rarely-used cells of Kamar-Taj. He frowned as he considered their number; that was a significant number of recruits in what seemed to be an unimportant building.

"That's convenient," Tony said as he watched the portals take the surviving combatants.

As Wong opened and closed the portals, Grem scanned the building for any remnants of magical use, carefully scanning above and below as he slowly circled around a single point. He stilled, then squinted. "There's something in that corner office." He pointed.

Wong saw Grem, Steve, and Natasha take off to the office, then turned back to his own task. Tony Stark stayed with him to guard his back as Wong finished securing their prisoners and had the bodies of those who did not make it portalled to the morgue within Kamar-Taj.

As the last body was flown through the portal, a streak of red burst out of the corner office and onto the larger warehouse floor. Wong would recognize the Cloak of Levitation anywhere, and it currently darted to and fro about the space as if searching.

"As you can see, the Cloak's fine," Grem called as he left the office, the other two Avengers in tow. When he got closer, Wong could see the scowl on Grem's face. "But I don't think that's the only thing this building's hiding. There's something else here, Wong, but I can't see what."

"How did they manage to separate it from Stephen in the first place?" Natasha asked. "From what I've seen, that thing is quite protective of him."

"It is," Wong agreed. "But there are some complicated spells in existence that may temporarily incapacitate a relic, even one as unique as the Cloak. Mordo is a skilled enough sorcerer to perform such a spell."

Grem hissed between his teeth. He was performing another pivot on the spot as he searched the area with his third eye yet again. As he ended, he shook his head. "Nothing. We're going to need to do a more manual search, and we may need to split up to better cover ground."

Wong, though, remembered something that happened after one of the fights during the War of the Infinity Stones. "That may not be necessary," he said, and looked over to the man beside him. "Tony, you are able to scan for heat signatures with your suit, correct?"

"Sure can, Wong." Tony paused and began to scan the interior, slowly pivoting on the spot, then froze halfway through. "Basement, northeast corner. One person lying down. Looks like it's empty otherwise."

"Useful," Grem remarked as he immediately headed towards the stairs. As one they followed him, hurrying their way to the stairwell, descending to the basement, and then making a sharp left to head in the indicated direction. They encountered no one else along the way, as expected. Despite this, when Tony said, "That door up ahead," both Wong and Grem paused before they could reach it. Wong held up a hand to halt the others. The Avengers wouldn't see it, but the magic upon the door was very evident to them.

"Wards are more your thing, Wong," said Grem as he eyed the door up and down. "But even I know this is quite a piece of work. I didn't realize Mordo knew all these warding spells."

Grem was right; the warding was very intricate. It was no wonder they could not find Stephen through his magical signature alone; the spells set about the room were put in to prevent such magic from having any use. A closer study of the details within the intricacies of the design showed that any attempt to remove the wards or force one's self into the room by magic would have dire consequences for not only the caster, but the person held inside.

Wong pursed his lips together unhappily, then glanced over at the Avengers. "The wards set on this room mean I will not be able to enter, not in the usual way. Not easily."

"Do we even know if it's locked?" Natasha asked, eyeing the door up and down.

"It doesn't matter if it is or isn't. The warding includes spells against non-approved visitors touching the doorknob, and the side effects of doing so are not pleasant."

Tony's repulsor flared. "I can blast it open."

Wong shook his head. "No; too much kinetic energy. The wards might see it as spells and react negatively to you."

"Yeah, but if it's Stephen inside, I'll take my chances," Tony shot back.

"The same consequences that fall upon you also happen to the individual contained within," Wong said, and he heard the man hiss in frustration.

"I hear you," Grem muttered in sympathy. "Wong, your dispelling is faster; how long do you think it would take you to remove all these wards?"

Wong shook his head. "Hours, likely. Too long of a time for my comfort." Behind him, he heard Grem mutter a curse under his breath.

Steve stared at the door thoughtfully. "So we don't want to touch the doorknob, but we can't blast it with firepower. What about just—knocking the door off its hinges?"

Again Wong shook his head. "I can't use magic against the door to do so."

"No, I mean, I can do it," Steve clarified. "Just brute force, no firepower. It would be a lot less kinetic energy than a repulsor blast and I won't touch the doorknob."

Grem looked sidelong at Wong. "I don't see anything in the wards that would react negatively to that scenario. I don't think the average person could knock this down, but they weren't expecting us to bring anyone else."

Wong studied over the wards once more himself, and brute force that didn't have enough energy to be mistaken as magic was not warded against. "I think that may be our best shot," he agreed.

"Then step back," Steve said, and the team gave him some room.

The Cloak, on the other hand, continued to hover closely beside Steve with an urgency that Wong wouldn't have known was possible on a piece of fabric before seeing the Cloak with Stephen.

"Cloak," Wong said. As it turned to him, he told it, "You can't enter the room. That warding could do you serious harm." The Cloak stiffened, as if offended by the suggestion. Wong resisted the urge to roll his eyes and gestured to it. "Come on. Stephen would be very upset if you got hurt."

That Cloak remained stiff and unmoving for another three seconds, but Wong gestured again and its shoulders slumped in resignation and it moved itself beside Wong.

Steve then put himself in a braced position. He had a shield—not the iconic Captain America shield, but a smaller black one that was more rectangular in form—and used that in his lead up run towards the door to force it open with his shoulder.

The door flew open and Wong watched Steve—and Tony, who immediately followed—carefully for any side effects. When none happened, he spared a quick glance at Grem.

"I'll keep a watch out here," Grem said quickly. Natasha nodded in agreement and moved her gaze down the hall.

Wong inclined his head, again told the Cloak, "Stay out here," then followed the other two men in. He immediately felt when he was cut off from his magic by the wards and grimaced at the foreign wrongness of the feeling. But he could still sense the wards, so at least Stephen would have hopefully realized that he was in a warded cell rather than drained of magic.

Speaking of.

The room was mostly bare except for a cot, a chair, and an IV pole in the corner. Laying on his back on the cot was Stephen, stripped of his outer clothing and left with only his tunic and pants. His upper left arm's sleeve was cut off and the arm itself was bandaged, while further down an IV tube was connected to his forearm. A neat line of stitches crossed over his left temple, and some sort of feeding tube was inserted into one of his nostrils and taped down to his face. Both lines led to the IV pole, which held what looked like saline and a bag that Wong guessed was used for tube feeding.

Steve slowly approached the bed. "That noise should have woken him up. Is one of these lines drugging him?"

"Possibly," said Tony, "But this doesn't look drugged. I'm getting really weird readings on his vitals."

Feeling unusually bare without the connection to his magic, Wong approached the bed with the same caution as he asked Tony, "What are you seeing?"

"Elevated heart rate just under 120 bpm, and—" He paused as if listening to something, then said, "Right, the suit can't quite scan brainwaves of other people to the detail of an EEG—yet—but I can get a good picture. FRIDAY's saying that it looks like the brain of someone awake, not someone drugged or asleep."

"Does that mean he can hear us?" Steve asked.

"That means he'll be pissed we're talking about brain stuff without his contributions," was Tony's remark, but his tone fell flat. Suddenly his helmet disintegrated away as the nanites retreated from his face, and he turned his attention from Stephen to Wong. "What're we doing here, Wong? Is this magic or something else?"

A good question. "I won't be able to find out here," Wong answered, then strode forward and carefully removed the cannulas from both Stephen's nose and arm. "Grem, do you see anything on Stephen that prevents him being removed from here?" he called as he worked.

Beyond the warding of the room at the open doorway, Grem performed a gesture before tapping his own forehead. He squinted. "Nothing I can see, Wong. They weren't expecting anyone to get through the door or enter the room through a portal. You can carry him out."

Wong nodded once, then frowned down at Stephen's tall, lanky body. He looked at Steve and Tony. "I don't suppose one of you could—"

"Got it," Tony volunteered, and Wong stepped aside as the other man bent down and carefully picked Stephen up. The way Stephen's body remained utterly limp made something clench in Wong's stomach.

He's alive. Stop it.

They left the room soon after that. The second they were out the Cloak was fretting about Tony back and forth from side to side, and in the hall Grem already had a portal set up and ready. But it led to the infirmary at Kamar-Taj.

"No, his room at the Sanctum," Wong said.

Grem frowned, but closed the portal. "Why?" he asked as he started up another.

"You know he's not fond of being in the infirmary. He complains that it's 'too open.'"

"That was before shit hit the fan and everything changed," Grem answered and, well, Wong knew that Stephen had changed significantly in ways he still hadn't come to full terms with. It hadn't been that long since he had Returned, not really. What was eight months, after all? But he hadn't gotten Stephen's opinion since, so, his bedroom.

The portal opened in the hall now led to Stephen's chambers in the Sanctum, which was a sizable bedroom with an ensuite bathroom. The Sanctum had sensed Stephen's love of the dramatic when it had formed this room for its Master when he was first instated there: the building had installed a bedroom with dark mahogany furniture with intricate carvings and delicate curves around the edges, with even the computer desk and bookshelves not being spared the finery. The star of the bedroom was the ostentatious four post king-sized bed with a top canopy and a cream-colored comforter that had red accents with a design that resembled the embroidery on the Cloak of Levitation.

