and the stains comin’ from my blood tell me “go back home” - Chapter 9 - TypewriterMonkey11 (2024)

Chapter Text

The thing is— things have been good, the last few weeks. Amazing, even. Anton’s never felt lighter, more relaxed.

He still wakes up most days feeling like the entire universe is crushing down on him, but it feels like it might’ve shrunk, just a little bit. Still the universe, just a little smaller— but it is smaller.

With the codewords gone— he, Bucky, and Nat had burned the Winter Soldier manual his last night at the Tower— and Zemo and all his cronies stuck in the most secure facility in the world, with Hydra for all intents and purposes destroyed…

It’s weird, not looking over his shoulder around the clock. Takes him a while to get used to.

He’s still trying. Some days are easier than others.

And then there’s Ford, of course.

He’s… well, he’s Ford. And it turns out that Anton’s the biggest f*cking moron in the universe, because he’s been in love with the guy for close to two f*cking years without noticing.

In his defense, he’s never exactly been in a relationship, let alone— well. Been in love. Which feels strange to be able to say with such confidence, less than a month after that night.

But again, two f*cking years.

That’s a long-ass time for that kind of thing to build up, and now that he’s aware of it—

It’s almost physically painful, how much he likes this guy. How much he enjoys spending time with him, no matter the context. How much better Anton feels when he’s around.

It’s kind of stressing him out— in a good way. He just can’t dwell on it too long without feeling like he’s being tazed. It’s getting a little easier every time he does, but it’s still got a long way to go.

Anyway, things are great. f*cking incredible. He hasn’t been this happy in six goddamn years. Really, it’s fantastic. He feels like a new man.

It’s the end of September, and he hasn’t slept in three days. He doesn’t really feel tired, which should probably be concerning. But he’s got other things to focus on. Inventions to build, bikes to tune up and take for long, hair-raising rides.

A former Director of SHIELD and the only living family Ford has to have dinner with.

Anton had been nervous to open the Stark Expo. Been nervous to walk in front of that many people, and try to win them over in one fell swoop. But he’d had a script, cues to hit, a persona to put on. A f*cking guidemap.

So yes, he’d been nervous about the Expo opening ceremony. But this?

This is terrifying.

“Stop messing with your hair,” Ford says, batting Anton’s hand away from his head and fixing the messy strands. Anton glares at him. “What are you so nervous about? You’ve already met her, she already thinks you’re a riot. It’ll be fine.”

“I met her as the recently re-discovered son of her dead best friend,” Anton says. “Not as… as this. You and I didn’t even know each other yet, you weren’t tangled up in all this Avengers crap—”

“Take a deep breath,” Ford says. Anton holds his breath pointedly. Ford rolls his eyes. “Look, she likes you. That’s half the battle right there.”

“Liking someone and liking that they’re involved with your nephew are two separate things, Wynford,” Anton says. Ford messes up his hair, a determined glint in his eye. Anton swats his hand away, tries to smooth the wild strands into something more respectable. Ford kisses his cheek.

“It’s going to be fine,” Ford repeats. He glances down at the table at the sound of his phone buzzing along the surface. “She’s here. Ready?”

“f*ck no,” Anton says. “Let’s do this thing.”

Ford rolls his eyes again. Pushes back from the table, setting his napkin next to his plate as he stands. Anton scrambles to his feet, tries to smooth down his hair again as he peers anxiously through the doorway of their private dining room.

“Oh, this is lovely,” Peggy says as her nurse wheels her in, looking around the room with an appreciative eye. “Quite posh, but absolutely lovely.”

“I’m glad you like it, Auntie,” Ford says, crossing the room to press a kiss to her cheek. “How was the drive up?”

“Dreadfully boring, I’m afraid,” Peggy says. “But it does do one good to get away for a little while, even if it means sitting in traffic the entire way.”

“I’ll be back at eight thirty,” Peggy’s nurse says. “Call me if you need anything, alright, Ms. Carter?”

“Yes, yes,” Peggy says, waving the girl away. She leaves, and Ford pushes Peggy’s chair over to the table. The two of them retake their seats on either side of her. “Anton, it’s good to see you again— dear heavens, are you feeling quite alright? You look exhausted, dear.”

“What? No, I’m fine,” Anton says. Ford kicks him under the table, and Anton rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. I’ll crash in a day or two, and I’ll go right back to normal.”

“Because you looked so well rested the last time I saw you,” Peggy tsks at him.

He grimaces, unable to argue the point. He’d barely been sleeping, in the wake of D.C., and too little sleep doesn’t look all that different from no sleep at all.

“Ford, you really must keep an eye on those Starks,” Peggy sighs, a teasing glimmer in her eye. “Poor dears haven’t the foggiest how to take care of themselves.”

“Trust me, I’m doing my best,” Ford says.

“I got by on my own for nine years before we even met,” Anton says. Ford raises an eyebrow at him, exchanging a dubious look with his aunt. “I lived, didn’t I?”

“A very close eye,” Peggy stage-whispers, and Ford ducks his head in a laugh. “Now, what are we drinking?”

“Auntie, I’m not sure—” Ford starts.

“Whiskey it is, then,” Peggy says, cracking open her menu. She glances up at Ford, smirking slightly. “Indulge an old woman, dear. One drink won’t kill me, and I’ve damn well earned the right to enjoy myself, having lived this long.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Anton says. She laughs, patting his hand.

Their waiter appears shortly after, takes their drink orders. Closes the door behind himself when he leaves, giving them privacy from the rest of the restaurant.

“You know, dear, my nurse said the most interesting thing on the drive up,” Peggy says casually, not taking her eyes off her menu. Ford tenses slightly, but keeps his expression more or less neutral, with only the slightest hints of polite interest. “She said I must be so very proud that you’re such an adept magician.”

Ford pales considerably, and Anton has to bite back a laugh as he settles in for the show.

“I can explain—”

“I believe I instructed you not to leave anything out when you were catching me up,” Peggy says, still casual. Still perusing her menu.

“There was a lot to talk about!” Ford winces as she turns a sharp look on him. “Look, I know I promised Mom and Dad I’d stay off the radar, but— I mean, I was already working with SHIELD, and we ran into Morgan le Fay, and she sort of… forced my hand. And then news crews showed up while we were fighting her, and—”

“Wynford Anthony Jarvis,” Peggy says, tossing her menu aside and glaring at him. “My god—”

“Anthony?” Anton asks, eyebrows creeping up his forehead.

“I was going to tell you—” Ford starts.

“You didn’t even tell him your middle name, but you used magic on television?” Peggy asks, incredulous.

“We were fighting Morgan le Fay!” Ford says defensively.

“Hold on, hold on— back up a sec?” Anton asks. “Anthony?!”

“You were declared legally dead like, two months before I was adopted,” Ford says, looking like he’s already regretting buckling under Peggy’s near-constant demands to meet them for dinner. “And you don’t have a leg to stand on, Anthony Edward.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Anton demands.

“Your father wanted it to be Edwin, but Maria thankfully had enough sense for the both of them,” Peggy says.

“Edwin,” Anton repeats flatly, glaring at Ford, who takes a sip of water and carefully avoids meeting his eyes.

He’s starting to think he regrets agreeing to this, too.

“Oh yes. Terribly sentimental men, your fathers,” Peggy says, sounding all too pleased as she settles back in her chair. “Thick as thieves, always running off into trouble together, or on behalf of one another. I suppose that’s becoming something of a pattern— a Stark and a Jarvis, sprinting towards danger side-by-side. Though it’s a bit different in your case, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” Ford agrees, his cheeks a bright pink.

Their waiter returns with their drinks, takes their orders. Disappears again.

“Now— how long have you two been together?” Peggy asks, sipping at her whiskey. “I’m trying to decide how cross I should be that you didn’t tell me.”

“Not long. We, um—” Ford coughs awkwardly. “You were the first person to know, actually. It’d only just happened.”

“The first person who wasn’t at karaoke night, anyway,” Anton says, innocently sipping at his drink. Ford groans, burying his face in his hands. “Hey, you’re the one who kissed me in front of my entire goddamn family. You don’t have anyone to blame for your timing but yourself.”

Ford grumbles something into his hands, ears turning bright red as Peggy laughs herself into a coughing fit. Ford emerges from his hands to pass her a glass of water, which she takes gratefully.

“Steve implied it was a bit more than a kiss,” Peggy says, fighting back another laugh as Anton’s cheeks flush bright enough to outshine Ford’s. “I believe the phrase he used was ‘eating each other alive.’”

“We weren’t that— okay, we were a bit… enthusiastic,” Anton admits. “But he and Bucky have no room to talk. They were way worse when they did the same f*cking thing last year!”

“Ehh,” Ford tips his hand back and forth in a so-so gesture. Traitor. And seemingly oblivious that he’s incriminating himself, too. “Wait, when did Steve tell you about it?”

“Hm? Oh, I can’t possibly remember, dear,” Peggy says innocently. “My mind is going, you know. Terrible thing, that.”

“Auntie,” Ford groans.

Peggy f*cking cackles with laughter.

“Alright, alright,” she says, when the last giggles die away. “You’ve caught me out— he called me about an hour after you left the party, I believe, he and his boy. Drunk as skunks, those two! At any rate, they told me you’d been a terrible influence on Anton— tried to, anyway. Poor dears just couldn’t get it out without laughing themselves sick.”

“I’m kicking Barnes’s ass into next week,” Anton decides. “Maybe into next year.”

“Before you do, would you mind giving him this?” Peggy asks, pulling an envelope from her purse and handing it to Anton. It’s a simple, plain thing. Sealed. Definitely has cash in it, and a letter. The only thing on the outside is ‘Attn. Sgt. James Barnes’ written in a loose, sloping hand. “He seems to have a chronic case of a packed schedule, every time I try to get Steve to bring him along.”

“What is it?” Anton asks, turning the envelope around like some clue might reveal himself if he looks at it long enough.

“Oh, just the matter of an old bet from the war,” she says, taking another sip of her whiskey. “I’ve no idea if he’ll remember, but he won fair and square, and I make a point of settling my debts.”

Resisting the urge to try to open it at the table, Anton tucks it into the inner pocket of his blazer. It’ll be easier if he steams it open, anyway. Leave less evidence behind.

“Opening other people’s mail is a federal crime,” Ford says mildly.

“Only if it goes through the postal service,” Anton says, flashing his best winning smile. “Who said anything about opening other people’s mail, anyway?”

“Just making sure you were aware,” Ford says. Jackass.

Through the rest of dinner, Peggy regales them with stories, terrorizing each of them in turn— Ford with embarrassing mishaps growing up, and Anton with stories about Howard that would probably be a lot more mortifying if he remembered the man.

Remembered the man apart from his final moments, anyway.

He has to excuse himself for a smoke break when that thought starts popping up more and more as the night goes on. Slips out the restaurant and into the alley behind. Shockingly, none of the kitchen staff are out there, making Anton its only occupant. Which is fine by him.

He lights the cigarette, takes a long pull.

Things have been great, the past few weeks. To an unprecedented degree. He hasn’t been this happy since before Afghanistan, and he’s certainly never felt this relaxed in his entire life.

Which is an incredibly relative benchmark, but that’s beside the point.

He takes another drag off the cigarette, ashes it onto the concrete.

Things have been great.

He just wishes it didn’t always feel like the other shoe is seconds away from dropping. Like he can’t let himself get comfortable, get used to all of this, because it’s going to be ripped away sooner or later. Sooner rather than later.

He takes another drag.

Through the limited field of vision provided by Iron Man’s mask, Anton stares at the stars. At the Chitauri fleet.

Anton blinks, and the alley is just the alley again. No stars, no warships. No nuke soaring through the void.

They’re not even in Midtown— not even in Manhattan— but something about being in the City seems to drag everything to do with the Chitauri to the forefront. Tends to make it ambush him when he’s already off-balance from something else.

He takes another drag, hand shaking slightly. Ashes the cigarette onto the concrete. Takes another drag.

“P-please, please— my wife, you have to— help my wife, please— …Sergeant Barnes?”

He lights another cigarette, crushes the filter of the first one beneath the heel of his boot.

He’s not sure when he remembered his father’s last words. Whether he’d remembered them at all, before Zemo. Finds himself wishing from time to time that he’d ever bothered to write down the things he remembered. Preserved them, somehow.

Bucky keeps a shelf of notebooks of his memories. Mostly cheap crap like you find at the drugstore, or in any back-to-school display. Battered to hell from bouncing around in his backpack, the two years he was on the run and stalking either Steve or Anton, depending on the month.

Anton had snuck a look at a few of them, last time he dropped by the Tower. He and Bucky had been going to see the latest Star Trek movie.

Anyway— the earlier books had been erratic, unorganized. Just Bucky spitting the memories onto the page as fast as they came to him. Trying to make sense of his life as it returned piecemeal. The later ones had more of a system to them— chunks of pages blocked out by approximate time period, sometimes cut out and pasted back in whenever he ran out of room in a given section.

He has a fancy, leather-bound one now. Probably Steve’s doing. Basically a glorified three-ring binder, so he can shuffle the pages whenever he pleases.

Anton hadn’t read anything specific, figured he’d give Bucky at least that privacy. But he’d been curious. Skimmed just enough to see the method in the madness, or whatever.

Point is, Anton could stand to take a page out of Bucky’s book. Pun sort of intended. He might no longer be living under constant threat of having his memories ripped away again, but… maybe it’d help, being able to see exactly where the gaps are. Being able to literally fill them in as the memories come back. Maybe he’d feel better about the rate they’re returning at, if he had dated entries, or something. Maybe he’d feel worse about it, who knows.

He could stand to try.

When the cigarette finally burns down to the filter, he doesn’t light a third one. Doesn’t go inside, either.

He should really go back inside. Before Ford wanders out, looking for him.

But he can still smell the blood on the snow, the oil leaking out of the upturned, ruined car. And he doesn’t know if he can face Peggy, still half-trapped in the memory.

Steve claims he doesn’t blame Anton or Bucky for what happened with Howard and Maria. Anton believes him— he really does, much as he can’t quite understand why, despite trying to keep his word to the kid; despite trying to remember that it wasn’t his fault, what the Red Room made him do.

But Peggy isn’t Steve. He doesn’t know what her reaction would be, if she found out. And if he goes back in there with the memory so fresh, with the stench of blood and oil on the snow clawing its way up his sinuses—

He’s going to tell her.

And this is supposed to be a nice dinner. This is supposed to be about Ford, and it’s too important for Anton to go ruining it by confessing to his sins. Or whatever.

It’s important to Ford that Peggy and Anton get along. So he’s not going to do anything to compromise that. Not tonight. He should probably save the world-upheaving revelations for the second family dinner, at least.

Probably more like the third, or fourth.

Right?

He has no f*cking idea how any of this is supposed to work, even for normal people. And the two of them are decidedly not doing this the normal way.

He takes a deep breath, and heads back inside in time for dessert.

Anton finally has a chance to pass Peggy’s note on about a week later, thanks to a snake-themed superhuman criminal labor union trying to hold the Mall of America hostage.

He doesn’t know how anyone takes the Serpent Society seriously.

Maybe it has something to do with Asp’s paralytic energy blasts. Or Rattler’s sonic shockwave thing that he does with his tail. Or the fact that Cobra can move like… well, like a python, actually. Up to and including wrapping himself around a person to squeeze the life out of them.

Anyway, they handle it, no one dies after they get there, and SHIELD comes to collect their trash right on time, for once. Pretty much a slam dunk, as far as these things go.

Which means it’s the perfect time for a little chaos.

“Oh, hey— I’ve been meaning to give this to you,” Anton says, passing the envelope to Bucky as the team watches SHIELD load their prisoners onto a Quinjet in the parking lot. “Peggy said something about a bet you won?”

He’d steamed the envelope open less than twenty-four hours after he got it, of course. Knows full f*cking well what the bet is, and desperately wants to see Steve’s reaction.

“A bet?” Bucky frowns. “What bet did I make with Peggy?”

He tears open the envelope, pulls out the crisp twenty-dollar bill and the letter.

“What’s it say?” Ford asks.

He’d read the letter over Anton’s shoulder.

“f*cking hell,” Bucky laughs, so hard he can barely get the words out. “It, uh— f*cking hell, I can’t believe she remembered this—”

“Spit it out already, Barnes,” Nat says, crowding closer to try to peer over his shoulder. “Oh, you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” Steve asks. Nat and Bucky trade a look and practically howl with laughter.

Steve snatches the letter from Bucky’s hand, and Anton plucks it out of his.

“Dear James,” he reads. “I thought I’d gotten out of our wager when you fell off that train, and again when Steve went into the Arctic, but it seems time makes fools of us all (and thank god it does.) Here we are, seventy-one years later; all three of us are still kicking, and you’ve won, you lucky old bastard. You were the one he ended up with, despite everything that stood between you two. I wish you the very best, and politely request that you stop taking the piss every time I ask if you’d come down with Steve for a visit. I know damn well you can’t be that busy. Love, Peggy. P.S. — I’m not paying inflation.”

“You and Peggy Carter bet on who would end up with Steve?” Sam laughs.

“You bet twenty dollars?” Steve asks, incredulous. “During the war?”

“It was high stakes we were playing for,” Bucky shrugs, stifling another laugh.

“I’m…” Steve goes through a f*cking face journey before settling for good old plain confusion. “Flattered?”

“How much would that be now, with inflation?” Clint asks, propping his elbow on Anton’s shoulder and leaning in to squint at the letter.

“Two hundred and sixty-six dollars, and sixty seven cents,” Ford says, buffing his nails on the jacket of his tac-gear.

They’d looked it up.

“Oh, bull sh*t she isn’t paying inflation,” Bucky says. “Steve, when are you going down to visit her next? Carter owes me nearly two-fifty.”

“I’m not taking you down there just so you can extort her,” Steve says, affronted. “Who charges inflation on a bet, anyway?”

“It’s the god damn principle of the thing,” Bucky says. “It’s about the stakes, Steve. Twenty bucks is nothing, these days. You know what I could do with twenty bucks in ’45? I could’ve paid our f*cking rent, and had enough left over to actually buy some actual god damn meat for once, instead of just stock bones.”

“Alright, alright,” Steve laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “Grandpa.”

“You’re barely a year younger than me, jackass,” Bucky says, giving him a disgustingly fond smile.

Anton resists the urge to mime gagging, just out of Bucky’s line of sight behind Ford.

For about two seconds.

“Real mature, Anton,” Sam says, trying not to laugh as Bucky whips around, narrowing his eyes at Anton’s suddenly incredibly innocent pose.

“What?” He says, feigning ignorance. “I didn’t do anything. That’s slander, Wilson. You’re besmirching my good name. I could sue you, you know.”

“I don’t think that’s a case you’re going to win without some serious perjury on the witness stand,” Nat says. “You can count me out, Toshenka.”

“Wait, you guys lived in Brooklyn, right?” Clint asks, a thoughtful look on his face. “By the Navy yard? You can’t rent a postage stamp out there for less than fifteen hundred these days, if not two thousand. And you guys are telling me you paid two hundred a month, in today’s money?”

“Yeah, housing market’s a nightmare,” Anton says, patting his arm consolingly. “You guys wanna get ice cream? Bushmaster threw me through a Coldstone during the fight, and I would kill for a waffle cone right now.”

Things are going pretty damn great the past few months, Ford thinks as he sets the needle down. He steps back, drifts over to the couch as the first notes of Frank Sinatra filter out of the old phonograph. Settles in with his book.

He glances up about halfway through side-A as an explosion wracks the house. Returns to his book when there’s no follow-up. Gets up when the record ends, leaving the distant sound of Anton’s techno blaring from the workshop loud enough to rattle the windows clear on the other side of the Estate. Flips the record and settles in for side-B.

He barely gets two songs in before another explosion shakes his molars, followed by two more in rapid succession.

He sighs, dog-ears his page and sets the book on the coffee table before making his way to the workshop. Picks up a fire extinguisher on his way.

The pounding techno cuts out abruptly, just as he starts down the steps. Anton’s on the phone when he walks in.

“Oh, nothing much,” Anton says, phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder as he hits the last remnants of the fire with a few short bursts from an extinguisher. “What? No, definitely not. You’re hearing things, Phil. Must be going senile in your old age.”

“You good?” Ford asks.

“Yeah, all good in here,” Anton says, swapping his shoulder for his hand and heaving the extinguisher onto the worktop behind him. “All under control— what? People say that all the time when there’s actually nothing to worry about. I think you’re just biased.”

Anton makes a face at whatever Phil says next.

“…fair enough,” he says. “Okay, yeah, I sorta… blew some stuff up. Yes, I was wearing proper safety equipment.”

Anton’s wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. His safety goggles are clear on the other side of the workshop, along with every other piece of PPE he owns and never uses. Some of it still has its tags on.

“You are? Yeah, yeah we should grab coffee— I know this great place off highway nine, just North of Tarrytown. One o’clock work for you? Ugh, fine, old man. We can go at eight. That’s beside the point,” Anton rolls his eyes. “Alright, see you then. Don’t get dead. I’ll do my best.”

He hangs up, pockets his phone.

“Self-heating hot pockets were a bad idea,” he says in way of explanation.

“Told you,” Ford says, setting his extinguisher next to Anton’s. “Why’d you let Clint talk you into trying?”

“Talk me into—? No, this was my brain child, thanks. Clint had nothing to do with it. He gets no credit for this,” Anton grabs a shovel, uses it to pick up the still-smoking hot pocket. “Except as a consultant, because I couldn’t decide which fillings to use for my prototype. Think I can pin this on him for insisting I put pineapple in there?”

“Probably not,” Ford holds the door open, follows Anton up the stairs and out into the driveway. “Are you just gonna leave that out here?”

“Yes, I’m going to leave a highly reactive, potentially unstable frozen handheld pizza on our driveway. I think it could really use a giant hole, tie the whole yard together,” Anton deadpans, dumping it onto the gravel. “I just wanted it out of the workshop while I grabbed a lead box from the garage. You want that thing detonating in there again, unsupervised?”

