Archive of Our Own

To whom it may concern, I am on extended leave of absence. I don't know when I'll return. Thanos gave me a lot to think about, and I need time to reconfigure myself.

Thank you for your understanding.

—W.M.

000o000

He's hopping on a broken foot, sheltering bruised ribs, and probably bleeding internally when he rams a hand against the door and pounds it several times. He only got the location off of EDITH, and he thinks that he would have been lost for hours otherwise. He has no where else to go—no one to turn to.

The NYPD just tried to kill him.

Him.

Peter is...oh, gosh, he doesn't know anymore. Panicking? No. He's thrumming with energy, but it isn't that type of energy, just—actually, actually yeah. He thinks he's panicking. His hands are shaking, and—please send someone to open the door.

Peter rams a fist against it again, breathing in and out heavily.

What is he doing?

What just happened?

He watched Mysterio die, and yet—and yet—

His name is Peter Parker.

A shudder races down his spine and a small sob of frustration escapes him. No one is coming, the street is busy and they're going to see and recognize him despite his efforts to hide his suit. A jacket only covers the upper half, and—that is a lot of blood. His stupid spider sense is...it's not quite dead, but Peter knows that it doesn't work as well when he's stressed, anxious, or—anything he's been the last eight months.

But it's ringing. And it only helped him dodge most of the bullets.

The NYPD just shot at him. The police just tried to kill him. Detain. Whatever. They actually shot at him.

Help. Help. Peter smashes his fist against the door. May is going to kill him when she learns—no, May isn't going to kill him, she's going to kill Mysterio. Again. She'll drag his body up from the grave and beat him to death with a banana. Maybe two bananas if she's feeling merciful, but Peter can see her prolonging it.

Happy will probably help.

No, Happy will definitely help.

That would be embarrassing. Beaten to a second death by a raging banana power couple. Mysterio—his name-his name is Peter Parker—would be...stop. No. No more thoughts. His hand aches from how hard he was hitting the door. His body is slumped against it now, and he doesn't know how much longer he can keep standing here from both from the New Yorkers, and his damaged body.

Jumping on a plane only hours after the whole incident was over was probably not the wisest decision, but it's almost been a week and he still can't...he's not there yet. Getting hit by a train and then a thousand others things was probably more than his enhanced healing could deal with in one setting. Outwardly, he's fine. Internally, there's still something wrong in there and—

The door swings open at last, and Peter stumbles forward into the space with surprise. More accurately: He barrels into the man who opened the door and then goes tumbling down on his back landing hard on his left elbow. A hiss of pain escapes him, but it's ignored by the bubbling panic having reached its edge. "Close the door, close the door, I can't—you're always, stop, close the door!"

The door closes.

Peter tries to draw in a ragged breath. This space smells of dust, books, and a faint type of scented candle. Caramel, maybe? It smells awful. This doesn't matter. None of it matters.

His name is—

"Dr. Strange, please, you've gotta help me," Peter sputters out, scrambling up to his feet as his eyes widely flick around the space. He jumps at a noise in the distance, his enhanced hearing amplifying it more than normal. His senses are overloading, and he's going to be sick all over this polished ground.

Peter looks up, and then scrambles back with surprise, body tense and webs at the ready. His breath escapes in a great heave. Blood is leaking from his stomach. Why is he focusing on that? "You're not...you're not Dr. Strange." Peter whispers.

The man standing in the doorway is Chinese, not American, and shorter than Dr. Strange with a wider girth and no weird floaty-cape-thing. His eyes are lifted up to Peter, but there's a drawn tightness in his stance. He looks agitated, and Peter doesn't know wh...oh. Oh. Peter was just declared a murderer, in public, and anyone who has seen the news in the last thirty hours will know that.

This man is not Dr. Strange.

And Peter thinks he might break down sobbing. So pathetic. Maybe if you were better Tony wouldn't be—

"The Sorcerer Supreme is not here at this time," the Chinese man declares, shifting his weight and glancing out the window. Peter follows his gaze, agitated, but can't see anything through the jaded glass.

Yep. Sick. All over this frankly ugly floor. "Can you tell me where to find him?" Peter pleads.

The Chinese man holds his gaze, "No."

Peter runs a hand through his messy hair, exhaling sharply. A profanity slips his lips without his consent, but he doesn't bother to backtrack. "Please, I don't have anyone else to turn to, and he was there...on that ship thing...and I...please."

He sounds like a child begging their parents for the stupid thing that they really, really want.

He's talked to Dr. Strange after the Vanished return. After the funeral, and that. He can't remember much of the conversation, just that Dr. Strange bought him a sandwich and he appreciated it. Dr. Strange told him that Peter could ask for assistance when he needed it from him, and Peter had agreed. He has Dr. Strange's number from that.

He'd been tempted over the disaster of summer vacation week to call and be done with it all, but Director Fury had stopped all of that with his insistence that Dr. Strange was unavailable. Along with the rest of the Vanished Avengers. Peter had thought it aggravating, but hadn't thought twice about it after that. There were too many other things to worry about. Like getting hit by a train, and then...and then yeah.

Dr. Strange was supposed to help him.

Why are none of the adults he's supposed to trust—

The Chinese man sighs deeply before shaking his head. "I do not know where he is. He has not returned to the Sanctum for nearly four months."

Peter's eyes widen. Four...four...what the heck has he been doing!? Peter needs him now. He needed him two weeks ago when this whole flippin' disaster started! His eyes are moist and he blinks rapidly to stop himself from descending into an outbreak of sobbing panic in front of the weird Chinese guy he doesn't know who apparently knows Dr. Strange.

He tugs at his hair, biting at his tongue sharply. What the heck is he—He wants Tony, and he is so childish for this. Tony is rotting in his grave and has been since September of last year.

"Do you know where I could maybe find him?" Peter questions, his voice sounds wet. "Because I'm kind of in the middle of something right now and I need him."

Like a little baby.

You're an Avenger, Parker, step up, deal with your own problems.

He doesn't know how! None of the pretend training and scenarios Tony ran through with him over the two years they knew each other had "what to do when you're blamed for murder" in there. Who could have predicted this?

His name-his name is Peter—

He shakes the voice off, trying to ground himself. His body is aching and all he really wants to do is curl up on a bed and cry his frustrations out, but that wouldn't help anything. It isn't going to stop the NYPD from hunting him, or New York stop trying to arrest or kill him. He was supposed to be better than Tony, and now he's made a mess of it all. Again. He thought he was doing fine—at least okay. He was jittery after the whole event and couldn't sleep or look at mirrors, but hey—that's life. Nothing unlike what happened after the Vulture smashed him beneath that building. MJ and he had kissed. It was all good.

And now—now it is a disaster.

He can't keep anything together, can he?

The Chinese man stares at him for a long second, apparently taking in his shaking frame and the blood he's dripping onto the floor. Peter can't draw up enough energy to be disgusted by it. Only mildly horrified. Panic, panic, panic.

"You should sit down, I think," the Chinese man says and gestures towards the stairway leading up towards two separate rooms. It's lavish, and as Peter hobbles towards it, he feels mildly ashamed and out of place here. This building is old, and he's probably going to ruin something in here. That will be expensive, and Peter doesn't exactly have the finances to pay for hundred-year-old stairs.

Peter collapses against the seat, breathing hard and fast. He slams a hand against his stomach, trying to steady himself. His nerves are still in shambles. He still feels nauseous. The Chinese man takes a seat next to him, staring at him with a look that makes Peter wonder if his soul is under contemplation.

"You are Spider-Man," the Chinese man declares, voice devoid of emotion.

Peter gives a shaky nod. "I am."

"Peter Parker," a shudder races down his spine as the words fall from the man's lips. He gives a very small nod in answer, looking up, wary. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. Maybe EDITH got it wrong and he's supposed to be somewhere else.

"I am called Wong," the man announces, and Peter looks up at him. His expression isn't soft, but it's no longer quite as hard. Almost sympathetic. "Stephen was keeping tabs on you. He spoke warmly of you."

Peter blinks. "Dr. Strange was...he said…"

Wong's face is still void of expression, but there's a slight twitch of his lip; as if remembering something fondly. He heaves a great sigh, "I suppose it is now my responsibility to care for you when he cannot."

"Where is he?" Peter pleads, clenching his hands next to his stomach. Something feels wrong in there. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong—

Wong shakes his head, "As I told you before, I do not know. He said he was going to take a break, and then never returned. Stop your skeptics, he left me a letter." Wong produces a piece of paper and lifts it up for Peter to see. It was printed, and signed with a terrible scrawl at the bottom.

Something just...just seems off about it. His spider sense is buzzing in the back of his head as if skeptical and displeased with these results. Peter shakes it off, turning his head forward and props his elbows on his knees before grabbing at his hair. Breathe. Breath is good. It's important.

His name-his name is—

Stop it.

Shut up!

A hand rests on his shoulder, and Peter has to dig his heels into the stairs to stop himself from hopping up and sprinting away. Calm down. He lifts his head in Wong's direction, trying his best not to portray a spooked cat. He doesn't think he's succeeding.

"You are injured," Wong says, flicking his gaze down to Peter's stained hands. "Let me care for you."

Peter shakes his head, "I gotta...I gotta...I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't think there's time for that 'cause, I...you...I need to find Dr. Strange. He'll know how to fix this."

Wong sighs, "I, too, have been looking for him, but he does not want to be found."