Now that he thought of it, the motifs on the furniture looked similar to the faded design in the checkered lining of the Cloak, too. Interesting. He spared them no further thought as he walked in and flicked on the light switch from across the room, bathing the dim room in a golden light.

Tony lowered Stephen into his bed as Grem and Natasha entered last, and the portal closed in behind them. The Cloak immediately lowered itself over Stephen once he was laying down. Wong, in turn, started casting what Stephen liked to call 'diagnostic spells' and ever since he said it, the term had stuck in Wong's mind. That was largely what they were: spells that identified what was wrong with the body and spirit, and so could aid a sorcerer in narrowing down the possibilities in what was happening to the person and if it was magical, multidimensional, or mundane in nature.

"I'm not quite sure what I was imagining for a sorcerer's bedroom, but I don't think I was expecting the computer," Natasha said.

"Why not? He has a phone," Steve asked.

"That Tony gave him," she answered.

"You should have seen the brick he was carrying around before," Tony complained. "And if that hadn't drowned in the Hudson, I'm not sure if he would've taken mine. I had to nearly threaten him."

"We find email quite handy, actually," Grem said. "And I really love the Google suite. Calendar, Docs, Sheets."

Tony cracked a smile. "So wizards do their business over Google's servers, huh?"

Grem winked in reply. "Wouldn't you like to know." He cast a look at Wong. "I'll let the others know that we've found him. I warrant they've seen the cells and morgue by now, but I'll double check on that. I'll send an apprentice to wait in the hall in case you need a runner." Wong only grunted in reply. With a quick, "Thanks for your help, mates," Grem made a portal and left the room.

It took a few minutes of various spells and analysis, but eventually Wong came upon an answer as to what was keeping Stephen unconscious—and he felt his heart drop into his stomach as the realization came. His poker face fell and he murmured, "Oh, Stephen." But he banished the sorrow quickly; such an emotion wouldn't help Stephen. Instead, his face became stone as he began to bark orders. "One of you needs to get the lights; make it as dark in here as possible. When I remove this spell from him, I need you all to be as quiet as possible, and if you must speak, do so in a whisper."

Natasha's loose stance immediately stiffened and she took a step closer to the bed to look again at Stephen. She pursed her lips as the rest of her face hardened. "Sensory deprivation?"

"Unlike anything you can imagine," Wong answered grimly.

Steve was now frowning. "Do you think he was like this the entire time? How long was he missing?"

"Between thirty to thirty-six hours," answered Wong, already starting the preparations for the removal spells. They would take a couple minutes to fully set up. "I don't know how long they have kept him under this spell. If it has been for that full length of time, just note that he might not—be fully in his right mind."

"Then we should give him some room," Tony said, with a note of sympathy that admittedly startled Wong. Before he could make anything further of it, however, Tony was already ushering the other two away. "We'll wait in the hall, Wong."

Steve's expression was clearly one of worry as he walked away, Tony's prodding quickly understood. "We'll be here if you need anything." He flicked off the light switch as they left, and the door softly closed behind them.

Wong slowly exhaled and looked at the Cloak. "Up," he ordered. The Cloak raised its collar, but like the stubborn, fickle thing it was, didn't obey immediately. Wong didn't have time for this. "If you don't want to hurt Stephen, you'll get off immediately and wait until you're given permission to touch him again," he snapped, his anxiety for his friend making him shorter than usual.

That did the trick. The Cloak lifted itself, albeit reluctantly, and set itself hovering on the other side of the bed instead. That was fine.

Everything would be fine. Stephen would be fine. Wong forced himself to take a deep breath once again.

As he performed the last of the preparations for the spell's removal, Wong could not help but remember the last time the spell had come into conversation. Unsurprisingly, the conversation had been with Stephen, perhaps two to three months after he had become Master of the New York Sanctum.

"Why does this spell even exist?" Stephen asked Wong as he gestured to the open book on his desk. Wong had made the mistake of entering the New York Sanctum library to find something while Stephen was reading through one of the Ancient One's old tomes, and thus the first fellow master available to hear his complaints.

"You're going to have to be more specific," was Wong's dry answer.

Stephen grimaced and clarified, "Excidit Sensus. It's utterly inhumane."

Wong went to the bookshelf where he suspected his quarry lay. "Compared to contemporary methods of interrogation when the spell was created, it was likely considered a more humane option."

"Incorrectly so!" Stephen shot back, fuming. "This spell removes everything: sight, hearing, touch, all sensations. If you keep a person like that for, say, forty-eight hours, there is a significant chance of hallucinations, anxiety, and depression. The ability to do the simplest tasks deteriorates upon freedom, and if this goes on longer than that, the results can be catastrophic!"

The librarian paused to look over at his colleague, who was slowly (perhaps inevitably) becoming a friend. "I am simply explaining the likely rationale behind its creation," Wong said. "That doesn't mean I endorse its use."

Stephen exhaled. "Sorry. Right. I just wasn't expecting to see something like that."

"For what it's worth," Wong said as he found the book he wanted, "that spell hasn't been used in over a century. Very few sorcerers would have the power and skill to successfully apply it, and there are none in Kamar-Taj who would consider using it now."

"Good," was Stephen's answer, and the conversation ended.

How could Mordo fall to such lows?

Wong finished the prep work and stalled no longer; Stephen had been suffering for more than long enough. He moved his spell work that he performed on the side to hover over the prone man, then in one gesture, settled it upon his body to release the spell. He steeled himself for the fallout.

It came all at once: at first Stephen was utterly still, and then he inhaled sharply and audibly as his eyes flew open. He immediately squeezed them shut and then cradled his hands near his chest, every breath shuddering. To Wong's alarm, the little light remaining in the room glinted on the wetness of his cheeks. He was crying very, very silently.

Still, he did not say anything; the sound of breathing may be too much for Stephen at that moment, never mind conversation. Instead he waited for some sort of cue from the other sorcerer. Opposite him, the Cloak fretted as it swung back and forth in silent worry through the air; it clearly wanted to envelop its Master and it was only Wong's strict word that kept it from doing otherwise.

When Stephen did speak, several minutes later, it was barely above the volume of breathing. "I forgot—how much they hurt."

Wong could not help but exhale in dismay. Stephen made it easy for others to forget that he experienced what would be categorized as chronic pain. One eventually learned to cope and live with such a thing until it became a background ache on normal days, or so he understood it, and his friend had perfected that act a long time ago. However, Wong had not considered how the reintroduction of feeling to his hands would affect Stephen. That was his folly—he was only glad that Tony had the sense of presence to get all others out of the room.

The sigh caused Stephen to freeze. "Who's there?" he whispered.

He tried to keep his voice just as low. "Wong." He paused to gauge his reaction to his voice; Stephen did not flinch, and so he added, "And the Cloak." That was the most relevant, for now. The Avengers were out of sight in the hall and could wait a little longer.

Stephen's breath shuddered. "Give—give me a minute. Just—give me a minute."

He kept his response limited. "Take your time."

The silence sat for longer, the only sound being of the soft breathing from the both of them. All other sound from the rest of the Sanctum was completely muted. Eventually Stephen carefully moved an arm down from his chest to his side on the bed, and the Cloak took that as permission to reach out and lightly touch him. Stephen stiffened before relaxing and breathed, "Cloak. Right." He swallowed. "How long?"

Wong exhaled. "Thirty to thirty-six hours, if you were under the whole time."

"I was." He kept his voice at a whisper. "You need a report."

"It can wait." He kept his voice at the same volume. "The Avengers helped in your recovery. Stark, Rogers, and Romanoff are outside."

A pained look crossed over Stephen's face. "They can't—they can't see me like this."

"There is no shame in your condition," said Wong, "but I will not press it."

Stephen clenched his eyes shut. He swallowed. "Please."

Wong inclined his head and concealed his alarm; Stephen never begged. "I'll be right back." He rose and cast a silencing spell around the room to filter out all noise from outside, then left the bedroom.

Three pairs of eyes met Wong as he closed the door behind him. "How is he?" Steve asked.

"He'll recover, with time," said Wong. "At the moment he does not wish to have any visitors. You may call in a few days." That should be enough time, hopefully.

"Understandable," Natasha said.

"Ring us if there's anything else you need," Tony added. "And let Merlin know that if I don't hear from him soon, I'll be making a house call."

Wong didn't doubt it. "Noted. You know the way out."

After they turned the corner of the hallway, Wong turned his attention to the apprentice hiding in the shadows; the runner Grem sent. "Bring up a bowl of chicken soup and a cup of herbal tea. Soup should be largely broth." He had no idea what a stomach living off a liquid diet for two days did to solid food, so he'd have Stephen start small. "Keep others away unless it's urgent." The apprentice bowed and took their leave.

Wong sighed, letting his emotions flow away from him now that he was alone in the hall. He only allowed himself a brief moment before he solidified his serene expression and entered Stephen's bedroom once again.

"It's me," he whispered. "Food's on its way."

Stephen hadn't moved in the short time he was gone and his eyes remained closed. He was conscious enough to make a face at Wong's words, however. "Not hungry."

