warning: whump/angst/injury sort of stuff

...

...

Six - Flight to the Ukuwela

…

Peter Parker

…

2017

"Hey, Uncle Ben," I said into the cellphone, wincing and looking at the view. The jaundiced New York skyline was dim. Disgusting.

"I just, wanted, to… uh… leave you a quick message. I just wanted to say I'm really sorry about what I said this morning. It wasn't fair to you. And you haven't answered any of my texts. Or calls. I mean, I know you're working… but… I just wanted to make sure you heard it. Right away. I'm really sorry. Will you… will you call me when you get this? Okay. Um. Thanks…"

I hung up the phone, and I felt my spider-sense go crazy. Those sirens I had ignored from earlier, frustrated at the fight that Uncle Ben and I had that morning before school, was still wailing away. Whatever it was, it must've been bad.

I felt gloomy about checking out the sirens. Not heroic.

I sighed petulantly and leapt off the building, enjoying the freedom of free-fall for a moment before sending out a stream up web, swooping through the air like a yo-yo, hitting the end of the tether, swinging up into the glorious heights again, back down, and up again, clinging to the side of the building, leaping, and catching myself again.

The sirens sounded awfully close to where Uncle Ben works. The spinning red lights were close to the same skyscraper, anyway - no, not close. There. Parked around the base, in the streets, police tape blocked it off - I heard the words rise up, overwhelming me at once from the super-hearing.

The crowd murmured behind the police barriers.

There's an active shooter inside…

I had felt my heart drop thoroughly into my chest, somewhere in my stomach, perhaps. That's where Uncle Ben worked. The building where the shooter was.

I think I knew - then. Even with my persistent hope. Even without confirmation. Uncle Ben would have called me back, if he could. He would have been watching his phone like a hawk. Waiting for me to call when I was ready.

...

Present

…

"Peter."

"Yeah," I choke out. It hurts to speak. I'm looking at the deck of the ship, and I'm on my knees. Both hands are curled around the pommel of the blade plunged through my abdomen.

That sickly moment replays again - the resistance of the suit - not enough for alien material - then the resistance of my flesh, giving way - the cutting through, the blade biting into me, the skin, muscle - organs? - sharp, sharp, sharp, sharp metal punching through. How weakly and softly my body just seemed to accept the presence of the blade like it was supposed to be there, that horrible sting of a paper-cut magnified by the smell of blood and slamming, pounding pain lacing through my whole abdomen.

There's a copper taste in the back of my mouth, acidic against my teeth. My hands immediately going to the handle of the blade, wanting to pull it out, knowing if I do, I'll probably bleed out in minutes.

I've heard the cautionary stories. If you're impaled, don't pull the thingy out…

"Peter, stay with me," a male's voice. Uncle Ben? "Don't - don't mess with that. Leave it in. Sorry, kid. Not till a professional can do it safely."

"Uh huh," I whisper hoarsely. I blink and twitch my head a little from side to side trying to shake away the cobwebs. It's gray and matted inside my skull, keeping me from thinking straight.

"STAND BACK!" shouts a voice. "GIVE US SOME SPACE! BACK OFF!"

MJ. She's yelling at someone. Or several someones.

"BACK THE FUCK UP!"

"Do you have any emergency medical equipment?" the man asks.

Another man answers. "Just those little boxes with band aids and alcohol swabs and shit. Nothing that would help you right now."

"How close are we to port? When did you leave New York?"

"Several hours ago! We left at - four a.m. We're no where close to a hospital… I'm so sorry…"

"It's not your fault," says the first. "Thank you for getting the others below deck… the less see him like this, the better."

"Peter, honey," whispers Aunt May, right next to me. I blink vapidly, the lenses on my mask constricting, widening, and constricting again. "Can you hear me?"

With nothing but a thought, I make the mask roll back from my face, the metal whispering as it constricts and folds away. The arm flaps condensing, the chest and ab pieces clinking in the wrong place when it hits resistance where the blade is.

I let out a heaving sound when the suit corrects itself and folds the other way, going around the blade until it is all wound up and disappearing into the brace on my wrist.

Now I'm just sitting here in my jeans and T-shirt again, holding crescent container for the infinity stone in one hand. I was keeping it in the suit. It doesn't fit in the brace on my wrist. When the suit folds away, the stone stays.

"Got th' stone," I say quietly.

I feel MJ kneeling beside me. "Let me hold on to that for you."

"No," I say. "It's - you'd be a target…"

I have very little grip on the container, and it takes a few tugs, but MJ pulls it out of my hand regardless of my protest. "I'm going to hold this for you," she says firmly. "Temporarily. I promise."

I feel myself sinking, sitting back on my ankles in a woozy slump.

I still feel like I can't see very well, even without the mask. Aunt May is sort of kneeling in front of me, but I don't know if I can see her face, or if I'm imagining it. She's bracing me to keep me from falling backwards, letting me sit back.

"I'd like to lay down, please," I say, trying to sound chipper. It doesn't. It just sounds pathetic. "I'm tired. B-b-big fight. So many aliens."

"We shouldn't move you," Aunt May barely manages an answer. "We will in a moment. We'll get you on the jet. Then you can lay down. Hang tight with me for a moment."

"Please don't die, Peter," Ned's voice suddenly croaks out.

"Ned," MJ says quickly. "Don't." She reaches over and grips the edge of his jacket, like he's drowning and she's dragging him to shore.

"Mm'not gonna die," I reply, meeting Ned's gaze. He looks like he's going to pass out sooner than me. "You don't look so good."

"I'm not so worried about me," Ned's voice wobbles.

"Michelle, Ned," Aunt May says calmly, "Go below deck and see if you can get the luggage. Mine and Peter's too. Please."