"But I need him," Peter blurts out, and snaps his jaw shut, looking away.

Child, child—

"Let me care for your injuries, Mr. Parker, then we will deal with the matter of the Master." Wong declares, and pulls Peter up to his hobbling feet. That's about as far as he gets before his body, thoroughly and utterly done with him, gives out. He remembers falling back, his vision blurry and tunneled, and then nothing.

000o000

To whom it may concern, I am on extended leave of absence. I don't know when I'll return. Thanos gave me a lot to think about, and I need time to reconfigure myself.

Thank you for your understanding,

—S.S.

000o000

The room smells like candles, and a fire is crackling in the distance. It's the first two things that Peter becomes aware of, and the third is that he's comfortable and warm. Something in the back of his mind insists this isn't right.

People are talking quietly.

He knows the voices.

He wants to go back to sleep, but that really doesn't seem like it would be the—His name—his name is Peter Parker—Peter jerks up with a strangled heave, the blanket falling into his lap. The room isn't one he recognizes. It's older, wooden, and has no windows. He's on a couch. This isn't his and May's apartment and how did he get here—?

"Whoa, kid, just—take a few breaths there."

Peter flinches and then looks up with surprise to see Falcon standing next to the couch. Behind him is Sergeant Barnes, but he's clean shaven and hair shorter than Peter remembers. Neither one seems very happy. Peter's muscles lock despite himself, and a low thrum of panic starts to build in his chest as his mind catches up with the present and insists threat, treat, threat, THREAT, THREAT—

Peter's laying under a blanket, and feels a lot better than he did before passing out. Courtesy of healing factor, and probably something else. Bullet wounds usually take three or four days to heal (he's at the point in life where he has a "usual" about getting shot. It's been a long few years) and he's willing to bet it hasn't been that long.

The NYPD tried to—

"Where's Wong?" Peter croaks in question. "What are you doing here? How long was I asleep? Did you find Dr. Strange? Did you...did you see the news? You know that they're—"

Falcon lifts up his hands. "Kid. Just, breathe for me, 'kay? Two breaths, then we can delve into your myriad of questions."

Peter forces the two breaths, and feels only marginally better before he looks up at the two expectantly. What are they doing here? How did they get here? Did Wong contact them? Are they going to arrest him? Did the police send them? Where were they during Mysterio's attacks? Why didn't they come help Nick Fury? Why are they here now?

"Are you here to arrest me?" the question sounds small when it slips off his lips.

Sergeant Barnes and Falcon share a look. "No," Sergeant Barnes answers after a second. "No, we're not here to arrest you."

"I didn't kill him," Peter blurts out, "I didn't kill Mysterio. There were these crazy drones and he was using them to destroy the city, but he got shot by them in the midst of his attack and then he tried to shoot me in the head and there was just all this—"

"Kid, we know." Falcon interrupts. "Fury called us."

Peter blinks, pauses, and then: "Then were the heck were you!? I got hit by a train trying to deal with all of this and you're the Avengers! Isn't it your job, not mine, to deal with threats like this!? I'm the neighborhood Spider-Man, okay, not some sort of—"

"We were looking for Wanda," Sergeant Barnes cuts in, and Peter bites at his tongue. He looks between the two, trying not to let the surprise show on his face. As far as he was aware, Scarlet Witch and the other Avengers were taking some time off to grieve after Thanos. No one has seen much of them. He didn't know Scarlet Witch was missing. Does the news know, and he's just been completely ignorant of that?

"Scarlet Witch is missing?" Peter asks, "I thought that she was just...taking a break."

Falcon huffs, leaning back. "We thought so too until a couple hours ago. Publicly, that's what she's doing, alright? We were looking for her before to make sure she was okay, but it didn't even occur to us to suspect foul play until we found you."

Thus indicating that they were looking for him, and Peter's not stupid. He draws back from the Avengers. "The NYPD asked you to help them track me down." He breathes, resisting the urge to tug his knees up to chest. He still has his web shooters. There's a door behind him, if he needs to run. He can make it to the door before they can grab him.

This is exhausting.

He's so tired of running.

Falcon opens his mouth to answer, but Sergeant Barnes cuts in before he can get a word in: "We were, yeah. Do we have any intentions of turning and innocent sixteen year old into the police? No. Calm down."

"But I—"

"Peter." Sergeant Barnes's voice is flat. "We're not going to hurt you."

His spider sense agrees.

Peter's not sure he does.

"Why are you here, then?" Peter questions, trying to get his nerves to settle. "If y-you're not here to arrest me, why are you here? How did you even know to come here?"

"Last question, we're the Avengers," Falcon states blankly, "first one, we're here because Wong found us first and told us to come pick up the weeping spider child because he didn't know what to do. Whoa, calm down, Trigger-Happy-Winter-Death, alright, so those weren't his exact words."

"Or his words at all." Sergeant Barnes's eyebrow lifts.

"But the point standing is that we're here to pick you up. Now, however, I think we may have a bigger problem at hand." Falcon blows out a breath before taking a seat on the coffee table. He looks like he's trying to gain his composure or figure out how to say something. "Dr. Strange is missing too."

"But Mr. Wong said that he was just on leave of absence. I saw the note. Isn't he 're-configuring' himself or something?" Peter asks in a blurted question.

"No." Sergeant Barnes shakes his head. "We saw the note, and that's what makes us sure about the fact that he's missing or was taken. It's almost exactly the same one that Wanda left for us."

Falcon lifts up a piece of paper and holds it out for Peter to see. He skims over the text, dread coiling in his stomach. It, like Dr. Strange's, was typed on a computer and printed out. It's even in the same font. It's worded exactly like Dr. Strange's, the only difference being the signed initials at the bottom. It's not "S.S." but "W.M.".

That's really odd, though. Who signs their name like that? People usually only abbreviate one part of their name and spell out the rest. Like "P. Parker" or something.

"He didn't add doctor," Peter realizes, blinking several times as he thinks back on Dr. Strange's note. "He didn't sign his name as Dr. S.S., which he would have if he left it, right? He corrects me when I mess it up. There's no way he would leave that off."

"It was common courtesy in Sokovia to give your first name and last initial, so people would be "more connected" to each other." Falcon adds, shifting. "That's what threw us off at first, and why we didn't just wait around for her to get back to us...Listen kid, I really am sorry that we couldn't help you deal with the Mysterio crap, but we'll help you clean this up when we're done, okay? Until then, the reason we're here is that we need your help finding them. Someone took Dr. Strange and Wanda."

000o000

In another lifetime, Stephen suspects he would have been embarrassed by how easily they grabbed him. Now it doesn't matter. Not really. He hasn't been given a reason for it to matter, so it doesn't. No, he didn't stop them, but given everything that has already happened, he'd say he did fine.

No. He didn't.

It was pathetic.

And that's not going to change despite his attempting reassurances.

He put up a fight, but it was weak, and he still hasn't found a way to block against drugs so once the needle was in, it was a miracle he lasted as long as he had. Wong had been getting take-out—as much as neither of them will admit it, they're both horrible at grocery shopping, ergo: the fridge is never stalked—and Stephen had been alone for less than twenty minutes.

Twenty.

But that was enough time.

The wards should have done something, but these people had done their research on both the Sanctum and him. There was a blow to his head, the needle, the brief scuffle, and then nothing but darkness. He thinks he hit someone in the nose, though, so he's proud of that, despite the agony that shot up his arm.

He wakes with a headache. His body is aching in every possible place and his veins feel fiery, but oddly cold at the same time. His heart thrums inside his chest, but it hurts. It's...heavy. His shaking hands, when he tries to move them, are handcuffed behind his back with what feels like additional ropes up to his elbows. Smart, he'll give them that—he's largely helpless without being able to move his hands for the magic.

Irritating, because he's helpless when he can't move his hands.

He's being held captive. He has no idea what to do. He's being held captive and he has no idea what to—

At one point he remembers Wong trying to teach him how to pick locks, but he hadn't been paying attention. He should have. Wong has a sixth sense for things Stephen should know in the future, and this qualifies, doesn't it? He should have just sat down and gave the man his full attention, but he didn't because he was reading something, it had seemed so important at the time, and—what is that?

Something wet is touching the side of his head where the butt of the gun smashed into his skull before the drugs. Maybe it wasn't the butt of the weapon, but the front—Stephen doesn't know. Either way it hurts, and he doesn't find the admittedly little pressure comfortable. He draws back as best he can, squeezing his eyes shut. A slight moan escapes him without his consent, and a cold hand presses against his temple, keeping his head down.

The wet thing—a cloth, the less mushy part of his brain supplies—comes up to wipe at the area again. Stephen stills as waves of magic crashes into his senses. It had taken him months to pick apart distinct auras, and even longer to recognize individuals that they belong to directly. There's two in...wherever he is. One is almost instantly calming, but the other makes him wary.

He can't focus on the calming one despite his best efforts. Every person has a different aura like one would a scent, and Stephen has felt this one before...it's strong, breathtakingly so, but familiar, and he can't place from where. Just memories of a surge of panic before shoving a portal forward and—

No.

No.

He is, by all accounts and purposes, dead. He'd never asked Thor per say, but those who he did inquire of assured him of it. Snapped at the neck and left to explode in the remains of Asgard's escape vessel. Thor, according to what he understands, held a funeral and everything. There is no way he should be alive.

That aura means nothing good.

Maybe he's hallucinating (you can't hallucinate magical auras, Strange). He doesn't know what the drug they gave him was. Could be a side effect.