“You could’ve sent me to grab the box,” Ford says. “Or had me watch the bomb pocket while you grabbed one. What was Phil calling about?”

“Whatever, ancient history,” Anton says, leaning on the shovel. “He’s in town for a few days, lands late tonight. Asked if I wanted to grab coffee in the morning, or something. I was thinking I’d finally return LOLA— just pull the pin already and find out how pissed he is I f*cked with his dad’s car.”

“Phil Coulson isn’t going to be mad you gave him a flying convertible,” Ford says. “Pretty much every Agent that’s been around long enough to have worked with him has at least one story about his retro spy gadget collection. Guy’s a nut for that kind of crap, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but it’s—” Anton sighs, glaring down at the bomb pocket. “He rebuilt that car with his dad. She was all he had left of him. And then I got her dumped in the Pacific Ocean, and just… threw out the engine that they spent Phil’s entire childhood putting together.”

“You didn’t do jack sh*t. Killian’s the one who bombed the Malibu house. And the engine was unsalvageable, you said so yourself,” Ford reminds him. “She’s still the same car, other than that. He’ll love her.”

“Yeah, I dunno,” Anton says, tapping the tip of the shovel against the ground. “Maybe. Probably. I’ll find out in the morning, I guess.”

He taps the shovel again a few more times, expression pensive.

“I’m gonna go try again. I think I know what I did wrong,” he says, and wanders off. Taking the shovel with him.

“Bomb pocket disposal first,” Ford calls after him. Anton halts, pivots on his heels.

“Damn it. I knew I was forgetting something,” he says. “Alright, let’s go.”

He scoops the bomb pocket back up and strikes out across the grounds, holding it as far in front of him as possible. Ford strolls after behind, hands in his pockets, wondering how the hell he wound up here.

Not the bomb pocket thing— he once spent either three months or thirty years as a stag in the forests of Tír na nÓg, only changing back because a weird black jackrabbit with lantern-yellow eyes needed help opening a jar of peanut butter. Ridiculous bullsh*t like that’s been happening to him his entire life.

Which, he supposes, could explain the other half of the situation. Anton’s the long-presumed-dead, long-lost son of Ford’s dad’s employer and lifelong best friend. Put it that way, it only makes sense they’d cross paths, fall in love.

Things have been pretty damn great, he thinks. He’d handed in his resignation to Director Hill the day they left the Tower, signed on as a consultant for the Avengers Initiative, like most of the rest of the team. Moved back to the Estate with Anton, and… frankly, just gotten back to how things were before Zemo made his escape. Except, since Anton’s finally realized he’s been head over heels for Ford this whole time, with the added bonus of sex. Really, really great sex.

Anton’s obliviousness had been agonizing at times, sure. Frequently aggravating. But mostly just entertaining to watch.

He’s the smartest guy Ford’s ever met, and yet— it took him two years to figure out what everyone else had been able to see from day one. It’s kind of endearing, in a weird way. But maybe Ford’s just generally endeared by him.

“Get the door for me?” Anton asks, drawing to a halt a few feet away from the garage.

Ford pulls the chain to lift the door, pinning it in place once it reaches the top. Wonders if Anton’s ever going to get around to replacing it with an automatic opener, or if he should just call somebody to do it himself.

“Thanks,” Anton says, pressing a quick kiss to Ford’s cheek as he walks by. Ford’s heart skips a beat as it always does, even three months after they finally got together. He hopes he never gets used to it.

“You should really start keeping these in the workshop instead,” Ford says, pulling a lead box off of the ‘empty’ shelf and setting it on the floor in front of Anton. Anton flips the lid open with the tip of the shovel, dumps the bomb pocket inside, and slams the lid shut just as it detonates again.

“No room in the workshop,” Anton says. He leans the shovel against the shelves, heaves the box onto the ‘contained’ shelf.

“You could make room,” Ford says. “And then you wouldn’t have to cart explosive and or radioactive materials through the house every time an experiment went wrong.”

“It’s a good motivator to dispose of it quick,” Anton tries. “Alright, fine. Buzzkill. I’ll take a few of these back with me. Happy?”

“Forgive me if I don’t burst into song, babe,” Ford says dryly. Anton rolls his eyes, kisses him once before snagging two empties and making his way back to the house.

Without the shovel.

Ford sighs, fondly exasperated. Grabs the shovel, closes up the garage, and follows him back.

Anton sleeps fitfully that night, as per usual. Wakes Ford a few times, on accident. Mostly by burying his face in Ford’s chest or back and wrapping himself around Ford like an octopus before he falls back asleep. Ford only just got him to stop apologizing every time he wakes him a few nights ago.

While he would prefer to sleep through the night uninterrupted, he’s never been much good at it himself. And as far as reasons to wake up in the middle of the night go, Anton looking for a little comfort is one of the least distressing.

He wishes he knew how to help. Wishes he could wave his hands or snap his fingers and make the nightmares stop, for both of them. And it’s infuriating, having all this magic and not being able to use it to fix things— but they’re both making progress. Slowly but surely.

Anton goes back to sleep after his nightmares, or at least stays in bed. Most nights. Ford doesn’t wake up screaming so often. He doesn’t know about Anton, but he feels like he’s getting better quality sleep, too. And it’s a lot harder to spiral after a nightmare when he can hear Anton breathing next to him. Snoring, sometimes.

Anton insists he doesn’t snore. Ford’s gonna get a recording of it one of these days, he swears.

They get up at six thirty, have some cereal and coffee. They don’t talk about their nightmares. Not today. Not yet.

Ford’s pretty sure he knows what Anton’s are about, considering he tends to talk in his sleep. Considering he knows the broad strokes of Anton’s life, and plenty of the details to boot. He’s got no idea if Anton’s figured his out, but he’s sure he has his suspicions. Whether he’s willing to believe some of those suspicions is up in the air— the bulk of what haunts him is… unusual, to say the least. But that’s not all Ford dreams about. The other nightmares are probably easier to deduce.

Sitting bolt upright, still pleading with someone to wake up is a pretty big clue, for one.

“I should head out,” Anton says at a quarter-past seven. “If I want to save the reveal for after I’ve bribed Phil with a latte and one of those cinnamon snails, anyway.”

“Alright,” Ford says. Takes a sip of his coffee. “Have fun. Say hi for me.”

“Copy that,” Anton says, presses a kiss to the top of Ford’s head on his way to drop his bowl and mug in the sink. “See you later.”

“See you,” Ford echoes.

After he leaves, Ford does the dishes and cleans the kitchen. Goes for a run, grabs a quick shower. Starts a load of laundry, waters the rose garden, and reads a couple more chapters of his book. Swaps the load into the dryer.

His phone rings on his way back to the drawing room, a little after two. He answers without glancing at the caller ID.

“Yeah?” He says.

“Got a question for you,” Clint says, shouting over the sound of some battle in the background. “How much do you know about extra-dimensional slime monsters summoned from the depths of hell?”

“Depends,” Ford says. “What form is it taking?”

“Uh— hold on a sec. Hey! Sam! Would you say this thing’s more of a chicken-octopus, or a chicken-spider?” Clint says. “It’s got a beak, a crown, and a wattle, that’s why. Of the two of us, who’s actually spent time with chickens outside of what you get at the grocery store? That’s what I thought.”

“Clint, drop the chicken thing,” Ford says. “Not helpful.”

“It’s a chicken-octopus,” Clint says. “That ring any bells for you? Because we’ve been trying to take this thing down for like half an hour, and we can’t seem to make a dent in it.”

“What color’s the slime?” Ford asks.

“Blue,” Clint says. “Like, blue raspberry icee blue. Why?”

“You got any incindiaries?” Ford asks. “If not, you’re gonna need to rig something up. Fire’s just about the only thing that’ll damage it, let alone kill it. And make sure you burn all the slime, too, or else it’ll regenerate in a couple of days.”

“Man,” Clint whines. “I liked this shirt. Alright, ten-four, good buddy.”

Ford hangs up.

He’s got a feeling he should check in on that. Probably.

He focuses, steps through a fold in space, popping out next to Clint on a catwalk in some warehouse absolutely drenched in slime.

“Jesus sh*tting— oh, hey Ford!” Clint says, after jumping about a foot in the air. “Never gonna get used to that. You here to help?”

“Figured it might be a good idea to drop by, yeah,” Ford says. “How attached are we to keeping this place intact?”

“Is that Ford?” Sam calls up from the ground level.

“Hey Sam,” Ford calls back. “We should probably evacuate.”

“Fine by me,” Sam says. “Let’s burn this sh*thole to the ground and get the hell out of here!”

“Not that attached,” Clint summarizes. “Place is super abandoned, and we already got the idiot kids who summoned this thing clear of the building. Steve’s lecturing them about meddling with forces they don’t understand a couple blocks away.”

“Anyone else in here, or was it just the two of you?” Ford asks.

“Nah, Bucky’s helping with the lecture, and Nat bailed so she could go Christmas shopping,” Clint says. “She’s insane about Christmas. God help the other morons trying to brave the Black Friday crowd, lest they find themselves on the wrong side of her elbows.”

Ford grabs Clint’s shoulder, drags him through a fold to Sam’s side, then drags the two of them about a hundred yards from the warehouse.

Clint nocks an explosive arrow, takes aim. Ford chucks a fireball through a broken window as the arrow detonates.

Sam lets out a low, appreciative whistle.

“We should probably call the fire department, huh?” He says. “Keep this a controlled blaze, and make sure they don’t try to put it out before that thing’s had a chance to get extra crispy.”

“Nose goes,” Clint says.

Sam’s the slowest on the draw, grumbles under his breath as he pulls out his phone to make the call.

“Any idea what Natasha wants for Christmas?” Ford asks Clint, watching the blaze with a critical eye. He lobs another fireball through a window on the opposite end of the warehouse. Nods to himself, satisfied.

“That’s easy,” Clint snorts. “Electrical weaponry, perfume, jewelry, and or designer sh*t. Shoes and bags, that kind of thing. Not Birkin, though. She has opinions about Birkin.”

“They’re ugly bags,” Ford agrees, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the octochicken’s dying screams of rage. “What about you? You got a list?”

“Eh,” Clint shrugs. “Surprise me. And remind Anton he still owes me those Night-Night arrows, will you? You have any ideas for Barnes? Because I’m kinda drawing a blank. I mean, Anton’ll probably get him some sh*tty sci-fi DVDs or something, and Steve’ll pick out something super romantic and sentimental— or some inside joke thing that Bucky’ll throw at his head while he laughs himself sick. But I got nada.”

“Yeah, I’m still trying to work that one out myself,” Ford sighs. He’s sure buying a Christmas gift for his boyfriend’s dad would be hard enough, under normal circ*mstances. Adding on the ‘formerly-brainwashed ex-assassin from the forties’ part? Makes it damn near impossible. Especially since Bucky’s still trying to figure out what his hobbies used to be, and whether he still even likes them. “How’d the life-drawing class thing go?”

“Oh, he’s terrible,” Clint says cheerfully. “Turns out he only went back in the day so he could pester Steve.”

“That tracks,” Ford says. Clint fires another explosive arrow into the building. “Cooking class?”

“He liked it alright, but I don’t think he went back,” Clint says. “He’s gotten really into the food channel since then, though. And Anthony Bourdain’s old shows.”

“Good taste,” Ford says. He’d had a normal level of fascination with Anthony Bourdain, growing up. Wonders if Dad ever put together why thirteen-year-old Ford was always so insistent about watching A Cook’s Tour with him.

Maybe he’ll get Bucky a copy of Medium Raw. It’s a solid book. Bourdain’s a remarkably good writer, on top of being an accomplished chef, damn easy on the eyes, and an all-around pretty cool guy, generally speaking. It’s almost unfair, really.

“Fire department’s sending a couple trucks out, should be here in about five minutes,” Sam says, pocketing his phone once more. “Said we can head out, once they get here.”

“Thank f*ck,” Clint says.

“You can say that again— I’ve never wanted a shower so bad in my damn life,” Sam agrees. “Is it safe to wash this sh*t down the drain?”

“No clue,” Ford says. “But if it regenerates at the water treatment plant, I’ll handle it.”

“Fine by me,” Sam says, wiping ectoplasm on his shirt. “Eugh— this stuff’s nasty.”

“Really? I kinda think it’s fun,” Clint says, playing with a gob of it like it’s more of that DIY slime he’s been obsessed with. “Shame we have to destroy it unless we want chickenpus coming back for seconds. Otherwise we could’ve bottled this sh*t, sold it to Mattel or something. We could’ve made millions.”

“Pretty much every toy company already has their own slime already,” Ford says. “You would’ve made like fifty bucks at a table in Central Park, tops.”

“Fifty bucks is fifty bucks,” Clint says. “New SHIELD pays even worse than old SHIELD.”

“You don’t pay rent, and your brother set you up with an unlimited credit card,” Sam says. “The hell you need fifty bucks for, Barton?”

“Principle of the thing,” Clint says vaguely. “Are we sure all of this has to get destroyed?”

“Yes,” Ford says. “If you try to save some and unleash that thing on the Tower, I’m gonna be annoyed. Just so you know.”

“Yeah, fair enough. I keep all my stuff there, anyway,” Clint sighs. “Having to burn down the Tower would be a lot less fun than burning down that warehouse. I like my stuff.”

Ford’s phone rings again. He checks the caller ID, groans. Hits ‘answer.’

“I thought I told you never to call me again,” he says. “In fact, I distinctly remember deleting my number from your f*cking contacts list.”

“Oh sh*t, this thing connects to phones now? Nevermind— that’s no way to talk to an old friend, Fordsy!”

“We’re not friends, and don’t call me that,” Ford says. “What the hell do you want, Rumple?”

“Rumple?” Clint asks, and Ford waves him off.

“What, I can’t just call for a chat? See how you’ve been?” Rumple asks.

“I’m hanging up now,” Ford says.

“Wait, wait!” Rumple protests. Ford puts the phone back to his ear, waits for whatever horsesh*t he’s about to get dragged into. “Alright, fine, this isn’t a social call. I trust you remember a certain— ahem— artifact you entrusted into my loving care?”

“I remember,” Ford says. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“Well, it just so happens that an interested party broke into my home last night, and took it from me. Among other things,” Rumple says.

“What other things?” Ford asks, voice sharp.

“Oh, bits and bobs. Mere trinkets, nothing to concern yourself with,” Rumple says. “Valuable, certainly, but not magical. Anywho, our interested party left through the garden door— I’m sure I don’t have to spell the rest out for you.”

Stupid f*cking Rumplestiltskin and his stupid f*cking magic doors.

“If they stole from you, how come the ‘interested party’ isn’t currently eating their own intestines?” Ford asks. “What happened to that overkill zero-tolerance policy of yours, Rumple? Losing your edge, in your old age?”

“There’s no need for rudeness, Fordsy dear,” Rumple scoffs. “I wasn’t home when the visitor dropped by, if you must know. I had other business to attend to, and by the time I returned they were long gone. Left no trace behind, except leaving the garden door hanging open and ransacking my vault. I had a devil of a time putting everything back in order, I’ll have you know.”

“Riveting,” Ford says. “Why the hell’s this my problem?”

“Garden door, Fordsy,” Rumple says. “They’re running amok in your realm. Now, I could go after it myself—”

“Fine, I’ll track down the f*cking artifact,” Ford says. “Just stay out of my f*cking dimension. And get a guard dog, or something.”

“I knew I could count on you—” Rumple starts.

Ford hangs up.

“Piece of sh*t asshole imp,” he mutters, ramming his phone back into his pocket. “Oh, no need to worry about an unimaginably f*cking powerful magical artifact disappearing from my vault to run amok on Earth! Ford will take care of it. sh*tbag.”

“Jesus,” Sam says, staring at him in utter shock. “The hell did that guy do to you?”

“Seconded,” Clint says. “Dude, you didn’t even get that pissed when Strange’s stupid cape threw you through a horde of rabid zombies.”

“He knows what he f*cking did,” Ford says. “I gotta go. Magician stuff.”

“You and Anton are still coming to dinner though, right?” Clint asks. “Steve’s making colcannon, and Bucky started on the stew last night. The whole Tower smells f*cking amazing.”

“Are you kidding? You couldn’t pay me to miss out on that,” Ford says. “We’ll be there.”

With a lazy salute good-bye, Ford steps through another fold and into the scene of the crime.

Well, as close to the scene of the crime as he can stand to get, anyway. The other side of Rumplestiltskin’s garden door.

Better known as Sleepy Hollow, New York. Just outside of the Old Dutch Church.

He probably shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Washington Irving’s Headless Horseman was just a bored Rumplestiltskin in a costume, but he had. He’d been naïve, back then. Still thought the world couldn’t possibly be that ridiculous.

He strolls through the headstones in the old graveyard, keeping his eyes peeled for evidence. Wishing it was just a few months later, that there was some snow on the ground. He could do with a nice, easy to follow path of footprints. Something simple. For once.

He finds his first piece of evidence at the treeline. The incredibly overgrown, incredibly full of magical, aggressive plants treeline.

“Oh, come on,” he groans.

“Kiddo, I think I can safely say that this is the coolest thing you’ve ever built,” Phil says, delightedly steering LOLA back below the clouds as they make their descent. They’ve been flying around for a few hours, stopped upstate for lunch. Spent long enough dawdling that it’s getting close to sunset, now.

“She’s pretty cool, yeah,” Anton allows. “I still think my nanotech robot suit is cooler.”

“No accounting for taste,” Phil sighs, shaking his head. There’s a loud boom from somewhere down below, hard enough that LOLA bucks and jitters with the force of it. “Woah, what the hell was that?”

Anton pushes his sunglasses on top of his head, rolls down the passenger-side window and leans out.

“What the f*ck,” he says, the wind whipping his voice away before it reaches his own ears.

He pulls his head back in, rolls up the window.

“You’re armed, right?” He asks. “Nevermind, stupid question. Put her down in that parking lot over there.”

“Why? What is it?” Phil asks, but does as told.

“Ford’s down there,” Anton says. “Fighting a what looks like two herds of deer, sixteen trees, and an army of beavers. Don’t ask me why.”

“Let’s find out, then,” Phil puts on the parking brake, and they hop out, weapons at the ready.

Anton really should’ve known better than to leave the Nanosuit at home. But he at least has a few throwing knives, and a gun of his own. Old habits die hard, and you never know when your day out with the old man is going to turn into a battle against an angry forest.

They dart across the street, toward the old churchyard, leaping over gravestones as they barrel their way toward Ford.

“Turn that into a dam, you buck-toothed bastards!” Ford cries, throwing one of the trees at the beavers. “I swear, I’ll turn all you assholes into a fur coat if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Hey sunshine, how’s it going?” Anton calls over the sound of Phil taking out three of the deer in rapid succession. “Need an assist?”

“Die, you furry little— Anton?” Ford turns, a beaver held in either hand. One of them bites him, and he flings it into a nearby headstone with a sickening crunch.

It doesn’t get back up.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen the moron with the pan flute around here anywhere, would you?” Ford asks. He waves a hand, and the charging horde of deer fly back a good thirty feet, propelled by a wave of red light.

“I’m afraid we’ve seen zero morons so far,” Phil says. “Hi Ford, good to see you. What’s the situation here?”

“Hey Phil— oh, you know. Typical magician stuff,” Ford shrugs, still holding the other beaver by the scruff of its neck, even as it tries to maul him. “You guys have earplugs? Because you shouldn’t be here if you don’t.”

“FRIDAY, activate Nanomasks please,” Anton says. His, Phil’s, and Ford’s deploy in moments. “What are we filtering for, exactly?”

“Pan flute music. Weren’t you listening?” Ford shakes his head, drop-kicks the beaver into the branches of one of the animate trees. The tree burps, sending leaves and bits of beaver fur fluttering through the air. “FRIDAY, you know what to do.”

“Blocking all pan flute music, starting… now,” FRIDAY says. “Anything else?”

“That’s it for the moment, thanks FRIDAY,” Ford says. “Hey babe— you know where the chainsaw wound up? I tried summoning it from the garden shed, but it wasn’t in there.”

“Try the armory,” Anton says, thinning out more of the herd. “Why the hell are we shooting Bambi, exactly?”

“Because a world-class idiot broke into an imp’s vault and stole Pan’s Pipes, which were in there for a reason!” Ford shouts the last part as loud as he can, summons the chainsaw. “Ah, perfect. Hold that thought.”

He pulls the starter cord, and the chainsaw roars to life in his hands. Phil and Anton finish picking off the deer and the last of the beavers just in time to see Ford turning the last tree into lumber. He turns the chainsaw off, a pleased little smile on his face as he sends it back to the armory.

“I’m building me a deck chair,” he says, resting a foot on one of the mangled trunks. “After I find this asshole and beat some sense into them. FRIDAY, do me a favor and scan the area? We’re looking for a humanoid, roughly five-foot-four, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet.”

“I’ve got one match to that description, located approximately sixteen yards due East,” FRIDAY says.

Ford sets off, kicking beaver corpses out of his way as he goes. Phil and Anton exchange a bewildered look before following him.

They find the thief trying to climb over the churchyard wall, and doing a spectacularly terrible job of it.

“Come on, come on,” the thief mutters, scrabbling for purchase halfway up the bricks, only to fall back to the ground. Landing on their ass with a quiet ‘oof.’

“Making your daring escape, are we?” Ford asks, arms crossed.

The thief freezes, halfway to their feet. Slowly finishes standing up, and turns to face them.

Their thief, as it turns out, is a teenage girl. Maybe fifteen at the oldest.

“Um,” the girl squeaks out. “No?”

“Good choice,” Ford says. “Hand over the Pipes.”

“What Pipes?” The girl asks, entirely too innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister…?”

“You can call me Ford, and you’re not getting more than that,” Ford says. “You’re not getting their names either, missy. Hand over the Pipes, or I hand you over to Rumple.”

The girl pales considerably, scrambles to rifle through her jacket pockets. Practically throws the Pipes at Ford, who catches them easily.