"Of course, yeah, right away," Ned lumbers away quickly, heading for the closest door to below decks.

"Wait, Michelle," Aunt May stops her for a moment, and I hear her whisper. "There's a firearm and birth certificates in the satchel. Be extra careful."

MJ gives her a grim nod, her eyes flicking towards me briefly before she turns and follows Ned.

I can feel sweat, dry plaster dust, blood leaking around the blade through my middle. I blink again, the people's faces in front of me become oddly clear cut, like a movie filmed in 4K at a higher frame rate than the human eye can follow.

Everything moves just a little too sharply. Too fast. Seconds last a few seconds too long.

The crowds were taken below deck, so I'm no longer a spectacle to be filmed and shouted at. Only the crew is on standby, the ark's captain standing close, respectfully waiting for Captain America's call, directing his crew to help wave down the jet.

Aunt May's hands are on either side of my face, palms white-hot against my cheeks. "He's freezing," she announces calmly.

"We'll take you directly to Wakanda, then, it's a long trip either way," says Steve Rogers, who is the man standing just out of my peripheral vision. "The point being; the medical assistance in Wakanda is far more advanced. Especially in regards to reconstruction and alien technology." He pins a finger to his ear, on the comms. "I don't care if his royal highness asked us not to land on foreign vessels. Land, now, please. I take full responsibility. We have a hurt young person on board. He's a friend."

And then, more to himself; "Should have come and gotten him as soon as there was a - disturbance. I don't know what Stark was thinking. Putting you on a boat like this. Completely exposed."

"Not his fault," I whisper. "He's comprom… Loki. He tried… I had to run..."

"Don't try to talk, baby," Aunt May says. "It's okay." Her head whips around, her voice deadly. "Get him help. Now."

Steve leans down into my view. "Hang on, kid. They're landing the jet. We're going to get you on board."

My whole body is shaking like I jumped into an icy lake. I clench my teeth together and try to breathe, but it hurts, and I want to give it up. Maybe put it on pause for a moment.

Steve stands, shields his eyes against the sunless daylight. "He's conscious, that's a good thing."

"He's in shock," Aunt May corrects. She keeps her hands tight around my shoulders, keeping me upright. Keeping me from falling and hitting my head on the deck. Definitely don't want to add a concussion on top of this. Like it matters anyway. Concussion or no. My chances are slim to none.

I'm a nerd. I understand probabilities. My odds aren't great.

The Wakandan jet pulses through the sky with a woosh sound, the weird triangular wings pulling in and folding against the cabin, steam-sounds coming from the rotors while it lands on the ark deck.

You're dying, my brain says. Going out like your Uncle Ben… too soon. Never getting to go to Xandar. Alone and out of your mind. Like him, bleeding out. You couldn't stop it in time.

"Stop it," I whisper to the voice in my head. "Stop. Please stop."

"Peter?" Aunt May asks worriedly.

Make it stop, my brain pleads. It hurts too bad. But Spider-Man doesn't beg. I don't know, maybe Peter Parker does. I'm not coherent enough to find out.

"Stop, stop…" I repeat blearily. I lose my train of thought, and look down at my hands, still holding the handle of the sword. "I just wanted it to stop," I whisper. "He wouldn't stop bleeding. I couldn't save him."

It takes her a beat to think of Ben, and realize I'm confused. "It will stop soon," Aunt May says tearfully. "That was a long time ago, Peter. You're going to be okay. Just stay awake for as long as you can. You did so good, Peter. You did so good. I am so proud of you."

The ramp jet yawns open.

Steve suddenly stoops down, thrusting one arm behind my knees, the other around my back, picking me up. While he's careful, the movement still shifts my stomach muscles around the sharpened blade.

Pulsing, red, throbbing. Serrated jolts twist through my whole body. I can feel it in my nervous system, my brain backfiring to the sound of the ark's engines - except every pulse of the engine is the shockwave of pain radiating from the blade.

I groan involuntarily, and my head falls back. If I squint my eyes hard enough, the sky looks less brown. I can almost imagine it blue again. With white clouds and seagulls.

Captain America's profile is furrowed and focused from this angle.

"Sorry, kid," he says quietly. The world around us grows dark as we duck into the jet. It's small, and a little cramped. It's definitely not the renowned Royal Talon, King T'Challa's aircraft. If anything, this shows signs of being a hand-me-down. Something lived out of half the time. Maybe it's Steve's own personal ship.

There's a weird sort of short table in the middle of the cabin, like a console but instead of a screen, there's black, pearly sand, which rolls away like an ocean tide to the edge of the table, getting out of the way, and disappearing into a seam rimming the edge.

Steve sets me down on top of the table, clasping a hand to my shoulder briefly. "Hang tight," he says. He disappears from my view momentarily, returns with a blanket to throw over my legs, and a small pillow. He lifts my head, which feels heavier than a million bowling balls, and tucks the pillow underneath it, and then dashes back to the two Wakandan pilots. He speaks with them in a low voice. One of them shakes his head, and Steve clenches a fist and nods, not liking the answer he's hearing. I wonder what the question was in the first place.

The problem is, I should be hearing it. I have super, spider-sense hearing. Or did, five minutes ago. All I can hear now is a high pitched ringing, fading in and out like a radio signal getting adjusted.

It feels like the jet is rocking from side to side, even though the ark is really big enough not to feel the motion of seawaters. My brain mush sliding from one end of my skull to another. Dizzy.

"In the hatch," I hear the pilot this time.

"Thank you," Steve replies. He kneels down, opens a hatch behind the pilot's chair, and pulls out a sleek black tub. When he lifts the lid, there's various medical equipment pieces inside. Even Wakandan first aid kits look cooler and fanicer.