Stephen blinks his eyes open tiredly, squinting somewhat. Bright, white light immediately pours into his face and a grimace washes over his features before he can stop it. He blinks a few more times before he can adjust. He's in some sort of...room. He thinks. Three of the walls are made of stone and the other is glass, leading out towards what looks like a generic science lab. There's two men with guns stationed next to the door, and Stephen can see a scientist looking into a microscope.

His cloak is missing.

It's absence feels like a physical tug. Stephen doesn't know why he was expecting it to still be here. He's not even wearing the clothing he was attacked in anymore, and that makes him vaguely uncomfortable. Instead, it's some sort of bright blue hospital scrubs; the kind he would have worn without much complaint years ago. But this was not by his choice.

Where are his shoes? Or socks for that matter? The ground is cold—the cloth touches his face again and Stephen jerks, looking up.

As expected, but not wanted, Loki is kneeling in front of him holding the cloth to his head. Stephen's stomach gives a mighty lurch, but he manages to keep his horror down to a simple intake of breath as Loki stills, and Stephen gives him a once over.

He's dressed in ratty green-ish hospital scrubs that hang off of his gaunt frame awfully. Dark, ratty hair falls over his shoulders and is coming out of what looks like an attempt at a braid. There's bruises on his hands, and his eyes are shadowed deeply with a healing gash above the right one. Over his mouth is some sort of metal contraption that reminds Stephen faintly of a gag, more so of a dog muzzle. It hides the lower half of his face, and gleams dully in the bright lighting. It has not been cleaned recently; there is probably so much bacteria there and—

Not the time, Doctor.

The cloth he's holding in his chain looks like a piece ripped off of his shirt. Also unsanitary. (Will you just shut up!?)

And it's red.

With Stephen's blood.

Where are they? This isn't a hospital, so he doesn't understand the obsession with scrubs, and there's still that other magical presence here, and why are they in some sort of lab? Why is Loki dressed up like this? How did Stephen get here? Who's holding him captive—he just...there are so many questions floating around his head, and he has no idea how to go about gaining answers.

The words slip out before he can really stop them, "What are you doing?"

Loki stares at him pointedly, and Stephen bites at his inner cheek as he is reminded of the muzzle-gag-thing. Loki will not be saying anything to him soon, not unless Stephen can get it off—which is highly unlikely, given the hand predicament. The cloth moves forward again, and Stephen snaps his head back on instinct, rather than thought, and then promptly smacks his head against the wall.

A moan of discomfort slips through his lips.

His vision spins for a moment, and Loki manages to get a swipe at his head again. Stephen hears movement elsewhere in the room and flicks his gaze up, past the Asgardian diligently trying to dab the blood away from his head—he must be dreaming, because this can't be real—doing a quick assessment of the space.

A figure is moving towards them, not quite staggering, but not exactly an easily relaxed pace, either. The second magical aura, he recognizes it as it draws closer, and feels his eyebrows meet together with some surprise.

Wanda Maximoff.

What is she doing here?

He'd been giving her some instruction after the snap for her magic—he can't believe she's been an Avenger for so long and never received official training. Whose decision was that? Yes, his magic is different from hers, but the concepts remain the same and—but he hasn't seen her in over two weeks. When he went to inquire, Wilson and Barnes had said she'd left a note and they hadn't seen her since.

He'd thought it odd, but hadn't pressed.

He'd read it. It had seemed funnily worded, but that had been the end of that inquiry. Apparently he should have pushed, tugged—done something that wouldn't have left Wanda here for two weeks. Vacation time to gather herself together after Thanos it was not.

Capture.

Here.

Wherever "here" is.

Wanda's hair is tugged back into a long, messy braid, and she's wearing red hospital scrubs, with no socks or shoes. His eyes narrow with anger as he sees she's strapped in a straitjacket. A blinking shock collar is strung around her neck.

"Maximoff?" Stephen questions, eyebrows raising. The girl moves forward and awkwardly maneuvers herself into a kneeling position, a little behind Loki's left shoulder and shoots him a grim smile. She looks sick. Her skin is pale, but her cheekbones are flushed.

"Doctor," she greets. Her voice is raspy. Has she had access to water? Stephen does a quick flick to assess the cell a little better. There's four cots, set up like bunk beds and a doorway that leads off into a half bath. There's a sink there, ergo: water.

Stephen fights his way into a seated position, despite Loki's intense scowling, falling over a lot less than he'd been expecting given his current restraints, and looks at the two. "What the heck is going on?"

Wanda's faint smile slips away and she sighs heavily. Loki leans back on his heels, looking tired. The two share a glance. It reminds Stephen of those he used to give fellow surgeons on a particularly gruesome injury that he wasn't sure the patient would pull out for. One of despairing desperation.

"This is a research facility," Wanda explains with the same faint rasp. Her accent is thicker than Stephen remembers it being. "We are guests."

His gut clenches, "Is this Earth?"

"Yes," Wanda answers, shooting down any building theories or quiet thoughts creeping up to torment him with glass blades and Ebony Maw's ugly face with the Stone—where is—destroyed. It's been destroyed for more two months (five years). Calm down. Why does he keep forgetting this?

"Why am I here?" he asks, and looks between the two of them. Judging by the restraints all of them are in, he's going to guess that guest was a sarcastic word choice. "Why are you here?"

He squints up at the light, but his headache makes it hard to focus on anything more than how much it hurts.

Wanda tilts her head a little as Loki's gaze settles on a point above Stephen's head. "Any guesses?" Wanda questions.

Stephen hesitates, and looks between the two. Between the three of them, what do they have in common? This doesn't have to do with the Avengers, because Loki isn't an Avenger, but...They've...his headache is making it hard to focus. They've...ah...not hair color. Not gender. Not species. Wanda has not been to space, so not that either. He'd say contact with an Infinity Stone, but that doesn't seem relevant anymore. Instead, the realization occurs to him and he releases a deep breath, tipping his head back against the wall.

"Magic."

"Yes." Wanda affirms, something haunted slipping into both her tone and eyes. "They study my magic, and have studied Loki's. I assume they will begin to study you as well."

Like science experiments. In his wildest dreams, this had never occurred to him before. Being kidnapped so someone could study his magic? If they want to learn, they should have just asked. Stephen flicks his gaze up to the Asgardian. "'Studied'?"

Loki's eyes gain a bitter sort of mirth and his eyebrows raise as he looks towards Wanda. Stephen mentally kicks himself again. Loki is mute. He can't talk to you. Stop trying to make him talk. The witch is quiet, lips pressed together as she thinks.

Someone moves beyond the glass, and Stephen's gaze flicks towards them for a second. The scientist he spotted earlier, they're putting something on a different table to stare at it beneath a microscope. If the red he saw in the glass slides he saw was any indication, it's blood.

'Loki says he has been here since Thanos tried to kill him. What knowledge they wanted, they've mostly obtained in the five years of his captivity.' Stephen attempts not to jump, but his wide eyes rapidly flick away from the scientists to Wanda. She opened a telepathic link between them. It's the second time he's seen her do it, but the other time she had to touch his temples and she couldn't hold it for very long.

Outwardly, Wanda says: "I haven't seen them take him. I'm assuming."

Stephen's gaze flicks up to Loki. The Asgardian's gaze is still planted forward as if dead. There's no twitching of his expression, no indication that he's even here mentally enough to have heard anything. Wanda's lips purse somewhat.

Stephen flicks his gaze around the cell before he spots the reason for so much secrecy: live cameras, most likely able to pick up audio. Better safe than sorry, he supposes. He has to focus to grab at his mental voice enough to transmit, but he still gets it after a few tries. 'I'm going to assume that no one knows about this?'

'"This"?' Wanda transmits.

'The telepathy.' Stephen explains. Her flicked gaze is enough to prove him correct. 'Ah. Well, I won't rat you out, then.'

'Means of communication is all monitored here. With my restraints, it's all I can do. I'm sorry.' Wanda's mental voice sounds almost ashamed, and he shoots her a pointed look.

'It's enough.'

'I couldn't free myself, or anyone else. It doesn't feel like enough.' Wanda mutters. 'You've been here for nearly eighteen hours. You weren't waking up and Loki has been trying to clean out the gash on your head. Will you let him finish?'

Stephen pauses, something in him clenching with discomfort. Loki's gaze is still forward, but Wanda's eyes keep flicking at his face, almost as if they're holding a conversation and she's trying to gauge his expression. The thought is ridiculous.

Loki wants to clean his head, at least, as much as clean can get here. The request makes something in him twist with surprise. Stephen tries to ignore it in favor of reminding himself who this is. The man who attacked New York while he was performing surgery. He leveled buildings and slaughtered hundreds in the process. This is not an innocent man.

Handle me? Who are you?

And he was trying to clean Stephen's head before he woke up.

He doesn't...he's so confused. He chews on his inner lip for a second as he tries to process this all, and then glances between the two towards the glass wall. Judging from the muffled noise, it's clearly thick. Labeled every four feet or so is words that are hard to pick out backwards, but not impossible. Stand behind white line at all times.

Study them.

Like rats.

Stephen is not going to be dissected.

He gives a slow nod in Loki's direction.

000o000

ALMOST ALL AVENGERS INACTIVE POST BLIP!

After the deaths of Tony Stark, Vision, Natasha Romanov, and Steve Rogers, the remaining Avengers have all vanished or are no longer working active duty. With the recent activity of heroes called Night Monkey and Mysterio respectively in Europe, who do we put our trust in?