“I’m sorry!” She wails. “I just— you don’t know what it’s like— no one believes me about this kind of stuff, a-and I just thought, if I brought something back from another realm—”

“You’re a magician?” Ford asks, cutting her off mid-grovel.

“Um, not exactly?” She says. “I’m a medium, or whatever. I guess. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, but I’m not.”

“For talking to ghosts? No,” Ford says. “For breaking into Rumple’s vault? Yes. Absolutely. What the hell were you thinking? Do you even know what this is?”

“A… weird flute?” She tries. “I dunno, Wash told me about the door, and said there was all kinds of cool stuff in there, and that most of it would prove magic is real. Prove I’m not lying.”

“Wash,” Ford says, voice utterly flat. “Washington Irving? The ghost of Washington Irving told you to rob Rumple’s vault.”

“Yeah, him,” the girl shrugs, kicking idly at a loose chunk of brick on the ground. “He said no one would even notice if I took a few things. How’d you even figure out anything was missing? That place is a heap.”

“What Rumple lacks in conventional organization skills, he more than makes up for with meticulous inventory,” Ford says. “Trust me. He once billed me for putting an extra sugar cube in my tea without asking.”

“Wow,” the girl says. “What a jerk.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he huffs, pocketing the Pipes. “Your buddy, Wash? Also a huge jerk, for the record. He knows damn well who Rumple is, and what he does to thieves. You could have been killed. You understand that, right?”

“I know, I know,” she groans, hanging her head. “I’m Nora, by the way. And that’s all you’re getting. Um, if I promise never to go back ever again and return everything, can I go home? It’s cold out here.”

Ford sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” he says. “Hand it over.”

“Really?” Nora asks, looking up at him with a distrustful expression. “Just like that? No bartering, no threats? Not even a little double-talk? What kind of Fae are you?”

“I’m as human as you are,” Ford says. “And you’re a kid. You do dumb sh*t, comes with the territory. The important thing is that you learn from doing dumb sh*t, which is hard to do when you’re being fed your own intestines.”

Nora flicks a glance between Anton and Phil, as if expecting them to add anything. Shrugs.

“Yeah, okay,” she says. “I like my intestines where they are, or whatever. Is it cool if I just dump this sh*t on the ground? No offense, but I really don’t trust you guys to not just abduct me for the Wild Hunt—”

Nora cuts herself off as Ford’s expression flickers into something horrible, for the briefest of moments. Something raw, terrified.

“We won’t,” Ford says, unexpectedly forceful. He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is back to its normal laid-back tone. “Just dump it, and go home, Nora. Tell Wash to go f*ck himself, if he tries to talk to you again.”

“Oh, trust me— if he comes anywhere near me, I’m sending his ass so far past the other side he’ll never come back,” she says darkly, but sets to work emptying her pockets.

When she’s done, there’s a truly impressive pile of gold, silver, and precious gemstones at her feet.

“So… we’re cool, right?” Nora asks, backing away from the pile slowly. “I can go home now?”

“Yeah, we’re cool,” Ford says. “Keep your nose clean from now on, alright? I won’t be nice about it, next time.”

Nora sprints away before he finishes talking, throwing a cheerful wave over her shoulder as she goes.

“What,” Anton says. “The f*ck.”

“Seconded,” Phil says, still watching Nora’s hasty retreat— there’s a lot of tripping over her own feet, and slamming her shins into gravestones. Kid has zero grace.

“Kids,” Ford says, shaking his head as he shrugs out of his sweatshirt, uses it to bundle up the pile of loot. “Could’ve been worse, I guess. I wasn’t much older than her when— nevermind. That’s a story for… later. Much, much later. I’ve got loot to return. See you guys at dinner?”

“What the f*ck,” Anton repeats, gesturing emphatically at the bundle tossed over Ford’s shoulder, then at Nora’s still-retreating back.

“What?” Ford asks, seeming genuinely confused by their bewilderment.

“You were being attacked by beavers, deer, and evil trees, Ford,” Anton says. “Why might be an important question to ask.”

“Oh, right. This is… weird, to you guys,” Ford adjusts the bundle, looking a little sheepish. “She stole Pan’s Pipes from Rumplestiltskin’s vault, which I put in there so that they’d be safe, and never be played again. They’re pretty much pure nature magic, used to belong to Pan himself. Nasty stuff. We’re lucky she only knew Hot Cross Buns and the first few bars of Run Away With Me, or things could’ve gotten a lot worse.”

He stares off into the middle distance, face grim.

“A lot worse,” he repeats.

“Worse how?” Phil asks.

“You know that story about Dionysus wandering Greece, turning sailors into dolphins, and making his followers go mad and tear a guy apart with their bare hands?” Ford asks. Phil nods, because of course he does. “He used Pan’s Pipes to do it.”

Ford’s watch beeps, and he groans.

“Mother f*cker, the laundry’s gonna be all wrinkled by the time I’m done here,” he says. “I gotta jet. See you later.”

He strikes out, back across the graveyard, bag of loot jangling loudly as he goes. Knocks shave-and-a-hair-cut-two-bits onto a headstone not far from the church, and vanishes in a flash of golden light.

“Does he do this kind of thing a lot?” Phil asks, a little distantly.

“Not that I’ve seen,” Anton says. Ford’s been better about offering information unprompted, but Anton’s starting to suspect there’s still a hell of a lot more room for improvement. “Is it weird that I thought it was kinda hot, watching him chainsaw those evil trees? That’s weird, right?”

Phil pats him on the back sympathetically.

“A little bit,” he says.

Fall turns to Winter, turns to Spring, and not much happens.

Not much out of the ordinary, anyway. There’s plenty of Avengers activity, more than their fair share of workshop mishaps, and a couple family board game nights that get heated. But it’s just business as usual, really.

Just normal, run-of-the-mill, everyday stuff. Like trying to decipher his Dad’s recipes.

“Honey, I’m home!” Anton calls. Kicking the door closed behind him, from the sound of it.

“How was your run?” Ford calls back. He leans over the cookbook, finger tracing down the page as he scrutinizes the list of ingredients.

He loves his Dad to bits, but he has no f*cking clue what ‘the usual amount of cumin’ is supposed to mean. Despite having followed him around the kitchen since he was old enough to walk on his own.

“Where are you?” Anton calls.

“In the kitchen,” Ford responds.

He looks up as Anton’s quiet footsteps approach the entryway.

Stares at him.

“Why—” he starts.

“Is there a cat clinging to my head like she’s trying to pull a Ratatouille?” Anton finishes, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” Ford laughs. “That.”

“She wandered out of the forest, I stopped to say hi, next thing I know she’s climbing me like a f*cking jungle gym,” Anton says. The cat meows, starts purring up a storm, seeming pleased with herself. “Dug her claws in when I tried to evict her, so I guess we have a cat now.”

“We should take her to the vet, see if she has a microchip,” Ford turns back to the cookbook, decides that ‘the usual amount’ is probably somewhere in the ballpark of a teaspoon and a half, because otherwise he’s going to be staring at the page all day. “Call around to the local shelters in case someone’s looking for her.”

“She’s half-starved and probably has fleas,” Anton says. “I don’t think she has an owner.”

“If she has fleas, then you definitely have fleas by now,” Ford measures out the cumin, moves on to the next ingredient.

“Eh,” Anton shrugs. “I’m gonna go hop in the shower, if fleabag here will let me. Pet store after lunch?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Ford says. “Oh, f*ck off— ‘one blue teacup (the one with the chip in the rim) full of rice, leveled off.’ So f*cking help me, Dad—”

“Seems like you’ve got lunch handled,” Anton says. “I’m hitting the showers.”

The cat meows again, and the pair disappear down the hall.

Two minutes later, the cat sprints back the way they came, sopping wet and pissed as hell. Scrambles into the kitchen, and darts under one of the chairs surrounding the table.

“That’s what happens when you don’t get off someone’s head when they’re trying to shower,” Ford tells her. She meows at him, as pitifully as she can muster. “I’ll get you a towel. Stay here.”

The cat, as it turns out, does not have a microchip, and none of the shelters within a fifty-mile radius have gotten a single call about a missing black, medium-hair menace with disproportionately stubby legs, who’s about three hundred percent attitude by volume.

Anton names her Benji Mark II, after a stray that’d haunted his old apartment complex in LA. Benchmark, for short.

Ford’s never had a non-frog pet before, and Benchmark has a talent for getting into literally everything, but he has to admit she’s pretty stinkin’ cute. Which is good, because she wouldn’t get away with half as much as she does if she weren’t.

She’s also unsettlingly fond of sleeping in Anton’s workshop while he’s in there, despite the din. Or roaming about, sticking her paws where they shouldn’t go, because she’s trying to prove the idiom that curiosity killed the cat, or something.

Anton’s taken to calling her ученыёчек— ‘little scientist.’ Lets her ride around on his shoulders like a fur collar. It’s disgustingly cute, and almost makes up for the fact that Benchmark keeps trying to sleep on Ford’s face, and nips at him if he moves too much in his sleep. Which, admittedly, is also pretty cute. But annoying. Which seems to summarize her personality pretty well.

She especially doesn’t like it when he’s having a nightmare, always wakes him up by slapping him with her paws. Sometimes it doesn’t work.

Sometimes he sits bolt upright, gasping for breath, with her clinging to his shoulders and yowling her head off.

“Ever’thin’ okay?” Anton mumbles, reaching out to pat Ford’s arm.

He flinches away, squeezes his eyes shut—

The river. If he can make it to the river— there’s plenty of dense underbrush to hide in, on the far side of the banks. He just has to make it to the river—

An arrow pierces his flank, and he stumbles. Scrabbles to his hooves as fast as he can, bolting toward the distant sound of rushing water—

His eyes fly open, but the forest doesn’t go away. Not until Anton reaches over, flicks on the lamp on the bedside table. Benchmark wraps herself around Ford’s shoulders, purring loud enough to drown out the memory of the rushing water, of the branches snapping under-hoof.

Of the laughter, following him through the woods.

Anton shifts over, kneels in front of him.

“Hey,” Anton says, brushing Ford’s hair out of his eyes. He rubs his thumb across Ford’s cheekbone, fingers tangled in the curls on the side of his head. “Five things you can see. Let’s go.”

“You, the quilt, Benchmark’s tail, the dresser, laundry hamper.”

“Four you can touch.”

“Your hand, Benchmark, the quilt, my pillow.”

“Three you can hear.”

The laughter’s drawing closer now, gaining on him. A hunting horn bellows in the near distance—

Coming from the other side of the river.

“No—” Ford shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. “No— I’m— I’m okay. I’m— I turned back. I turned back.”

“Ford?” Anton asks. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

“I turned back,” Ford mutters to himself. “I turned back, and I got out—”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Exhales slowly.

He wants a f*cking drink.

“I’m gonna make some coffee,” he says, and pushes out of bed. Trails down the hall on auto-pilot, Benchmark still wrapped around his shoulders. She hops onto the counter when he reaches the kitchen, wanders over to her bowl, meowing hopefully.

Ford braces his hands on the counter, breathing carefully as he stares into the depths of the sink.

“You’ve been having that nightmare a lot,” Anton says. Ford looks up, sees him leaning in the entryway. “Or at least a lot of related ones.”

Ford shrugs, pulls the coffee pot out of the machine and fills it with water. Buries himself in the easy, automatic ritual of it.

“You wanna talk about it, or whatever?” Anton asks, shifting uncomfortably. “You don’t— you don’t have to. If you don’t want. Just say the word, and I’ll never ask again—”

“I was sixteen,” Ford blurts out— he’s been holding the memory inside him so long that the pressure’s built up, and Anton’s attempt at giving him a release valve just blew the whole damn thing. “I— I stumbled into a fairy ring, when I was sixteen. Offended one of the members of the Court without meaning to, and—”

He takes a deep breath. Hits ‘brew’ on the machine.

“I spent the next three decades being chased by the Wild Hunt,” he says quietly. “Thought I’d never get out, that I’d spend the rest of eternity trapped in their stupid f*cking game. Trapped in an endless f*cking cycle of— of death, and rebirth.”

Anton comes up behind him, wraps his arms around Ford. Rests his chin on his shoulder. Squeezes him, gently.

“When I finally managed to escape—” his voice hitches, the breath catching in his throat. “It— it was just… dumb luck. And when I got back… it’d only been three months. The guy I’d been traveling with had left Ireland, took all my sh*t with him, and I— I couldn’t even remember his name, it had been so long since I saw him. I spent thirty f*cking years as a stag, and suddenly I was just… sixteen again. No money, no home— no anything. I didn’t… how do you even deal with something like that? Where do you even start?”

Anton’s quiet for a long moment before answering.

“Cup of coffee and some pop tarts?” He suggests, and Ford chokes out a laugh. “f*ck, babe, I don’t know. That’s… that’s f*cking nuts.”

“I got out,” Ford says. The coffee machine beeps, and he pours two mugs. Dumps a metric f*ckton of sugar into Anton’s before handing it over. “I got out. That’s the important part.”

Benchmark meows at him again, nudging her food bowl across the countertop with her nose.

“You don’t get breakfast for another three hours, missy,” Anton says, pointing a stern finger at her. She sniffs it for a moment before starting to gently gnaw on it. “f*ckin’ weird-ass cat.”

“She’s a goddamn gremlin,” Ford agrees, scratching under her chin. She melts into his hand, flopping down on the counter and purring like crazy.

Until she decides she’s had enough, and attacks Ford’s hand.

A goddamn gremlin.

Between one thing and another, they’d had to take their one-year anniversary trip nearly two months late. Which is fine, because they did get to take it, but still. Anton’s going to be sending a lot of angry postcards to a lot of supervillains and superhuman mercenaries once they get home.

“Do I want to know why you bought so many postcards at the airport?” Ford asks as they finally pull onto the highway, out of the permanent snarl known as JFK International.

“Probably not,” Anton says, flicking through the stack, assigning each card a name at random. “Can you do payment-on-delivery for postcards? I’m thinking premium express, lots of insurance.”

“I think you just use one of those fifty-cent stamps and call it a day, babe,” Ford says. “You should check your voicemail, see if anyone called about something important while we were out of signal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anton grumbles, tucking the postcards and pen into the Pikachu backpack and digging out his phone. “Always Mr. Responsible.”

“Someone has to be,” Ford says, flashing him a grin. Anton rolls his eyes, powers on his phone.

Watches as the screen fills with notifications.

He unlocks it, pulls up his voicemail. Hits ‘play all,’ putting it on speaker.

BEEP

“Hey Mr. Stark! Um, I was just calling because… I mean, it’s great, being a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, don’t get me wrong— I stopped a grand theft bicycle— couldn’t find the owner, so I just left a note— um. I helped this lost, old Dominican lady, and she was really nice, bought me a churro. But, um… I just… feel like I could be doing more, y’know? Do you… I just— do the Avengers need any help? I saw you guys on the news a couple weeks ago, when you were fighting those DoomBots in Chicago, a-and you guys did great! But I had some ideas on strategy, and— a-anyway, um. If you could call me back, that’d be… cool. This is Peter, by the way. Parker.”

BEEP

“Hey Mr. Stark— um, I was at this party with my buddy Ned, and— anyway, long story short, I wound up running into these bad guys? And they were selling these crazy weapons. Um. I think they were using Chitauri tech to build them? One of them tried to vaporize me! Anyway, they got away because this guy with wings kinda like Mr. Wilson’s nabbed me, and threw me into the East River— parachute worked great, by the way, and the automatic dryer— and on my way back to the party, I found one of the weapons? And it’s really weird. Ned and I are gonna take a look at it in shop tomorrow— he knows I’m Spider-Man now, long story— and I’ll let you know if we find anything. Oh! It’s Peter Parker, by the way. Again.”

BEEP

“Hey Mr. Stark, it’s Peter. I don’t know if you got my message about the weird weapon I found, but today at school the guys who tried to vaporize me broke into shop and tried to take it! I mean, I wasn’t dumb enough to just leave it lying around, so… they didn’t get it, but still. Um. I managed to use that tracker drone on them, and they wound up not that far from D.C.— I’m gonna be there for the academic decathlon tomorrow, so I figured… y’know, might as well check it out while I’m in town, right? Anyway, I’ll keep you posted. Bye!”

BEEP

“Mr. Stark they have a matter phase shifter and they’re using it to rob SHIELD transport trucks! Ah, crap—”

BEEP

“Hey… Mr. Stark… so… um. Turns out the energy core thing from that weapon I found, um, turns into a bomb when exposed to radiation? And Ned kinda took it to the Washington Monument and sent it through the X-ray machine on accident— everyone’s fine! Nothing— no one got hurt. Um. But that was… kinda scary, actually. I don’t really know what I’m doing here, and I would really appreciate if you could call me back and give me some advice. This is Peter. Like always.”

Anton stares at the phone, then at Ford.

“What the f*ck is this kid getting mixed up—” he starts.

The phone rings.

Peter.

Anton hits ‘answer,’ puts the phone to his ear.

“Hey Peter, what’s—”

“Mr. Stark! Oh man, am I glad you picked up— um, did you get my messages? Nevermind, no time— there’s this vulture-looking guy, and he’s been robbing SHIELD to build crazy weapons that he’s selling on the black market, and— and he’s doing a deal. Today. Um, like… thirty minutes from now, on the eleven o’clock to Staten Island? I’m on my way there, but I would really appreciate some backup, if you’ve got a moment,” Peter says, barely pausing for breath.

“Peter, listen to me very carefully,” Anton says. “Do not get on that ferry, alright? I’ll send someone out there that handles this kind of thing, it’ll all be sorted out before lunch.”

“But Mr. Stark—”

Anton hangs up, dials Rhodey.

“Romanov— Stark, sorry— to what do I owe the pleasure?” Rhodey asks. “Not calling to complain about how I’m still kicking your ass in Candy Crush again, are you?”

“Not this time, Rhodey,” Anton says. “Listen, I need a favor. I got a guy in Queens who’s telling me that a black market weapons deal is about to go down on the eleven o’clock Staten Island ferry, involving Chitauri tech stolen from SHIELD. I don’t have my suit on me, or I’d be heading out there myself—”

“Say no more, I’m on my way,” Rhodey says. “Your guy gonna be there?”

“I told him not to, but he’ll probably be there anyway,” Anton says. “Keep an eye out for Spider-Man, make sure he doesn’t get himself in too much trouble, alright?”

“Copy that, Stark. I’ll call you once I’ve got things wrapped up,” Rhodey says, and hangs up.

“You can summon the Nanosuit, right?” Anton asks, tucking his phone away.

“Colonel Rhodes has it handled,” Ford says. “Just take a deep breath, and let someone else deal with things for once. You don’t have to be there for every fight you hear about, you know.”

“Yeah, but it’s Parker,” Anton says. Ford gives him an unimpressed look. “Alright, fine. I’ll let Rhodey handle it.”

“Good,” Ford says. “Benchmark’ll be pissed if I show up without you, anyway. What do you wanna do for lunch?”

Rhodey handles the ferry situation, gives Peter a lecture about getting in over his head, and that’s the last Anton hears of it.

For about three days.

“He crashed a Quinjet into Coney Island?” Anton asks, staring at the TV in horror.

“Survived the crash, saved the guy responsible for the black market Chitauri weapons, and left him for the NYPD with a note,” Ford says. “Written in crayon.”

“All while wearing his homemade suit,” Anton says. “Why the f*ck was he wearing the homemade suit?”

He calls Peter.

“Hey Mr. Stark, what’s up?” Peter says, entirely too casual.

“What the f*ck, Parker,” Anton says. “I’m in the Bahamas without cell service for less than a week, and you get tangled up in a black market arms dealing ring? And why the f*ck weren’t you wearing the suit I gave you tonight? You could’ve been killed!”

“Um,” Peter says. “Well— well the black market thing wasn’t my fault, for one. It just sorta happened, a-and I handled it! So you can tell War Machine he was wrong, and—”

“War Machine?” Anton asks, cutting him off. “What’d Rhodey say to you?”

“He, um,” Peter clears his throat. “Sorta… confiscated the suit. Because the ferry kinda broke apart. Um.”

“So he knows you’re a kid?” Anton asks.

“What? No— no, I had the homemade suit in my backpack, and he let me change in the bathroom at the ferry terminal, so— he didn’t see me without my mask,” Peter says. “That’s not the point— the point is, I don’t need tech to help people, and I’m not using it as a crutch! So can I have it back? Please?”

“Let me make some calls,” Anton says. “Good work with Toomes, kid. Maybe avoid a plane crash, next time?”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “And… thanks. It— it means a lot, to hear you say that.”

“Don’t mention it,” Anton says. He hangs up, dials Rhodey. “What’s this about confiscating Spider-Man’s suit?”

“He has no idea how to use that thing, nearly killed a whole bunch of civilians on accident while trying to stop the weapons deal from going down,” Rhodey says. “He was reckless, careless—”

“He’s sixteen,” Anton says. “He’s sixteen, and I built that suit to protect him.”

“You gave a sixteen year-old a super suit?” Rhodey demands. “What the hell were you thinking? He shouldn’t be out there fighting crime, period!”

“SHIELD recruited him summer before last, to apprehend me and Barnes,” Anton says. “He wouldn’t stay out of it, after Zemo escaped. So yes, I gave the sixteen year-old a super suit, because he was going to get himself killed if I didn’t.”

“You still let him keep it, after,” Rhodey points out. “He thinks he’s invincible! And he sure as hell doesn’t know his limits, either. Thinks the suit will make up for it.”

“Everything was going perfectly fine until a week and a half ago,” Anton says defensively. “I figured I’d rather just give him the suit than risk him getting shot by a bank robber, or something. I don’t need that sh*t on my conscience, Rhodes.”

“Alright, alright,” Rhodey says. “You’re right. If I’d known how young he was, I would’ve probably done the same, in your position. But did you really need to put so many damn features on the thing? It’s like a f*cking Mary Poppins bag of dangerous sh*t.”