"It'll be waiting for you when you are." The joy of everlasting heat spells on dinnerware. He then considered his next words carefully; Stephen had been unusually emotionally vulnerable the last few minutes, but it did not mean he wouldn't start to close up if he was too brazen. "Would you prefer solitude or company?" Straightforward, yet not coddling—a statement that could be said in any normal situation. Stephen was often allergic to sentimental emotions, especially if they were because of his condition. He'd rather tend to his own wounds than for anyone to see him less than capable. It was only if Wong acted unaffected and casual that he could slip past that shield in times like this.

Stephen was silent for a moment. "Company's not unwelcome," he muttered. "Quiet company, at least."

"That is expected," said Wong. And once Stephen's meal was here, he was ready to sit in silent meditation and companionship as his friend recovered his senses throughout the rest of the evening.

—————

I was stuck on this damn ending (after Stephen was brought back to New York) for over two years. The issue was I wanted to have something with Stephen and the Avengers, as well as a scene from Stephen's POV that Wong could access. I could never make either scene fit, so I just went with my gut and tossed them. The deleted scene from Stephen's POV will be posted on tumblr once I get this fic up on AO3.

The majority of this was written pre-MoM so I just kept the bedroom description as I had imagined Stephen's room back in 2020.

#wong #stephen strange #tony stark #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #doctor strange fanfiction #doctor strange #mcu fanfiction #whump #my writing #my fanfiction #prompt fill

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elvenfforestydd · 2 years ago

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Scars

"There's power in telling your own story. I'm sorry I took that from you."

The U.S. Army redacted Steve's WWII capture, and he'll do anything to keep the Avengers from learning about it.

Read Chapter 3 Here

#whump #fanficton #steve needs hugs #hurt steve rogers #hurt and comfort #captian america #the avengers #whump fic #angst writing

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bilightningwhumper · 6 months ago

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Shadow of a Shield- Rewrite Poll V2

Less wordy. Feel free to reblog and/or vote on the original poll as well.

Bottom line, I've made more OCs since the original creating of SoaS. Plan is to either make the rewrite one big fic OR like TNEI and make several fics happening in the same timeline revolving around each of the OCs (listed below the poll).

Benefits of either: (Option 1) big fic all together / (Option 2) separate fics but opportunities for more Avengers PoVs

(Tbh, I'm personally leaning toward the second option, but I might be able to do both if need be. It's a different balance, at the very least.)

Now these are my OCs for the story (in order of creation, not age):

Jamie Carter-Rogers - omega; daughter of Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers; kept in captivity similar to how Bucky had been; autistic and adhder; love interest is another OC named Ana/Anastasia (Latina-american)

Willam Wallace - alpha; supposed son (trans) of Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanoff (unsure because Mariya Ivanov often lies); dyslexic and adhder; tentative love interests are either Peter Parker/Harley Keener (together) or an OC; has a twin, Mare

Becca Barnes - omega (late bloomer); daughter of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers; autistic with OCD tendencies; love interest is her fiance who is also an OC

*Mare ? - omega; twin sister of Will; selective mutism; seperated from the others, so she isn't with them during the 5-year Blip; eventual planned QPR with MJ

(All of them have C-PTSD, that's just a given)

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jinxquickfoot · 1 year ago

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@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Human Shield

Find the fic on Ao3

Note: Second half is written from Tony's POV during Civil War, but not intended to be anti-Team Cap or anti-Steve.

2012

God, Tony wants to die.

“Put the shield down Rogers, or I’m going to shoot him in the head.”

Not literally, obviously. Figuratively. From embarrassment.

The guy they’ve been chasing for the past week is just that—a guy. A very well-trained, very strong guy, based on the burly arm gripping Tony by the throat, but still. Human shield is not Tony’s best look.

Steve is managing to appear, Tony begrudgingly admits, exponentially cooler. His expression is stoic behind the cowl and shield, the gun resting on the rim, film and steady. “Let him go, Batroc. It’s over.”

Batroc huffs, right in Tony’s ear. Tony cringes away because gross—he does not need this guy’s morning breath anywhere near his breathing passages—but that only presses his temple more firmly against Batroc’s firearm.

He’s already working on ideas to make the suit more portable. The suitcase design was a good start, but it had just taken one kick from the Frenchman to send it skidding out of reach. Tony’s hand-to-hand skills are far from weak, but he and Steve had been ambushed without warning, and apparently Batroc had decided that Tony was the more controllable hostage of the two.

Next time, this wouldn’t happen. He’d make some sort of suit he could carry on his person all the time, even just a gauntlet, so he’d be ready always.

But that was next time. This time, Tony has to make do with what he’s given. Which, at the moment, is the hostage training Natasha had forced him through for this exact scenario.

“You know I wear a two-hundred-pound suit around the bad guys, right?” Tony had scoffed. “I highly doubt one of them is going to be able to get me in a chokehold.”

Natasha’s response to that had been to, naturally, put Tony in a chokehold, not releasing him until he had agreed to let her show him a few moves.

“A human shield makes it harder to hit the target,” Natasha had told him. “But not impossible. Still, you want to reduce the odds of getting shot yourself as best you can, which means you aim for the ribs. Give us a window, and we’ll take the assailant out.”

They’d practiced it until Tony had it perfect. “There. You happy now, Romanoff?”

“Now that I know one of my friends is in slightly less danger than before? A little bit, yeah.”

Batroc’s blathering on about something else, demands or threats, but Tony isn’t listening. He catches Steve’s eye, raising an eyebrow. Ready? He sees Steve make the calculation—determining the risk. Then he makes eye contact with Tony, and nods. Ready.

Batroc doesn’t see it coming. He’s so focused on Steve that he’s completely unprepared when Tony slams his elbow into his solar plexus.

The gun at Tony’s head stutters, the hold around his throat loosening. It’s not enough to pull free, but the next moment there’s a bang, and then strong arms are grabbing his and pulling him to safety.

“Are you alright?”

Tony winces as he runs a hand over his surely bruised throat. Batroc is bellowing on the ground, bleeding from the shoulder, but neither Tony nor Steve pay him any attention. “Yeah,” Tony croaks, clearing his throat. Ow. “Just some bruised pride. Maybe a few other things. Nice shot.”

Steve claps him on the shoulder. “Always. Although not something I want to do often.”

“You getting squeamish, Captain?”

“Not for this,” Steve replies grimly. “For you—for anyone on the team—I’ll always make the shot. I promise.”

2016

Tony has been through a myriad of feelings the past couple of days, but the absolute panic of I’m about to be shot in the face is a new one. The swell of pride when one of his inventions works for the first time, however—that’s one he’s all too familiar with.

The nanotech gauntlet is barely out of the testing phase, but it’s the only one he’s allowed to carry these days under the Accords. He’s not meant to be using it, either, not without UN permission, but he thinks they’ll let him off the hook given there’s a feral Winter Soldier plowing through Avengers right now.

Catching the gun is the first thing that comes to mind when Barnes points the thing right in his face, his thoughts transforming from That was incredibly stupid to That was amazingly genius in a nanosecond. It’s also a nanosecond of distraction, where he’s not moving, not thinking, and apparently that’s all Barnes needs to get the upper hand.

Tony braces, preparing for the blow as the metal arm swings for his head, but the pain doesn’t come. Instead of a hit, he feels metal grip his throat, a human but inhumanely strong second hand wrap around his waist, as he hears the distant clatter of his glasses hitting the floor.

At the last possible second, Tony throws a counter-maneuver—one of the many, many moves he’d practiced with Natasha after the Batroc incident—but he doesn’t account for Barnes’s strength. The escape attempt does nothing, and then Tony finds himself helpless in the Winter Soldier’s hold.

“Release him.”

Barnes spins them both around, looking for escape paths, the arms around Tony tightening as T’Challa stalks towards them with claws at the ready.

“You will not escape here,” T’Challa adds, and Tony doesn’t know whether the calm murder in his voice is a point in or against his favor. Tony recalls the day he found out his own father had died. He hadn’t exactly handled it with aplomb. He can’t even begin to imagine how he’d react if he’d found out it was deliberate, that there was someone to blame outside of a lethal combination of windy country roads and whiskey.

Barnes responds by shifting his grip, too fast and too expert for Tony to take advantage, so his gun is pointing at Tony’s neck.

“That’s not going to help you.” A new voice. Barnes doesn’t turn to meet it, clearly more worried about the Black Panther. Natasha moves around to where they can both see her, meeting Tony’s eye. “Stay calm, Tony. We’ll get you out of this.”

Tony would love to believe her, but knowledge of just how deadly Barnes is even without a gun isn’t helping matters.

And then, a third voice. “Bucky!”

This time, Barnes does move, even though he’s careful not to let either T’Challa or Natasha out of his sight. Steve is running full tilt at them, not even bothering with the stairs as he leaps to the lower floor. The shield is missing, but Steve’s managed to acquire a gun. He holds it loosely between his fingers as though he’s worried it's going to burn him, not even trying to lift it when he sees the situation before him.

“Bucky,” Steve says again, all determination. “I know you’re in there. Stand down.”

Judging by the increase in pressure on Tony’s throat, Barnes has absolutely no intention of following that order. Tony chokes, instinctively trying to pry the arm away, but it’s like trying to shift concrete.