The heroes that have abandoned us, or those that have saved us from world-crushing threats?

Falcon and the Winter Soldier were spotted on 23rd Broadway last evening, but no one has seen or heard from the other Avengers in months.

The hunt for Murderer Spider-Man, AKA: Peter Parker continues.

000o000

"But why would they just take Wanda and Dr. Strange? They've had months to go after the rest of us, but these two were within two weeks of each other." Rhodey points out from the other side of the table, looking at the papers they've spread out towards him.

Peter bites at his lower lip and shrugs, "We still don't know yet. Best guess is something magic-related."

Rhodey's lips purse. "Okay. But what about Carol? She's all magic, why didn't they take her?"

"Do you have a rocket on standby?" Falcon questions, taking a sip from the cup of coffee he brewed less than ten minutes ago. They've only been in Rhodey's apartment for twenty, but running around New York as they tried to get in contact with the other Avengers and make sure they were accounted for has left them with very little time to eat.

Peter didn't want to touch anything, but Rhodey practically shoved the sandwich down his throat when he kept refusing. It's been two days since he went to Wong, and three since it happened. He still can't get in contact with May or Happy.

He has no idea what he's going to do.

Rhodey lifts up an eyebrow, "I have a Quinjet, and that's kind of similar, but I see your point. So no, not Carol. You said these were left four to five months ago?"

Falcon nods.

Rhodey blows out a long breath. "I admit that it's weird. I'd hoped that Wanda was actually taking a vacation in the Bahamas somewhere, but no. You got ahold of Clint yet?"

"Yeah." Sergeant Barnes assures, "And Thor, and Dr. Banner. Everyone is accounted for except these two. Do you have any ideas on who would be interested in two magicians? It can't be linked to the Avengers or the Wizard-Cult, because Strange and Maximoff weren't interacting with the organizations."

Rhodey shakes his head. "I'm dry."

Peter's shoulders slump, but he resists the urge to let his head fall into his hands. "So is everyone else," he mumbles. "Even Dr. Banner. Who the heck would go to all the work to make it seem like they walked off and not ask for a ransom, not kill them, and just—I don't know, sit on them for four months? That's a long time to be doing nothing."

Rhodey sighs and rubs at his forehead, shifting somewhat. "I think that if they were captured for their magic we would have heard about that by now. It's not as though the media has been sitting still in regards to threats, take Mysterio for example—I've seen footage about the attack. They're more paranoid than ever now and—"

Everything snaps together suddenly, and Peter draws back with horror and surprise. He spent the fights marveling at how close Mysterio's powers looked to Dr. Strange. He'd privately thought that on the alternative Earth Mysterio came from, he was trained by the same people Dr. Strange was. And when Mysterio killed the fire elemental and his powers had surged out everywhere, it looked almost exactly like Scarlet Witch's. Some of the wispy magic didn't look exactly like theirs, but he hasn't fought many battles with them. He's seen them use it, though, and he's not stupid.

Scarlet Witch, yes, Peter can see people being able to mimic some of her magic through news footage, but Dr. Strange's has never been public before. People only know about him, not what he does or even where he is. There is no way that they could have mimicked Dr. Strange's magic through TV footage.

Mysterio has to have been in contact with them.

And Peter really has his doubts they sat down for tea and crumpets.

"Oh my gosh," Peter breathes, and the adults in the room silence, all eyes lifting towards him. "Oh my gosh," Peter grips at his hair. "Mysterio had—has?—them. CGI magic is cool and all, but get too pretentious with it and people will get suspicions, right? So who do you mimic it off of? People known in the public already. Mysterio has them."

Falcon's eyes widen, and Sergeant Barnes releases a loud swear.

"Language," Falcon reminds. "There's a child here."

Sergeant Barnes snorts, "You heard that kid's mouth?"

"Focus, please," Rhodey commands and looks back down at the papers. "Well. I guess we two missing wizards kidnapped by Mysetrio to find, don't we? I'll take this to FRIDAY, she'll run some tests, we can narrow down a few places at least."

"I'll ask EDITH," Peter offers, "she might have some suggestions."

"Wait," Sergeant Barnes's eyes widen some, "if Mysterio had them and he's been dead all this time—who's been taking care of them? Water? Food? ...I think we need to consider the possibility that we may be looking for corpses."

Peter's stomach drops.

000o000

MENACE SPIDER-MAN/PETER PARKER REFUSES TO TURN HIMSELF IN FOR QUESTIONING.

After deep investigation into the Mysterio case, authorities have determined that they need the whole side of the story. FBI hesitant to press charges against a sixteen-year-old and are searching for Spider-Man to take him in for questioning.

He's guilty, and we're aware of that, aren't we New York?

What man would run if he wasn't guilty?

What person would hide?

Four days and still no word from Spider-Man, but contact with his friends and family plead innocence in his absence. No word from the Avengers about their teammate.

000o000

Stephen, with the help of Loki, manages to make it to one of the cots to spend out the rest of the night. Loki's managed to bandage and wrap his head a little, but his headache strongly disagrees with the idea any medical aid has been offered. He takes the lower bunk, and Wanda sulks to the other. Loki, with more strength than Stephen gave him credit for, clambers onto the top bunk above Wanda's without much of a struggle.

None of them move for the rest of the night.

Stephen's assuming night.

He doesn't know.

There aren't any windows.

Whenever they are, they spend hours in the silence, only listening to each other breathe. Loki's slows then evens out over time, but Wanda's never ceases to be restless. Stephen doubts she's sleeping, and his body is much the same way. His mind is hyperactive with all the ways that they're going to die, so he doesn't have time to focus on simple things like sleep.

Ridiculous. Illogical. But very much there.

They come for them in the morning—later? Stephen still doesn't have a good grasp of time—and Stephen supposes that he hadn't been expecting anything else. There's three scientist-looking people with a handful of guards behind them. One of the scientists is holding a bag of what looks like take-out from McDonalds, but Stephen's not really sure.

The sight is bizarre, though, and it takes him a second to process that. This doesn't seem right from what he's heard about captive situations. McDonalds?

"Alright, on your feet," the scientist with the take-out commands, "we'll decide who gets to eat today."

Stephen blinks, and gets upright as best he can, wishing he could prop himself up on his elbows, but given his arms current position, that's not going to happen. It's harder than he expected to sit up without being able to use his hands for support or balance. Even after his accident, when he was supposed to leave his hands alone, he used them for balance.

On the other bunk, neither of the figures move. The holder of the food sighs with annoyance before moving forward and leaning down to grab Wanda by her hair and tug her into a seated position. The young adult lets out a loud cry of pain, and Stephen feels anger bubble in his stomach. "Hey!" he calls it without really thinking, and Food-Man turns to him, a wild sort of gleam in his eyes. He's wearing glasses and is losing his hair, rounded in a way that suggests he's accustomed to sitting for long hours of the day, and Stephen wants to hit him.

Food-Man tilts his head, but doesn't let Wanda's scalp go. "Trying to be the hero?" he sneers in question, and something in his tone makes Stpehen hesitate, but not stop.

"Let her go," he requests in the best even tone he can muster.

"Doctor," Wanda gasps out, voice so much smaller than it was last night, morning—whenever it was that they were all awake together. She sounds so much younger than she is, like a frightened adolescent, and it makes him sick. "Don't." Wanda pleads.

From the corner of his eye, he sees that Loki has sat up on his bunk.

Food-Man huffs, "Oh, she's learning."

"Good," another scientists, the only woman, grunts with annoyance, "I'm tired of listening to her whine."

Loki drops down from the bunk, and Stephen's half afraid that he's going to topple onto his knees, but he manages to remain mostly upright. The surgical part of his mind, always present, ever seeking out data, can see that Loki is favoring one leg over the other, his left hand's fingers are a fine shade of purple and brown, and he's still so haggardly gaunt.

Food-Man turns to him, at last releasing Wanda's scalp and Stephen sees the girl struggle to stay upright, only stopped from toppling completely when Loki grabs her upper arm around the straitjacket. Something in his stomach coils with discomfort at the sight, but he doesn't say anything. Loki is the only one between himself and Wanda who has some mobility with his hands.

"Mmph, who was it that ate last time?" Food-Man questions, and Stephen can immediately tell that this is a taunt for Loki, because one look at the muzzle can tell anyone that it hasn't been removed in at least a few weeks.

And Stephen's really not going to go for this.

He should have let Wong tell him how to pick the locks.

Oh, well, he's not exactly above using his mouth as a weapon either. "You are sick creature," he spits, and narrows his eyes with disgust, "they are living beings. You don't have a right to—"

Food-Man walks over and grabs Stephen's jaw. He mostly shuts up in surprise, but Food-Man also tightens his grip to the point it hurts. "They are study subjects," Food-Man corrects. Up close, Stephen can see a strange desperation to his eyes. A madness. "And now so are you. You don't understand how this science works. They are more cooperative when they are angry."

Stephen would have said something, but Food-Man is still gripping his jaw.

"Get used to that." Food-Man commands, and releases him, walking back to the center of the room. He glances towards the guards, "No one eats today. Take the witch."

Wanda's body stiffens, and Loki shifts somewhat as if to stand between the guards, but the brunette's head tips and Loki releases a breath before stepping to the side. Stephen watches the exchange with some surprise. Wanda has only been here for a little over two weeks, and she has formed something of an acquaintance with Loki.