“Useful sh*t,” Anton says. “I was going a little stir-crazy, alright? Anyway— kid did fine without the suit, Rhodey. He deserves to have it back. And unless you have a warrant, technically you did steal his personal property.”

“Funnily enough, I did have a warrant,” Rhodey says. “It’s unregistered, and I have full authority to confiscate any and all unregistered tech used to gain or enhance superhuman abilities. But I’ll make some calls. In the morning— I got a lot of cleanup to do, thanks to that kid. Coney Island’s a damn mess.”

“He survived, you got your arms dealer,” Anton says. “I think he did just fine.”

“Yeah, he did alright,” Rhodey allows. “But I still gotta handle Quinjet wreckage, and the mess of artifacts SHIELD was trying to move to their new off-site storage facility.”

“Sounds like a party. Have fun,” Anton says. “Don’t forget to be yourself.”

“Hilarious,” Rhodey says, and hangs up.

It’s a gorgeous morning.

Late spring. Sunny, slight breeze. Half of Central Park’s in bloom. He can smell the clematis growing in the conservatory, its sweet perfume surfing the breeze.

It’s the perfect day to be walking around the reservoir, hand in hand with Ford. He got six whole hours of sleep last night, got to punch some rampaging DoomBots yesterday, and they’re meeting Anton’s whole family for dinner tonight, so things are just about as good as they ever get. Better than he could’ve imagined, just a few short years ago.

Things are damn good. Going perfectly. He just has to work up the nerve to ask the question the dinner’s supposed to be celebrating the answer to.

Easy-peasy.

He can ask questions in his sleep.

He’s been trying to find the right time to ask this one for nearly three months now. Nat, sick of hearing him agonize, had organized the dinner as a way to force him to go through with it.

He turns the small box around in his hand, stuffed in the pocket of his jacket. Wonders what the hell’s stopping him— he knows Ford’ll say yes; they’d talked about it well before Anton even bought the ring.

Well— commissioned, if you want to get technical.

It’s a simple-looking band. But it had been a bitch to find a jeweler capable of working with vibranium— he’d had to ask T’Challa for a favor, give him an open-ended IOU, which is not the kind he’s usually comfortable with giving. Usually. This had been important, though.

He’s lucky T’Challa’s still grateful to Anton and Bucky for apprehending Zemo. Wakanda might be working on opening her borders, but it’s slow-going. And a white guy asking for vibranium is— historically speaking— kind of a huge part of why the borders were closed in the first place. But Anton had been lucky enough to have a sample lying around, just large enough for the ring, which smoothed things over a bit. And he’d been lucky enough that T’Challa has a certain amount of respect for him. And— again— is still grateful for his part in taking down Zemo.

Anyway.

It’s a simple-looking band. Vibranium. Three insets— a thin band of Badassium running around the circumference just below the center, another of palladium just on the other side; both framing a band made from some of the shrapnel Yinsen had removed from Anton’s heart. The ‘souvenir’ from his trip to Afghanistan, as the old Doctor had put it. The ring’s sturdy, it’ll add some oomph to any punches Ford throws, and it’s sentimental as f*ck. Kind of disgustingly so.

Ford’s gonna love it.

If Anton can work up the nerve to f*cking give it to him.

Again, Ford’s going to say yes. He’ll love the ring. Nat’ll stop getting on Anton’s back about actually popping the question. He won’t have to agonize about finding the right moment any more. It’ll be fine— great, even. Everything’ll be so much better the second he actually gets it over with.

But something doesn’t feel right about it. Not just yet. Soon, though. Has to be.

Otherwise, he’s going to wind up popping the question on the sidewalk outside the restaurant tonight. Which isn’t exactly the romantic moment he’s been picturing.

They stop on the Southern bank of the reservoir, taking in the view.

“Oh hell yeah,” Ford says, pulling his hand out of Anton’s grip as he crouches down, creeping toward a dense clump of brush. He reaches in, pulls out—

“How the hell did you even spot that?” Anton asks, crouching next to Ford to examine the frog with him.

“Practice. This little guy is Pseudacris crucifer,” Ford says, gently cupping the tiny, tan thing with both hands. “Also known as a spring peeper— I caught a million of these guys with my dad, when I was a kid. They’re actually able to survive below-freezing temperatures, because their liver produces a kind of chemical anti-freeze, lets them go into hibernation without damaging their cells. Neat, huh?”

“A frog that can survive cryo,” Anton huffs out a laugh, gently brushes a fingertip across the frog’s head in a soothing gesture. “I guess that is pretty neat. Though I’m starting to think you just have a thing for freezable guys.”

“They tend to keep better than they would in the fridge,” Ford grins at him before releasing the frog back into its hidey-hole, wiping his hands off on his jeans as they stand.

He takes Anton’s hand, and they resume their stroll.

“What do you think your past self would say, if you told him that in a few years, you and your defrosted Super Soldier boyfriend would be walking around Central Park, looking at frogs?” Anton asks, bumping their shoulders together.

“How far back are we talking?” Ford asks.

“I dunno, it was just a passing thought,” Anton shrugs. “Before you met me, I guess.”

Ford considers the question, head tipped thoughtfully to one side as they drag to a halt again. “Honestly? I don’t think he’d believe me. Not just because of the Super Soldier boyfriend part,” he says. “Had a hard time imagining a future, back then.”

“But it’s easier now?” Anton asks.

“Yeah,” Ford says, his eyes crinkling fondly as he turns a smile on Anton. “Wonder why that is.”

Anton closes his fingers around the ring box— this is it, this is the moment he’s been waiting for—

They turn at the hissing, spitting sound of a portal opening behind them, ragged and alive at the edges.

Doctor Strange steps through.

“Stark, Ford— I need you to come with me,” Strange says. “We need your help.”

Anton and Ford exchange an incredulous, disdainful look.

“Look— it’s not overselling it to say that the fate of the universe is at stake,” Strange takes a step towards them, hands held out in a pleading gesture.

“Who’s ‘we?’” Anton asks.

There’s movement, just behind Strange’s left shoulder. Another figure, stepping through the portal—

“Hey kids,” Bruce says, giving them a tense flash of a smile, arms wrapped around himself. “Been a while.”

“Son of a bitch,” Anton mutters, taking a step toward him. He reaches a hand out, puts it on Bruce’s shoulder— he seems firm, solid.

Real.

He pulls Bruce into a rib-creaking hug, which the older man returns without a moment of hesitation.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Not really,” Bruce says. “But I’ll live.”

“If you wouldn’t mind following me?” Strange asks, motioning to the portal.

Reluctantly, Bruce lets go of Anton. Steps through the portal after Strange.

Ford takes Anton’s hand, squeezes it reassuringly.

“He came back,” Ford says. “You were right.”

“Yeah,” Anton clears his throat. “Yeah. He came back, alright.”

He’d never expected Bruce’s time in space to be a picnic, but this…

He’s shaken, horrified. Glad to see Anton, in a way that makes him wonder if Bruce hadn’t expected to find him alive.

Ford squeezes his hand again. Pulls him out of his head.

Anton squeezes back, once.

They step through the portal, and it closes behind them.

“Welcome to the Sanctum Sanctorum,” Strange says, gesturing to the grand entryway around them. Carefully brushing over the giant crater in the staircase— and the giant hole in the wall— as he moves to direct their attention to another man, wearing similar robes to Strange. “Wong, this is Anton Stark, and… Ford. The unaffiliated magician. Stark, Ford, this is Wong; he’s the librarian at Kamar-Taj.”

“We’ve met,” Ford says, shakes Wong’s hand. Signs a quick ‘tell you later’ to Anton before he can ask for the story. “Wong, always a pleasure.”

“You as well, Ford,” Wong says. “Shall we get to the matter at hand? Time is of the essence.”

He takes a step back, does something complicated with his hands, conjuring a projection of the universe around them.

“From the dawn of the universe, there was nothing. Then— boom!” Wong claps his hands, and five gemstones appear in the center of the projection. Anton’s eyes fall on one— the blue one. Something about it… calls to him. Feels familiar, but nearly unrecognizable— like seeing the back of your own head. “The Big Bang sent six elemental crystals hurtling across the virgin universe. These Infinity Stones each control an essential aspect of existence.”

“Space, Reality, Power, Soul, Mind…” Strange lists off, each Stone glowing slightly brighter as he mentions it. “And Time.”

Strange opens the eye pendant hanging from his neck, briefly revealing a green stone hidden within before he closes it again. Just the momentary glimpse is enough to send Anton’s stomach lurching, to make his heart stall and pound erratically.

“Thanos is trying to assemble them all,” Bruce says. “He’s going—”

“He’ll wipe out half the universe,” someone says. And it has to be Anton that says it, because everyone turns to look at him.

He doesn’t remember saying it. Doesn’t know how he’d known it, just that it’s true. Factual.

“Yeah,” Bruce says. “How— how’d you know?”

“I don’t— I’m not sure,” Anton stares at the projected Stones. At the Space Stone. “I just… do.”

For the last six years, there’s been this… itch, at the base of his skull. This sense that something’s wrong. On a cosmic level. He’d figured it was just his PTSD, or whatever. Existential dread, prompted by everything that’s happened in his clusterf*ck of an existence. He’d almost managed to convince himself to ignore it, even as it’s built up over time. Even as it’s become more noticeable, since he stopped having to worry about the codewords. He’d figured it was just something he needed more time to come to terms with, or whatever.

But he knows who Thanos is, knows what he looks like without Bruce needing to describe him. Knows that Thanos thinks that there’s some sort of balance he’s bringing to the universe, by killing half of it. Knows that Thanos is a f*cking moron, since killing half of all life means that all those resources he’s worried about not being able to support humanoid life are going to be halved, too. Maintaining the same f*cking bullsh*t he’s allegedly trying to solve through genocide.

“I’ve been— my nightmares. The flashbacks. About the Chitauri. They’ve been… different. Something changed in them, about a year back. Something new,” he says slowly. “It’s like this… whisper in my head. Or an echo, coming from far away. And I can never quite make it out, but… I— it has to be related. Right?”

“They’ve been different?” Ford asks, sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought— c’mon, you know how f*cked my head is,” Anton says, burying his discomfort under false bravado. “Falling through that portal is the least of my problems. I thought… I don’t know. Maybe I thought my brain was just getting creative. Making up for all the sh*t it can’t haunt me with anymore.”

“You went through the wormhole?” Strange asks, exchanging a look with Wong. “Conscious, or unconscious?”

“Conscious one way, unconscious the other,” Anton says. Wong’s projected universe is starting to get to him— if he doesn’t concentrate, push past the double-exposed memory, it keeps filling with the Chitauri fleet. “Why?”

“Theoretically, that may have allowed a piece of the Space Stone to… latch on to your subconscious, so to speak,” Wong says carefully. “To create a connection—”

“A connection?” Anton demands. “Are you— no! This is ridiculous, I don’t— I don’t have some sort of… open comm line with a f*cking space rock.”

“How else do you explain the knowledge you have?” Wong asks. “This is uncharted territory, Stark. I’m not stating anything as fact, merely speculating based on the available information. And the sources we have on the Stones all agree that those who use the Stones are affected by them.”

“I didn’t use jack sh*t,” Anton snaps. “Loki used the Tesseract to open that wormhole, not me.”

“Activating the portal isn’t the only way to use the portal,” Strange says. “It might’ve counted anyway.”

“Interesting as this all is, if we could get back to the main point? Thanos already has the Power and Space Stones,” Bruce says. “There’s no telling when he’ll get here, but he’s on his way, because two of the Stones are on Earth.”

“We can’t let him take them,” Anton says. “Strange, you have to destroy—”

“Absolutely not,” Strange snaps.

“We swore an oath to protect the Time Stone,” Wong says. “With our very lives.”

“And I swore off dairy, but then Ben & Jerry’s named a flavor after me,” Anton crosses his arms, glaring at the sorcerors.

“Ah, yes. Stark Raving Hazelnuts,” Strange says.

“It’s not bad,” Anton says. It’s Ford’s favorite, even though Black Cherry Widow Bites is objectively the best of the line.

“A bit chalky,” Strange says.

“A Hunka-Hulka Burning Fudge is our favorite,” Wong adds.

“That’s a thing?” Bruce asks.

Anton waves him off. “Point is, Harry Potter— things change.”

“Our oath to protect the Time Stone cannot change,” Strange insists. “This Stone may be the best chance we have against Thanos.”

“Or his best chance against us,” Anton counters.

“Well, only if we don’t do our jobs,” Strange says.

“What’s your job, exactly?” Ford asks. “Besides making balloon animals for children’s birthday parties.”

“Protecting your reality, douchebag,” Strange says.

“Can we— can we table this discussion right now?” Bruce asks, propping one elbow on his other arm to pinch the bridge of his nose. Anton tries to make a mental note— Clint still has Bruce’s glasses stashed away, somewhere. Probably should get those back to him, now that he’s on-planet. “The fact is, we have the Time Stone, we know where it is. But the Mind Stone? Loki’s Scepter? It’s in the wind. There’s no telling where it wound up, after SHIELD fell. Hell, it’s probably in a Hydra base somewhere.”

“We still have the data collected from trying to analyze the thing,” Anton says. “Leaked with the rest of SHIELD’s data. We can just rig up an algorithm, scan for it. We’d have a location in—”

Anton breaks off, a low, odd groaning from far away catching his attention. Metal groaning under the strain of temperature fluctuation.

“Do you hear—” he glances around. Lands on Strange, whose hair is moving ever-so-slightly despite the previous lack of breeze in the building. “Strange— you wouldn’t happen to be moving your hair right now, would you?”

Strange goes nearly cross-eyed trying to catch sight of the strand, a look of dread slowly creeping over his face.

“Not at the moment, no,” Strange says.

Anton looks up, at the hole in the upper wall. Sees scraps of metal and debris flying past.

Sprints for the door.

Crashes through, onto the sidewalk— Greenwich Village; not where he would have guessed Strange’s stupid secret wizard boyband would’ve set up shop, but okay. Sure. Why the hell not.

A woman trips as she runs by, and he catches her just before she hits the ground.

“You okay?” He asks, helping her up. She nods, face drawn in panic as she glances back over her shoulder. “Okay, get out of here. Go!”

She sprints off, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a runaway car as it slams into a lamp post.

“We got him, go on!” Bruce says, running past Anton to the car with Wong and Strange at his heels. Ford comes up to Anton’s side, scanning the chaos around them.

“FRIDAY, what are we looking at here?” Anton asks, staring up at the giant, flying metal donut coming straight down Bleecker street.

“Not sure,” FRIDAY says, voice coming from the Nanomask pin. “I’m working on it.”

“Hey, Strange— might wanna put that Time Stone in your back pocket,” Ford says.

“Might wanna use it,” Strange mutters as he and the others join them.

“FRIDAY, evac anyone South of 43rd,” Anton says. “Notify first responders.”

“Will do.”

Strange does his stupid hand movements, and a wave of magic billows out. When it hits the ship, the engine stalls. Leaves it stranded, hovering a few feet off the pavement. Two figures disembark— aliens. One roughly the size of the Hulk, with an almost reptilian face. The other—

“Hear me, and rejoice!” Evil Squidward cries. “You are about to die at the hands of the Children of Thanos. Be thankful, that your meaningless lives are now contributing to—”

“Sorry, Earth’s closed today,” Anton interrupts him. “Better pack it up and get going. Bank holiday, you know how it is.”

Evil Squidward sneers at him, turns his attention to Strange. “Stone keeper,” he says. “Does this… chattering animal speak for you?”

“Certainly not. I speak for myself,” Strange says. Anton resists the urge to punch him. “But you’re trespassing in this city, and on this planet.”

“He means you should get lost, Squidward,” Ford translates.

“These fools exhaust me, Cull,” Evil Squidward sighs. “Bring me the Stone.”

Cull— lizard guy— hoists his axe at the ready, starts stalking toward them with an evil grin.

“Might be time to call in the Other Guy,” Anton says, watching Cull’s approach. It’s slow, steady. Like he thinks he has all day, because no matter how far they run, he’ll catch up eventually.

“Yeah,” Bruce agrees, stepping back. “Here we go.”

“Good to have you back, by the way,” Anton says.

“I just— need to concentrate here, for a second,” Bruce says, sounding strained. “Come on, come on, man—”

“What’s going on back there?” Anton asks, still not turning around. “What’s the hold-up?”

“I don’t know, we’ve sort of been having a… thing,” Bruce says.

“Bad time for a thing, Banner.”

“I know.”

“Dude, you’re embarrassing me in front of the wizards, including my boyfriend,” Anton finally turns, sees the green creeping up Bruce’s neck as he strains— sees it disappear the second he stops.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce shakes his head, panting slightly. “I’m sorry— either I can’t, or he won’t—”

“Alright, in that case—” Anton deploys the Iron Man Nanosuit, turns back to their incoming behemoth. “Wong, get him out of here.”

“Got it,” Wong says. There’s the hissing sound of a portal opening, a yelp of surprise from Bruce that gets cut off as it closes again.

Cull pulls back his hammer, swipes it toward them— the hammer’s head flies off, attached to a chain, headed straight for Ford—

Who catches it easily, throws it back at Cull. Who unfortunately dodges it, but only just.

“Ah, sh*t. Good throw, though,” Anton says. Flicks out his arms, deploying the repulsor cannons. Takes aim as Cull decides to pick up the pace, starts sprinting at them— fires, sending Cull flying back toward Evil Squidward.

Who has f*cking magic, or whatever. Because of course he does. And uses it to deflect Cull.

“Nice shot,” Ford says.

“Thanks, I’ve been experimenting with— f*ck!” Anton swears as Evil Squidward flings him a good hundred feet in the air. He scrambles to right himself, getting the flight stabilizers engaged. Gets back just in time to see a car flying down the street at Strange, Wong, and Ford. Lands in front of them, uses a repulsor blast to send it back at Evil Squidward— who cuts it in half, stepping through unscathed.

“Get that Stone out of here,” Anton says, turning to Strange. “Now.”

“It stays with me,” Strange says firmly.

“Fine. It stays with you, we need it out of here,” Anton says. “So hit the f*cking road, Jack.”

He turns back to Evil Squidward, flies right at him, dodging falling bits of building. Raises a repulsor, preparing to fire—

Cull’s stupid hammer knocks him back, sends him flying through a f*cking building—

He crash-lands in Washington Square Park, scraping an ugly gouge in the grass until a helpful tree brings him to a halt. He pushes to his feet, muttering curses under his breath.

“Anton!” Bruce cries, running to catch up to him. Wong must’ve just sent him a few blocks over. Maybe even to the park itself. Which is not getting him out of here, but whatever. “How are we doing? Good? Bad?”

“Fan-f*cking-tastic,” Anton spits, rolling his shoulder— dislocated, he thinks. Just his f*cking luck. He spots something through the trees. “sh*t! Hammer—”

He knocks Bruce out of the way just in time, flies at Cull, who raises a shield. Anton hits him with a repulsor beam, but it only reflects off of the surface, cutting down the trees around them as he tries to dodge past Cull’s defenses. He manages to knock the behemoth back, toward the fountain. Cull pulls out his hammer again, starts swinging. Anton dodges, zipping around and firing at every exposed bit of skin he can find—

Cull hits him, knocks him to the ground face-first. Anton struggles to get upright— he can hear Cull charging at him, needs to be ready—

He’s not going to make it.

Cull’s heavy footsteps stop suddenly, and Anton turns to see—

“What’s up, Mr. Stark?” Spider-Man asks. Casual. Like he’s not the only thing stopping a space lizard from pounding Anton fifty feet into the dirt.

“Underoos?” Anton blinks, momentarily distracted from his peril. “Where the f*ck did you come from?”

“Field trip to the MoMA—” Peter grunts as Cull grabs him, flings him back toward the fountain. Anton distracts Cull while Peter makes his way back. “Mr. Stark, what’s this guy’s problem?”

“He’s from space,” Anton dodges a hammer swing, fires off a mini-rocket that doesn’t seem to do more than annoy Cull. “Came here to steal a necklace. From a wizard.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay,” Peter says. “Makes total sense.”

Anton really wishes there had been even a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Wishes that this kind of sh*t doesn’t just happen from time to time, these days.

What ever happened to a good, old-fashioned Mad Scientist Beatdown? Now everything’s aliens, and immortal magicians, and—

Cull catches the kid mid-air with his hammer, sends him flying toward one of the NYU buildings.

Anton fires at Cull’s shield again, manages to carve off a chunk. Cull picks up the severed back half of a taxi, throws it at Anton, who dodges. The kid snags it with his web, sends it hurtling back at the lizard’s face.

Cull doesn’t stay down for long, of course. Keeps Anton and the kid on their toes for another good forty-five seconds before something whizzes past—

Something being flown by a suspiciously familiar cape.

“Jesus motherf*ck— kid, that’s the wizard,” Anton calls over, blocking Cull’s blow with a quickly-deployed shield. “Get on it!”

“You got it, Mr. Stark!” Peter says, already swinging away.

Anton ducks as Cull swipes at his head, drives his heel into the back of Cull’s knee, bringing him down. Slips out from under the hammer, rolling across the ground. Launches to his feet, diving for Cull’s head. He wraps his arms around the bastard’s neck, pressing his left palm into where the carotid should be.

“FRIDAY, any idea what this guy’s circulatory system looks like?” He grunts, straining to hold on as Cull tries to pry him off.

“Not a damn clue, boss,” FRIDAY says.

“Guess we’ll find out,” Anton fires the repulsor, doesn’t give Cull even a second to react before flipping off of his shoulders. Which is for the best, because the f*cker’s got a new hole in his neck and he’s just shaking it off.

“Uh, Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice comes through the comms in that would-be-casual tone he tends to take when something terrible’s just happened, but he isn’t sure how normal it is for superheroes to encounter. “I’m being beamed up!”

Cull gets to his feet, swings at Anton again. Anton jumps over the swipe, fires a series of repulsor blasts rapid-fire. Several of them miss, and the statue of Gisueppe Garibaldi crumbles to the ground.