I stare at the low ceiling of the cabin. Pipes and wires run from the pilot's console's to the back, all the way to the open ramp, where May, Ned, and MJ all run up, towing luggage and stashing them to the sides. The ramp begins to hiss and close shut behind them, sealing off the smell of the ocean.

Maybe the last time I'll ever see the Atlantic.

I realize I never really said goodbye to New York. We fled. In the dead of night. The ark took off when it was still dark, and I didn't watch the glittering lights from the porthole. A missed opportunity, never to be had ever again. I couldn't even give my neighborhood the courtesy of a friendly Spider-Man note. I could have thrown a paper airplane through the top window office of the Daily Bugle, announcing my retirement.

I could have taken one last look at Ellis Island.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…

May drops everything and comes to my side again, taking my hand and curling her fist tightly around it. "What am I going to do with you, hm?" Aunt May whispers, a fake smile in her voice. "Always getting into trouble."

When I blink, I feel the miniscule itch of salt water in a tiny stream down my face. I'm not crying, my eyes are just watering. A lot.

"We're leaving," Captain America calls back. "Buckle up, and strap him down. We're going to go fast."

MJ and Ned rush into the seats along the bowed wall, tugging the shoulder straps around and buckling in. Aunt May finds the belts along the side of the table, throws one over my waist, and cinches it tight on the other side.

"There," she says with false cheerfulness, "Now we won't be playing yahtzee."

My laugh turns into a thick, phlegmy cough. Blood oozes out of the side of my mouth, which I try not to choke on. I cough it up to keep myself from throwing it up. Blood pools down my neck and onto my shirt and the table beneath me. Making a mess. I'm coughing and spitting blood and drooling on myself and I couldn't care less.

I probably look like patient zero in a zombie movie. I don't think I'm coughing up from what I'm bleeding internally, but whatever was hurt initially in the fight - a punch to the throat or nose, maybe, that I hadn't noticed. But that doesn't keep it from looking bad.

"Sorry," I gurgle. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Aunt May's eyes widen with fear, but she doesn't curse or panic out loud. "It's okay," she whispers. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You hear me? Nothing. You saved every life on that ark, I'm sure of it. That thing would have cut down anyone. You stopped it."

I just need to stop…

"Mrs. Parker," Steve says, "I need you to strap in. Just for take off."

My hand is ice-cold when her hand leaves it. I keep staring at the ceiling. Is this how I go out? Freezing cold and pinned to… to… a Wakandan countertop?!

I shut my eyes and brace myself. "S'okay, Aunt May," I whisper. "I'm just gonna sit right here."

Her warmth leaves my side. "I'll be right back."

The engines aren't very loud. Wakandan technology is not comparable to Shield. Purring and vibrating, the pitch increasing when we take off - not the volume. It's like the Audi that Mr. Stark drove to my graduation pizza party.

Was that only last week? Feels like a million years ago.

When the jet lifts off the ark's deck, it feels like the pressure inside the cabin grows dense and heavy, a huge hand pressing down on top of me and filling my ears with cotton. I feel my body lift momentarily against the seatbelt, and then slam back down again.

The gasp I make doesn't really sound human. Sort of a croak and a scream, inward, and then out again. My vision sweeps away in a black flag. My eyelids are burning hot and orange, like I'm trying to shut out sunlight.

When I open my eyes again, I feel like a century has passed. My ears are ringing and the world looks soft and blurry. My shirt's been cut open, and there's bandages holding the blade and wound shut, taped down and keeping it steady.

The jet is flying smoothly now - cruising altitude. Aunt May is kneeling by me again, holding my hand.

"How - long was I out?" I ask wearily.

"About ten minutes," she responds carefully. "You're okay. You're going to be okay. I'm right here. You're going to be just fine."

I try to think of a joke to make, but nothing comes to mind. "No lying," I whisper. "Not allowed, remember?"

Aunt May shakes her head. "You are going to be fine."

…

Michelle

...

The stone feels like a sunburn against my chest, where I crammed the crescent container into my sports bra. It's probably the safest place at this point.

Ned turns towards me, and his face his drawn, his eyes full of tears. "What do we do?" he asks. "What do we do if he dies?"

"Hush," I snap at him. I don't want to be cruel to Ned, but I can't think about that. I can't think about the fact that I'd rather die on Earth with my parents in the bad weather than go to Xandar without Peter Parker. Because then Shawn would've been right after all. And that can't be possible.

I grip the shoulder straps of my seatbelt with my fists. "I'm sorry, Ned," I whisper.

Ned nods tearfully, looking away from me.

I keep my eyes focused on Peter. I don't know how he's still conscious.

And now he's coughing up blood, his breath coming in and out in ragged, gurgling sounds. Please don't be a death rattle, I think morbidly. Please don't die. Please don't die.

May keeps talking quietly to him. That awful sword sticking up out of his stomach just beneath the ribs, not entirely center but closer to his left side. I know enough from getting an A in health class that his chances of not dying from this are slim. If for some weird reason the blade missed his intestines, kidneys, maybe the bottom part of his lung… it's still bad. Really bad.

"He's going to be fine," I say to Ned in a monotone, keeping my eyes dead ahead. "He's going to be just fine."

Captain America - I'm not one for freaking out about anyone, but holy fuck it's Captain America - tells May to strap in. The jet begins to tilt at a slight angle, and she sits beside me, clicking the seatbelt shut. Captain America straps in behind the pilot and co-pilot, where there are two empty seats.

The pressure in the cabin grows to uncomfortable levels, and it feels like we're trying to get vacuumed out of our seats. Ned shuts his eyes and begins to sweat profusely.

"We're not going to crash," he whispers to himself. "We're not gonna crash."

The sound of the engines are loud, high pitched and whirling, pressing louder and louder against my ear drums till I'm afraid they might burst.