The mass-murderer Loki. The one who drew daggers and looked prepared to stab him Loki. The one who left Odin, one of the most powerful beings in existence, in a dazed, confused state for more than three years Loki. The one who stabbed Thor, and attempted to subjugate their planet—and Wanda a woman not even twenty-five, has created a bond strong enough that Loki would have defended her.

It also makes him wonder, in the quiet, darker parts of his head, how long Loki has been alone for him to latch onto human contact so rapidly.

Wanda has only been here for two weeks.

The guards grab the Sokovian and heave her from the mattress, shoving her forward. She staggers, but manages to regain some balance and holds his gaze for a long few seconds before she leaves. The scientists follow, and as the glass door closes and clicks all sound slips away. The cell they're in is soundproofed.

Marvelous.

Without getting off the bed, Stephen watches with a craned neck to see the guards and scientists lead Wanda out of the adjoining room and into the hall beyond.

Loki's shoulders slump, and his head tips back with what looks like some defeat.

The day (hours?) pass slowly. At some point, Loki comes over to check on his head and beyond a brief scuffle where Stephen panicked, everything seems to be in order. Stephen wasn't bleeding out. His hair still messy and gross, but he's not bleeding out, so he considers that to be a win.

As much of a win as he's going to get here.

Loki also experimentally tugs at Stephen's bonds, but an agony so sharp and piercing ripples through his arms it leaves him breathless and his vision blurry. It's then that he realizes that what he'd thought were handcuffs are not, in fact, just handcuffs. These scientists have done their research.

And Stephen hates that.

Loki doesn't try again after the initial tug, and Stephen's grateful, but frustrated. He wants to get out of here, but that is obviously not going to happen any time soon.

Loki spends a majority of the day on the floor cross legged with his eyes closed, appearing to meditate. He looks so different than what Stephen remembers him as. So much calmer, but oddly broken. Stephen can't stop looking at the muzzle, despite his best efforts. It's just so wrong.

Stephen gets up to pace, and doesn't stop until they come back with Wanda hours (a day?) later. He must have missed his date with Christine by now. They were going to go to dinner at a hopelessly expensive restaurant she favors, and then walk until they were too tired to move. Stephen was going to bring up ring shopping. He'd had it all figured out in a list, because he's hopeless at romance and Wong had helped him. The older man's own wife had died more than a decade ago, but he got married, so he had some success rate.

As much as he'd hate to bring Christine into this life, he'd just...wanted…

The scientists don't follow the guards this time, and said men toss Wanda into the room unceremoniously. She crashes, and doesn't move.

Stephen crosses the distance between them as Loki reaches her, and longs for his hands as Loki rolls her over with a gentleness Stephen wouldn't have thought him capable of. Curse these bonds! He can't perform surgery with the shaking, but he can still offer medical aid. Wanda's nose is leaking blood, and her ears, but beyond a few bruises she seems mostly fine.

Behind the collar is thick bruising though, and Stephen's stomach churns at that.

Her eyes are open, and she's staring at Loki's face.

Loki's expression flickers somewhat, and Wanda's lips thin.

Stephen scans the younger girl, trying to determine if there's further damage. He doesn't think so. Her elbows must be swollen from the straitjacket, though, and he imagines that when they get out of here—because on his life it will is going to be a when—she's going to be fairly handless for a few days as they wait for blood flow to settle.

The Asgardian's eyes narrow, and he gestures somewhat with his hands, but Wanda shakes her head. It occurs to Stephen then that this isn't an amazing show of body language reading, but the two have somehow opened a telepathic link like Wanda did with him, and they're conversing over it.

Somewhere, the teacher within him is proud that Wanda has managed to weasel around the captivity somewhat here. The realistic part of him assures Stephen's ego that he had nothing to do with the connection.

"Are you okay?" Stephen questions, and both Asgardian and Sokovian freeze, as if they forgot about his presence. Wanda's eyes move from Loki to him, and she gives a grimaced smile. It's bitter around the edges.

"I am just tired." She promises, her accent is thicker than yesterday (hours ago?), as if forming words in English is too much of an effort.

Stephen doubts her word. "Why are you bleeding?"

He can make some guesses, but…

"They wouldn't let me take break," Wanda murmurs, "they never let me rest when they watch." Loki sighs and apparently says something over their link because Wanda scowls and looks back at him. "I do not want—" she cuts off, hissing through her teeth.

Loki lifts his eyebrows pointedly. It's the most emotion he's shown all day, and Stephen is privately surprised. He says nothing of this, because he'd rather not have the Asgardian clamp shut or break the uneasy semi-possibly-truce they have.

"Overexertion?" Stephen guesses.

Wanda nods, and meets his gaze. There's a haunted note to her eyes that's beyond her years. "Really, Doctor, I am well. It is hardly above what HYDRA would do when they gave me these powers."

Oh. Oh. Sometimes he forgets she wasn't born with her abilities, or held them for as long as Stephen has. He spent years of time bargaining with Dormammu, but Wanda has only been enhanced for less than five years. And only because of HYDRA.

Suddenly it all makes a click in his head, and he looks up at the two. He doesn't know what to name the emotion flowing through him. Sympathy? Disgust? Maybe both. It doesn't matter. Wanda seems so adapted to this lifestyle because this was her life for whoever knows how long, and Loki has been their prisoner for five years. They don't fight this because they don't see the point.

They've lost hope.

And Stephen doesn't want to follow them.

000o000

They come the next day (hours later?) with the food, and Stephen's stomach twists in a reminder that he hasn't eaten in two days. (However long it's been. He has a terrible sense of time without daylight). He eyes the McDonalds, but says nothing with Food-Man hands it to Wanda and praises her for being so compliant yesterday as they tested.

He releases one of Wanda's arms from the straitjacket, and pointedly taps at the shock collar around her neck before letting her take the bag. She fumbles with it, her arm obviously paining her before she can open it and pull out the food. She's not even looking at him when he hears her voice in his head quietly whisper, 'I'm sorry, I know you are hungry'.

And Stephen smooths his expression and answers, 'It's fine. You need it more than I do.'

She does, and he's really not that hungry anyway. (He is.)

When Wanda has finished the breakfast burger and drank the bottled water, Food-Man turns to him, "Mr. Strange—"

"Doctor," Stephen corrects and smiles pleasantly.

Food-Man's eyes roll up in annoyance, but he nonetheless plows forward, "Mr. Strange...you and I are going to have a delightful time together today."

Stephen doubts that, as does the dread in his stomach. Wanda and Loki stare at him, a shared sort of survivors horror in their eyes. It doesn't instill him with much confidence.

'Just do as they say,' Wanda explains over the link, 'it is easier that way. Don't fight it. They do less harm when you agree.'

'I'll fight if it means I can get us out of here.' Stephen counters, and looks up at Food-Man. "Sounds delightful. When do we start?"

The guards grab his arms and haul him up to his feet. The floor outside of the glass cell is frigid beneath his toes and Stephen grits his teeth to stop himself from voicing this discomfort. They drag him out of the room into the following white facility, and Stephen glances around the halls for an exit or a way out. An escape route is usually helpful for leaving.

He maps every turn they take in his head with ease for future reference until they stop in front of a door. They shove him into a dentist looking chair and snap the restraints down his back before removing the cuffs. Before he has time to conjure even simple sparks, his hands are being cuffed against the armrests.

The guards check twice to make sure it's secured—paranoid fellows, aren't they? Someone must've weaseled there way out of the cuffs, and Stephen can't really see Wanda doing that, but Loki he has no problems imagining—and then back away. The room has no paintings, but plenty of lights and basic lab equipment he recognizes from his time in the medical field.

The woman scientist from yesterday (hours ago?) approaches him with some sort of device and straps it around his neck. It clicks into place and Stephen can hear it humming quietly. His stomach rolls as he realizes what it is. A shock collar. Like Wanda's. He's assumed that the extent of his restraints would be the handcuffs and the ropes. He hand't really...that was stupid.

Oh, man, he wants out of this so terribly, and he is such a child for it.

He has no idea what he's doing.

Food-Man turns back to him, "We're going to run some basic tests on you before we get started. Are you thirsty?"

Stephen lifts a brow. He hasn't been given water since he got here, and they know that as much as him. It's a power thing, he's guessing. They want him to ask for the water. Stephen's desperate, but he's also not stupid. Wanda and Loki are still alive despite being held here for weeks and years respectively, so clearly their captors are putting effort into keeping them alive.

The human body can barely go three days without water, four if you push it.

Stephen has gone two. (Maybe? He still doesn't know and he curses that stupid time vortex). Whether he asks or not they'll give it to him. Or an IV, so he's not going to ask, make them yield first. His voice is still raspy, though, "No, I'm perfectly hydrated."

Food-Man smiles, and lifts up a needle. "Well, this shouldn't hurt then."

He takes Stephen's blood, but has to jab up and down his arms to find a vein he can use. It hurts, but it's really only a mild discomfort. Once he's drawn the blood, having to switch veins four times, he pulls out a bottle of water and wordlessly hands it to Stephen.

He'd be lying to say he's not a little smug.

One of the guards unchains his hands so he can drink the water, and Stephen takes a chance. He blasts the man across the room before he can grab at his wrist, arm, or whatever and is working on removing the restraint on his other arm when the collar goes off and movement of his body slips from him as his vision goes white.