“Hang on, kid,” Anton says, and launches himself at Cull, who catches him mid-air with some… electrified grabber tool— throws him across the grass. Anton struggles against it, fighting harder as Cull extends an arm-blade, starts sprinting for him, leaps into the air—

A portal opens above Anton, and swallows Cull. When it closes, a severed hand is all that made it back through. It rolls to a halt at the feet of Anton’s rescuers— Wong, Bruce, and Ford.

“Eugh, gross,” Bruce grimaces, springing away from the hand like it’s a dead rat.

Ford rips the grabber off of Anton, helps him to his feet.

“Gotta go get the kid,” Anton says, backing up to get ready for takeoff. “Wong— you’re invited to my wedding!”

He takes flight, rocketing toward the rapidly-retreating form of the donut ship.

Ford jumps on the comms.

“If that was supposed to be a proposal, you’re gonna have to do better,” Ford says.

“Hey, if Great Value Gandalf hadn’t date-crashed, I would’ve been sweeping you off your goddamn feet right now,” Anton says. He’s focusing on the ship, and on Ford’s voice. If he focuses on those, he can do this. Even though they’re getting awfully high up, now. Awfully close to the edge of the atmosphere. “FRIDAY, get me a little juice here, and unlock vault 17-A. Send it to the kid’s coordinates.”

“Yes, boss.”

The legs of the suit lock together, forming a repulsor engine worthy of a space shuttle, and he nearly triples in speed.

“Sweeping me off my feet, huh?” Ford asks. Too light-hearted to not be false. Thinly papered atop his worry. Anton wonders, sometimes, how he used to believe Ford’s stoic act. “Guess you’d better get back here and prove it, after you’ve stopped that ship.”

“Trust me, it’s gonna be a proposal you’ll never forget,” Anton promises, rapidly drawing close to the ship. “Peter! You gotta let go. I’ll catch you.”

“But you said save the wizard!” Peter protests, breathing heavily. He rips off his mask, trying to catch his breath. “Oh boy. I can’t… I can’t breathe, Mr. Stark.”

“Air only goes so high up, kid,” Anton says. “You’re running out of oxygen quick.”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter mumbles. “That makes… sense…”

A figure drops from the ship, only to be caught by something that zips past Anton’s head—

The Iron Spider suit wraps around Peter’s falling body, and he catches himself at the bottom of the donut, taking in deep, gasping breaths.

“Oh man!” He pants. “Mr. Stark, it smells like a new car in here!”

“Sure does,” Anton says, finally caught up to the ship. “FRIDAY, send him home.”

“Yup.”

The suit’s parachute deploys, ripping Peter back to Earth.

“Aw, come on!” He cries.

Anton boots him off the comms, cuts a hole in the side of the ship with one of the arm lazers, slips inside. Rips a sheet of metal paneling off… something nearby, welds it over the hole.

He turns, taking in the scenery, a pit of cold dread in his stomach.

An itch at the base of his skull.

Something under his skin, screaming wrong, wrong, wrong—

“Anton? You still there?” Ford asks.

“Yeah,” Anton says. “For now. Hey, you might wanna call Nat, tell her to push back the reservation.”

“What? Why—”

“I’ve… got a feeling I’m gonna be at the office a little late tonight,” Anton says. “Might not wanna wait up.”

“Baby, I swear to f*cking god you had better not be on that f*cking ship,” Ford’s voice is already fuzzing out, the ship’s already getting too far out of range—

He crosses the threshold.

Comms turn to static. The HUD flickers, dies.

Anton blinks, and the void disappears, taking the Chitauri fleet with it. The itch digs its claws in deeper, almost painful now.

“Boss, you’re getting too far out of range,” FRIDAY says, her voice barely more clear than Ford’s. “We’re losing contact with you.”

“I love you, okay?” Anton says. “But I have to do this.”

“No—” Ford cuts out for a moment, and Anton’s heart does a horrible backflip. “No, you get back here, right this f*cking second. Do you hear me? You get back—”

The comms go dead.

“—down here, and we figure this out together. Anton? Babe? Anton, are you—”

“I’ve lost contact, boss,” FRIDAY says.

Ford drops his hand from his comms, scrubs it over his face. Pressing hard like he can keep it together by compressing himself. Physically hold everything in place.

He drops his hands, tries to take even breaths.

“f*ck. God damn it. Okay— FRIDAY, where is he?”

“Hard to say,” FRIDAY says. “But the last point of contact was in the thermosphere, approximately two hundred kilometers above Greenwich Village.”

Ford drops to the curb, his legs giving up on him.

“He has the Nanomask, right?” He asks. “And the suit? Both intact?”

“All systems were still online,” FRIDAY assures him. “As were the young Mr. Parker’s.”

“Parker— Parker’s on that ship?” He pulls out his phone, already frantically searching through his contacts until he finds Peter’s number. Hits ‘call.’

“The number you have dialed cannot be reached at this time,” the automated voice tells him.

He hangs up, gets to his feet.

Steps through a folded bit of space, giving him a shortcut from Greenwich Village and Avengers Tower.

He doesn’t look around, just takes the elevator down to Director Hill’s office, trying to use the time to compose himself. He knocks politely before entering, not having waited for an answer.

“Who the f*ck— Ford?” Hill lowers her gun. “What the hell’s going on out there? Where’s Stark?”

“Dr. Banner came back, to warn us that an alien named Thanos is collecting these things called Infinity Stones. Once he has all of them, he’ll have the power to do anything he wants— which in his case, is to kill half of all life in the universe,” Ford reports. “Two of his ‘Children’ showed up looking for the two Stones that are on Earth: Strange’s Eye of Agamotto, and Loki’s Scepter. They got the Eye, and Strange. Took off. Spider-Man was trying to rescue Strange, got pulled up with him. Iron Man—”

He swallows, throat hitching slightly. His eyes sting, and if he focuses, he thinks he can feel tears slipping down his cheeks.

“Anton went after them. They’re out of range.”

Hill sits down heavily behind her desk, gun tossed carelessly aside. It lands in her in-tray.

“Where’s Banner now?” She asks, massaging her temples. She stops suddenly, pulls her landline across the desk towards herself, starts punching in a number with far more force than necessary. “Get him, and bring him back here. I’ll track down the rest of the team, and anyone else I can get ahold of. You may need to provide transport, if possible— we can’t afford to wait on Quinjets right now.”

“Yes ma’am,” Ford says. He’s exhausted from the fight with Ebony Maw— the evangelical Evil Squidward— but he can’t afford the luxury of rest right now. If he has to run himself ragged to get to the Mind Stone before Thanos or any of his children do, then he has to run himself ragged.

He just hopes he doesn’t pass out first.

He steps through another fold, back to Washington Square Park. Has to search for a minute to find where Bruce and Wong wandered off to.

He finds them sitting on the edge of the fountain, Cull’s severed hand sat atop Bruce’s tattered suit jacket between them.

“Director Hill wants to see you,” Ford says. “Wong, we could use your help, if you can give it.”

“The Sanctum cannot be left undefended,” Wong says apologetically, getting to his feet. “You know better than anyone what could happen, if the seals were broken. I wish you the best of luck, but my work is here.”

Ford nods, and Wong steps through a portal back to the Sanctum.

“Ready?” Ford asks. Bruce stands, wraps the severed hand up, cradled in his arms like the world’s weirdest teddy bear.

“As I’ll ever be,” Bruce says.

Ford lays a hand on his shoulder, and pulls him back through the fold.

He understands why most magicians use portals— they’re easier to see through, for one, and no one wants to accidentally teleport partway through a wall; it’s not impossible to peer through a fold, just not as straightforward— but he’d read A Wrinkle In Time a few too many times as a kid for that kind of thing. Folds are easier than portals, anyway. Easier to convince the universe that two points on a map back up on each other and slip through the void between them, rather than trying to logic out how a door or a hole leading halfway across the globe works. Because it doesn’t.

You have to be able to buy what you’re selling, when it comes to magic. Or at least really, really good at not thinking too hard about it. But the spells you can reason out logically and generally in accordance with physics? Lot harder to mess those up.

No one wants to get stuck in the void between the folded map. Or dumped into the ether by a floating door, or cut in half by a closing portal—

Anyway, he gets that portals are kind of the thing to do, but folds just make more sense.

And don’t look as stupid.

Hill’s on the phone when they step back through. She points at Bruce, then at one of the chairs in front of her desk. He takes a seat.

“Great. Your ride’ll be there momentarily,” Hill says, and hangs up. Starts dialing another number. “The team’s all in the building already, and taking the elevator down now. I need you to bring Agent Coulson and his team in— they’re parked at Hangar Two on Edwards AFB. Leave the Bus behind. I don’t have time to argue with the Air Force about making aircraft vanish from their base. Take them to conference room C.”

Ford does as told, not bothering to exchange pleasantries this time.

He likes Phil, and his team. They’re good people. He’s just too f*cking tired. Plus he’s feeling annoyed and more than a little petty about being Hill’s personal shuttle service, and watching a bunch of SHIELD Agents stumble around, confused and disoriented? Well, it’s entertaining. He could do with a distraction right about now.

He hasn’t wanted a drink this bad in years. Not since right after Extremis. That time, he’d only stopped himself from cleaning out the nearest liquor store because he had to keep an eye on Anton. This time, the stakes are arguably a little bit higher, which makes it both easier and harder to ignore the itch under his skin.

He has to be sober in order to help track down and— ideally— destroy the Mind Stone, but the consequences of failure loom heavy in his mind. It’s the kind of weight he wants to blunt the edges off of, the kind he wants to soak in a bottle or two of rum until it dissolves. He knows better than to think it actually would, but he can never quite shake the hope that this time, his worst coping skill might have a chance of success.

And then, of course, there’s Anton. Hundreds of miles from home and only getting further away. Stuck on a spaceship bound for who-knows-where, with Ebony Maw and god knows what other reinforcements. A ship that big, it’s gotta have a crew. Probably. Maybe it’s all computerized— tech isn’t really his forte. Or space travel.

He feels like his brain is unraveling at the seams; three hours ago, he’d woken up next to Anton, they’d made coffee and toaster waffles and scrambled eggs. Natasha had called to tell them that she had made dinner reservations for seven, Anton’s whole family would be there, and they had better not be late. Two hours ago, Anton had suggested they spend the day in the city, taken him to Central Park for a suspiciously nervous stroll.

Ten minutes ago, Anton had admitted he’d been trying to propose, and then got on a goddamn space ship.

After collecting Nick Fury from a safehouse in Paris, Ford collapses into a chair at the far end of the conference table, exhausted. He tries to keep his eyes open, to tune in to the arguments and confusion—

He wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He pries open his eyelids at an odd humming sound.

He pushes back from the conference table, ignoring the arguments dying out around him, the others getting to their feet.

A golden doorway appears in front of them.

“What the f*ck—” Steve says, breaking off as a figure falls through, the doorway closing behind them.

The figure struggles upright, staggering and swaying.

Long, dark hair. Pale skin. Wearing a brown polyester suit and a blunt-ended skinny tie.

Teeming with magic.

“You didn’t need to push me!” The man shouts, directed at the patch of air where the doorway used to be.

He takes a deep breath, composes himself.

Turns to face the rest of the room.

“Oh, sh*t. Erm— Thor wouldn’t be around here, by any chance?”

“Last I saw him, Thanos was throwing him out an airlock,” Bruce says. “After you died.”

“Ah, good. I got my timing right, at least,” the man says, clapping his hands together once and looking around the room with a pleased expression. “Not to fret— he’ll be fine; should be on his way to Nidavellir as we speak.”

“Put your hands in the air— slowly,” Natasha grits out, her guns trained on the man’s forehead.

The man complies, seeming to notice all the weapons pointed at him for the first time.

“I came to help,” the man says. Meets Ford’s eyes. “I know it may be difficult for some of you to believe, but I did. You can ask your sorcerer, if you don’t want to take me at my word.”

“How exactly am I supposed to help you?” Ford asks. “I don’t even know who you are, let alone whether you’re telling the truth.”

“Please,” the man scoffs. “A simple truth detection charm should be easier than breathing, for someone with your raw talent; and even at this distance, accessing my memories through enchantment should be child’s play.”

“Ford?” Hill prompts. “Is that something you can do?”

“If I could, do you think we’d still be talking about it?” Ford asks, exasperated.

“Good god, you have no idea what you’re capable of, do you?” The man asks, looking almost horrified at the idea. Ford bristles at the accusation— he knows exactly what he’s capable of, thank you very much. He’d spent seven and a half years— longer, if you counted his time in Tír na nÓg— finding out exactly where his limits were, pushing them back as far as they could go, and learning everything he could about magic. And sure, he’d had to make up a lot of it as he went along, but he knows where the limits of magic— his magic— are. And he knows damn well that what this asshole’s asking him to do is impossible. “You’re practically dripping with magic! It’s indecent, frankly; I feel like I shouldn’t even be looking at you right now.”

“Shut your trap, and listen up— speaking from experience, you’ve got about three minutes before my arm gives out and this arrow goes through your skull,” Clint says. “That’s three minutes for you to convince me I shouldn’t just shoot you anyway. I’d suggest you start talking now.”

“Right. Yes,” the man says, sighing heavily. “I did bring evidence, just in case— it’s in my pocket. I’m going to pull it out, please refrain from shooting me, for the time being.”

“No promises,” Phil mutters.

The man takes one of his hands away from his head, puts it into the pocket of his slacks. Pulls out a sleek, golden device, which he opens with a flick of his wrist.

It sparks, smokes. The briefly illuminated screen flickers out.

“Damn,” the man hisses, tossing it onto the conference table and shaking out his hand as if injured by the malfunctioning device.

“The hell is this?” Hill demands, pulling the device in front of herself with the end of her pen.

“That was a device known as a TemPad,” the man says. “And it’s remarkably fragile, for something meant to be taken into active combat!”

He shouts the last two words at the ceiling, as if speaking to some unseen audience. Sighs again before regaining his composure.

“They’re used by the Time Variance Authority to monitor and navigate the timelines. I had hoped we could use it to stop Thanos, but…” he shrugs, nodding his head at the device. “Evidently, my plan had some flaws.”

“Cut the crap, Loki,” Steve snaps. “Start from the beginning— what happened, why you’re here, and why we should trust you, after everything you did.”

Ah.

Loki.

He’s a lot less greasy than Anton’s ranting had made him sound.

“I came from a different timeline, one where the Avengers traveled through time to collect the Infinity Stones so that they might defeat Thanos. They fumbled the Tesseract while trying to retrieve it after the battle with the Chitauri, and I escaped,” Loki says, speaking quickly, hands raised placatingly. “I was picked up by the TVA, put to trial for causing a branch in the Sacred Timeline— things were done a bit differently, back then— and to make a very long story short, I spent two thousand years reworking the very fabric of time so that the timelines could coexist, rather than being constrained and pruned down to a single one. I just—”

Loki sighs again, hanging his head. Drops his hands to his sides.

“The branch I came from is gone— pruned. But I thought— I thought that if I dropped into a branch nearby, one similar enough to my own, I could… I could have my brother back,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “I could try to make things right, for once.”

He looks back up at them, a rueful smile on his face.

“I understand you have no reason to trust me,” he says. “All I’m asking for is a chance to prove it to you, that I’m here to help. Just a chance.”

“Ford, take him to a holding cell,” Hill says. “We need to talk this over.”

“Maria, there’s no way in hell—” Phil starts, but Ford’s already pulling Loki through the fold.

They step through, into cell 1130.

Ford collapses into one of the chairs at the table, vision fuzzing in and out, breathing heavily.

“That was… inelegant, to say the least,” Loki says, taking the seat across from him and eyeing him warily. “And inefficient to boot. Who on earth even trained you?”

Ford glares at him, still trying to catch his breath. Regain enough strength to go back to the conference room.

“Were you even trained at all?” Loki presses. “Surely there are other magic users on Midgard who could have taught you?”

“None that know the first thing about how magic actually works,” Ford says, struggling to sit upright. Or something close to upright, anyway.

It’s a little hard to tell which direction is up, when the room’s spinning like a gyroscope.

“Of course not,” Loki rolls his eyes, settling back with his arms crossed, legs sprawled out in front of him. “How silly of me to expect some amount of competence from Midgardian sorcerers.”

“Friendly word of advice?” Ford says, fighting to keep his eyes open, the syllables slurring together more and more with every word. “If you’re tryin’ to convince us you’re here t’ help… maybe don’ sh*t talk our planet.”

He passes out.

Anton crouches low on the walkway, peering through the ship’s machinery as Evil Squidward threatens Strange. Something about Squidward never having failed Thanos before, and not planning on starting now.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when something taps his arm, whirls around with a repulsor at the ready, only to find Strange’s stupid cape. Just… floating there.

“You are one seriously loyal piece of outerwear,” Anton grumbles, lowering the repulsor. “Jesus.”

“Yeah, uh… speaking of loyalty,” Peter says, slowly lowering himself down via a web strand until he can safely and silently drop to the walkway. He shuffles his feet, looking sheepish. “I know what you’re gonna say—”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Anton hisses.

“I was gonna go home—”

“I don’t wanna hear it!”

“—but it was such a long way down, and— and I just thought, y’know, about you—”

“f*cking christ.”

“—and I kinda stuck to the side of the ship,” Peter shrugs. “And this suit is ridiculously intuitive, so it’s really your fault I’m here, if you think about it.”

Anton glares at him.

“Um,” Peter says. “I— I take that back. Sorry, Mr. Stark. Anyway, I’m here now, and there’s nothing we can do about it. So let me help.”

“This isn’t a field trip, Parker,” Anton snaps, keeping his voice low so that they won’t be overheard. “It’s a one-way ticket, understand? Don’t try to pretend you thought this through.”

“You’re right,” Peter admits. “I didn’t think it through. But the thing is, Mr. Stark— you can’t be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man if there’s no neighborhood. Right?”

Anton pinches the bridge of his nose, wonders what the hell he did in a past life to earn the kind of karma required for this level of bullsh*t.

The kid has a point, though. Loath as he is to admit it. Can’t really blame him for wanting to help out, with stakes like these.

“Whatever,” he says, dropping his hand. “No point in arguing it now. We got a situation to deal with— that asshole down there needs an assist. Got any ideas?”

Peter peers through the metal, focusing intently.

“Um,” he says. “Um— okay. Okay, I think I have an idea.”

“Hit me.”

“You ever see this one really old movie, called Aliens?”

Anton sighs heavily.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m familiar. You grab Strange, I’ll handle our bargain-bin Xenomorph.”

Peter nods, and the mask of his suit reappears.

Anton drops off the walkway, landing softly behind Evil Squidward.

“Painful, aren’t they? They were originally designed for microsurgery. And any one of them…” Squidward turns away from the crystal needles, pointed at Strange from every angle. Faces Anton, an evil smile on his face. “…could end your friend’s life in an instant.”

“First of all? He’s really not my friend,” Anton says. Strange rolls his eyes, which is rich, coming from the guy he’s here to rescue. “Saving him’s more a professional courtesy.”

“You’ve saved nothing,” Squidward snarls. “Your powers are inconsequential, compared to mine.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Anton says. “Let’s test that theory.”

He fires the shoulder-mounted mini-rockets at the side of the ship, immediately grabs hold of a sturdy-looking piece of metal to avoid getting sucked out into the vacuum alongside Evil Squidward. Strange flies past, followed closely by his cape, which grabs his arm— loses its grip against the pull of the vacuum.

Peter snags Strange with a web, latches onto an undamaged part of the ship with another. The ship piece breaks, and Peter goes hurtling toward the hole, only stopped by the retractable legs on the back of his suit.

“Yes! This is so cool!” He cheers, and Anton deploys the nanobots, patching over the hole. Peter and Strange collapse to the floor, groaning slightly as they stand.

Strange’s cape floats over to them, and Peter extends a hand, like he’s trying to shake the cape’s hand.

“Hey, we haven’t officially… met…” he trails off as the cape passes by him without acknowledgement, wraps itself around Strange once more. “So cool.”

“We’ve gotta turn this ship around,” Strange says, dusting himself off.

“Oh, now he wants to run,” Anton scoffs. “Great plan, Strange. Almost like it’s exactly what I told you to do, back on Earth!”

“If I had tried to run, what exactly do you think would have happened?” Strange asks. “Those… things would have followed me, and they wouldn’t have stopped until they got their hands on the Eye of Agamotto.”

“You’re a f*cking wizard,” Anton says. “You could’ve kept running long enough for us to kill them. But because you didn’t, we’re now trapped on a flying donut, billions of miles from New York, with no backup.”

“I’m backup,” Peter says, a little reproachful.

“You’re a stowaway,” Anton says. “And you’re a kid, who should not be getting tangled up in this kind of thing!”

“I’m sorry, I’m a little confused,” Strange says, interrupting Peter’s retort. “Who is this? Your… ward?”

“Uh… no? We just work together, sometimes,” Peter says. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

“Doctor Strange,” Strange says, shaking his hand. Peter nods, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh, okay— we’re using our made-up names,” Peter says, and Anton has to fake a coughing fit, turning away from the two of them. “Um… I’m Spider-Man, then.”

They stumble slightly as the ship lurches, changing trajectory, and Anton turns back.

“It’s course-correcting,” he says, staring out the windshield, or whatever the hell it is that’s displaying the void outside. “Thing must be on autopilot.”

“Can we control it?” Strange asks. “Fly us home?”

Anton walks through the control center, running a hand along the equipment, deep in thought.

“Stark,” Strange says, snapping him out of it. “Can you get us home?”

“I’m not so sure we should head back just yet,” Anton says, not meeting their eyes. Scanning around the hold of the ship, for something to do.

“Absolutely not,” Strange says. “Are you mad? Under no circ*mstances can we risk bringing the Time Stone anywhere near Thanos’s grasp— I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here!”