Peter makes a horrible, gaspy-scream, and then his head lolls to the side, his eyes shut and his mouth open.

"He just fainted," I find myself saying out loud. Not sure if repeating it for myself or May. "He's fine. He just needed to pass out for a second. He's fine."

She doesn't wait for the pressure to calm or for the jet to level out. May launches out of her seat. She lifts Peter's face upward, checking his pulse and breathing a sigh of relief. Captain America joins her, pulling things out of the first aid kit. First, something sort of like an IV bag. Keeping him hydrated from blood loss. And then bandages. Not ace bandages, of course. Silky looking shit that he wraps around the blade after cutting Peter's T-shirt open and lining the entry wound with it. It looks like it seals itself around the opening.

Their material is so much more advanced than ours. So not fair.

I wonder about all the people with broken gas masks in New York that could have used a simple square of this silk to seal any breakages and prolong the use of the masks for a lot longer. Maybe less people die in their sleep with pressing this stuff along their window frames.

If I ever get a chance to talk to the King, I am going to have some major words to say to him.

"We should be there in about six hours or so," says the pilot in his thick accent.

Captain America nods. "Thank you."

"Six HOURS?" I repeat. "Peter doesn't have that kind of time."

"An ordinary flight from New York harbors to Wakanda takes fifteen hours," says the pilot. "I kin get you there in less than half the time." He looks over his shoulder at Peter, saddened, and returns to the control wheel. "But no less."

I've been clearly given the hint. Don't try to tell me to do something I can't do.

I unbuckle my seatbelt, and look at Ned. "You can take those off," I remind him.

Ned shakes his head back and forth. "Seatbelts are always a good idea."

Peter's eyes flutter open. "How long was I out?" he whispers, his voice horrid.

"About ten minutes," May replies. I give them a moment, Peter's voice in a harsh, guttural whisper, and May's responses full of false promises.

I steel my resolve and walk to the side of the table, settling on my knees on the other side. "Hey," I say.

Peter blinks confusedly, and furrows his gaze. Then his expression alights. "MJ," he whispers. "You're here too."

"Of course I am, dummy," I swallow a lump in my throat. My gaze avoids the blade, looking at his pale hand lifting into the air, like he's reaching for something.

Me.

His fingers trail down the side of my face, soft as butterfly wings. I don't even think he knows he's doing it. His skin is gray, and his eyes are incredibly dilated. He looks like he's wearing stage makeup for a corpse.

I reach up and take his hand away from my face and hold it, rubbing it between my palms to try and bring some warmth back into them. They're icy. His breath slides in and out of his mouth like he's blowing through sandpaper.

"Isn't there, uh, like an oxygen tank and mask or anything like that in there?" May asks. "Something to ease his breathing up a little. I assume no one in here has any medical training?"

"No ma'am, just what little we got in the army to get us by," Captain America replies regretfully. "And only what I've learned on the road. Or the run. Which isn't the level of expertise he needs." He turns to the pilots. "Is there anything in this container that would help with, uh, breathing? I don't see anything that looks like that in here."

One unbuckles and comes to the back, searching through the box. He pulls out a round black bag, and there's a thin, two-pronged hose at the end. He taps his nose and points at the small hose. "You stick this in his nose and there is, maybe, three hours, or four, in the bag." He looks over at Peter. "It is much harder off oxygen after you use it. I would wait as long as possible."

We hit a small buffer of turbulence, and a shudder runs through the jet. Peter squeezes my hand briefly, and then releases, jerking his elbow back.

"It's okay," murmurs May.

"No - no - it's…" Peter struggles to shift his heavy head and look at me. "Did I hurt your hand?"

"No, not at all," I say. "You can squeeze it as hard as you want."

"Can't… do that," he blows air through his teeth like he's trying to whistle. In, and out. In, and out. Concentrating on his breathing like it's a test he has to pass. Failing grade.

I know he's in a lot of pain and we can't do anything about it… but how much can we expect him to take? Six hours of this? Even if he's not bleeding out because the blade was left in, the human body can only take so much. He could be bleeding internally too. We just can't tell.

I wrap both hands around his, making a fist. He'd pull his hand away if he wasn't so weak right now. "Yes you can," I say calmly.

"No," he repeats. "I'd break... your hand… if I did…"

A jolt of recognition pounds in my chest. "Oh, right," I say, with a lightness I don't actually possess. "The… Spider-Man thing. You… you probably have super powers, don't you? Like… super strength."

"Y-yeah."

"I wish you had super healing," I mutter.

"I…" Peter winces at another tremble of turbulence, his teeth clenching and his head knocking back into the table. The small, wadded pillow softens the blow only a little.

"He does," May whispers. "But…"

"It's not working right now? Is that it?"

My words come across as sharp. I wish I wasn't like that, sometimes. That I could possess the tact and sarcasm of May without being cruel. She exudes warmth, and I never do. Ned radiates with kindness. I envy them both their inner light. I probably suck all the energy from the room. Maybe if I wasn't here, Peter would bounce back quicker.

"I'm sorry," I stutter. "That… that… wasn't, what I meant to sound like."

"You're right, though," Aunt May rests her hand on Peter's forehead, brushing her thumb back and forth across the gray skin. A cold sweat beads on his temple, dripping into his already-damp hair. His whole body looks wet, but chilled. A clammy sweat. That must be so uncomfortable.

I try to tuck the blanket around him a little more comfortably.

"Got something," Captain America comes back, tapping a syringe lightly in his hand. "The Wakandan equivalent of morphine." He pulls the tiny plastic capsule off, exposing a short but thick needle. "It's a drug they call umbane. Means lightning, I think."

"Electricity," corrects the pilot. He turns in his chair and looks towards us. There's a glint on his chest; a name tag. Amobi. "Because it works fast."