He told Christine once that he was unconscious as the paramedics searched for his car after the crash. He wasn't. The agony of sitting in the dark, cold, wet and alone unable to move was something he'd never be able to replicate. Even with deaths by Dormammu.

This—this is something else entirely.

He's never been struck by lightning before, but he imagines it would feel something like this. He remembers sensing the power around Thor, remembers smelling the ozone in the air and watching the destruction the Asgardian did to the Outriders during their fight with Thanos and thinking I'm glad he's on our side.

This must be what it's like to be hit with a blast from the hammer.

The pain subsides suddenly, and Stephen's hands are shaking for a different reason than his broken nerves. He's panting, and can taste blood on his lips. His nose is bleeding. His ears feel wet. It wasn't overexertion yesterday that made Wanda bleed, he realizes. They'd used this.

Food-Man steps in front of his blurring vision, the Arrowhead water bottle outstretched towards him. "I don't think that that was a good idea, Mr. Strange."

"Doctor," Stephen rasps in correction. Everything is fuzzing, and his whole spine is tense. The collar is still on him. They can still hurt him. That can happen again.

"You only use your powers when we say so." Food-Man says, and holds out the water bottle pointedly. Still trying to gain his breath, Stephen takes it with his shaking hand, and, to his humiliation, Food-Man has to break the seal for him. He spills water all over his shirt from how bad his hand trembles, but the water tastes amazing.

It settles in his empty stomach painfully.

But water.

His throat hurts, and it occurs to him that he must have yelled when the collar went off. He doesn't remember doing it though. Food-Man performs other tests, most of which Stephen can't even remember, before he's being hauled to his feet and dragged to a different room.

This one is divided into two sections. One half is behind bullet proof glass with cameras at every possible angle. The other has computers set up reading the feed of said cameras. They didn't put the cuffs back on him, but a second attempt at leaving provides the same pain and Stephen doesn't want to go for a third.

The put him behind the glass, and, over speakers Stephen spots when they crackle, Food-Man says, "Perform a basic spell for us. We need to see you use your magic."

Yeah.

No.

Stephen is a mature adult. He knows this, but it doesn't stop him from making a rude gesture in Food-Man's direction and doesn't stop him from not feeling guilt about it.

Food-Man seems to sigh behind the glass, and the six or seven other people in the room seem vaguely irritated. Good. Over the speaker, Food-Man says, "We'll be done for the day once you've completed the spell, Mr. Strange."

"Doctor," Stephen grumbles under his breath, and stands stubbornly still.

He's not going to give away the secrets of the Masters of the Mystic Arts. He's the Sorcerer Supreme. He can handle a little pain, or whatever they decide to throw at him for disobedience.

They're all sociopaths, fine. Stephen is hopelessly stubborn.

He doesn't do anything for them and they cuff him and then drag him back to the cell. Wanda eyes his collar but says nothing, and Loki checks his head again.

They let him eat the next day, and drag him out again. He refuses to comply with the magic study, and Food-Man smacks him across the face hard enough to make his vision spin. Limited time is brought up. Stephen doesn't care.

He's getting out of here. Maybe they'll let him go when he refuses to comply.

They repeat this practice for close to what he thinks is a week before Food-Man's patience appears to snap. Stephen's behind the glass with the cameras as he shouts something at someone in the room, muffled, but Stephen thinks it has something to do with "running out of time for the tech and this has to be done by next week" before he inhales deeply, and over the speaker says coldly:

"You have a girlfriend, don't you, Mr. Strange?"

Stephen freezes.

Christine.

No.

"Doctor," Stephen corrects quietly even as his head lifts to stare at the man with a growing horror. His life is private, the only way he'd know that is if they'd been watching him. The scientist's lips twitch into something close to a deranged smile. "That would be a shame if something happened to her, wouldn't it? You clearly don't care about what happens to you, but what about dear Miss Palmer? Soon to be Mrs. if rumors are correct, no?"

Stop it.

Not her. Not her. Not her.

He's not breathing, and he knows he should draw in breath, but it suddenly seems so unimportant in the face of all of this.

"So tell me, Mr. Strange, will you create a simple spell for us, or watch her suffer?"

"The Masters are coming for me," Stephen spits out desperately, "they'll be here soon enough. You won't touch Christine."

Food-Man, and three others burst into laughter. "They don't know you're missing, Mr. Strange—" what? "—they think you're re-configuring yourself. Tell me, Wong is a loyal man, isn't he? But is the man who's always trying to get you to rest going to stop you from taking a break?"

No. Wong wouldn't.

He can't believe that they—

Wong will come for him. He has to.

"Our resources are nearly unlimited, Mr. Strange. Miss Palmer," Food-Man reminds over the intercom. His stomach swirls, and he heaves out a breath. He shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't—

He—

They are more cooperative when they are angry.

Stephen draws in a shaky breath, and lifts up his hands. It doesn't hurt to have them take the data, but something in him screams with betrayal. He's the Sorcerer Supreme. He's supposed to be better than this, but he's not.

He can't let anything happen to Christine.

One spell turns into dozens, and when he tries to stop they shock him until he continues. Stephen's crying with pain and bitterness when they finish. Blood dribbles down his nose into his mouth, and his ears are wet with it.

They inject him with something before cuffing his hands in front and drag him back to the cell. He lands with a thump in front of Wanda and Loki, and his head hurts as it touches the ground. He can't get himself to talk or move because he betrayed the Masters because he was too weak and now it's all—

He's still wearing the shock collar, and he feels sick with whatever drug they put in him.

"Shh," Wanda soothes and Loki helps him sit up. He knows that they've been taken over the last week too, because Loki's clothing is blood stained and Wanda has more bruises, but they are always here when he returns, and help him as much as they can. He wishes he could return the favor.

"I-I—" Stephen strangles out. His voice is raw. He's still thirsty. And starving.

"Shh, shh." Wanda instructs. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

He doesn't know. Doesn't care. A headache is throbbing in the back of his skull.

"I…" he tries again. A sob builds in his throat.

Wanda shares a look with Loki.

"I betrayed them." Stephen blurts out. The admittance of his crimes makes him curl in with shame. He did that. They gave him his hands and in return he gives these scientists—psychopaths—their secrets. He's—

Fingers brush against his temples, and Stephen stiffens before: 'They are not planning an attack against your Sanctums.'

Not Wanda.

Loki.

The Asgardian is in his head. It's a wispy presence, quiet, and doesn't blare in the way that others do. It speaks of experience. His voice sounds more accented than Stephen remembers, but he doesn't know if he's a very good judge of it. He heard, what, two, three sentences? The footage of New York is terrible, and none of it had audio.

But Loki. In his head. He knows that telepathy is only a communication line and Loki can't read his thoughts, but it doesn't…

Wanda and Loki both lurk in the back of his mind now. Until one of them closes the link or they run out of energy, it will remain open.

He stops panicking and processes Loki's words, then scoffs. 'How do you know this?'

'I've heard them talking,' Loki transmits.

'It isn't an attack, Doctor.' Wanda insists, 'They build a machine. From watching us.'

Stephen pauses, but looks between the two. 'What machine?

'We don't know,' Wanda admits quietly, 'but they build.'

000o000

"Who even built the drones?" Hawkeye questions, looking at the hovering screens with a furrowed brow. "This guy couldn't have been acting alone."

Peter thought he was. Stupid. Hawkeye has been standing here for less than five minutes and already determine that, but it took Peter almost two weeks from Mysterio's death to put two and two together. He just—he wasn't thinking clearly then. He'd been recovering from the train and—Maybe if you were better Tony wouldn't be—everything else.

Peter rubs at the back of his neck, shifting some of the data around. "We know. We're digging up everything we can, but I only saw Mysterio. I don't know who else it could have been."

Hawkeye side glances him. "He made that program of Stark's, didn't he? BARF or something?"

Peter nods. "Yeah. He seemed to have something against Tony, but I don't...I don't know what. I can't remember if he said or not." He rubs a hand against his face, trying to remain upright. He is so tired. He wants to rest, but he doesn't have time now. People could be dying. Scarlet Witch and Dr. Strange need them.

Peter bites at the tip of his tongue.

"You tried looking at other SI members?" Hawkeye asks, pulling up a screen. It's a picture of the drone that MJ managed to find. Before Peter gave Mysterio EDITH. "This is Tony's tech. Well, SI's. I recognize it from when I was living in the Tower. It may not have the brand name planted on the side, but it's SI's."

Peter blows out a reluctant breath and gives a slow shake of his head. "We didn't try anyone from Stark Industries. FRIDAY? Will you pull up the most likely—"

"Scan completed, Mr. Parker" FRIDAY interrupts, "these are the members or former members I believe most likely to be responsible." A handful of faces fling up to their view. Peter doesn't recognize any of them, but Hawkeye snaps his fingers and points.

"That guy. I know that guy. Okay," Hawkeye blows out a breath and runs a hand down his face, "if SI's is involved in this, that narrows down our search radius a ton. In order to build all this tech they'd need access to Arc Reactor energy, and Tony only gave that to a handful of people. So—"

Oh, gosh, they are so close.

"Locations analyzed." FRIDAY says, "Here are the most likely candidates."

Hawkeye nods, and looks them over before turning to Peter. "Well, kid, grab your suit and tell the others. We've got some castle storming to do."

000o000

Things settle into a some-what routine after that. They take him every other day (what he assumes is day, because there is no daylight here) and make him perform spells behind the glass. On the days he's no taken, he mostly sleeps or takes care of Wanda and Loki.