“Oh, I understand alright,” Anton says, facing him and retracting the helmet of his suit. “I’m not sure you do. Thanos has— apparently— been in my head for the past six years, ever since I came back through that portal. And now he’s back. And I don’t know what to do! I don’t know if we even can stop him. But I have to try. Do you understand me? You saw what he’s capable of even without the Stones. I can’t risk him going back to Earth and finishing the job.”

“So… what?” Strange huffs. “We meet him on his home turf, bringing the Time Stone straight to him? Sure, great plan! Can’t see how that could go wrong.”

“You got a better one?” Anton demands, stepping forward to get in Strange’s face. “At least on his turf, he’s not expecting us.”

Strange meets his glare with a calculating look. Nods after a few long, drawn-out moments.

“Fine,” he says. “But you have to understand, if it comes to saving you, or the kid, or the Time stone… I will not hesitate to let either of you die. I can’t, because the fate of the universe depends on it. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Anton bites out, clipping the syllables short.

Ford wakes up back in the conference room, propped up in a chair in the corner. The same chair from lockup, like someone had just carried it rather than trying to move him without waking him up.

There’s a much smaller group clustered around the table now— just the Avengers, Fury, and Phil.

Loki’s at the whiteboard, gesturing emphatically at a diagram of a Scepter— of the Mind Stone.

“I can still sense the Stone, of course,” Loki says. “Using an Infinity Stone leaves a— a sort of mark, or a residue. Creates a link between the Stone and its wielder; I can lead you to the Scepter, help you retrieve it— that’s the easy part.”

“And the hard part?” Phil asks, his arms crossed and his face thunderous.

Clearly, Hill hadn’t been able to talk him around on the idea of using Loki’s help. Or at least not into liking the idea.

“The hard part is destroying it,” Loki says, scribbling a complex series of equations on the board. Bruce approaches, adjusting his glasses as he puzzles over them. “We’ll need a significant energy source, one similar to that of the Stone. Theoretically, if the Stone were exposed to that energy source—”

Loki circles a final equation, taps the marker on the board excitedly.

“It would destroy the Stone’s molecular integrity,” he concludes, turning to face them. He pops the cap back on the marker, tosses it carelessly aside. Clint picks it up, whips it at Loki’s forehead. “Ow— seriously? That’s what we’ve come to?”

“The Director said we weren’t allowed to kill you,” Clint says. “She didn’t say anything about mild injuries. Which is the least you deserve.”

“…fair enough,” Loki says, rubbing at the slight pink mark on his forehead. “I appreciate your restraint, Agent Barton. And I do apologize for what I did to you, and to you, Agent Coulson— I… realize I should have lead with that.”

“Your apology is noted, and will be taken under consideration,” Phil says. Ford has a feeling it’s going into the ‘shred’ pile in Phil’s mental filing system. “Dr. Banner, those equations check out?”

“I’m… not sure,” Bruce says, still frowning at the board. “I think so, assuming these variables are correct. I’d have to check the data we got off the Scepter to make sure they are, but assuming Loki’s right about them? Yeah, it could work.”

“‘Could’ work?” Steve asks. “How much room for error are we talking about here?”

“Hard to say,” Bruce says, finally turning back to them. He’s had a change of clothes, a shave. Looks a little better than before, though still rattled. “But the odds are good enough that I’d say it’s worth a shot, if it means stopping Thanos. I mean— guys, this is about as certain as it gets, with theoretical physics. We’re not gonna get a better option, here.”

“What are we waiting for?” Ford asks, hauling himself to his feet. There’s a nervous, terrible energy coursing through him. Electric and venomous. Pulling him so far past exhaustion that he’s wrapped around to near-mania. “Let’s get this damn thing and destroy it already.”

“We still need a power source to destroy it with,” Fury says. “Loki, you said it had to be significant— how significant?”

“Far more than what this Tower is capable of,” Loki says. “And we have to be able to adjust its frequency, in order to match that of the Stone’s as precisely as possible. We’ll need somewhere safe to take it while we’re working on destroying it, too— Thanos’s army will stop at nothing to retrieve it for him.”

“We can worry about that after we have the Scepter,” Ford says. “Our biggest concern is keeping it away from Thanos— he already has two of the Stones, could even have three for all we know—”

He takes a breath, counts back from five.

“There’s no time for getting all our ducks in a row,” he says, as calmly as he can manage. “Once we have the Scepter, we can keep moving it around, keep it off Thanos’s radar long enough for us to find that power source, and work out how to use it to destroy the Stone.”

“Well,” Loki says, drawing the word out. “You might not have time to spare, but I have a way around that, in a matter of speaking.”

“You told us you couldn’t repair the TemPad in time,” Sam says. “You changing your tune?”

“No— no, the TemPad isn’t an option,” Loki says, making a dismissive gesture. “Most of the parts I’d need haven’t been invented yet, and the materials required to manufacture them don’t exist on this planet, or anywhere in this solar system. But, due to my misadventures with the TVA, I’m no longer tethered to the linear flow of time; I can roll back my personal timeline— with one or two passengers, at the most. Should we fail to destroy the Stone in time, I merely have to return to an earlier point and try again.”

“Why can’t you just go back to the dawn of time, destroy all the Stones before they can cause problems?” Bucky asks.

“I did say my personal timeline,” Loki says reproachfully. “I was born several billion years after the dawn of the universe, and even if I rolled things back that far, it wouldn’t change anything in this timeline.”

“So worst comes to worst, you can hit the reset button, but it can only take you back to when you showed up a few hours ago,” Bruce concludes, rubbing his chin. Ford thinks he should probably feel more rested, if he was out for hours. Shouldn’t feel like he’s running on the fumes of fumes. “That’s… something, I suppose. Think it’ll be enough?”

“It has to be,” Loki says. “We cannot afford to fail in this task. This is our only chance to stop Thanos before he kills half the universe.”

“I’ll make some calls, see about that energy source,” Fury says. “The rest of you— get that Scepter, and bring it back here safe. I’ll call if something turns up before you get back.”

“What about Wakanda?” Natasha asks. “If there’s anywhere with the facilities to handle this, I’m willing to bet it’s there. Even Toshenka was impressed by their tech.”

“He spent three hours ranting about Princess Shuri dunking on the Badassium synthesis process he wrote up,” Clint agrees. “There was a lot of bitching about how he managed it with a DIY supercollider in his living room, and that he’d like to see her do better in his shoes.”

“Uphill both ways and in the snow, I’m sure,” Phil says, smiling faintly.

“Okay, so we get the Scepter, and take it to Shuri for disposal,” Ford says. “Easy enough— let’s f*cking go already.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Steve says, voice stern. “You’re dead on your feet, Ford.”

“I can help,” Ford insists. “I know I’m not at my best right now, but we need all hands on deck here.”

“You passed out twice already today,” Steve says. “Bucky and I carried you up from Loki’s cell, and you didn’t even stir. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Then I just won’t use my magic,” Ford says. “I can fight perfectly well without it— please, just let me help.”

“If you insist on coming with us, at least drop those ridiculous shields you have up,” Loki says.

Ford blinks at him, bewildered.

“Shields?” He asks. “I don’t… I don’t have any shields.”

He would notice.

Right?

“Allfather help me,” Loki mutters, scooping the whiteboard marker from the floor and turning back to the board. He draws another diagram, this one of a stick figure inside of three concentric circles, with squiggly horizontal lines on either side of the barrier. He taps the stick figure with the back end of the marker. “This is you. Surrounded by barriers, preventing the universe’s magical background radiation from reaching you. They’re disguised quite well, actually— it took me a while to realize you even had them, though it comes as some surprise that you’re apparently oblivious to their existence.”

He swipes a finger through the circles, draws another squiggly line through the opening, passing through the stick figure and out the other side.

“When you cast a spell, you pull a small amount of that radiation through the barriers, which takes a great deal of energy,” Loki continues. “Then, you have to push it back out, which consumes even more energy— and that’s not even getting into the cost of maintaining the barriers, even when unconscious. It’s a miracle you’re able to cast anything at all, frankly. Even more of a miracle, that you haven’t fallen into a vegetative state.”

“Maintaining a spell takes focus,” Ford says. “How could I maintain focus, if I don’t even know what I’m focusing on?”

“Think of it like… like a background program, on a computer,” Loki says, capping the pen again. “Magic works based on intention, conscious or otherwise; some part of you is worried about what would happen if your magic were left unchecked, and it’s been trying to protect you long enough that you’ve forgotten why you did it in the first place. It’s using up all your RAM, working as a sort of… bloated anti-virus software. Am I making sense?”

“Not even a little bit,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, actually,” Ford says, tilting his head as he scrutinizes the crude diagram. “In theory, anyway. I still— how could I not realize I was doing it?”

“As I said, you’ve likely been maintaining these barriers for years,” Loki says. “Possibly the majority of your life. Perhaps as an instinctual reaction to a magical misadventure?”

There had certainly been a lot of those, when he was a kid. Things flying around the room when he threw a tantrum, shockwaves pushing people back when he was upset.

And then one day, they’d just… stopped. He’d assumed he’d just gotten better at controlling it, but—

“If you’d like, I can help you take down the barriers,” Loki says. “And if you want to help collect and destroy the Scepter, you’re going to have to let me. Once I do, you’ll be able to pull energy from that background radiation to bolster yourself, and casting spells won’t take even an iota of what it costs you now. If I don’t, you’re going to collapse in about… twenty minutes, I’d wager. Assuming you don’t try to use your magic before then.”

Ford hesitates, the knee-jerk refusal waiting at the tip of his tongue.

It’s a gamble, trusting Loki on something like this. He could betray Ford in all kinds of nasty ways, possibly even kill him.

But Thanos is coming, and Anton—

If what Loki’s saying is true, if he’s really been limiting his abilities by that much…

He might be able to bring Anton home.

“You’re going to have to be careful, of course,” Loki says. “With your magic unchained, it’s going to be much more responsive to your will. If you don’t tread carefully, you could cast all kinds of spells without meaning to.”

“Okay,” Ford says. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Ford—” Phil starts. Cuts himself off, frowning. “Are you sure? Think this through, for a second.”

“I really don’t see a better option, here,” Ford says. “Look, we can’t afford to bench anyone right now, and this is the fastest way to get me back in fighting shape. Could things go sideways? Sure. But I don’t think they will.”

“You don’t think they’ll go sideways?” Phil raises an eyebrow.

“Loki’s not lying about this,” Ford says. “I— I think he’s right, about the shields. And if he can help me take them down—”

He gestures vaguely, trying to get the rest of the room to fill in the blanks on their own.

He’s already waning fast, and the energy needed to finish his thought seems insurmountable.

“What do I have to do?” He asks Loki.

“Just take a deep breath, and I’ll do the rest,” Loki says. “Er— we may want to go somewhere with fewer people, however. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Fury demands.

“In case,” Loki says, exasperated. “Look, no one’s ever done something like this before; I have no idea what to expect, but we have to assume there’s a possibility of a… a shockwave, or something of the sort. Better safe than sorry, yes?”

“I don’t like it,” Steve says. “There’s too many unknowns, too many ways for this thing to go wrong.”

“Yeah, that’s a ‘f*ck no’ from me,” Clint says.

“I appreciate the concern, but it’s not your decision,” Ford says. “It’s mine, and I’m doing it. We can go to the Estate; property’s big enough that we shouldn’t be endangering the neighbors.”

And Benchmark’s indoor-only, so she’ll be safe, as long as they steer clear of the house.

“Perfect,” Loki says. He tosses the marker onto the conference table, claps his hands together. “Shall we?”

“If you’re gonna do this, then we’re coming with you,” Bucky says.

“What part of ‘shockwave’ are you failing to understand?” Loki asks.

Bucky ignores him, keeping his focus on Ford.

“If something goes wrong, and we weren’t there to help you? We wouldn’t be able to forgive ourselves,” Bucky says. “The kid sure as hell wouldn’t forgive us, if anything happened to you.”

Reluctantly, Ford nods.

“Okay,” he says. “But you’re going to have to stay back. I don’t know what the minimum safe distance is going to be, but— but you have to try to stay out of the blast zone.”

“Excellent,” Loki claps his hands together again. “Focus on where we’re going, and I’ll transport us. Who’s tagging along? Show of hands.”

“I’ve got a King to call,” Fury says. “The rest of you: get this handled.”

“Without the Hulk, I’m not going to be of much use. I’ll— I’ll stay behind, check those equations against the data from the Scepter,” Bruce says.

“Anyone else staying behind?” Loki asks. “In that case—”

He snaps his fingers, and the conference room dissolves, quickly replaced by the grounds of the Estate. Everyone besides Loki and Ford fall to the ground, having still been seated when they left.

“f*cking hell,” Natasha spits, pushing to her feet. “A little warning would have been nice.”

“Time is of the essence,” Loki says, entirely unapologetic. “The six of you should wait here, hopefully out of the line of fire.”

“Hopefully?” Sam asks, exchanging an incredulous look with Steve.

“Again— never been done before,” Loki says. “How many times do I have to say that?”

“Fine,” Steve says. “We’ll wait here. But if we don’t like what we’re seeing—”

“You’ll kill me, I expect,” Loki says, cutting him off. “I’ll keep that in mind. Ford? Lead the way.”

Without so much as a glance toward the rest of the team, Ford strikes out across the grounds, toward the rose garden. Brings Loki over to the birdbath before stopping.

“Ready?” Loki asks.

“Tell me one thing,” Ford says. “You said your timeline was similar to ours. Does that mean you know the future?”

“More or less,” Loki says. “The general shape of it, anyway, and I know what events seem to be fixed across the timelines.”

“Does Anton come home?” Ford asks before he can stop himself.

Loki frowns at him, taken aback.

“Who?” He asks.

“Anton Stark? Iron Man?” Ford prompts, and Loki’s expression clears.

“Ah, this world’s Stark variant,” Loki says. “I was wondering where he was— yes, he’ll come back to Earth. He always does, same as my brother.”

Ford allows himself a short breath of relief, then nods.

“Drop the barriers,” he says.

The world goes white.

If Anton ever finds out who designed this piece of sh*t donut, he’s going to have some questions to answer. Questions like why the f*ck there’s an autopilot function and not an auto-park function.

They’re lucky Strange could throw up a force field in time.

“f*cking hell,” Anton grunts, getting to his feet. “Everyone alive? Sound off.”

“Yeah,” Strange says— bastard hadn’t even stumbled. “I’m fine.”

Peter descends from the ceiling on one of his webs.

“Let me just say, if aliens wind up implanting eggs in my chest or something, and I end up eating you? I’m sorry,” he says.

“Cool it with the pop-culture references, kid,” Anton says.

“I’m— I’m trying to say something’s coming,” Peter says, pointing behind himself.

“Thanos!” Someone bellows, just outside the massive hole in the side of the ship.

A grenade rolls to a halt at Anton’s feet. He tosses it into the air with the toe of the suit, roundhouse kicks it back the way it came. It detonates in the opening, blocking their view of the incoming attackers.

Something flies out of the cloud of smoke, attaches to his suit. Rips him off his feet, soaring clear across the wreckage and pinning him against the wall. He claws at the disk, manages to rip it off and drop to the floor. Launches himself back into the fray, tackling the biggest of the three attackers. When he gets to his feet, repulsors aimed at the blue guy’s head, they’re at a stalemate— guy in the creepy mask has a blaster pointed at Peter’s head, holding him in a headlock, and Strange has the antenna girl pinned.

“Everybody stay where you are, chill the f*ck out,” Creepy Mask says. He bumps something behind one of his ears, and the mask retracts, revealing someone who at least looks like a normal human. “I’m gonna ask you this one time— where’s Gamora?”

“Who?” Anton asks, moving one of his repulsors from Blue Guy to Creepy Mask, wondering if he can risk trying to get a shot off before Creepy Mask puts a hole in Peter’s head.

“Tell me where the girl is, or I swear to you, I’m gonna French Fry this little freak,” Creepy Mask says, pressing the barrel of the blaster into the side of Peter’s head.

“You should not have just said that,” Anton says, his voice low and cold.

“Fine— you don’t wanna tell me where she is? I’ll just kill all three of you and beat it out of Thanos myself,” Creepy Mask says.

“Wait— Thanos?” Strange asks. “Alright, let me ask you this one time: what master do you serve?”

Anton flinches at the wording, despite himself.

“What master do I serve?” Creepy Mask asks incredulously. “What am I supposed to say? Jesus?”

“You’re from Earth,” Anton says flatly.

“I’m not from Earth, I’m from Missouri,” Creepy Mask says.

“That’s on Earth, dipsh*t,” Anton says. “What’re you hassling us for?”

“So… does that mean you’re not with Thanos?” Peter asks, craning his neck at an awkward angle to look at Creepy Mask.

“With Thanos?” Creepy Mask scoffs. “No, I’m here to kill Thanos. He took my girl— wait, who are you?”

“We’re the Avengers, man,” Peter says.

“Oh.”

“You are the ones Thor told us about!” Antenna Girl says excitedly.

“You know Thor?” Anton asks. “f*cking hell, of course. Why the sh*t not. Jesus. Alright, where the hell is he?”

“I dunno, ran off with Captain Danvers and half our crew, said something about making some dumb weapon,” Creepy Mask says. “I’m gonna let this guy go now, because my arm is getting tired and I guess you guys are like, cool, or whatever. You’re cool, right?”

Anton disperses the Nanosuit.

“We’re cool,” he says. “Now let the kid go.”

“Wait— kid?” Creepy Mask looks between Anton and Peter, eyes wide. Releases the kid, taking a step back as Peter’s Nanosuit disperses, leaving the maskless Spider-Man suit behind. “Jesus f*ck, how old are you?!”

“Seventeen,” Peter says. “I’m basically an adult, it’s fine.”

“No! Not fine!” Creepy Mask exclaims. He rounds on Anton, pointing an accusatory finger at him, opens his mouth. Shuts it, frowning.

Turns on Strange.

“What the hell were you thinking, dragging two kids into this?” He demands.

“I did nothing of the sort,” Strange says. “They followed me.”

“I should have just f*cking shot you and destroyed the damn Stone myself,” Anton says. “But no, you swore an oath. And I’m actually an adult, thanks.”

“Really?” Creepy Mask asks. “How old are you, then? Hm?”

“That’s a complicated question.”

“How the sh*t is that a complicated question?!”

“That’s complicated.”

“Jesus f*cking—” Creepy Mask throws his hands up, exasperated. Scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re not helping your case, you know.”

“He’s, um,” Peter clears his throat, shuffling awkwardly as they all turn toward him. “Well, he’s like… he, um, got put in stasis on and off? And cellular regeneration slows down the aging process, I think— wait, does that mean I’m not actually seventeen?”

“How fast do you heal?” Anton asks. “Say you burned your hand on the stove. Ballpark estimate.”

“Uh,” Peter mouths something to himself. “Two, three days? Are we talking about a stove on high heat, or low heat? Let’s— let’s just go with three days. Ballpark.”

“You shouldn’t be off by more than a few months,” Anton says after some quick guesstimations.

“Okay, cool,” Peter says with a relieved smile. “Because Aunt May says I can’t get my driver’s license until—”

“Yeah, okay, super interesting,” Creepy Mask says, waving him off. “Answer the question, Tin Man.”

“There was a question?” Anton asks blithely, and Creepy Mask levels the blaster at him. He doesn’t bother raising his hands, even as Peter and Strange turn on Creepy Mask, ready to attack if he so much as thinks about firing. “Twenty-eight. Ish. Maybe twenty-nine. That’s how many years I’ve been active, anyway. When you tally it all up.”

Reluctantly, Creepy Mask lowers his gun. After a moment of hesitation, Peter and Strange drop their hands.

“f*ckin’ universe keeps gettin’ weirder every damn day,” Creepy Mask grumbles, shoving the blaster into the holster at his hip. “The name’s Peter Quill. This is Drax, and Mantis.”

He gestures at Blue Guy and Antenna Girl in turn.

“Your turn,” Quill says.

“Hi, I’m Peter!” Peter says. “Peter Parker. Um. You can call me Spider-Man, if that’s less confusing, Mr. Quill.”

“You are neither man nor spider,” Drax says, furrowing his brow. “Why would we call you such a thing?”

“Oh, it’s like… a superhero name, so that the bad guys don’t know who I really am,” Peter says. “See, I got bit by this radioactive spider, and now—”

“Parker,” Anton says. “Drop it. Not the time.”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

“Anton Stark,” Anton says, gesturing at himself. Jerks a thumb at Strange. “Asshole in a cape is Doctor Stephen Strange. Now that we’ve got through the ice-breakers, how about we talk about how we’re gonna kill the big purple sh*tbag?”

Ford sits bolt upright, gasping for breath. Knocks Clint away from where he’d been leaning over, trying to wake Ford up.

“Woah! Easy there,” Clint says, grabbing Ford’s shoulder and steadying him. “Hey, you alright? How’re you feeling?”

“I—” Ford blinks rapidly, shakes his head.

Everything’s…

“Was the grass always that— that green?” He asks, ripping up a fistful to hold up to Clint. “Look at this— Clint, I swear to god I’m seeing f*cking shrimp colors.”

“Oh boy,” Clint says, pushing Ford’s hand away. “Uh, guys? Ford’s lost it.”

“No, no—” Ford scrambles to his feet, climbs out of the— crater, he supposes is the only word. “No, I’m— I’m great. This is…”

He laughs, whipping his head around to look all around the Estate.

“This is incredible,” he says. “I’m gonna try something— hold on.”

He cups his hands together, and a bright red light bursts outward. When he opens his hands, there’s a spring peeper nestled on his palm. The same one he’d caught this morning. An illusion, of course, but a damn near perfect one. And it had barely taken a thought.

“Holy sh*t,” Bucky says.

Ford looks up, the grin slipping off his face when he sees what’s become of the rest of the grounds.

“Is this… Central Park?” Sam asks, turning around to scan the area. “Yeah, by the reservoir—”

“How the hell did you even spot that?”

