Chapter Text
The last time Stephen Strange had felt this level of mind numbing panic was in a hospital bed, staring at a mess of broken bones and twisted flesh. It feels like the end of the world, like Dormammu telling him to die, like fourteen million versions of the same future in which no one survives; like learning that his life will never be the same again.
The Doctor, to his credit, does look mildly embarrassed. And more than a little guilty. “Listen,” he tries, “it’s a little too late for that. I already messed with the time stream. Got it all tangled up. But it’s okay, I’m here to help now!”
“You don’t understand.” Stephen grits out, when what he really means is I don’t understand. Because this can’t be happening. This literally can’t be happening, because of all the timelines, all the possible scenarios in which they lose and lose and lose - and the one so carefully crafted in which they win - this man does not exist.
“I’m in the wrong universe. I’m trying to fix that. But I can’t just stand by, because someone I care about, who I promised to help, has been mixed up in this since the beginning, and I can’t step away, not now. So why don’t you just portal me back over there and - ”
“We have one chance to win. You have no part in it.”
“I can help. I can take down those ships, for one.”
“What if we lose? What if this isn’t it? Because that would be on you.”
The Doctor stills, his eyes widening a fraction, lips pressed in a pale line even as the Earth reverberates with impact after impact. In the distance, a comet streaks through the atmosphere, burning bright. Carol Danvers, Stephen knows, right on cue. He should be there, too.
Once upon a time, he never would have asked. He never would have stopped, never taken the time to try and explain. He never would have begged. He is not the same man he was, all those lifetimes ago.
“Please.” he says now, tracking the progress of the battle in his mind’s eye, counting the seconds. Carol with the gauntlet. Scott opening a tunnel to the quantum realm, to no avail. He needs to be there, to give Stark the message, to tell him This is it, this is the one. “Please trust me.”
Uncertainty flickers across the Doctor’s face, and that’s all it takes. His shoulders sag, all the air leaving him at once. “Okay. I trust you.”
He doesn’t waste another second. He steps through the portal exactly where he is supposed to be, raising shields without a thought, turning so he is directly in Stark’s line of sight. Their eyes meet, and he holds up a finger, perfectly choreographed. This is it, this is the only one, this is how it’s supposed to be.
Stark’s eyes shift to a spot just over his shoulder, and there’s a split second where his eyes find the Doctor’s, where his hand moves to his wrist, and he hesitates. There’s a split second where Stephen doesn’t know what is going to happen.
The second passes, Stark lunges, and the world falls silent.
Amy is in the kitchen, not-sulking and wondering if it would be an overstep of hospitality to make some cookies. Happy had pretty much abandoned her the minute the Doctor left, taking Morgan by the hand and leading her to the couch and a stack of DVDs. Looney Tunes blasts from the speakers, Elmer Fudd and Daffy Duck and Tweetie Bird all taking turns at center stage. More often than not the only sounds that reach the kitchen are those of explosions, sometimes the splat of someone falling and hitting the ground. It’s hardly reassuring, and when Amy sneaks a glance after half an hour of mind-numbing boredom, it’s to see Morgan sitting perfectly poised, staring at her fingers splayed against her legs, and Happy watching the door. The quiet obedient child and the security guard, each playing the role they’ve been left.
Well.
Amy has never been one to follow the rules, and when the sudden irrational urge to do something dangerous comes at her from behind, she doesn’t resist. She starts rummaging through the drawers, digs out flour, eggs, milk, sugar, chocolate. She doesn’t know any recipes, but that’s a problem for another day. She finds a bowl, some beaters, a knife, a lighter. She imagines the Doctor returning to find the house in flames, her hand missing a few fingers, poisoned by some dangerous mixture of ingredients. The look on his face. Ha. That’ll teach you.
Of course, it doesn’t happen that way.
She’s in the middle of aggressively dumping flour into the bowl when there’s the patter of little feet and the thump of a small body colliding with the counter, and Morgan’s voice, demanding “I want to help!”
She runs off before Amy can respond, only to return a second later with a stool. The next minute she’s on the counter, reaching for the eggs. Amy lets the kid messily crack them into the bowl, and generously lets her dump in the sugar too, and at her suggestion gets butter from the fridge.