The gun in Steve’s hand twitches. “Bucky,” he says, yet again, his voice soft. “You’re not in danger. These are allies. I’m your ally. I know you remember me.”

Great, so Tony’s life depends on the memory of a guy with seventy years worth of brain damage.

“Steve,” Natasha murmurs—a warning. She’s eyeing the gun, as though thinking of grabbing it.

Steve notices. His response is to clutch it a little tighter. Which Tony reads as I know what I’m doing, Romanoff, back off. And apparently Barnes reads as This man is about to shoot me so time to run away.

Tony has no choice but to be dragged with him, feet unable to find purchase as Barnes starts backing through the building. More backup has arrived, but Tony’s unable to pay them much attention. He doubts any of them are willing to take a shot anyway, not with the gun trained on them, and not when he’s blocking so much of Barnes’s body.

The panic doesn’t properly set in until he realizes Barnes is taking him to the roof. “Hey, you don’t need—” he tries, but immediately gets cut off when more pressure is added to his throat. He blinks rapidly as they burst into sudden daylight, willing them to adjust, then almost wishing he was still blinded as he sees Barnes’s target.

Tony is just thinking that he really doesn’t want to find out if Barnes is planning to drag him onto that helicopter, or if his part here is done and he’s about to be disposed of, when another figure joins them on the roof. “Bucky, stop.”

Barnes doesn’t stop. He doesn’t go to the helicopter either. Instead, he drags Tony backward until they’re balanced on the edge of the roof, and Tony catches a glimpse of water way too far below them. The gun is still at Tony’s neck. Tony grimaces as he tries to move away from it, but Barnes’s grip is as resolute as ever.

“No one is going to hurt you,” Steve tries. “I know you’re confused, but I know you know me. I’m Steve. You’re Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes.”

Tony wishes he could have one ounce of Steve’s conviction. Maybe then his heart would stop pounding quite so fast.

Barnes doesn’t move. He doesn’t let him go. And Tony’s done playing damsel in distress. He raises his arms, just slightly, willing Steve to see the movement.

Steve does. His eyes go a little wider, his grip shifting on his gun. It’s not pointed anywhere near Barnes, but Steve’s reflexes are super-soldier fast. He’ll make the shot.

Tony watches Steve’s face, seeing the indecision there. Alright, give the guy a second to work through the idea of shooting his closest friend from the olden times. They only need a shoulder wound for Steve to get Tony out of this. Batroc had survived, and then healed well enough to escape SHIELD custody and had a second go at Steve on the Lemurian Star. And he wasn’t even a super-soldier.

Barnes will be fine, even if he ends up falling off the roof. Steve had survived a much longer fall in much worse condition from the helicarrier. Tony’s not so sure about his own well-being if they don’t do this. And he has no idea how long he has before Barnes either fires, snaps his neck, or throws him into the water below.

He brings his elbows up, and slams them backward.

Something snaps in his arm, pain ricocheting up his side, but none of that matters as time seems to slow. Because he’s not free. There was no gunshot. Just the sound of a finger squeezing a trigger, right beside his ear.

This is it. He’s dead. Steve didn’t take the shot and he’s dead.

That thought can’t have lasted longer than a quarter-second, but it feels like an eternity before he feels Barnes go rigid behind him.

Tony doesn’t waste the opening. He tugs the arm away from him, even as he sees Steve barrelling towards them. Tony remembers this part. Being tugged out of Batroc’s grip, beyond relieved even if there was no way he was showing it.

But when Steve reaches him, he doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t look at him. Tony is vaguely aware of a splash, and then Steve is launching himself off the roof, and gentle hands are gripping Tony’s bad arm.

“What—”

“I hit Barnes with a Widow’s Bite,” Natasha’s saying, tilting her bracelet up to show the missing disc. “Maybe you had a point about building ones you could throw.”

Tony cranes his head over the roof to where Steve has surfaced with an unconscious Barnes lolling in his arms.

“Hey.” Natasha tilts his face back towards her, concerned. “You okay?”

Tony blinks at her, trying to remember how to speak, but his voice is gone. He supposes nearly getting shot in the head twice in the space of ten minutes will do that to a person.

When she doesn’t get an answer, Natasha gently prods his elbow, making him wince. “Fractured,” she remarks. “You tried that move I showed you, huh?”

He had. And Steve hadn’t taken the shot.

He hadn’t… he hadn’t even looked at him.

“Come on.” Natasha helps him stand. “Let’s deal with that elbow, and then we’ll deal with the mess that just got one hundred times worse.”

Author's note: Steve believed that Bucky would never actually hurt Tony and therefore Tony was never in any real danger.

#bad things happen bingo #bthb card #human shield #tony stark #steve rogers #bucky barnes #civil war #marvel #mcu #avengers #whump writing #hostage situations

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transexualpirate · 10 months ago

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holy fucking shit sjjajsjsjdjsjd 16woodsequ ur one of my all time favorite ao3 writers you're so cool thank you so much this is awesome

hmmm. craving some hurt steve fics rn. anyone has any

#perfect time to reread captured #MOM 16WOODSEQU REBLOGGED FROM ME!!! MOM!!!!!!! MOM LOOK #no but seriously you're amazing i love your style of writing and you're so creative #when you said self rec i clicked on it and i was like wait a second this one's already bookmarked. WAIT A SECOND IT'S FROM 15WOODSEQU #lol #fic rec #steve rogers #hurt steve rogers #whump #steve rogers whump #hurt/comfort #fic #rec

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melles1276 · 3 months ago

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Excerpt:

The rifle’s recoil hurts his shoulder, but Steve doesn't let it deter him. He fires again and again at their opponents, but without really aiming. Finally there’s a click as he pulls the trigger again.

“The clip…” Bucky gasps for breath. “You have to…reload!”

He frantically pats his vest in search of a new clip. He pauses as Bucky places it in his hand. With trembling fingers he inserts it into the slot and reloads. With his back pressed against the trunk, he takes several deep breaths, waiting for the best time to fight back. After seemingly endless moments, something strikes him. Surprised, he turns his head and looks at Bucky, who also looks back at him with raised eyebrows.

As quickly as the shooting began, it ended just as abruptly.

Have they hit their attackers?

Bucky's gaze goes from side to side as he waves his pistol, but then lowers it and finally places it on the ground. The magazine is empty and he can't reload with one hand, so the gun won't be of any use to him either way. Something isn't right here, that's what his gut feeling tells him.

His breathing is still rapid, and Steve has to force himself to take deep breaths. In contrast to Bucky, he’s a complete bundle of nerves and is greatly unnerved by the unnatural silence.

Bucky listens intently and tries to scan the surroundings. A cracking sound to his right makes him spin around. His suspicions are confirmed - there are several shooters.

Steve also senses the movement - and raises the rifle. The barrel is aimed at a figure who in turn aims at him. His heart seems to be jumping out of his chest, his gaze is focused on the person in front of them, standing at least 50 meters away.

"Stop!"

For a split second, confused, he looks at Bucky, who has put his hand on the rifle and makes him lower the barrel. What is that about? "But …?"

Bucky raises his hand soothingly and starts talking to the person in incomprehensible phrases.

Is Bucky starting to lose touch with reality again? What if the person sees them as dangerous and attacks them because they feel they have no other choice? Steve licks his lips nervously, as his gaze goes doubtfully back and forth between the person and Bucky. It takes Steve a moment to realize that the soldier is speaking Dari. Not fluently, but apparently well enough to be able to communicate with the person.

The weapon is lowered and the person now slowly approaches them. “Mr. America?”

Bucky nods wordlessly. He feels his strength whittling away and is grateful he’s already sitting on the ground at that moment.

“That’s…” Steve blurts out after realizing something important. The closer the person gets to them, the more obvious it becomes that it’s a teenager. “That’s still… a child?!”

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aelaer · 2 years ago

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⛓

Okay so. THREE YEARS AGO, back in early 2020 before The World Went To Shit, I posted a "whump prompt request" thing with icons to basically request fics based on the whumpy icon. I answered 2 or 3 of them before I basically stopped writing for like, over a year.

This year I'm doing my damnedest to finish the 6 whump prompts I have from early 2020 and the last (anon) prompt I have from 2019. That's my goal. (If I can get to the 2022 user-submitted prompt as well this year, that's an extra bonus).

I don't think this user is even in the fandom anymore (possibly not even on tumblr), but I'm still doing the prompt fics. As always with tumblr prompts, my tumblr followers get them first, and I'll post it on AO3 at a later time.

Obviously the prompt is chains. For 2 years I was trying another fic to fill this, but when it just wasn't happening, I threw out the original idea for this new one below.

So I've done alternate meetings between Stephen and various Avengers before, but I wanted to try something different and have a different set of Avengers meet him in different circumstances. Well, not that different because I just enjoy seeing Stephen suffer. Sorry love. But it's a different crew of Avengers, so it's at least a little different. I don't think I've seen this particular group meeting him before in this timeframe, either.

This fic stars Steve, Nat, Sam, and Stephen, and is actually written from Steve's POV! First time writing from Steve's POV so it was a lot of fun. Not betaed, but this is still about 7,000 words long, so enjoy!