"Thank you," Captain America says.

"In the arm," says Amobi. He taps his inner arm with two fingers and nods at Captain America. I guess I should really try to think of him as Steve Rogers. He hasn't been on the American continent for months, as far as I know. He's not really Captain of anything, except maybe this jet.

"Vein, muscle?" Steve Rogers asks.

"Muscle," Amobi answers.

I make an honest effort to distract him. "Hey Peter," I say.

"Hm?" he replies, his focus sliding in and out.

"I read Casey's valedictorian speech. She wanted someone to help edit. D'you know what her focus was?"

"Oh, the places you'll go?" Peter asks sullenly.

"Even worse. Dr. Seuss and Katniss Everdeen."

Steve jabs the needle into Peter's arm quickly, pushes the plunger down, and withdraws.

"Eey," Peter exclaims tiredly, his head heavily lolling off to the side again to try and glare at Steve. His Queens accent heavier for a moment, as if the injustice of getting an injection with no warning reminds him of a speeding taxi skirting over the crosswalk while he's still in it. "Has anyone told you," his voice is hoarse, smiling attempted, "you have terrible bedside manners?"

"I've heard it once or twice," Steve smiles to himself, disposing of the syringe into the box after capping the needle. "Tony is worse."

Peter's brows furrow. "I was… supposed to tell you something."

"You don't have to try and talk right now, sweetie," May reminds him.

"No… no… Mr. Stark was talking in code, right… and basically said I needed to run away to Wakanda… Loki was there… at the facility. But I took the infinity stone and ran…"

I feel the heat against my chest. So much for our Asgardian Topaz.

Infinity stone. I wonder if he'd mentioned it before, or if I knew it all along. I don't feel surprised. I am resigned to the fact, as if someone asked for a weather report, that I currently have one of universe-destroying gemstones once gracing the knuckles of Thanos now tucked in my bra.

I want to say this is the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me - except that my best friend might die on Captain America's private jet on the way to a spaceport in Africa. That is weirder. Worse.

I grip Peter's hand a little tighter.

"I know Tony is in trouble," Steve lifts Peter's arm gently off the table, two fingers pressed to his inner wrist, his eye on the watch looped around his own. Checking his pulse. "A distress signal was dispelled from the complex. I couldn't raise him on his cell."

"We should go back and help him," Peter says, and I notice it's taking more effort for him to speak, but his sentences are more complete. Easier to understand. Like it still hurts to talk, but doesn't hurt to think.

"Are you out of your damn mind, Peter?" May's fuse burns out. "The most advance medical science in the world is in Wakanda. And that's where we are going. End of st…" She cuts off the end of her sentence with a bitten lip. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm so sorry."

"I know you're worried," Peter's voice drifts lazily into a deep, sleepy volume. "I'm worried t…" His eyes drift shut and does not continue with that thought.

"Someone will respond to the facility's automated distress call," Steve assures us. He needs to assure himself, I think. "Someone will. They have to."

He looks over towards Ned, gripping his seatbelt straps so hard it makes his knuckles way too pale. "How are you holding up, son? You look a little green."

Ned gulps. "Is… is there a bathroom on board, sir - Cap - Captain America, sir?"

"You can just call me Steve," he answers, a finger pointing at the back, close to where we dumped our bags inside the ramp. Where the length of a jet cinches together in storage and the entrance, there's two small alcoves just past the wings. A bathroom, and a tiny, single-sink kitchen behind a folding door.

I guess private jets usually have these sorts of things, but the Wakandan part makes everything unfamiliar. Everything is black, sleek, reflective. Fancy but not comfortable. Give me some brown leather seats and orange commercial carpet any day. I'm not a fancy girl.

"You'll have to unbuckle to go to the bathroom," I remind Ned as gently as I can.

"I know how to do that," he protests, not really listening. He shakily unbuckles himself and rushes for the rest room, pressing the door shut behind him.

"He just needs to be alone for awhile," I explain. "He gets motion sickness."

I both hate and love that I know this about him. Poor Ned… I shouldn't have snapped at him earlier. I should have tried to be comforting. He deserves it.

I never thanked him for trying to buy us breakfast.

My stomach gives a low growl, luckily too quiet for anyone to hear. I press a hand to my shirt.

"Peter's asleep," May announces. "Thank goodness… I hate seeing him like this. I hate, hate, hate it." She folds her hands and presses her forehead into the edge of the table, hard enough to create an angry red line across her skin. "Padre Nostro, che sei nei cieli, Sia santificato il tuo nome...mi aiuti per favore. Mi aiuti per favore." She trails off and lifts her head.

"What is that?" I ask. "Italian?"

"Something my great grandmother used to pray," May replies. "Very Italian. Very Catholic. She'd be rolling in her grave if she knew I quoted her." She curls her hand around Peter's, falling silent. Her focus unfocused and deathly pale.

"The umbane must feel pretty good if he's comfortable enough to sleep," Steve observes. "Thank God." He checks his pulse a second time. "It's a little slower now."

"That's… good, right?" May asks.

"Slower pulse is relaxed right now," I assure her. "Faster is fear and stress. If it drops too low it's not good. If it feels more normal… that's good."

"She's right," Steve nods his approval towards me. "He can get through this. He can do it. Shuri is a great doctor, and has a great team. She'll get him back on his feet in no time."

"Shuri?" May asks.

"T'Challa's sister."

"A princess?" May's eyes widen. "That's… impressive. I mean. Good. Good."

I've read about Shuri. I think Peter said he met her once, she came to the Avengers facility while he was interning, and…

Oh, wait. That was probably a lie. He probably met her because he's Spider-Man. Not an intern. Interns don't get to meet famous princesses. Really gorgeous and accomplished and famous and genius princesses.