“Mommy always adds butter.” Morgan informs her importantly, and then starts to instruct her on how to set up the beaters. Because these are some high tech beaters, and Amy almost smashes them before she finds the right setting. In the end they have to mix the dough by hand, because it’s too thick and not right, but Amy couldn’t care less because behind all the clumped dough and smudges of chocolate that have somehow made their way to her face, Morgan is smiling.
The cookies make it into the oven, and then both girls abandon the mess in the kitchen, fleeing to the couch once more. Happy looks up from his phone, but doesn’t say anything about the flour trailing behind them, or the challenging look Amy sends him.
“You okay?” he asks instead, and Amy is so thrown by the concern that her mind goes completely blank. “I’ve got the kitchen.” he adds, when she doesn’t immediately answer, and with squared shoulders and the look of a man about to face the music, he goes to inspect the damage.
Morgan stands from the floor, having pulled two books out from beneath the couch. They’re near identical, both Eyewitness series. One has the title Insects, the other Ancient Rome. It’s a no-brainer which one Amy reaches for. They’re flipping through page after page, not reading the words, not really looking at the pictures, just Amy spewing half forgotten facts, when Morgan pauses suddenly, squinting at a centurion in full armor.
“It looks a bit like Daddy.” she says, and Amy has half a second to imagine a man she barely knows dressed in a red tunic with gold armor and a crazy helmet, before Morgan suddenly bursts into tears.
Happy materializes in front of them, reaching out with soothing arms. “Shh.” he murmurs, “There there, everything’s okay, I’ve got you. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” Morgan sobs, completely distraught.
“She’s worried about Tony.” Amy supplies, clutching the book like a lifeline, trying not to feel like it’s her fault. Maybe she should have chosen bugs instead.
“I want my mommy.” Morgan sniffs.
Happy readjusts his grip, squinting at Amy. “Who?”
“Um, her dad. You know.”
The timer in the kitchen goes off, and Morgan reaches up to wipe at her eyes, attention shifting. Happy shifts with her, eyes darting to the kitchen. “We should get those before they burn. Do you mind...?” He gestures helplessly to the sniffling child in his arms, and Amy stands abruptly, heading for the kitchen and trying not to panic. Pedro, Crispin, Phillip, Marco. She finds the potholders and takes the tray carefully from the oven. Pedro, Crispin, Phillip, Marco, PedroCrispinPhillipMarco. She had sworn to remember. She burns her fingers getting three of the cookies onto a plate, and then brings them back into the sitting room, gathering her courage.
“Tony Stark.” She says as she sits down, because Happy probably just misheard. “You know.” She turns to Morgan, the man’s own daughter. “Your dad. The one that looks like a roman.”
Happy frowns, and Morgan gives her a serious, considering look. Tear tracks are still visible on her blotchy cheeks, but she’s pulled herself together remarkably. “Amy.” she says, gently, as though she is the adult and Amy is the one losing her mind. “I don’t have a daddy.”
Thanos snaps his fingers, and the universe falls silent.
Words form on Tony’s lips, his mouth moving in pantomime, but all Peter can hear is a suffocating nothingness. He’s not close enough when Tony raises his hand. He shouts out a warning, a protest, but either the world is deaf or he is, because he doesn’t make a sound and no one reacts. He runs through a deafening silence and he knows he’s too late even as Tony’s fingers click in place and the power of a universe caves to his will. He knows he’s too late as the fabric of reality rips, tears, and re-aligns.
Almost.
There is one last tear, one last crack at the epicenter of the explosion, and it is so familiar and so alien and so utterly terrifying.
Tony stumbles backward, his expression one of shock as his body gives out and their enemies turn to ash at his fingers. Time stretches out in milliseconds as he trips and falls, not moving to catch himself. Light reaches out almost hungrily, tendrils drifting from the fissure that has opened beneath him.
It’s simple math, Peter’s brain supplies, thoughts racing to provide an explanation even as his body remains bound in time. Six stones with the power of the universe, and each snap derives another reality and flips the sign. Positive to negative and back again. A series of events, the sum of which converges to the end of the universe and the sound of silence.
What did you expect?
The crack snaps shut with the force of an implosion, and the universe jolts into motion. Peter stumbles forward, falling to his knees and heaving in great breaths of air even as ash floats to the ground around him. Pepper lands next to him, her helmet retracted as she places a comforting hand on his back.
“We won!” He gasps out, light headed and dizzy and laughing with relief. His thoughts are strangely, hauntingly quiet. “We won.”
What did you expect?