—--

Ever since aliens attacked New York in 2012, alien technology was a major part of the arms dealing scene in the black market. Nuclear missiles were old school; Chitauri-powered weaponry was the cream of the crop. And as the United States' Department of Damage Control seemed to have done a very lousy job at controlling all the weaponry leaving the country the last several years, Steve Rogers figured he'd put his time out of the country to good use and clean up for them.

From all the people that came back from the Raft, only two were with him now. Clint and Ant-Man—Scott, nice guy—had families back home and went for a plea bargain. Wanda asked to be dropped off in Europe and Nat provided her with a new ID and enough money to get by for a couple months without any sort of job. Bucky—well, Bucky was getting help in Wakanda.

That just left him, Sam, and Nat. When he told them what he planned to do, they were fully on board. Nat even had some old KGB connections to get them started.

And that's how they had spent the last year, going from city to city, country to country, chasing leads on illegal alien weaponry across Asia. They started in Yemen and Oman, then went north to Syria (where they got into a tight spot and found Nick Fury of all people waiting for them. How he got to Syria in the first place, Steve had no idea.) After a tense conversation with him, he parted with him in Lebanon, then they started their way east to Iraq, Turkmenistan, and Afghanistan.

It was another old contact of Nat's that pointed them to their next destination: the state of Uttar Pradesh in northern India.

With most of their hits, it was clear that terrorists, insurgents, and other sorts who dealt with black market arms were getting types of Chitauri weapons. With their information out of India, it was less clear what the nature of the weapon was.

"From how they're discussing it, it sounds alien," Nat said as she read over her contact's notes. "And they're guarding it fiercely. But it appears they don't know what to do with it."

"Who has the weapon?" Sam asked. "Lashkar-e-Taiba? ISIS?"

She shook her head. "It's a small splinter group of revolutionists. No household names here."

Steve frowned; these small groups were more difficult to determine how to respond to. "Are they considered terrorists by the United States?"

Nat shook her head once more as she looked through the notes. "Strictly Indian. This group doesn't go beyond their borders."

"Then let's go for a nonlethal encounter, as much as possible. We're not here to say who's right and wrong about such things, so long as they're not hurting anyone in their actions."

She half-smiled. "They do have a weapon, Cap." They've likely hurt people, she didn't say.

He quirked his lips in return. "And that's why we're going to relieve them of it." In the end, it was up to the local authorities to take care of the people themselves and to put them through due process. If Steve could, he'd do the same for every terrorist, too—but he didn't have that luxury when they were caught in the middle of a gunfight, or when it was just the three of them versus dozens in enemy territory.

He wasn't happy with the fact, but he made do with what he could. He didn't particularly enjoy killing others in the war, either—and the fact that he still had to from time to time was an unhappy reality.

So when he could get through an incident without death, he gladly took it.

"All right," Sam said. "Next stop, India."

—--

Nat's connections made getting the quinjet from country to country actually possible. From there, they paid someone enough cash to both keep an eye on the jet and to keep quiet about it. These people made a living on such gigs, so after a year of seeing such deals, Steve was a lot less worried about it than when they first started.

Their contact got them a van and from there, they fit everything they needed into it to get to a safehouse and gather more intel from there.

Uttar Pradesh was a land of extremes. As the most populous state of India, it also saw some of its richest and poorest citizens, some great beauty and great ugliness, and both wondrous joys and terrible suffering. Steve didn't interact with the locals—Nat did all that if they had to, as she somehow knew Hindi as well—but he could see it in the people's faces as they went from city to village, and back again.

It took them a couple days to secure their safehouse to their liking, then another few days to find the location of their target. It took Nat and Sam another 48 hours to break into their security and tap their communications, and it wasn't too long that they got the location of the weapon.

"They're not giving any further description on what this weapon is," Nat said with a grimace as she leaned back in her chair. "I don't think the guys we bugged actually know what it is, just where it is as they were guarding the building. On the second floor, so that narrows it down further."

"That's annoying," Sam said. "I'll look up the address and see what I can find on the building. This city's large enough to have blueprints."

"Not sure how much you'll find," Nat said. "I'll drive out there and scout it out tonight."

"You can add it to what I do find," Sam said, grinning.

—---

When Nat came back from her scouting just before dawn, Steve woke up to find her thoughtful. "What happened?"

"The building was unusually busy, considering the time of night," she said. "The good news is that I found the most likely room in which they're keeping the weapon."

"Should be an easy snatch and grab?"

"Absolutely; this is a group of amateurs. You and Sam can probably stay in the car."

Steve snorted. "Well, if we would just get in your way."

Nat smirked, then went to get herself some breakfast. "I'll listen in today to see if anyone says anything more about the weapon."

About two hours later, Sam and Steve were mapping out their route away from the building once Nat had the weapon. From the corner of his eye, Steve saw her frowning as she listened to the tapped broadcast. He did not like that frown. "What is it?"

She listened for about ten more seconds. "It sounds like they have a prisoner."

Sam jerked his head up. "What?"

She paused as she listened, then after two minutes she shook her head. "These idiots know nothing. They think he was after the weapon, naturally, but for all they know he could be a political prisoner or hostage." She sighed. "Should've bugged someone more useful."

"This changes things," Steve said.

"A rescue mission makes this more complicated," Nat pointed out.

"Are you suggesting we leave him?"

Nat smiled slightly. "Just making sure you were aware."

"Well, I've never been one to back down from a challenge." He looked at Sam. "You'll be fine alone in the car?"

Sam shrugged. "I can keep the engine running. You sure you won't need help with sneaking in?"

"No. Show me what blueprints you found again, Sam." He had learned several things about subterfuge and stealth over the last year from Nat. He had to.

With their combined intelligence gathering, Steve was able to map out his own route to search for this prisoner. It was likely he was being kept in the basement level of the building, so Steve would start there and work his way up, if need be. As decided before, Steve wanted to go for the non-lethal route, and they had just enough drugs to knock people out to make it happen (one of the good things of running into Fury all those months ago was getting supplies of that nature).

With their plan set, all they had to do now was wait until nightfall.

—----

Nat was right: these guys were amateurs. Steve was certain that she'd be in and out of the building in five minutes, tops. He had the longer route here just because he had to find the room this prisoner was actually being held.

Half the people in the building were asleep on the second floor; those awake were either guarding the mysterious weapon (Nat had them handled) or posted around the perimeter. He only encountered one other guard on the first floor before making his way into the basement. Those he did encounter he stashed away in dark corners so they weren't easily spotted by anyone passing by.

The basement was a little busier. The stairwell led to a long hallway filled with several tiny rooms, one of which was easily seen as occupied the moment he came to the floor. Steve took out two guys in a room at a pair of computers and kept them propped in their chairs. The other rooms in the hall were empty of people, largely filled with storage and detritus.

At the edge of the corridor was another hallway and Steve carefully peered beyond the corner to see if anyone was there. There was a man sitting outside of a door playing on his phone; that was very likely the door Steve was looking for. It was child's play to sneak up at him and jab him in the neck just as he had done with the rest.

He lowered the guard to the floor before he could fall out of his chair, then peered through the small window—hole, really—within the door to take a look inside.

Well, he had definitely found the prisoner. While the light in the room was dim, he could tell that their prisoner didn't appear Indian; his skin was just too light. Steve frowned; what was a foreign national doing dealing with a group that largely dealt with Indian affairs?

It appeared that he had crossed them in some way because the man looked terrible. Bruises and bloody scrapes blossomed across his face; they appeared to be recent hurts, gained in hours or days rather than weeks or months. His dark hair was pressed damp against his head, though from sweat or water, Steve did not know. His clothes were unlike anything Steve's seen in the future so far, at least outside of movies.

Despite his poor state of being, this group had considered their captive enough of a threat to chain him to the wall itself. Steve had no idea wall fetters like that still existed. The man was leaning his head against one of his arms pulled up, though sleeping or unconscious, he couldn't say.

Steve soon discovered neither. As soon as he took the cell door key off the unconscious guard and slotted it into the lock, the man's eyes snapped open and he straightened his position as much as he was able to. And he didn't appear afraid at all. Resigned, perhaps, but not afraid. Interesting. Nat would have quite the analysis on him from just this.

The man's grim resignation turned into outright confusion as Steve opened the door to reveal himself.

"Keep your voice down," Steve warned as he dragged the guard's body from the hallway and into the cell. He carefully shut the door to make it look closed, but left it open a crack in case it locked from the inside. He turned back to the hostage. "We'd rather avoid a full on confrontation if we can."

"Captain America?" Disbelief dripped through every syllable, but he kept his voice low. And he sounded American; that wasn't expected at all.

Steve could not help his unhappy smile. "Not so sure I can call myself that anymore."

The man remained still as Steve closed the distance between them. "Let me get these off," he muttered as he brought up the key again. But he could see the problem immediately—the key was too large for the manacles.

The man was watching him and seemed to catch his realization. "I imagine that one of the leaders has that key," he said, voice flat. Not panicked at all like many others would be if they thought they were so close to freedom and were stuck.

This man was no normal civilian, that much was clear.