I'm half-heartedly jealous, in a inspired sort of way. I don't envy her accomplishments by wishing them away from her. I just want to accomplish the same sorts of things. Just… without a crown.

Are the college programs really all that great on Xandar? Or is my dream of a Harvard or MIT education obliterated with my leaving Earth?

Half of my brain tries to remind me that Peter had been lying to me about being Spider-Man for a long time, probably years. But I refuse to give in to that whining voice, clutching and conniving at the back of my memories. If he dies today… I don't want to have any of that. I only want to think about how good he's been. How lucky I was - AM - to have him as a friend.

So the other half of my brain distracts me with mourning the loss of the dreams I thought I had, displaced by May's generosity and my parent's insistence for me to get off planet. Wishing I were a princess instead, giving in to the trope.

Not me. No Harvard, no MIT. No Earth.

Maybe no Peter...

Ned squeezes out of the bathroom door and comes over to stand by me. He tentatively puts a hand forward and touches Peter's shin. Pat, pat.

"Can I do anything?" he asks. Kindness and desperation both clamoring for dominance in his voice.

May forces her eyes away from her nephew's face. "No, Ned," she answers. "There's nothing… nothing we can do right now. Thank you. Are you holding up okay?"

Ned shrugs. "I guess I'm hungry. But. Y'know. I'm sure we all are. That's normal."

It's sad how true it is that being a little hungry is sort of a normal thing.

Being invited to May and Peter's for dinner was the result of it being a good week in the rest of the country. Sometimes there are bad weeks. Food runs low. The school hasn't served food in the cafeteria since before our freshman year.

I know sometimes when I was at my prickliest, my classmates assumed I was just hormonal. Usually it was because I hadn't eaten in a day, or longer.

Ned and Peter always shared what little they had with me.

"There's some rations in the unit in the back," Steve Rogers says, brightening. "Let me get something for you. All of you."

He speed-walks to the back and opens a small panel beneath the circular sink, clearly relieved at having something doable to accomplish. Captain America, everyone. He's saved the world a few times. Now he digs through the drawer of a private jet to find protein bars.

I guess I'm not the only one who feels mightily displaced.

…

May Parker

…

2003

"Up," Peter was always so insistent, clinging his chubby toddler arms around my leg and pressing a pair of drooling, slobbering lips to my kneecap. "Up. Up. Up. Annie-May."

He had been taught by his parents to say Auntie May before they died. The letter T was still an insurmountable obstacle.

"Oof, you're getting heavy," I said, sliding my hands beneath his armpits and yanking him off the floor, letting him feel a swing of being airborne - of course, without letting him go - up into the air and then down with a hmph into my arms. He squealed with delight and cackled like a tiny evil scientist.

A tiny evil scientist with… markings all over his face and arms.

"What do you have all over your face?" I asked.

He giggled and looked away.

"Peter!" I repeated. "Look at Auntie May! What's on your face?"

He wiggled his head from side to side, trying to avoid me seeing that his face was covered in cherry-red goop.

"Blooooood?" he drawled, like it was a question.

"Is that my lipstick?" I asked.

"No," he replied, sticking a finger in my cheekbone and poking sporadically. "No, no, I godda… I god blood…"

"Oh it's blood, huh?" I asked. "Well if that's blood, where's the injury, hm? Where's the cut? Because it smells like my lipstick. It looks like my lipstick." I kiss his cheek loudly. "It tastes like my lipstick!"

"Bloood," he squealed. "Playing hob-siddel."

"Oh, you're a doctor?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yeaaaah."

"Can you say hospital?" I asked.

"Hob-siddel."

"Hospital."

"Hops." Peter cackled again, smearing a long, mauve line down my nose with his fingers. "Hops. Poodle." Then he exploded into chaotic giggles.

"Peter, did you get into my purse?" I asked.

"Nuh uh."

"Did you get into my purse?"

"NUH UH."

"Tell the truth, Peter."

Finally he nodded, his head too clumsy, a giant bowling ball on a doll's body knocking back and forth.

"Peter," I reminded him sternly, "We don't lie in this house. I say - did you get into my purse, and you say - yes."

His chin trembled.

"Come on, Peter," I coaxed. "No lies. Remember? No-No Lying!"

"No-no lying," he repeated, looking as if the world was about to come crashing down.

There were still remnants and memories of what little he retained from his parents, Richard and Mary Parker. Ben and I were desperately trying to undo the damage of his separation anxiety from their deaths, but it's not easy. We never knew what would trigger a toddler-sized tantrum.

If only if it were for easy reasons - like teething. Needing a nap. Taking away a toy when it's abused and thrown into the fire escape.

But no, nothing easy. Our little Peter would lose his goddamn mind when he felt the grief of being orphaned and didn't know how to express it. And sometimes, scolding him - even as gently as I would - would suddenly make him afraid that if he's disappointed me, I'd disappear just like his mom did. And sometimes I forgot that.

"So messy!" I said with a laughing sigh. "So so messy!"

But it's too late, I told him no no lying. Now comes the fear of disappointment and disappearance. His lipstick-covered face twisted into a deep red that outmatched my Cherry Orchard color that I saved in my purse for job interviews.

And the howls and screams that followed - unfathomably loud. Giant saltwater falls cascaded down his chubby cheeks and he buried his head into my shoulder, unleashing every ounce of child-sized anguish.

I knew he was getting lipstick on my shirt and I didn't care. I nuzzled in for the long haul, bouncing him lightly in my arms and beginning my trek up and down the short apartment hallway. Pacing back and forth, back and forth, from one room to another, gracing every corner of the apartment with his screams. Soothing him with nonsensical words of comfort and pats on his back.