They don't take Loki as often, but they do take him; every four days or so. He always comes back with needle marks on his arms that Stephen assumes is an IV. Because they can't just remove the gag and give him water, could they? He comes back bloody sometimes, but every time Stephen asks about it, he never answers.

They take the straitjacket off when they "study" Wanda, and though she says nothing he knows her arms ache for hours after she returns. She comes back with cuts sometimes, too, and he knows they get weapon happy with disobedience.

Stephen has never wanted to hit a group of people with a semi-truck more in his life. And he doesn't even know how to drive a semi-truck. It can't be that hard, can it?

They don't close the mental link. Those that watch them must think them mad or getting there because they never talk but wave with their hands, point, and make faces at each other like they're crazy. None of them breathe a word about the link to their captors and they try to keep it a secret, but Stephen's beginning to suspect they just don't care. It's through these arguments and attempts at conversation that Stephen learns a little about his inmates.

Wanda hates the color purple, insists that she can taste some colors, plays the guitar, has a deceased brother, doesn't know how to drive, sometimes forgets they can't speak Sokovian, and misses her lover.

Loki is smart. The disturbing intelligence that leaves him both impressed and unsettled, he misses his brother, knows how to braid hair, hates the taste of tomatoes—it's just the stupid little things that they discuss in their misery, and it takes weeks to accumulate this data. They mostly ask about injuries or if any new ideas of escape have aroused.

They haven't.

Their captors are building some sort of projection, and they study their magic to make it realistic. To make it seem normal. He picks this much up over the weeks. He doesn't see a purpose for this, but he's certain that, should they get out of this, they'll be dealing with the fallout.

Everything isn't great, but it only gets worse when they put Stephen and Loki together and Food-Man (he's probably learned his name by this point, but he doesn't care and forgot it) and command them to fight. Loki isn't wearing a collar, but he still has that muzzle on.

Stephen hesitates, and the shock drives him to his knees, panting. He doesn't want to do this, and Loki doesn't seem any more keen on it than him.

'I will make this quick.' Loki says over the link and Stephen looks up, strangely offended. He'd like to think he can hold his own for a little longer than a few seconds, thanks.

He hobbles up to his feet and snaps shields out. Loki's eyes flick with what looks like brief amusement before he lifts up his hands and clenches his fists. Stephen lasts about fifteen seconds before he's floored, dizzy, and Loki's being hauled off of him. His breath is unsteady and his eyes are wide.

You think you're some kind of sorcerer?

He'd thought Loki was being snippy, maybe just mean, but now he gets it. Loki's magic wasn't like anything he's seen before because, despite the sheer, raw power of it, Stephen couldn't see any of it. So different from his own, so different from Wanda's.

And Stephen gets the impression Loki wasn't even trying.

They make them go again and again and again for hours until Stephen is depleted and Loki's cheekbones are flushed with fever. The Asgardian is sick, that much is obvious, and the exertion of this isn't helping.

His exhaustion starts showing in his magic after the long hours, because it becomes visible past his hands. His veins would glow dully as he wielded his power, but after he gets tired, Stephen can see something. Loki's magic looks like blurred wind almost. Sometimes it's a wispy green smoke. It just doesn't seem solid.

Loki wins every round anyway, despite Stephen's advantage.

Both of them are injected with something, and then dragged off.

Loki collapses against the bed and doesn't move despite Wanda's prodding. 'Are you well?'

Stephen feels sick to his stomach. That much magic uses energy, and Stephen doesn't have any. He needs substance or he's going to make himself pass out, and he doesn't want a repeat of that. That's the type of mistakes that beginners make, and Stephen is well beyond that. He wants...he doesn't know. Noodles sounds really good, and he's mildly concerned because he hates pasta.

'Hungry,' Loki gasps, 'I am empty, and it burns me. I need…'

Stephen squeezes his eyes shut.

He wakes to Loki crying out over the telepathy bond for Thor, then "Amma", and something in him quietly breaks.

He fights Wanda the next day.

He is still sick. He could normally win on a good day—he has in the past—but this is not a good day. They both leave bloody and pass out on the floor of their cell beside each other, too tired to reach the cots. Stephen longs for food, and water, and to be anywhere but here. He doesn't have his sling ring. If he did, they'd be gone.

It's been two months at least. Three?

Wong will come. It will be over. Wong will come with the others. The Avengers will come. Wong will—

He keeps telling himself that, but days have passed. Weeks have passed. Months.

And Wong, nor anyone else, comes.

000o000

Peter doesn't know what he was expecting when he found them, but this...wasn't it. In the naive part of his mind, he was expecting them to be sitting at a table and playing cards—something stupid like that. It isn't what they find.

Behind glass marked with stay behind the white line every four feet or so is a cell. It isn't very big. On the left are cots rooted into the wall like bunk beds without blankets or anything similar to that. Dr. Strange is leaning against the far wall with his knees propped up, head tipped back and eyes closed. If Peter didn't know better, he'd say he was asleep.

There's some sort of device fashioned around his neck, and he's lost at least twenty pounds since the last time Peter saw him. He's thin, not quite frail, but still thin with waxy skin and flushed cheeks. He could've been mistaken for a plague victim.

A few feet away is another man that Peter recognizes from somewhere. However awful Dr. Strange looks this man tops with ease. Long dark hair is run amok around his gaunt face, and he's barely anything above skeletal. There's a device strapped around the lower half of his face.

Scarlet Witch's head is resting on the unknown man's leg, and Peter can immediately see something that he's pretty sure is a straitjacket wrapped around her upper body.

His stomach churns.

His steps stutter, but Sergeant Barnes advances forward slowly, undeterred. Peter follows after him hesitantly. With some effort, they manage to figure out how to bypass the locks on the door and step inside the cell. Every body immediately tenses at their arrival, and Peter isn't stupid. He gets the implications of this.

Why didn't anyone think to look for them sooner?

Four months.

Four.

That's a quarter of a year.

Sergeant Barnes moves across the ground slowly, but does nothing to silence his feet. Peter's assuming this is for the other's benefit, because Sergeant Barnes can be a freakin' ninja if the need arises. It's for their unease. Peter clenches his fists.

Okay, you got this, Pete. Just help an ex-assassin release the most powerful magic users on Earth and their dark haired friend. Not that hard.

Peter crosses the distance between himself and Dr. Strange quickly, but loudly, and kneels down next to the man. "Dr. Strange?" Peter whispers. Towards his right, Sergeant Barnes leans forward to shake the other man's shoulder to garner his attention.

Dr. Strange flinches, and then his eyebrows flick with confusion before his eyes blink open. He stares at Peter for a long second with something close to disbelief, and then wets his lips, "W-what're...Spider-Man? Am I dead?"

That's his first assumption? Peter's eyes widen, "No, you're not dead. We're here to rescue you."

Dr. Strange's head tips, "I'm hallucinating."

"No," Peter grabs Dr. Strange's shoulder and the man flinches at his touch. "You're not hallucinating. We're really here to get you out. Here, let me…" Peter leans forward and squints at the collar. Karen immediately pulls up schematics wordlessly and marks the clasp red for him.

Peter reaches his hands forward, ignoring Dr. Strange's panicked "wait!" and pulls at the clasp. It takes some maneuvering before he manages to hit the lock. The collar hisses as it releases and Peter pulls it off of Dr. Strange as carefully as he can. The man's eyes widen further and he looks up at Peter.

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this.

"You're really here," he croaks.

Peter nods, heart heavy at how surprised Dr. Strange sounds by it. "I am," Peter promises, "we're getting you out of here, okay?"

Dr. Strange nods, dazed. Peter glances at Sergeant Barnes first, before attempting to remove the manacles wrapped around the doctor's wrists. Sergeant Barnes has managed to get Scarlet Witch up, and the straitjacket off. With shaking hands, Scarlet Witch is working on removing the gag-thing attached to the other man's face.

Peter returns his attention to the manacles. It takes a little before Peter gives up on trying to remove them and simply grabs at the thin space between where the cuffs meet and squeezes. The metal folds beneath his strength with ease. Peter grabs Dr. Strange's arm and slowly helps pull the man up to his feet.

Dr. Strange hobbles, leaning against him heavily and Peter's earlier suspicion of the magician being underweight gains more evidence. Dr. Strange is nowhere near as heavy as he should be for a man this tall. Peter's not a doctor, but he's saved enough people to get a general average and Dr. Strange isn't near that.

He can't believe that anyone would do this.

It's inhumane.

Peter thins his lips and turns his head as he hears someone coughing. The other man, the one that Wanda was leaning against, the witch has managed to remove the gag and he's on his hand sand knees, coughing. He's hacking out blood and a weird fluid that isn't spit and colored. It kind of looks like mucus when someone's on a cold. The greenish tint it takes in an infection? Yeah. That. Gross.

Sergeant Barnes leans forward to steady the man. Wanda's shaking hand rests on his shoulder in an attempt at comfort before she looks up at him. Her gaze is piercing, and Peter wants to pull his eyes away immediately. It's like being stared down by an angry dragon and knowing that no matter what you do, the end is going to be death by flame.

"You…" Wanda's voice is raspy and she coughs before trying again, "please...please get us out of here."

Peter's stomach churns. Four months.

They left them here for four months.

Sergeant Barnes's expression flickers for a second with an emotion Peter can't place. "The Quinjet is waiting. We're leaving."