Steve, though, had another idea. "Hold on." He took hold of the left manacle and chain, then paused as he caught long scars on the hand accompanied by a tremor that certainly wasn't fear. "This might pinch. Brace yourself."

The man said nothing, but hissed softly as Steve snapped the chain from the manacle as the rough metal scraped against him, despite Steve's best efforts.

"Okay?" Steve said as he slowly let go of the manacle still around his wrist, allowing the man time to gain control of his arm.

"Fine. Don't worry about it."

Steve moved to the other manacle and saw the same patterns of scars on his right hand, as well. He broke the chain with as much care as he could, and this time the man remained silent at the break.

"Can you stand?"

The man was already standing—or at least attempting it. He managed to get up to his feet, but he was leaning heavily against the wall. His eyes were focused on the corner where Steve had deposited the unconscious guard near the door. Steve followed his gaze and saw that beyond the guard was some sort of red fabric in the corner.

"I need that," the man said, leaving no room for argument in his voice. With some bemusement, Steve gathered the long length of red fabric in one hand (a coat?), and with the other dragged the guard to where the hostage once sat so anyone looking in the dimly lit room would make out the figure of a body. So long as no one took a closer look, it would hold until morning.

The man took the red fabric as soon as Steve offered it to him and slung it over his shoulder. Steve caught the glint of silver of what he assumed was some sort of clasp on his coat, and while he was no expert, it looked like the real deal.

"Surprised they didn't take those," Steve said as he nodded to the ornamentation. "Lean on me."

The man did so without protest. Steve couldn't see what was causing the other's inability to fully stand, but that would have to be examined later. He did mutter, though, "They couldn't rip the clasps off. Then they thought they were maybe cursed." For some reason this seemed to amuse the man.

Right, then. "Follow my lead," Steve murmured.

He locked the door behind them and dropped the key in one of the storage rooms within the basement. Steve was slower going out than coming in, but he had been thorough in jabbing everyone and placing them in either hidden areas or in discrete positions, should anyone pass. But for all the rumors of having a powerful weapon, as their security personnel was not what Steve would consider top-rated, he wasn't expecting any change of guard anytime soon.

The building was thankfully small enough that the journey from the cell to the exit was less than five minutes, even at the slowed pace they were forced to go. From the corner of his eye Steve saw the man turn his head at the sight of one of the men stashed on a chair, positioned as if he were asleep rather than drugged.

It wasn't until they were past the building's outer fencing and around a corner that Steve breathed more easily. Perhaps the man sensed it, because he spoke for the first time since they left the cell. "Did you kill them?"

"The guards?"

"Yes."

"No. Just drugged."

Steve felt the man exhale beside him. "Good."

That… wasn't expected. But then again, nothing about this man met any of the preconceptions he originally thought about the person he would be rescuing. "What's your name?"

"Strange."

They turned another corner. "Your name is Strange?"

"Yes."

Fair enough.

"How far are we going?" Strange asked. Steve was supporting more of his weight now, his hidden injury seeming to do a number on him.

"Not far," he assured him. "I've got a car waiting."

"Great." The 'great' sounded oddly sarcastic.

The van was only a couple minutes further, which was good because Strange only seemed to be getting weaker with every step. By the time they turned the final corner to meet it, Strange's left leg fully gave out on him. Steve caught him before he could totally collapse, but he noticed Strange's attention was fully on the van.

"I'm not the only thing you're taking from that building, am I?" he asked between clenched teeth.

How could he possibly know? Steve didn't know how to answer, but before he needed to, Sam was stepping out of the van to assist him. He took in Strange's interesting fashion choices with a raised brow, then took on the role of medic immediately. "Where are you injured?" he asked as he took Strange's other arm. He spared a look at the hand and the manacle, then gripped him on the forearm as he slung it over his shoulders.

"It's complicated," was Strange's cryptic answer. "Nothing you can—" He sharply inhaled, "—help right now."

Once they loaded Strange into the back seat (with his coat on his lap—though it was rather large to be a coat, now that he took a longer look at it), Steve asked Sam quietly as they rounded the car, "You found the weapon?"

"Well, we definitely found what they were hiding, though I'm not so sure I'd call it that," he replied.

What on earth did that mean? Steve sent Sam a look, but held off on any further questions until they were out of immediate danger.

Nat had slipped into the driver's seat as soon as Sam was out of the van, and Sam gave it up with the roll of his eyes. Steve decided to sit in the back with Strange to keep an eye on him as they drove back to their safe house about thirty minutes away. Somehow Strange seemed worse resting in the van than moving. Yes, the road was bumpy and unpaved in many spots, but he would have thought walking from his prison would have been more taxing on him.

As he eyed Strange's clenched fists, tight eyes, and pallor face, he wondered where these hidden injuries lie—and if they were all physical in nature.

Perhaps more importantly, he was wondering what on Earth another American was doing all the way out there in the middle of Uttar Pradesh and far away from any sort of tourist destination (and they had done their research—this was absolutely not an area for tourists).

Apparently he wasn't the only one wondering about him. "So, you gonna tell us who you are and what on earth you're doing all the way out here?" Sam asked, turning himself partially around to look at him.

"If we could save the interrogation for when we're stopped, I would greatly appreciate it," he said without moving his eyes from the center of the windshield.

"Carsick?" Nat asked in that casual way that was anything but casual.

"Yes," Strange said, but Steve wasn't sure if he fully believed him. It was the tight anxiety in his gaze that pointed to something else.

But what it was wasn't important for him to know. Every man had his demons. So Steve said, "His name is Strange."

Sam looked between the two of them, gaze settling on Strange. "Seriously?"

"Yes," Strange said, curt and tense.

"Right," said Sam. He cleared his throat. "Well, Mr Strange, when we get to our little base, we'll take a look at you and see what we can do for your injuries."

At first, Strange didn't seem like he would reply. Then a moment later, after Sam had already turned around and Steve was getting ready to settle in for a long, silent trip, Strange said, "Doctor."

"Pardon?" Steve asked. Sam slightly turned his head.

"It's Doctor Strange."

Well, that just created more questions than it answered.

—---

Doctor Strange could barely walk by the time they made it to the safe house. His lips were pressed tight as he contained what appeared to be excruciating agony. Steve had seen that look on men's faces before in war as they lost limbs and burned from napalm fire.

What sort of wounds was he hiding underneath all his clothing?

"He can take my cot," Sam said. The cots were in a separate, smaller room to the side of the larger room that held their base of operations. Their vital equipment didn't exceed what could fit in a single van should they need to leave fast, but at this point they had acquired decent bedding, more fresh clothing, and a mini-fridge alongside the basic necessities of the trade: their tech, a well-stocked first aid kit, non-perishables to last for several weeks, and a few weapons.

Sam already had their first aid kit by his side as they got Strange to the cot, and Strange collapsed as soon as they let him go. However, when Sam started to undo his belts to his—robes, Steve guessed—to get access to whatever hurts he was hiding, Strange stopped him by grabbing at his arm. But the grip was minimal; Strange's hand was shaking badly enough to continuously jiggle the ugly manacle still there.

"Not—not hurt—physically," he panted.

Sam raised his eyebrows incredulously at the comment. "You've got bruises all over you. Look, with this weakness, you could have a bad internal bleed—"

"No," he hissed. "Listen." His weak grip readjusted itself on Sam's arm. "Move the statuette—away from me."

Steve turned a confused look to Sam, but Sam had stilled and was looking at Strange with narrowed eyes. "How did you—"

"200 feet," he interrupted. "For an hour. You'll see." With that, he finally passed out.

"Statuette?" Steve asked.

"It was what they were protecting." Nat appeared at the door and frowned at Strange as Sam, obviously, ignored his protests and started stripping him down to both attach him to a BPM and to look for any signs of massive trauma. "He shouldn't know that we took it."

Steve frowned. "He said something of the same just as we got to the van."

Nat's eyes narrowed. "Did he, now."

Steve shook his head. "But that doesn't make sense. They were supposed to be holding onto some powerful weapon."

"Whatever our intel, the statuette was definitely the only thing they were truly guarding," Nat said. "Had two men at the entrance and one on the ground below—even more than last night." She kept her narrowed gaze upon Strange. "Maybe he is what caused all the disturbance last night, too."

Steve frowned at the information. "Did anything about it seem suspicious?"

Nat shook her head. "Not from a cursory look. It's just a rather ugly statue made out of stone. Weighs no more than 10 pounds. I was saving the closer examination for when we got back here, though."

"This makes no sense." It was Sam this time, and he was looking at the diagnostics on his small handheld that he had hooked up to Strange.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

"His vitals are not what I was expecting. His blood pressure is higher than normal, which is opposite what you'd see with internal bleeding, and none of this bruising is severe. I mean, he should still get himself to a hospital when he can to double check, but I'm not seeing any obvious signs of hemorrhaging."

Nat looked back at Strange. "He's not faking it. He's out."

"I know." Sam worked on cleaning up some of the cuts on Strange's face because they were, apparently, the worst wounds they found. "But from what I can see, he shouldn't be unconscious. I found no head trauma, no major blood loss, and his temperature's stable."

Steve pursed his lips together in thought. The world had gotten very weird the last few years.