I found a small portion of the wall between the sitting room and the hall decorated with lipstick drawings at shin-level. A big smiley face caught my eye. The letters B, O, and J... even though he couldn't spell yet. He liked noticing letters on signs, and Ben and I would explain the letters when we drove by. He also drew something that could be a frog, or maybe a bong. It's difficult to tell with kids.

Maybe he'd have a future in graffiti art and never stop drawing on walls. The thought was stressful.

Ben got home from work just as Peter's cries died down into sniffling, sleepy hiccoughs.

"Oh, wow," he exclaimed, eyes drawn to the fallen purse on the floor, the uncapped lipstick, the wall-art, and my tired face. "Long day?" he asked.

"You have no idea," I sighed. "You?"

"Not as long as yours, apparently." He leaned down and retrieved my purse from the floor, returning it to the dinette table that Peter had managed to pull it off of. "Is he awake?"

"Not for much longer," I answered. "Come say hi."

"Hey, little buddy," Ben brushed Peter's curly hair back from his hot face, looked at his teary eyes, and my tired ones. "How long have we been doing the walk of shame?" he asked, careful not to laugh too hard at me.

I glanced at the wall clock. "About thirty minutes."

"Need a break?"

Peter's tiny curled head was heavy by now under my ear, turning his face so that his nose and mouth crammed into my collarbone. It's a wonder if he can even breathe in there, his body finally relaxed into an overheated, tiny plush pillow of baby-fat and legs getting longer and longer every day.

I shook my head. "It's okay. I think we're on the tail end of it now. He'll want more snuggles after he's had some dinner."

Ben leaned around Peter's cuddles and kissed me soundly three times against my lips, stepping back with a cherry smudge on his own nose. "So what was the occasion this time?" he asked, nodding his head towards the smiley face caked into the wallpaper. "Did he blame his Captain America G.I. Joe for this one too?"

"Oh, no," I explained, laughing lightly. "This was supposed to look like blood."

Ben made a yeesh! expression and looked at the wall.

"Hm," he said. "He spelled Redrum wrong."

I laughed loudly. "He was playing hobsiddel."

"Oh, good," Ben sighed with relief. "Maybe he'll grow up to be a doctor someday and we can tell this anecdote at his grad party when he gets his PhD."

"You can tell the anecdote. I will be catching up on twenty-one years of sleep."

He laughed and walked into the kitchen. Without asking, he rummaged through the freezer to find a pair of TV dinners, popping one into the microwave. Then he began to pull the fixings for making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Peter, preemptively cutting off the crusts and cutting into small squares.

Spoiled, I thought, gripping my new child in my arms with protective, frightened possessiveness. How lucky this tiny human is to be raised by an uncle like this.

He will never be in want with someone like Benjamin Parker around. And neither would I. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the man I married, and that his brother entrusted us to indicate us as guardians of his child should something - the unthinkable - happen. Which did happen. Only two years ago - but it felt like yesterday.

Ben slapped a measure of jelly onto the bread, and smiled impishly at me.

I smiled back at my husband, my forever partner.

…

Present

...

The next few hours pass in a horrifying blur.

Peter, at times, slightly awake and coherent. Trying to ask if we've heard anything from Tony Stark. Exhausted by his efforts to converse, and encouraged by both mine and Steve's assurances that he needs to lie still and rest, he passes out again.

Ned and Michelle finally fall asleep against the wall, Ned's head smooshed against her shoulder when he slides sideways.

When Amobi and his co-pilot, Yonas, tell us that we have about three hours left, Steve and I decided to put Peter on the small oxygen device. I wish we hadn't had to wait so long, but we knew we'd only have a few hours of use, after all.

I can't help but see my nephew as much younger than he is, lying helpless and pale and bloodied. Happier memories clamor for attention in my head, when he was small enough to be carried, and when the worst injury he could possibly have was skinned knee. Ben used to call him Peter Bonker. He used to bonk his head a lot, running into things and not paying attention.

We used to laugh and cheer a hearty "YAY, GOOD JOB, PETER!" every time he accidentally slammed his head into a wall, a chair, a table. Perplexed by our praises, he would quickly switch from shrieking wails to a bubbling, confused grin.

I guess these habits never really go away. An alien blade is sticking out of his gut, and I whisper how proud I am, that he's going to be okay, that I love him, that he did the best he could. My logical side is telling me that I'm saying goodbye.

I refuse. I'm not losing you today.

I bite my lip uncomfortably when I realize I said this out loud. But Peter's delirious state now is in no way receptive of my words. His eyelids flutter, and sometimes it sounds like he's trying to speak, liquid murmurs in his mouth and an attempt to keep his eyes open and focused. Sometimes he says May, with a lift at the end, making my name a question. I think he just wants to know I'm here.

In case he dies, he doesn't want to be alone.

When we finally begin our descent, the coast of Africa a dark smudge under a late afternoon sky, shrouded in beautiful rain clouds that are grayer - and cleaner - than the clouds in New York. They are five hours ahead of us, and we've crossed a timezone, but I think we've only lost an hour. Or maybe we gained an hour? We traveled for six hours, Peter sleeping fitfully, the rest of us keeping careful watch.

The only thing that matters is we're here and Peter is still alive.

I've never been more exhausted by my fear, but that second wind kicks in.

My heart pounds so hard, my adrenaline begs for my attention, but I stay focused on Peter. Ned and MJ report the landscape from the windows; beautiful dessert, more vibrant than anything they've seen, full of red canyons cutting between green hills, vibrant with tall trees baked in good weather - maybe the only good weather still on the planet. Farms that are still in good working condition. The spotted patchwork of cities. When we fly over them, Yonas turns on invisible panels beneath the jet. I am not sure why.