000o000

Stephen jerks upwards, breath escaping him in a great heave. His stomach is twisting and he feels vaguely ill. There's sounds around him that he can't remember from before, and his muscles tense at it.

His hands are free.

He needs...out. He needs to get out. Where is Wanda? Loki? Where...where is he? The smells are all wrong. So is the ground. No—wait, this isn't ground. That's why it's wrong. It's a mattress. Cot? Hospital bed. He's not sure.

Stephen, with effort, opens his eyes. The light is blinding and he winces, lifting up a hand to shadow his face. It reminds him of the glass room, but it doesn't smell right. Stephen blows out through his teeth and blinks several times before a hand gently presses against his elbow.

Stephen flinches, looking up.

His gaze meets Stark's kid. Parker. Peter. Relief cascades through him like a punch to the gut. It was real. He wasn't dreaming. Peter looks a little tired, but gives a tight smile. "Hi," the teen keeps his voice low, for which Stephen is grateful.

"Where are Wanda and Loki?" Stephen says in turn, trying to find them amidst the hospital room. Gosh, his voice sounds terrible. Raspy and dry from lack of use. He can't see them, and his stomach gives an awful twist of panic.

What if they were taken? What if they accidentally killed each other on the field? He knows that they're weak from lack of energy and they hold back against each other, but it only takes one mistake before everyone's dead and—

"Sleeping, Dr. Strange, they're sleeping." Peter interjects, and Stephen lifts his gaze up.

"Oh."

"You've been unconscious for about three days," Peter explains, releasing Stephen's elbow. The light is dimmer, so Stephen slowly pulls his hand away from his head. "Wanda's asked about you, she woke up yesterday."

Stephen gives a slight nod, still looking for them halfheartedly. They aren't in the room. Which is fine. (It's not).

"Where am I?" Stephen croaks out. Peter leans forward to grab a glass of water and hands it to him. Stephen takes it with a shaking hand.

"Avengers Tower, Stark Medical." Peter answers, "You were in New York. Just, like, the abyss of New York. It was this huge underground facility that's connected to the arc reactor of the Tower and it took forever to clear out. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s still working on it right now."

Oh.

He doesn't know how he feels about that.

"How...how long have I been missing?" Stephen asks, trying to bury the exhaustion. He just woke up, he can't be this exhausted.

"About five months," Peter whispers. "I'm sorry that it took us this long to realize something was wrong. What were they doing? All of you guys are, like, super malnourished—especially Loki, I mean he's like—"

A sudden fear wraps around him and he grabs Peter's forearm. "You didn't put him in prison, did you? Please tell me he's not restrained, or locked up, or—did you remove the muzzle? He's going to get worse unless you remove that and he needs to—"

"Whoa, calm down." Peter lifts up his hands. "He's in a hospital bed. Clint called the Guardians. Thor's on his way here. Queen Valkyrie has already seen to him, I'm pretty sure if anyone tries to lock him up she'll gut them without sorrows, so."

Stephen's lip quivers up, and he slowly releases Peter's forearm. Relief. He has never had so much relief before. The telepathic communication between them wavers slightly and Stephen's lips thin. Someone just woke up. Wanda, he thinks.

Stephen releases a deep breath, "Thank you, Mr. Parker. I don't know...we were waiting for them to let down their guard, but it just...by the time it happened our escape attempts failed and we had just...thank you."

Peter nods, giving a faint smile. "You're welcome. Happy to help...but I really am sorry that it took so long, I just...gah, I can't believe that you were lost for so long and no one…" Peter sighs deeply. Heavily.

Stephen looks him over. His posture is slumped. He looks tired, like he hasn't eaten anything in a while and changed his clothes about the same time. Stephen's eyebrows furrow some before he blows out a sigh through his teeth. "What happened? You look awful."

Peter stills. "I'm...Dr. Strange I really don't—"

"Peter."

"There...there was this guy," Peter starts slowly, "he...he was kind of the head of your captors. I think. I mean, they were holding you to study your powers for their projector-thingys, so I'm assuming he was in charge. Anyway, we...fought a little together and then he hit me with a train, shot me a couple times, and then did this...thing, and revealed my identity to the world."

Stephen stills. He sits up as best he's able and stares at Peter's face carefully. "What?"

Peter gives a grim smile. "I mean, don't freak out, because it's okay. Kind of. I mean, that's why I was looking for you in the first place, because I thought you'd know what to do, but while we were looking for you guys S.H.I.E.L.D. handled it. And by that I mean that they explained about how the guy was a pretty shady figure to begin with and now the news is exploding about pretend heroes and everything, but whatever. It's all good. Yep."

"When was the last time you slept?" Stephen questions, eyebrow lifting some.

Peter stares forward for a second, then counts on his fingers. He has to start twice before he shrugs. "I dunno. I think it's Wednesday and the last time I slept was, like, for two hours on Monday. It's been a while."

Stephen nearly rolls his eyes. He's not surprised. This teenager. "Go to sleep. I'll be okay for a few hours."

"I'll go get Bucky." Peter offers. "You're not supposed to be left alone right now. Orders of Dr. Cho. But yeah, a bed sounds good."

000o000

'Everyone still alive?' Stephen calls about a day later over the telepathic link. Dr. Cho, or who Stephen's assuming that's who the doctor was has already checked him over today, and he's surprisingly okay.

Malnutrition, dehydration and a couple of minor injuries, but nothing that can't be fixed over time.

'Mm.' Loki answers.

'Sick. Tired. I have runny nose.' Wanda transmits. 'Are you well?'

'Enough off.'

000o000

Despite the fact that Stephen hasn't seen either of them for a week, it doesn't keep them from communicating with each other over the link. They didn't talk about this much during their imprisonment, but the lack of physical evidence as to their medical states keeps them pressing on it.

Loki explains about Thor's excitement to see him, leaving out his own relief, but it's fairly obvious.

Wanda says, with no small amount of fondness that Lila, Clint's daughter, drew her a picture of butterflies and it's one of the most beautiful things she's ever seen.

Wong arrives the second day since Stephen woke up and apologizes quietly before, in a chiding, but fond tone says: "Are you ready to pick locks now?"

Stephen nearly hit him, but kept his shaking hands stilled by his side.

'I would have hit him.' Loki remarks later.

'That's rude.' Wanda counters.

'And?'

000o000

Later, he wakes up to Christine holding his hand and smiling softly. Relief crashes through him at seeing her alive and well and he struggles to sit up so he can lean over and gently press a kiss against the side of her face. "You okay?" he questions softly.

Christine's eyes are wet, but she smiles softly. "Yeah, Stephen, I'm okay. We need to stop meeting like this."

Stephen grimaces. "I know. I can't promise we won't."

Christine sighs, "I know. I'm glad you're okay."

000o000

Later, he determines the reason he was so calm with everyone was the fact that he was so high off of drugs that the world was fuzzing around the edges. When he wakes up six days after the initial first time, it's after a brutal nightmare. Stephen shoves upwards gasping and panicking, hands digging into the bare skin of his neck the phantom pains of the collar rushing through him.

Hands grab at his wrists to stop him, but it only makes it worse.

Stephen's blasted the figure across the room and is attempting to hobble up to his feet before he really registers what's going on. The telepathic link is pulsing in the back of his head. Stephen thinks he's unintentionally sent his panic across it, even though it's only supposed to be communication.

There's medical equipment sticking out of him.

IV's.

Drugs.

No more drugs. None. He can't—

A hand reaches for him, and Stephen shakes it off. His vision won't focus. He's going to be sick. His feet won't support him. He's making gasping wet noises of panic. He's going to die. He can't breathe. He's going to—

'Stephen.' Loki's voice. 'Stephen, you are safe.'

'Shh, shh, take some deep breaths.' Wanda. The hands gently reach for him, 'I'm going to touch you.'

'Why are you in here?' Stephen questions, 'We're...you aren't here. It's the wrong place. We're not in the glass room and you're—'

'Shh,' Wanda instructs and hands gently touch the sides of his face. Thin fingers. Wanda's. 'We're safe. We are with the other Avengers. They will keep us safe. We are safe. I'm here. Loki's here. We won't let anything happen to you. Keep breathing.'

Stephen does as instructed and his vision slowly clears. Wanda is standing in front of him, hands on either side of his face. Behind her is Loki, resting a hand on the woman's shoulder. Past them, away from the secluded corner of the hospital room Stephen has claimed as his own, are others. Thor, Sergeant Barnes, Falcon, Wong, Peter.

He's too shaken to be embarrassed.

Instead, his legs give out and Wanda and Loki move forward to support his weight and help him to the ground. Wanda wraps her arms around him and Loki begins to trace his fingers along Stephen's back. Stephen releases a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut and slumping against the two of them.

'This is pathetic.' He transmits miserably.

'You have endured much,' Loki counters 'It is only expected.'

"All will be well." Wanda promises, her words a quiet whisper. "Keep breathing, we are not lab rats anymore. You are doing so well."

Stephen exhales through his teeth. "No more self discovery vacations, alright?"

Wanda releases a soft laugh and Stephen tilts his head up, spotting as Loki's lip twitches up.

"Agreed." Loki's voice is a soft rasp. "Until then, recovery?"

"Recovery." Stephen and Wanda agree.

000o000

To whom it may concern, our extended leave of absence is now over. We don't care if you have a problem with that. Thank you for your understanding.

Have a nice day,

Sincerely,

—Dr. S.S., Wanda M., Prince L. Odinson