Nat read him like a book. "You're going to entertain his idea?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, the world isn't exactly what it used to be," Steve said. "We can try for an hour. Just to see what happens."

Nat canted her head, then nodded slowly. "I know a spot. Be back soon."

—--

Fifteen minutes later, Steve had his chair at the doorway between the beds and the rest of the space as he kept an eye on Strange. Sam was working on repairing some of their surveillance tech while Nat was looking up something at the computers after having returned just a couple minutes ago.

"He said Doctor Strange, right?" Sam asked. "You think, being an American with robes and a cape and all, that he's playing at being some sort of superhero with a secret identity or something?"

Steve blinked and took another look at the red pile of cloth resting at the foot of Strange's cot. Huh, yeah, he supposed it could be a cape. A red cape like Thor's, to boot.

"I'm not so sure," Steve said as he eyed the man. "He didn't act like a civilian playing hero that got in over his head when I found him."

"Not a fake name, either," Nat said, causing the both of them to turn her way. She recited, "Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange, MD, PhD. Neurosurgeon. And yes, I found images. It's him, just without the beard and a little less grey hair."

For some reason the name sounded familiar, though Steve had no idea why. He definitely hadn't met the guy before; he was pretty sure he'd remember him if he had.

Sam raised his eyebrows high. "What in the world is a neurosurgeon doing dressed like that in the weeds of Uttar Pradesh?"

"Former neurosurgeon, actually," Nat said with a thoughtful frown. "Last news I can find of him is from early 2016 after he got into a bad car accident. His hospital doesn't list him as a doctor there, anymore."

Steve frowned softly as he looked back at Strange. That would explain his hands. But as Sam said, it didn't explain what he was doing all the way out here. Then he narrowed his gaze as he saw Strange stir—or he thought he saw him move.

Then Steve blinked as he saw the edges of the red cape start rising upward. It reminded him of a cobra. He blinked again, and yea, it was definitely moving a bit like a snake. It was slinking.

"Hey uh, Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Clothing generally doesn't move on its own in this century, right?"

"Uh, what?"

"You better come see this."

Steve felt both Sam and Nat beside him as they watched the cape—definitely a cape, not a coat—extend itself upwards until it was no longer a bundle of cloth at the edge of the bed, but fully extended and covering Strange from the bottom of his neck to his feet.

This cape might've been bigger than Thor's cape.

"So that's definitely not normal, yes?" Steve reiterated.

"Yes, Steve, that's not normal," Nat repeated. "You two sure there wasn't any sort of tech embedded within it?"

"Surveillance would've picked up something," Sam said, which Steve knew that Nat knew.

"Right," she said. "I'd ah, I'd keep my distance from it, gentlemen."

"Right."

"Yep."

—------

Another twenty minutes passed before Steve heard a groan coming from the cot. He looked up from his sketch to watch a minutiae of expressions cross over Strange's face before it settled on the blank expression of a man who woke up in unfamiliar, potentially dangerous situations. Steve saw that expression all the time once, a lifetime ago.

Strange was not just a neurosurgeon, no matter where his internet trail ended. Nearly two years had passed since early 2016, after all—and much of the world had changed since then.

Steve pushed away the troubling, all-too-personal train of thought before it went somewhere dangerous. "Welcome back, Doctor Strange," he said. He kept his distance.

Strange glanced his way with a furrowed brow before a light of understanding came to his eyes. "Ah. Right." He slowly sat up, grimacing softly, frowning down at what was obviously rumpled, disturbed clothing. Speaking of clothing—the cape was floating a bit more now, its collar at the same level as Strange's head.

"Oh, good, I'm glad you're starting to feel better," Strange said, and he was definitely talking to his cape. Steve was certain about it.

"Uh," Steve started, causing Strange's eyes to focus again on him. They were no longer clouded in pain, and he could see the man had an unusually sharp gaze. "Nat was going to remove those manacles off you, but then your cape started moving…" He trailed off.

"It's a cloak," was Strange's absolutely absurd reply.

Steve was saved from replying by Sam joining him. And just out of sight of Strange, Nat lingered, listening. "Hey, doc. How're you feeling?" Steve was pretty sure Sam was mostly staring at the half-floating cape—cloak.

"Much better. Thank you for moving the statuette." He frowned at the manacles on his wrists before making something of an effort to straighten out his robes. The red cloak moved behind him and settled itself upon his shoulders with Strange saying nothing about it.

"Uh, you wanna tell us what that is?" Sam jerked his chin to the cloak as it moved.

"It's a cloak," Strange replied. With eyes that sharp, Steve knew the man was being purposefully obtuse.

"Funny." Sam crossed his arms. "You wanna tell us why it flies?"

"It's called the Cloak of Levitation. That's what it does."

Steve wasn't sure if he should be annoyed or amused by the obfuscation. He settled for something around the realm of exasperation. "Doctor Strange, please." Strange stilled his adjusting and settled his gaze on Steve. "If you would sit down with us," he gestured past his shoulder to the main room, "Natasha can remove the manacles while you answer a few questions."

Strange pursed his lips. "I don't suppose you'll let me go without answers," he said dryly, but he stood up. Steve stood as well to give Strange ample room to pass.

Steve could feel Nat stepping into line of sight just behind him. "Consider it payment for us getting you out of there."

Strange huffed as he stepped through into the main room; with his so-called cloak, his whole ensemble had an odd feeling of completion that was missing prior. "I thought the Avengers were meant to be altruistic." Steve had been pretty certain that Strange knew who the other two were, but that at least confirmed it.

Nat smiled. "Some of us are more altruistic than others." She nodded to the table where the laptops were sitting a minute ago, but were now closed and set aside. "Sit."

Steve was more than happy to leave the bulk of the interrogation to Nat. He retook his chair and Sam went back to his tech maintenance corner while Strange sat adjacent to Nat at the center table.

With her left hand, Nat slid her fingers underneath the manacle to offer some cushioning between the metal and Strange's skin, certainly raw from the metal and more sensitive with whatever lay underneath his skin now. Steve knew, only after being with her for so long, that it was yet another way she could better tell truth from lies by being right on top of his pulse.

She had never forgotten her years and years of training.

"Why were you being held in that building?" she started as she flicked open the pick.

Strange narrowed his eyes at the question. "The same reason you were drawn to it."

"And you were caught trying to take it."

"Well," Strange said, "I was not expecting to have such an adverse reaction."

Nat kept her gaze on the manacle, seemingly. Steve wouldn't doubt that she was looking up at Strange through her lashes at pertinent moments. "We came because we heard there was a powerful weapon being held there," she said slowly, "but it seems only to affect you."

Strange didn't reply, at first. "Was there a question in that statement, Miss Romanoff?"

Nat smiled. "You know my question, Doctor Strange."

Strange, again, considered his words. "And what would you do with that knowledge?"

Something that looked like true confusion flickered across Nat's expression. Steve doubted Strange caught it, but after all these years, he did. "What do you mean?"

"Don't be obtuse," Strange said, and there was an edge to his voice, suddenly. "After all, it was not even four years ago that the very agency you worked for created a weapon to kill millions. What am I to think of a person who worked for such an organization?"

The flash of something real crossing through Nat's eyes was so fast that Steve wasn't entirely sure that he hadn't just imagined it. "And all of us here were part of the team that exposed that plot." The first manacle clicked open, and Nat removed it, allowing Strange to take his wrist to rub it. "And when the worlds' governments tried to force us to sign a document that we believed endangered the world's freedom, we ran. And here we are."

Strange stared at her wordlessly, and they held a battle of wills. He had seen this expression on Nat very few times. The first she started showing it to him was when they really started working together, when—

Steve suddenly remembered. "Hydra!" At his exclamation, the battle of wills was dropped as everyone looked to him, but his eyes were again on Strange. "During Project Insight—one of their high level goons mentioned your name, your name and a few others—as he explained exactly what the algorithm was written to do." He looked at the other two. "Sitwell on the rooftop, remember?"

Realization came to them and they looked again at Strange, perhaps in a different light. "He did mention you," Sam said, pointing a screwdriver his way.

Strange cleared his throat. "That was in 2014, years before… this. They couldn't have known this would happen to me."

"And what is 'this', Doctor Strange?" Nat asked. She gestured for his left hand, and Strange gave it to her wordlessly. As she slipped her fingers underneath the metal and against his wrist, she asked, "What makes you different from us that the statue would only be an effective weapon against you?"

The silence sat. Strange said nothing, and it remained steady until the second manacle clicked open. Natasha removed it and stared at him for a moment, but when he remained still, she simply nodded and stood. "Steve can help you make arrangements to get back to where you need to go," is all she said, and turned to leave.

"Magic."

Nat stopped mid-step.

"The statuette has an adverse effect upon people who practice what you would call magic."

Sam was the first to break the silence. "Wait, do you mean 'You're a wizard, Harry,' type of magic?"

Strange's carefully blank expression fell away into a look of distaste. "The preferred term is sorcerer."

"A sorcerer is just a wizard without a hat," Sam said in return, and Strange's expression went through the whole range between gobsmacked and irritation, and back again.

Steve stepped in before Sam was completely eviscerated. "Right, so the statuette's bad news. What did you want to do with it?"