Ford whips around, facing the reservoir, the thick cluster of brush at the water’s edge—

Anton, crouched in the weeds, giving the empty patch of air in front of him a painfully fond look.

“A frog that can survive cryo,” Anton huffs out a laugh, gently brushes his hand over where the frog ought to be. “I guess that is pretty neat. Though I’m starting to think you just have a thing for freezable guys.”

“No,” Ford breathes, knowing better than to hope, but not being able to stop himself. “Anton?”

A wave of green light sweeps across the Estate, and the illusion vanishes. Gone like it was never there at all.

His heart plummets.

Something about the freshly vivid colors around him seems… less enthralling. Feels more like an ice pick, stabbing into his brain via his retinas.

“That,” Loki says, somewhere behind Ford’s right shoulder. “Was not what I expected. You shouldn’t be able to do that without a tremendous amount of training, and far more effort than you were expending. Do you know how difficult it was to dispel that?”

“I—” Ford’s still staring at the spot where Anton used to be— the illusion of him, anyway. The memory. “I’m… good at illusions.”

“That was your Stark variant, then?” Loki asks, his voice taking on an oddly gentle tone. “He’s remarkably young. Tony’s son, perhaps?”

“No,” Ford clears his throat. Scrubs away the dampness on his cheeks. “No. It’s a long story. One we don’t have time for.”

“Yes, we should get to the Scepter as quickly as we can,” Loki agrees. He snaps his fingers, and the group reappears in a forest, at the edge of a clearing.

There’s a f*cking castle.

“It’s in there, surrounded by a number of people. I’m not sure how friendly they might be—”

“They aren’t,” Bucky says, his voice flat. He nods his head at the flag flying from the turret. Black skull and tentacles, on a red background. “They’re Hydra.”

“Any sign of Thanos or his troops?” Steve asks.

“Not yet,” Loki says. “But it’s only a matter of time.”

“Why don’t we just summon the Scepter?” Ford asks. “Maybe— maybe not me. I’ve got a feeling I’d wind up summoning the entire castle if I tried, right now.”

“No, no— you can’t just summon an Infinity Stone,” Loki scoffs. “Are you mad? There’s no telling what exposing a Stone to magic would do, even if it were possible.”

“Great,” Bucky says, pulling out his sidearm and checking the clip. “So we shoot some Nazis. Sounds good to me.”

“I don’t like going into this blind,” Steve says, frowning at the castle. “How many people are around the Scepter?”

“Five standing directly by it, but I can’t sense anything specific beyond that,” Loki says. “Though we may be in luck— while you can’t scry for an Infinity Stone, you can scry for its housing. I’ll need water, and something to pour it in. Quickly, if you please.”

Clint pulls a half-empty plastic bottle out of one of his quivers.

“How about diet Dr. Pepper and a hole in the ground? Will that work?” He asks. “Because if not, we’re boned.”

“It’ll do,” Loki says, crouching down to dig a shallow hole in the forest floor. “Pour it in here, and try not to let it fizz too much.”

“This is like, a week old. It’s not gonna fizz,” Clint says. Sure enough, when he twists off the cap, there isn’t even the slightest hiss of off-gassing.

“Why the hell are you carrying week-old soda in your quiver?” Natasha asks.

“Look, I keep forgetting that it’s in there until we’re already out the door, and we don’t exactly run a lot of missions that allow a guy a moment to take out his trash,” Clint says, pouring the soda into the hole. When the bottle’s empty, he puts the cap back on, and tucks it back into his quiver. “What? I’m not gonna litter. This is a forest, for crying out loud.”

“You just poured diet Dr. Pepper into the dirt. I think an argument could be made for chemical warfare,” Sam jokes.

“Nah, it’s probably really good for… some kind of bug, I don’t know,” Clint says. “You watch nature documentaries, right? There’s gotta be something.”

“If you three are quite finished,” Loki says, getting to his feet and brushing the dirt off the knees of his slacks. He picks up a stick, starts drawing in the dirt next to the hole. “The Scepter is in the basem*nt, which we’ll access via this stairwell here. We enter through this door on the Eastern side, take the second left, then a right. Down the stairs, turn right, then right again. Two lefts, another right, and a secret doorway here. Down those steps, turn left, and the Scepter is straight ahead.”

“Alright, how many Hydra agents are we looking at?” Steve asks. “You said there were five right by the Scepter— who else?”

“That’s the thing,” Loki says, tapping the ground with his stick agitatedly. “I didn’t see a single person.”

“Okay, so five—” Steve starts.

“You misunderstand,” Loki cuts in. “I didn’t even see the five I know are surrounding the Scepter. They’re warded, and powerfully.”

“Well, that’s real helpful, Loki,” Clint says. “Thank you so much for your assistance.”

“I may be a magician, Agent Barton, but I’m not a miracle worker,” Loki scoffs. “There are limits to any power.”

As the group starts to bicker, Ford takes a step back, eyeing the castle critically. If he focuses…

Scratch that. If he unfocuses his eyes, he can almost see the wards. Thin bands of runes, etched in pure magic, criss-crossing the entire building. Covering the entire clearing in a dome. He reaches out, his hand less than an inch from the warding—

“What on earth are you doing?” Loki asks.

“I think…” Ford tilts his head, scrutinizing the runes. “I think these are old Norse. And I think if I just—”

He grabs a strand and yanks.

Red light explodes across the clearing, the wards dissolving on impact. Satisfied, Ford turns to the group, dusts his hands off.

“What are we waiting for?” Ford says. “Let’s give the scrying another shot.”

“What the f*ck was that?” Natasha demands.

“I… took down the wards?” Ford says, gesturing vaguely at the clearing.

“You can’t possibly—” Loki starts.

“Guys?” Sam says, crouched over the diet Dr. Pepper well. “I think it worked. Come take a look.”

They crowd around the well, jockeying for a clear look.

“Thats a lotta Nazis,” Bucky says after a moment. “A lot.”

“How the hell did Hill miss this place?” Natasha asks. “This has to be twice the size of any cell she sent us after, at least.”

“Powerful warding tends to have effects on electronics,” Ford says. “No idea why, but if you stack enough wards it basically turns into a faraday cage. No chance of aerial surveillance picking up any activity in there, and there’s no way any computers they have are connected to any kind of external network.”

“Anton hasn’t made you test that yet? Magical faraday cages seem right up his alley,” Clint says.

“Hasn’t come up,” Ford shrugs. “Only magicians really bother with warding these days, and we don’t exactly go up against a lot of them.”

“Excuse me,” Loki says. “If we could just back up a moment?”

“Contribute to the plan or keep your trap shut,” Clint snaps.

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry, were we planning?” Loki sneers. “I must’ve missed that part, due to the complete and utter impossibility of what just happened.”

“Do you have a point?” Natasha asks.

“You can’t break wards like that!” Loki says, exasperated. He tosses his drawing stick aside, rounds on Ford with an accusatory finger pointed at him. “You’re hiding something— where did you get your magic from, hm?”

“I didn’t get it anywhere,” Ford says, swatting the finger away. “I’ve been like this since I was a baby. Natural-born.”

“There was nothing natural about that,” Loki says, now jabbing the finger at the clearing. “Do you have a patron, perhaps? A cursed amulet?”

“What part of ‘natural-born’ do you not get?” Ford snaps. There’s a low rumbling in his ears, building in intensity with every breath. “The wards were there, I pulled out the load-bearing one, they fell apart. It was just… sloppy spellwork, that’s all!”

“Ford?” Natasha says, glancing around. “Take a deep breath for me.”

He does as asked, despite his annoyance at the suggestion. The rumbling quiets, just the slightest amount. He takes another breath, then another. And finally, it stops.

“Maybe we table the magic discussion for another time,” Bucky says, eyeing Ford warily. “Unless we want an earthquake on our hands.”

“Earthquake?” Ford asks.

“I’m starting to think I should have left at least one of those barriers intact,” Loki mutters. “Earthquakes— breaking wards with your hands, conjuring Central Park on accident—”

“Shut up,” Clint groans. “Oh my god, seriously, just— you are not helping. Can we get back to the part where we plan a heist? I need something to shoot, or it’s gonna wind up being this asshole.”

“We’ll circle back to this,” Loki says, narrowing his eyes at Ford.

Ford flips him off.

“Okay, how do we back this thing up?” Steve asks, turning their attention back to the diet Dr. Pepper well. “Take it from the top. Call out headcounts, stations— anything that could help.”

Rolling his eyes, Loki waves a hand. Green light ripples across the surface, and the image changes to the exterior door. Moves slowly through their route.

“I counted eight on the ground floor, all stationary,” Natasha says.

The image moves down the stairs, into the first sub-floor.

“Four-man tac team,” Bucky says. “Sweeping the halls. Could be an issue, if they decide to head upstairs.”

“Seventeen more moving about their business, and five stationary guards,” Sam says. “Make that six stationary guards. And another two at the secret doorway.”

“Two more on the other side, and then the five studying the Scepter,” Steve concludes. “That’s forty-four on our route alone, no telling how many there are in the rest of the building. f*cking hell.”

“Eh, there’s seven of us,” Bucky shrugs. “Same odds as during the war.”

“During the war we had Peggy and the entire SSR on call in case things went sideways,” Steve says.

“Yeah, but most of us are enhanced, or have sweet tech,” Clint says. “C’mon, you’re really less confident about this than the guy with a string and a stick from the paleolithic era?”

“If you hadn’t become a sharpshooter, you would’ve been one of those morons who fire themselves out of cannons,” Natasha says. “But you have a point.”

“Those cannons were awesome,” Clint says defensively. “I would’ve made a great human cannonball.”

“Sure you would have,” Natasha says, patting his back consolingly. “Cap? You wanna call this one?”

“You go ahead,” Steve says, frowning over Loki’s diagram. “I’m still trying to make sense of this maze.”

“What’s there to make sense of?” Clint scoffs. “Eastern doorway, second left, right, down, right, right, left, left, right, secret doorway, down, left, straight ahead. Easy.”

They all stare at him, stupefied.

“It’s not hard,” Clint says, crossing his arms. “You want a real challenge, you should try deciphering the kind of directions people give you out in the sticks. Especially to carnies.”

“Whatever you say, Hawk,” Natasha says, shrugging off Clint’s newest strange hidden talent faster than the rest of them. “If we’re quiet and move fast, we can take out the ground-level guards easily enough. It’s the first sub-floor that’s going to be tricky— that’s a lot of guns in a small space, and too many eyes to get away with stealth, especially in this big a group.”

“Not all of them had weapons,” Sam says. “A lot of that seventeen were pencil-pushers and scientists.”

“You know the kind of damage you can do with a stapler?” Bucky asks. “Guns or not, Hydra trains their agents well. They’re all armed.”

“You said many of them were scientists, correct?” Loki asks, clapping his hands together once in satisfaction when Sam nods. “Then I’ll just disguise myself as one of them, and announce there’s been a… a chemical leak, or something. Tell them all they have to evacuate.”

“And if they see through it, they’ll shoot him first,” Clint says. “I like this plan. This is a great plan.”

“Yes, how very droll,” Loki rolls his eyes. “I need something to tell them that’ll cause panic, something that’ll overrule any hesitation they might have about obeying immediately. I could say… carbon… monoxide? That’s a very dangerous compound, right?”

“Not dangerous enough,” Steve says. “They could have gas masks, and we have no idea how lax their lab safety standards might be.”

“What’s a chemical leak that would send even Anton running for the hills?” Clint asks. “His lab safety standards are sh*t. You know, back in college he tested an antidote for tetrodotoxin—”

“Using a pork shoulder, which he left unlabeled in the fridge, which you then ate,” Natasha finishes. “Yes. We know. Stop eating things from other people’s fridges.”

“He left it in my fridge, f*ck you very much,” Clint says. “Anyway— anyone have any ideas? Ford?”

“Fluorine gas,” Ford says instantly. “The only times I’ve seen him actually observe lab safety is when he’s working with hydrofluoric acid, and he always spends at least ten minutes lecturing me on how insane you have to be to work with pure difluorine. It’s ‘insanely reactive, turns into hydrofluoric acid if there’s any humidity around, and breathing that sh*t will make your own lungs drown you for kicks.’”

“Perfect, I’ll tell them there was a fluorine gas leak,” Loki says. “That’ll clear the floor, at least temporarily. Then we’ll just have the last seven to deal with.”

“Seven against seven,” Bucky says, cracking his knuckles. “I almost feel bad for them.”

“Alright, listen up,” Steve says. “Bucky, Widow, and Hawkeye move in first, clear out those ground-level guards and stash them somewhere, so the bodies don’t tip anyone off. Once that’s done, Loki goes in, tells them there’s a fluorine leak and everyone needs to evacuate. Anyone gives you guff, tell them what Ford just said. The rest of us will hide out upstairs, until you give us the signal. Then we head down as a unit, take care of the last seven agents, nab the Scepter, and get the hell out of there before someone figures out the gas leak isn’t real. Questions? Good. Let’s go.”

Everything goes according to plan on their way to the Scepter, which in hindsight probably should’ve been a bad sign.

“Man, that’s a really annoying alarm,” Sam shouts over the din, hands clapped over his ears. “What’s our exit plan?”

Guards thunder down the stairs, one after another— at least twenty of them, fanning out to surround them. Someone, mercifully, cuts the alarm.

At least they can die with the ability to think straight, Ford supposes.

Although…

“I have an idea,” Ford says, and drops to a crouch, slapping his palms down flat on the concrete floor.

The shockwave ripples out, slamming the guards into the walls.

He stands up, pleased with his handiwork.

Except it doesn’t stop there— he’d only meant to force them back, send a little ripple through the molecules of the concrete—

When the dust clears—

He drops to his knees.

Someone’s trying to get his attention, but it sounds too far away to be real. Muffled. Almost like he’s underwater.

The castle— the basem*nt—

It’s gone.

All of it.

Every guard, scientist, and pencil-pusher. Every desk, every bit of paper—

Gone.

Steve crouches in front of him, puts a hand on his shoulder. Jostles him, gently.

“…rd? Ford? You tracking?” He asks, his voice suddenly coming into sharp focus. “You okay?”

“I didn’t—” Ford swallows, eyes wide. His breaths coming fast and sharp. He feels like his blood was replaced with TV static— hyperventilating. He’s hyperventilating— a panic attack.

Five things you can see.

Steve, dirt, branch, upturned tree—

He closes his eyes, burying his face in his hands.

“Everyone’s okay,” Steve promises. “You threw up a shield, or something. Every one of us made it out just fine.”

“Steve,” Ford says slowly, voice still muffled by his hands. “I just killed who f*cking knows how many people, and vaporized a f*cking castle. With my brain. I’ve never— I’ve never killed anyone before.”

“The seven of us came out of it unscathed,” Steve says. “We got the Scepter, took out another Hydra base—”

“I wasn’t trying to do that!” Ford snaps, pulling his hands away and balling them into fists as he glares up at Steve. Steve, who—

Who flinched away from him.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” Ford says, trying to take deep, even breaths. Trying to evict the f*cking TV static. “I— I think… I think I’d like to go home now. Please.”

More than anything, he just wants to go home, make some tea, and curl up with Benchmark on his lap. More than anything, he just wants to crawl back into bed, have Anton wrap himself around Ford like an octopus—

But he can’t.

“We still have to get this to Wakanda,” Sam says, stepping into view with the Scepter held delicately in his hands, like a bomb that could go off at any moment. “Assuming Fury was able to talk them into letting us bring it there.”

“Can we teleport with that thing?” Natasha asks, somewhere behind Ford.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” Loki says, a bit to her right. “Safest if we transport it the old-fashioned way, I think.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty full-up on surprises for the day,” Natasha sighs. “Alright, we’ll call Hill, tell her we need an extraction. Where are we, exactly?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t exactly use a map to get us here,” Loki says. “Why don’t you use one of those… cellular phones Midgardians are always toting about?”

“Battery’s dead,” Natasha says. “Anyone got a phone that works?”

“Here,” Bucky says, on her left. He comes up behind Ford, catches Steve’s attention. Steve gives Ford another anxious look before standing up and walking off.

Bucky takes his place.

“This must be pretty weird,” he says, gesturing around. “Hell of a learning curve, I’d guess.”

“Please, just… just stop,” Ford says, closing his eyes. “You know what I did this morning? I ate waffles and scrambled eggs, and I went for a walk with my boyfriend. And then I found out about an intergalactic war that’s been brewing for who knows how f*cking long, my boyfriend flew off in an evil space donut, and I found out he was trying to propose literally seconds before he went out of comm range. That was already the longest day of my life. And it just keeps f*cking going.”

He opens his eyes, glances up at Bucky.

“Okay,” Bucky says, nodding. “Fair enough. You need a hand up?”

Ford shakes his head.

“I think…” he says, taking a ragged breath. “I think I’m just gonna sit here for a while.”

“Mind if I join you? Or is this a brood alone kind of moment,” Bucky asks, a wry twist to his lips.

Ford shrugs, sits down with his legs pulled up tight to his chest, arms wrapped around them. Rests his forehead on his knees. Tries to breathe.

“Quinjet should be here in ten,” Natasha says. “And Fury got the go-ahead to bring the Scepter to Shuri. We’ll be heading straight to the Golden City, should get there within a few hours.”

Someone drops to the ground next to Ford— Clint, judging by the sound of several dozen arrows and an empty soda bottle rattling against each other.

“This is the weirdest day,” he says, and Ford laughs.

Quill says something about needing to take readings of the planet, which is probably smart. Anton probably shouldn’t have let himself or the kid disperse the Nanosuits without checking the atmosphere for anything toxic. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty.

He feels fine, so it’s probably fine.

Definitely, probably fine.

He’s got other things to worry about. More pressing issues.

But instead of working the problem, he’s sitting on a piece of debris a couple hundred yards away from the wreckage of the ship, cradling the open ring box in his hands and staring at the band.

He should’ve expected something like this to happen— some cosmic f*cking spanner in the works, ripping away every last bit of the life he’s clawed out for himself. That’s what always seems to happen, isn’t it? The second he lets himself get complacent, lets himself settle even the slightest amount— something comes along and tears it all down. Burns the remains, and burns the ashes. Pisses on whatever’s left.

He runs his thumb back and forth across the band, thinking about how much he wishes it was on Ford’s hand right now. How he’s glad it isn’t, because it means Ford’s back on Earth, relatively safe.

At least safe from this. But he’s got the rest of the Avengers, SHIELD, and every other superpowered asshole on the planet to back him up. So he’ll be fine.

He has to be fine.

Anton’s not under any illusions about his own chances. And frankly— much as he’d started to hope otherwise the past few years— a part of him had always known he’d wind up dead sooner rather than later. That one day he was going to bite off more than he could chew, or his past was going to take too big a bite out of him.

He can be thankful for that much, at least. That the codewords didn’t wind up being the end for him.

He’s not sure if a suicide mission dozens of light-years from home is that much better. Dead is still dead.

Dead doesn’t get to go home at the end of the day. Dead doesn’t get to propose, get married. Get old and gross side-by-side.

Dead doesn’t get jack f*cking sh*t.

“You are troubled,” Mantis says, sitting down next to him.

He doesn’t react, just keeps staring at the ring.

“Why does that box make you sad?” Mantis asks. “Is it an evil box? Should we destroy it?”

Anton snaps the lid closed, shoves the box into his pocket.

“Touch it, and you’re dead,” he says.

“So it is evil,” Mantis says, eyes wide.

“What? No— no, it’s just a ring,” Anton says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He clenches a fist around the box protectively. “It’s just important. To me.”

“Ohh,” Mantis nods, clearly not understanding. “I do not understand.”

Anton huffs out something like a laugh, ducking his head for a moment before looking back at her.

“It’s a gift,” he says. “A really, really important gift. For— for the most important person in my life.”

“And you are sad, because we are all going to die here?” Mantis asks.

Anton laughs again, a little hysterical.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, brushes away the stinging in his eyes before putting his hand back in his pocket. “Yeah, that’s the long and short of it.”

“I see,” Mantis says. “That is very sad. Does your friend do that often?”

She points at Strange, in some sort of trance state. His head rapidly moving side-to-side, almost looking double-exposed as it leaves afterimages in its wake.

“Hey! Strange!” Anton calls over, and the trance breaks, leaving Strange back to his normal, one-headed self. Overinflated as that one head might be. “You good?”

Strange casts one of his spells, and Anton reappears on the ground in front of him. Peter, Mantis, Quill, and Drax appear a moment later.

“I’ve used the Stone to look forward, sneak a peek at alternate futures,” Strange explains, ignoring the group’s mixture of confusion and indignation. “To see all possible outcomes of the coming conflict.”

“How many did you see?” Quill asks.

“Fourteen million, six hundred and five.”

“Well, how many did we win in?”

Strange hesitates. Looks up, meeting Anton’s eyes.

“One,” he says.

T’Challa and Okoye meet them when they land, Bruce, Fury, and Phil’s team waiting there with them. Steve gives them the briefing, with Loki and Bruce chiming in about what kind of forces they can expect Thanos to send.

It’s not exactly comforting, knowing the details. Ford had thought it would be worse to be left imagining, giving his brain room to fill in his worst fears. But the actual specifics? They’re worse.

A lot worse.

Sam, Loki, and Bruce take the Scepter to Shuri. T’Challa takes the rest of them to the palace, to prepare for the coming war. Starts talking strategy the moment they get inside.

Ford’s really not in any place to be contributing. So he slips out, onto the balcony. Perches on the railing and looks out over the Golden City.

It’s beautiful. Bursting at the gills with advanced tech. A marvel of city planning to boot.

He kind of hates it, which isn’t fair. He knows it isn’t fair, that normally he’d be blown away, overwhelmed by the honor of being one of the first outsiders allowed inside the force field protecting Wakanda from the rest of the world.

But Anton isn’t here. Because he’s in space.

And Ford just vaporized a Hydra base with his brain. His magic, if you want to get technical. Killed dozens of people.

On accident.

“This place is pretty cool, huh?” Bruce asks, leaning his elbows on the railing next to Ford.