Then we're flying over a significant portion of the central countries of Africa, where Wakanda is shrouded in forests teeming still with life - and even greenery. Wakandan resources have been shared with border counties during the world's crisis.

I envy their neighbors.

The landing is bumpy, and for the first time, the light through the windows is clean. Light untouched by the unknown alien substance killing the rest of the world off slowly. I already half-heartedly heard a conversation between Steve and ground control about being prepared for a medical emergency… or maybe it's not ground control. Maybe airports work differently in Wakanda. Maybe it was a phone call directly to the King. I wouldn't know.

I don't know about a lot here, and that frightens me too. I never imagined a world where I couldn't wind Peter up like the energizer bunny, asking him to explain something to me so that he would unleash into an excited geek-out and explain everything I needed to know in less than five minutes.

The jet taxis to a halt.

"Welcome to Ukuwela," says Amobi. "The crossing."

"Thank you," I try to say, but no sound comes out. My voice squeaks hoarsely, the sleep deprivation prevalent.

"Good luck," says Yonas. "Phila."

Ned and MJ are collecting their bags, adding Peter's to their haul. I take my suitcase, and put the satchel over my shoulder. I hear the crinkle of paper inside.

I already have one death certificate. I don't want any more. I will carry Ben with me; always. Peter deserves more than what Ben and I went through. Peter will not be a small name on filigreed paper in my pocket. Ever. Not while I'm alive.

I squeeze his hand again. This isn't the end of my child. He's going to get through this. He will. He has to.

The ramp drops. The Princess Shuri and her team are waiting.

...

...

TWO TOTALLY MASSIVE AND IMPORTANT AUTHOR ANNOUNCEMENTS

Announcement #1: I've begun developing the plot of AVENGE THE DEPARTED 2. I can't imagine when, but it's going to happen someday. I won't begin writing it till after this story, I'm entirely committed, so don't you worry. I wrote a very brief paragraph out and a few pages of notes to send to my beta Crystal (QueenofCrystallopia) and they are CMFU approved! :)

Announcement #2: Even though I marked it as "complete", I have unmarked it as I believe I will write an epilogue chapter for "Where They Go" once I see Avengers: Endgame. I get to see it early (Thursday) and I hope to have a short epilogue tying my ending in to the real resurrection in the film. IF I can. I still have no idea how they're going to work their magic, so it's possible my ending won't fit with theirs at all! But we'll see.

Reviewer Personal Replies (I'm seriously so blessed by how many of you commented)

Black' Victor Cachat - I read your first chapter and left you a review! It was AWESOME, definitely impressive and creative. Thank you so much for continuing to review my work as well. I can only hope the children of Thanos are half as scary as the black riders! And yeah, Thanos definitely... "died" ;) and yes his secret cover is totally blown haha - at least to anyone on the ark! who knows who they will tell! Again thank you so much for reading and participating. Many thanks! Love your reviews!

GalaxyNifflers - thank you so much! This one was definitely slower-paced, but, y'know, the book has like 2 weeks of camping between Frodo getting stabbed and Rivendell... so I wanted to figure out something a lil' different ;) Thank you for your review!

Sakura-Fiction - HAHA your review made me laugh out loud. This chapter was definitely for you then. ;) thank you for commenting and reading as always. You're amazing

EleanorGardner - I love your reviews and how energetic they are lol, it literally gives me so much inspiration when my readers start using capslock lol. Thank you so much for always writing such thoughtful and fangirly comments! You are AWESOME! Also to answer your question; currently I am not posting my current stories on Wattpad. My wattpad actually needs a total revamp, I have a lot of OLD stuff on there. I need to redo it. I don't even remember what my user-name is. As SOON as I find it, I'll pm you so you can take a look at it and offer any tips or advice. I don't think I've ever been good at wattpadding. LOL. Thanks again as always ;)

LoonyLovegood1981 - MJ is a badass, isn't she? I just want to be her! She's SO cool. Thank you so much for your review! You're awesome!

Caver Floyd - ah yes, they'll definitely have more of a conversation about it soon. As well as seeing Black Panther! I thought it made more sense for T'Challa to remain on his throne and for Steve to come and meet them halfway, since he realized they were coming. I'm excited to write a few lil' reunion scenes! Thank you so much for reviewing, I truly appreciate it.

curry-llama - Are you familiar with the movie "Mean Girls"? Because your review totally reminded me of the line "We should totally just stab Caesar!" XD If that doesn't ring a bell, nevermind. Anyway. Thank you as always for your awesome reviews :) Hugs!

lone ranger22 - Thank you for reading and reviewing! I am not entirely sure what your question is tho? Are you asking what Spider-Man's super powers are?

LeDbrite - LOL that's so funny! Ironically I just posted a new chapter of Sakaar and Away today as well. By the time you are reading this you'll probably see two updates from me just a few hours apart. I REALLY appreciate you're reading both fics! It means the world to me! The "Flight to the Ford" scene definitely had to be condensed to a 6 hour flight, which even then is a science-fiction futuristic version since a usual flight would take more than twice that long XD I had to play around with mechanics a little to make it work. And Captain America is sometimes Aragorn, sometimes Gandalf, sometimes his own self :) One of the nice things about the interpretation of LOTR in a MCU-adventure setting is getting to play with personalities and shift people around. Like sometimes Peter's "Sam" will be May, Ned, or MJ, or sometimes all three. I love the freedom I get to have in the fan fiction world! Squeee! (Also, the bridal shower went REALLY well. Thank you SO much for your well wishes. That is just too sweet!)

cargumentluv - LOL I love your fangirling. Thank you so much for reviewing, always good to have ya back. Shuri is gonna jump right in and save our boy's life! Don't you worry! I'm not gonna have quite as much... killing... in this one as I did in ATD. Maybe not even in the sequel, haha.