Strange seemed surprised by the question. "If it were up to me, I'd have it destroyed; were that impossible, burying it several miles deep or throwing it into the Mariana Trench is a good alternative. I'd say it could be placed in another dimension, but I'd be worried about another intelligent species potentially coming across it."

Right, dimensions. That was—something. Steve just nodded, as if all of that sounded perfectly reasonable and not completely insane.

Still, there was something Strange wasn't saying, and Steve had to make sure. "And these adverse effects—they're not permanent?"

"They're not."

"You sure?" Sam asked. "You were pretty badly off there for a time."

Strange cleared his throat. "I had been within near proximity to the object for almost a day, and the car ride's enforced closeness simply exacerbated the symptoms. They were unpleasant, but not permanent for the length of time I was exposed."

Steve narrowed his eyes; 'unpleasant' was a soldier's word for 'agonizing, but it didn't kill me so I'll be fine.' And Strange had the gaze of a man who had seen battle.

The other two noticed, naturally. They were both soldiers too. But it was Nat who prodded, to see just how much she could glean. It was almost instinctual for her to do so, Steve thought. "Sam is right to be concerned. You were near catatonic by the time the drive was through."

Strange's lip twitched upward in displeasure. He would allow some prying to establish—what? Some sort of basic trust? Whatever it was, it only went so far, and when Strange said, "I'm fine, thank you," Nat laid off with a raised hand and a slight smile.

Steve switched topics. "If you knew this statuette was so dangerous, why did you go in alone?" At Strange's quirked brow, Steve explained, "I assume there's more than one sorcerer around. You had to learn it from someone. You needed backup." Steve allowed a tone of disapproval to shine through his last sentence.

Strange heard it and rose up to it. "The statuette hasn't been encountered for quite some time, so its intensity wasn't known to any living sorcerer. Besides, we thought it was something else entirely here. If we'd known it was the statuette, we would have used a completely different strategy in retrieving it. On that note," he said, tone moving to decisive and unrelenting, "I'd like my phone call, now."

"Your what?" Sam asked.

"Well, Miss Romanoff said you'd be assisting me in getting out of here," Strange said. "To do that, I need to call somebody."

Steve nodded, though that statement led to more questions as to how Strange got out here in the first place. Did that mean there were other sorcerers in the vicinity?

They had several burner phones as part of their stash. Nat selected one not on their persons, so not yet in active use. Depending on what happened here would determine if they kept it or threw it out after this.

Strange nodded in thanks and dialed a number slowly enough that it didn't take a spy to read his movement, should he decide to steal the phone for some reason. Steve didn't think he would. Besides, if he was more concerned about keeping the number private, he certainly wouldn't have dialed it in front of Nat.

Regardless, it took about ten seconds from Strange lifting the phone to his ear for him to start talking. He stood as he did and began to slowly pace during the conversation.

"Wong, it's Stephen. I have good news and bad news." A pause. "The good news is that it wasn't the Jade of Antioch. The bad news is that it's the Empirikul Statuette."

Another pause. "Oh yeah, it's as bad as the books say it is. Can't say I recommend the experience." His cloak was swaying quite a bit. Was that natural? "The Avengers. Or, well, three former ones, I guess." Another pause. "Yeah, them. And yes. Where do you think I found a phone?" Pause. "Why would I have my wallet on me? That's an awful idea. It would've been taken from me if I had brought it."

Strange paused mid-stride as the response on the other side went for a few seconds longer than the other replies. "It wasn't—you're exaggerating. No, it wasn't that bad. The issue was the Empirikul Statuette, not the guys holding onto it. It wasn't even a day. I'm fine. But they did take my sling ring, so."

Strange rolled his eyes after another pause. "Look, it could have happened to anyone. It was just my luck that I went searching rather than someone else." He huffed in annoyance. "I just need someone to pick me up. Can you do that?" Another pause. "It's not in my immediate vicinity, but it's still too close. Give me ten minutes to walk—not going to chance the Cloak right now." A beat. "Yep. Right. Bye." He snapped the phone shut and looked at Steve. "If that's all, I should be on my way."

That phone call had only made him more curious about Strange. And when Steve exchanged looks with Sam, he could see the same on his face.

And apparently Nat wasn't going to let it go so easily, either. "This area can be dangerous at night," she said. "We'll escort you to a safe spot."

"That won't be necessary," Strange said. He set the phone back down on the table. "I can take care of myself."

Sam asked, "Your powers are fully back, then?"

Strange pressed his lips together at the question. He answered, "As I said, I can handle myself."

"So that's a no," Sam supplied.

"We wouldn't want anything to happen to you," Steve added.

Strange looked between the three of them, then exhaled in resignation. "You'd follow me regardless, wouldn't you?"

Nat smiled at him. "Wouldn't want our hard work to go to waste."

Strange rolled his eyes and gestured to the door. "Lead the way to this 'safe spot', then. Away from the statuette, if you would."

"Gladly." Nat headed to the door and Strange followed. Sam followed and Steve did as well because of course he wanted to see where this went. Before leaving, he swiped the burner phone Strange had left and slipped it into his pocket.

Nat led them through the dark back alleys southward of their hideout. In a few minutes, they were at a dead-end corridor nestled between three silent industrial buildings. "How's here?" she asked as she looked at Strange.

Strange's brow furrowed and he looked at his hands and made a gesture, then suddenly a bunch of golden sparks appeared on the tips of his fingers. "Here is far enough," he said.

Steve exchanged a look with Sam, and the latter asked, "So… what exactly can you do with magic?"

"Many things," Strange said as lowered his hands again.

Steve frowned at the vagueness of the answer. "And what is it that you do use your powers for, doctor?"

Strange looked at Steve again, his gaze considering. After a moment, he said, "When I was still learning the Mystic Arts, I was told that the Avengers handled physical threats to the world, while sorcerers handled more mystical threats—a countless number of them."

Sam folded his arms. "And that statuette is one of these so-called mystical threats?"

"In a way. In the wrong hands, it could cause a catastrophe." Strange waved his hand. "But I was thinking more along the lines of extra-dimensional entities that would enjoy consuming the Earth."

Nat tilted her head. "And do you come across those often?"

"More often than you would think," said Strange.

Suddenly, golden sparks appeared in the air behind Strange up against the wall. Nat took a step back, hand on her holster, and Steve felt Sam tense beside him. Strange, however, just turned and said, "And here's my ride."

The golden sparks widened into a circle large enough for anyone to walk through it. On the other side was a room and another man, Asian, dressed in brown robes and looking exasperated. "Strange."

"Wong." Strange stepped through the circle to the other side.

This so-called Wong glanced at Steve, then Nat and Sam. "Thank you for the assistance. We'll take care of the relic from here."

"Relic?" Sam asked.

"The statuette. You won't find any use for it, I assure you."

Nat narrowed her eyes but didn't argue. Steve decided to keep it simple. "Happy to help. You can, uh, call on us if you ever need assistance." He held the burner phone up.

Strange shot him a raised eyebrow. Wong's expression, however, remained even. "You should hope that day never comes, Captain." With that, the golden circle closed, leaving the three alone in the dark once more.

"Are we just gonna let them take the statuette?" Sam asked.

Nat's lips were pursed. "They may already have. He was able to get to Strange without knowing where he was physically. And if they were able to find the statuette in the first place without any sort of scouting and they now know it's in this area, I suspect that they could have moved it since they can travel with portals like that."

"He was right in that there's not much we can do with it," Steve said as he opened up the burner phone. "We can take a look to see if it's in the hiding spot or not anymore." He pulled up the last called number. "Either of you know what country code +977 is for?"

Nat was faster with searching. "Nepal."

"Huh. They're right next door." Steve closed the phone. "Still, I'll keep this phone handy. They may prove to be useful allies in the future."

Sam sighed. "So I guess it's now the big three rather than the big two that we gotta keep an eye out for."

"What?" Steve asked as they headed out of the alley.

"Well, it was just robots and aliens before. Now it's robots, aliens, and wizards. Or at least magical 'entities', whatever that means."

Steve huffed in amusement. "Well, we certainly do live in interesting times."

"Can't argue against that."

—----

The history of going after weapons in Syria then Lebanon, and getting picked up by Nick Fury are actually from the MCU Prelude comics! Those are considered backstory canon so I definitely recommend giving them a read, they're really interesting and fill in some holes for a lot of Avengers-related stuff around AOU, CW, and IW. (The Doctor Strange ones are really great, too.)

According to Wiki, Nat spoke *at least* 11 languages. I'm not sure how much of this is from the MCU or not. But I figured her having another language under her belt wasn't the most insane thing in the world.

The "jab to instant unconsciousness" isn't a thing in the real world, but it was established as existing in the MCU in FFH, so it makes these non-lethal special ops missions much easier. It's a fun trope so I certainly don't blame Hollywood for having it.

Finally, the Empirikul Statuette is a made up item, named as a nod to the Empirikuls, who in the comics kill all magic—items, books, users, etc. So an item that makes magic inert and makes magic users suffer in its presence seemed an appropriate item to name after them.

#stephen strange #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #sam wilson #doctor strange fanfiction #whump #a bit at least #prompt fill #mcu #my writing #my fanfiction #fanfic

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