“Thought you were helping Shuri with the Mind Stone,” Ford picks a loose thread off his jacket, flicks it away.

“Shuri? No, she doesn’t need my help,” Bruce says, the corner of his mouth twitching upward like he’s telling a joke Ford doesn’t have the context for. “All we have to do is buy her enough time to get it done. So… you and Anton figured it out, huh? That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Ford says neutrally.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“He’s thousands of light-years from home with no return ticket, trying to stand between Thanos and the Time Stone,” Ford says.

“Oh,” Bruce clears his throat. “Right. Sorry.”

“He was about to propose when Strange showed up,” Ford adds. He doesn’t know how he’s managing to say it all so calmly— maybe he’s just hit his limit. Maybe he’s just so overwhelmed with anger and grief and worry that it all cancels out. “He’s had the ring for three months. Thinks I don’t know about it.”

“We’ll get him back,” Bruce says. “I don’t know how yet, but we will. He’s a tough kid; he’ll pull through.”

“Loki says the Stark variants always make it home, no matter the timeline,” Ford watches a maglev train roll past, off toward the horizon. It’s early afternoon in Wakanda, which makes it about six in the morning, back home. Twenty-four hours since he woke up in bed with Anton. “I shouldn’t be worrying about him.”

“Love isn’t exactly known for listening to reason,” Bruce huffs out something like a laugh, a sad smile on his face. “No matter how sure you are that things’ll work out, you worry, because you can’t let yourself ignore whatever slim chance you think there is that they won’t.”

“Making it home doesn’t mean he’ll be safe,” Ford agrees. “And Loki won’t tell me how long before he’s back. Says it depends on the timeline.”

Bruce turns to look behind them at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Ford just keeps staring out at the city, his mind a complete blank.

“Give us a minute,” Natasha says.

Bruce pats Ford’s shoulder before slipping back into the war room. Natasha doesn’t take his place, just stands a little behind Ford.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” She demands. “How could you just let him run off—”

“I didn’t let him do anything,” Ford says. “You really think I would be okay with him rushing off into the void? After every nightmare, every flashback I’ve been there for—”

“Did you even try?” She snaps. “If anyone can get him to reconsider—”

“Nat,” Ford sighs, closing his eyes. “I tried. Believe me, I f*cking tried. There wasn’t enough time to say much, but—”

He can feel the tears slipping down his face. Leaving hot, stinging trails down his skin. He takes a shaky breath, tries not to sob on the exhale.

“I tried.”

She hops up onto the railing next to him, and does something unexpected.

She pulls him into a hug.

“I know,” she says, choking back tears of her own as Ford sobs into her shoulder. “I’m sorry— I— that wasn’t fair. I just…”

She holds him tighter, her chest heaving and juttering with the strain of trying not to sob at every breath.

“He and I— we’ve always been— no matter what, I always thought we’d have each other,” her voice cracks on the last word, muffled as it is by Ford’s shoulder. “And the last time I really, really thought— I— I was the one who closed the portal, in New York. And I am so f*cking terrified—”

She breaks off, voice choking on a sob.

“He’s coming back,” Ford says, to her shoulder. “Loki said he always comes back, but I—”

He takes as deep of a breath as he can. Pulls away from the hug.

“I tried to summon him, on the flight here,” he admits, scrubbing at his face. “And when that didn’t work, I tried to— I tried to teleport to him. And I tried to scry—”

“But if you couldn’t do it, no one can,” Nat finishes, wiping at her own face with the back of her hand. “Sounds about right, for our luck.”

“I thought— I thought I could do one good thing with this,” he says, staring down at his hands. He sighs again, looks up at Nat. “One thing on purpose. But I can’t even figure out why it didn’t work.”

“Well, you saved our lives, back at the Hydra base,” she says, bumping their shoulders together with a watery smile. “I know you didn’t mean to do what you did, but it worked out for us. Besides, it’s never a bad thing, wiping more of those f*ckers out. Best-case scenario, right there.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have let Loki drop the barriers,” he says. “Maybe it was safer to have them up. For everyone.”

“God, you sound like Toshenka,” she groans. He laughs, wipes away more tears. “It’s a learning curve, Ford. You’ll get the hang of it. You think Banner had any control over the Hulk when he first turned? No. But he figured it out, and now he’s able to help people with that power. Usually, anyway. When the Hulk’s not throwing a tantrum. You know what’s up with that?”

“Not a clue,” Ford says. “But… thanks. I think.”

“Just avoid blowing up half of Harlem, and you’ll be doing better than Banner,” she jokes. Clears her throat, serious once more. “Think we can trust Loki? About Toshenka.”

“He’s not telling us everything, but he hasn’t lied yet,” Ford shrugs. “Not as far as I can tell, anyway. And he hasn’t tried to double-cross us. Pretty out of character, for the god of mischief.”

“You were passed out when he said it, but he’s claiming to be the god of stories now,” she rolls her eyes. “Says he sat at the end of time and wove Yggdrasil with his own hands, whatever the f*ck that means. Phil said it’s got something to do with Norse mythology.”

“It’s the world tree,” he says. “One of those weird quantum cosmological things— both the highway that connects everything, and everything itself at the same time.”

“You know a lot about mythology, huh?” She says, shooting him a slantwise look.

“I went looking for answers, after my—” he swallows down the grief, still sharp and painful even thirteen years later. “After my parents died. I wanted to know why I was the way I was, how it all worked. Studied everything I could get my hands on, got into a lot of trouble along the way. Most of it was useless. No one seems to really know what they’re doing, when it comes to magic— it’s a lot of bullsh*t that only makes sense if you don’t think too hard about it.”

“So it’s like any other field,” she says. “We’re all just making it up as we go along, trying to find some kind of sense in all the chaos. Making up patterns where there aren’t any, and digging in our heels when we can’t make something fit.”

“Pretty much,” he huffs.

They watch the mid-day traffic in silence for a while, broken only by the occasional sniffle as they try to pull themselves together.

“T’Challa’s having lunch brought up soon,” she says eventually. “You should eat something. Maybe get a nap in. I know I need one.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, and they slip back onto the balcony together. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m always right,” she smirks.

They set up a little welcoming party for Thanos, according to Strange’s specifications. Anton’s not a fan of following the guy’s orders, especially without proof that he’s actually leading them down the path to the one future they win in, but he’s outvoted. He’s the only dissenter, actually. Not that he has a better plan, anyway.

Strange just gets on his f*cking nerves like no one else, and Anton’s so far past his last straw that he can barely see the camel anymore.

Or something.

He’s got a walking purple thumb to kill, doesn’t need to be wasting processing power on metaphors that make sense.

Anyway—

It gets a little weird, trying to move a piece of rubble that suddenly disappears when Thanos uses the Reality Stone to show Strange what Titan used to look like. Not the weirdest thing he’s ever done, but still weird. Feels like he’s touching a giant bowl of cold spaghetti, somehow.

He waits for his cue, then drops the rubble directly onto Thanos’s head. Flies down to join the others.

“Piece of cake,” he says. “Seriously, that’s the guy we’re all so scared of?”

The itch in the back of his skull is agonizing now, making it hard to think clearly.

The rubble spire erupts in a flash of purple light, and Anton has to take flight again, dodging out of the way of the debris.

Which turns into…

What are those, bats?

Really weird bats. Flying at him. Swarming him, really. Dragging him through ruin after ruin, slamming him into the walls. Ripping some of the nanobots out of his suit, leaving the rest of them spread thin.

He uses the chest RT to clear most of them, blows the rest of them to hell with a shoulder-mounted mini rocket. Flies back into the fray as fast as he can.

Hits Thanos with a barrage of artillery, encasing him in a ball of flame—

Which the f*cker absorbs with the goddamn gauntlet, and throws right back at Anton.

He doesn’t like what the life support systems are telling him. Or the thermal overload warning.

Or the fact that the blast sends him barreling through some weird f*cking structure, at speeds high enough that the suit can’t absorb the shock when he slams into the metal.

He really doesn’t like what the life support systems are telling him, and he likes what his nerves are telling him even less.

When he gets back to the fight, there’s a newcomer trying to stab Thanos’s stupid face— a woman with blue and purple skin, and a sweet robot arm. Anton tries to give her help with a repulsor cannon blast to Thanos’s chest, but it just seems to piss him off more, barely sparing Anton a glance as he waves his hand, reversing gravity around him with a flash of red light.

Moron.

Anton’s in a flying suit of armor. Flying sh*t doesn’t give a f*ck about where gravity is pulling it, once you adjust the calibration.

A portal opens over Thanos’s head, while he’s distracted with flinging Robot Arm across the battlefield, and Mantis drops onto his shoulders, digging her fingers into his face.

He lets out a roar of fury, trying to fight her off— but his concentration slips as she forces him under. Anton has to recalibrate his flight stabilizers, zips over. Grabs hold of the gauntlet as the kid yanks against Thanos’s other hand.

“Piece of f*cking sh*t—” Anton grunts, pulling with every bit of strength he can muster, aided by the repulsors and flight stabilizers in his arms. But the damn thing won’t even budge. “Motherf*cker couldn’t be bothered to make sure this actually fit?”

“Be quick!” Mantis wails, tears slipping down her cheeks. “He is very strong, I cannot hold him much longer!”

“Parker, get over here!” Anton snaps, and Peter scrambles over, abandoning the other arm. “You gotta open his fingers for me, alright? Count of three. One, two, three—”

Peter forces Thanos’s fingers open, Anton heaves—

“Where’s Gamora?” Quill demands, landing in front of Thanos and pressing his blaster against the underside of his chin.

“My… Gamora…?” Thanos murmurs.

Anton pulls at the gauntlet again, manages to move it the tiniest amount— maybe a centimeter, at the most. Sees Robot Arm crawling over the wreckage toward them, out of the corner of his eye.

“He is in anguish!” Mantis cries.

“Good,” Quill snarls, shoving his blaster into Thanos’s chin even harder.

“He… he mourns,” Mantis says.

“What does this monster have to mourn?” Drax demands.

“Gamora,” Robot Arm says, horrified.

“What?” Quill snaps.

“He took her to Vormir,” Robot Arm says. “He came back with the Soul Stone… but she didn’t.”

“Quill,” Anton snaps, pulling again with all his might. “Quill, you gotta cool it. Right now, understand? I almost have it—”

“Tell me she’s lying,” Quill demands of Thanos. “Asshole! Tell me you didn’t do it!”

“I…” Thanos groans, face contorted in grief. “Had… to…”

“No,” Quill breathes. “No— you didn’t— you didn’t!”

He slams the grip of his blaster into Thanos’s head, screaming in pure rage and grief. Over, and over—

“Quill!” Drax warns.

Anton ditches the gauntlet, hauls Quill back with an arm around his middle.

“Cut it out!” He grits out. “Quill, you’re gonna blow this whole thing—”

“I got it!” Peter shouts. “I got it, it’s coming off! I got it—”

Thanos lets out another roar, sends Mantis flying, rips his hand out of Peter’s grasp— Peter darts after Mantis, trying to catch her before she lands—

Strange launches himself at Thanos, gets zapped away by the Space Stone— Anton winces through the pain that shoots through his skull, fires everything he has— Thanos slaps him away, clenches his fist. Anton looks up at the deafening rumble coming from overhead, sees the f*cking moon falling toward him. Tries to get away, dodging falling rock as he flies back toward the donut ship—

Slams into the ground, pinned underneath the chunk of fallen moon.

In the darkness, under the rubble, he stares at the life support system pop-up on the HUD.

Dislocated right shoulder, second-degree burns covering forty-two percent of his body. Fractures in his left tibia and femur. Two broken fingers on his right hand. Sprained right wrist. A broken rib.

It’ll all heal within a few hours.

Assuming he lives that long.

He can’t move enough to get into a position to move the rubble, can’t risk using the chest RT to blast a hole through it, in case of collapse.

He’s stuck.

Trapped in a tin can, thousands of light-years from home. No food, no water. Limited air reclamation capabilities.

The rubble shifts above him, and he closes his eyes.

Opens them when— rather than being crushed under a catastrophic collapse— he’s met with bright daylight.

A woman offers him a hand up, holding the chunk of moon above her head with the other.

He takes it, and she pulls him out. Drops the rubble back into place once he’s clear.

“You okay?” She asks.

“I’ll live,” Anton says, leaning heavily on a chunk of moon. “That guy throws another moon at me, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Captain Carol Danvers,” Danvers says, extending a hand. He ignores it, and she drops it with a raised, unimpressed eyebrow. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You— Danvers— why is that familiar?” He frowns, trying to drag the memory out of storage. “Air Force?”

“Used to be,” she says.

“Project PEGASUS— Dr. Lawson’s light-speed engine! You were the test pilot,” he says, slapping his unbroken hand on the moon chunk excitedly. “You— I mean, obviously you didn’t die, but—”

“You’ve heard of me?” She asks. “Nevermind, we’ve got a genocidal maniac to take down. What’s your name, kid?”

“Anton Stark,” he says, pushing gingerly to his feet. Ignores the agonizing pain radiating from his leg when he tries to put any weight on it. “How the f*ck did you get here, anyway?”

“Thor summoned the Bifrost for us,” she shrugs. “Hold on—”

She turns, punches a flying chunk of donut ship back the way it came, her entire body glowing in an unearthly light.

“I am Groot?”

Anton looks down, tries to wrap his head around what he’s seeing.

Figures it’s not that much weirder than everything else going on. Undead test pilot with cosmic powers showing up via magical Einstein-Rosen Bridge summoned by the crown prince of Asgard? Yeah, might as well add teenage tree-boy and a bipedal raccoon to the equation. Why the sh*t not.

“He wants to know if you’re a robot, or if that’s just a sweet piece of tech,” the racoon says. “I’m Rocket, that’s Groot. Welcome to the fight, robot guy.”

“It’s a nanotech battle suit,” Anton says.

“How much?” Rocket asks, scrutinizing him like a used car. “Eh, there’s some wear and tear— tell you what, I’ll give you… eight hundred units for the whole thing—”

Anton takes off, darting around the wreckage toward the sound of the battle. Hovers in the air, trying to figure out his best angle of approach.

Thor sails through the air, crashes down next to him. Hard.

Anton pulls him up.

“Anton! How in the world did you get here?” Thor asks, beaming at him.

“Hitchhiked on an evil flying donut,” Anton says. “Cool axe.”

“You think so?” Thor asks, admiring his new weapon. “I forged it with the heart of a dying star, according to the exacting instructions of the last of— oh sh*t, watch out!”

He ducks, and Anton darts upward, narrowly avoiding another piece of donut ship being hurled at them.

“How’ve you been?” Thor asks, summoning down lightning and sending it straight for Thanos— who, distracted by Danvers trying to kick his teeth in, takes the hit. Doesn’t do much, but it’s something. Better than the rest of them are doing, anyway. “How are things, back on Earth?”

“Oh, you know,” Anton lines up a shot with the repulsor cannons, fires a barrage that he only lets up when Danvers charges in for her next hit. “Moved back into my parents’s place, got brainwashed a little bit— again— Ford and I started dating—”

“Ah, excellent!” Thor says. “The two of you are quite a match. How is he? Doing well, I trust?”

“Yeah, he’s good,” Anton says. Thanos throws up an energy shield, and Danvers’s fist collides with it, sending a shockwave rolling across the battlefield that knocks them all flat on their backs. “Let’s finish this, shall we?”

He and Thor launch into action, Anton doing his best to keep Thanos distracted while Danvers and Thor attack from opposite sides— Peter swings in, with the aid of one of Strange’s portals.

“Magic!” He shouts, punching Thanos in the ear before disappearing again. Reappears on the alien’s other side. “More magic!”

He vanishes, Thanos’s fist closing around where his ankle had been mere moments before.

“Magic with a kick!” Peter shouts, driving his foot into Thanos’s skull—

Thanos swats him out of the air, sends him flying.

Anton zips after him, racing to catch up— grabs him moments before he would’ve slammed into the mountainside.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “Captain Danvers is pretty cool, isn’t she?”

“She’s too old for you,” Anton says, and Peter squawks in indignation. “C’mon, let’s get back to it.”

He carries Peter back in, drops him off a little ways back from the fighting just in time to see Danvers fly through a portal from the Space Stone— he winces again, blinks rapidly to clear the black spots from his vision— and Thor swatted away, mid-leap.

Anton rushes in, deploying the sword hidden in his left arm—

Thanos snaps it off.

Drives it through Anton’s chest, broken-end first, glancing off the MARK III to bury itself through his left lung.

Anton clutches at the blade as he crumples, rips it free, gurgling and wheezing with every breath. Presses a hand to the wound, knowing it won’t do any good— it had gone clear through the other side.

Tries to get up, sword raised—

Thanos doesn’t even swat. Just plucks the blade from his grip, and Anton collapses. Vision rapidly fading, fuzzing out around the edges, until—

When the armies arrive, Ford’s put on security detail for the Mind Stone. For Shuri, who’s still frantically trying to mimic the Stone’s energy frequency, despite it seeming to change and shift with every second.

“How’s it looking out there?” She asks, not looking up from her work.

Ford peers out the window, a cold, heavy dread filling his limbs.

They’re overwhelmed, by a ratio of about two hundred to one. Their side is doing their best, holding back far more of Thanos’s forces than they should be able to—

But they’re hopelessly, hilariously outgunned.

“Bad,” he says. “Really, really bad— we got incoming, whole bunch of soldiers coming up the Palace steps— guards aren’t even slowing them down.”

“sh*t,” Shuri hisses, redoubling her efforts. “sh*t, sh*t sh*t—”

The doors to the lab burst open, and Ford throws up a shield around himself, the two Dora Milaje on either side of the door, and Shuri.

“The Stone!” Shuri cries, snatching up her wrist blasters. “Get the Stone out of here!”

“We’ll take it from here,” one of the Dora Milaje says— Ford hadn’t gotten her name— and rams her spear through three of the alien troops in one go.

Ford grabs the Scepter and leaps through the window, tries to control his descent— winds up launching himself clear across the battlefield, slamming painfully into the forest floor.

He pushes to his feet with a groan, tries to dust the worst of the dirt off himself. He looks around, taking in the chaos just behind the tree line. Tries to plan his next move, where to run, where to fold space around himself—

There’s an odd, horrible sucking sound behind him.

He turns. Sees a purple brick sh*thouse stepping through a portal unlike any Ford’s ever seen before—

Thanos.

Holding the broken-off arm sword from Anton’s Nanosuit.

Covered in blood.

“I’ll be taking that,” Thanos says, reaching for the Scepter.

Ford catches him by the wrist, feels the remnants of Extremis’s infernal side effects roaring to life under his skin as the rage and grief builds, drowning out everything around him, drowning out every thought.

The ground rumbles underneath his feet. He can smell Thanos’s flesh searing under his iron grip.

“You have courage. I respect that,” Thanos smiles faintly, grabs Ford’s arm with his other hand— with the gauntlet, sporting five Stones out of six— rips himself out of Ford’s grasp, and throws him against a nearby tree.

Ford’s on his feet in an instant, waves a hand and brings Thanos down hard, flat on his back. Pins him there.

“Where is he?” He demands. “What did you do to him?!”

“And great power, too,” Thanos laughs.

He lifts Thanos fifty feet into the air, slams him back down to the ground.

“Where is he?!”

“You’re referring to the Iron Brat, I presume,” Thanos says, humor still evident in his tone as he shakes off Ford’s magic, gets to his feet. Ford tries to pull him back down with everything he has— stares in horror when it doesn’t so much as make him stumble. “He still breathed, last I saw him. Sturdy, isn’t he? Any other man would have been felled by his injuries, and yet he clings to life. For now, anyways. Whether he survives my victory, on the other hand, is a mere roll of the dice.”

Thanos clenches his gauntleted fist, and a red wave shoots out, plunging the forest into pitch blackness.

The magic feels…

Familiar. And yet strange— warped, in a way. Like looking into a funhouse mirror.

Ford dismisses the illusion with hardly a thought.

“How… odd,” Thanos says, frowning at him. “You shouldn’t be able to do something like that, boy. Nothing should be able to negate the power of a Stone… except another Stone.”

“Magic is magic, you f*cking sh*tbag,” Ford snaps.

“I’m not here to argue metaphysics,” Thanos says. “Hand me the Mind Stone, boy.”

“You want it?” Ford says. “Come and get it.”

“Have it your way,” Thanos smirks, advancing toward him.

Ford throws up a force field, pushing him back. Forces himself to think, to work the problem—

If he can negate the Reality Stone’s illusions…

He hovers a hand over the gem nestled in the Scepter. Focuses, until the sounds of the battle fade away. Until the force field holding Thanos back is little more than a faint itch at the far edge of his consciousness.

The gem cracks, splits open to reveal the Mind Stone hidden within. It drifts toward him, hovers over his open palm.

He clenches his fist, and it explodes.

Sends a shockwave rippling out so powerful that the entire forest topples over—

Everything except Ford, who falls to his knees, shaking in relief.

And Thanos.

Who laughs, raises the gauntlet—

A flash of green rips through the forest, the trees right themselves, the Mind Stone reassembles over Ford’s still-clenched fist—

Thanos tosses him aside with a blast of purple light, plucks the Mind Stone from the air, holding it up to admire it.

“At long last,” he says, setting it into the gauntlet with a satisfied smile. “You should have thought things through, boy. Remembered the nature of the Stone I just collected.”

He turns, fingers poised at the ready.

Ford launches himself at the gauntlet, summoning every last scrap of magic he can muster, focuses it on the gold, shimmering metal. Pictures it melting into slag, melting through Thanos’s arm until there’s nothing left but bone—

“You really are a powerful little ant, aren’t you?” Thanos says as the metal heats under Ford’s fingertips, as Ford tries to pry his fingers apart.

He reaches out further, gathers more energy— pulls every last ounce of magic out of the air—

Thanos rips Ford off of him, dangling him by the back of his jacket like a kitten. Raises the gauntlet.

“Next time, go for the head.”

Snap.