Chapter Text
“You know I hate flying in storms,” Peter muttered, his voice carrying a slight whine, almost as if he were a kid complaining about bedtime. His grip on the Quinjet’s controls tightened as the aircraft shook from the turbulence. The rain lashed against the windshield, and flashes of lightning illuminated the darkened sky.
“Yeah, well, there’s not much I can do about that,” Harley drawled from the co-pilot’s seat, adjusting a few settings on the console. “I don’t control the weather, Darlin’—maybe take it up with Thor next time?”
Peter shot him a look but didn’t argue. They were on their way back to the compound after yet another successful mission—one more Hydra base wiped off the map. It had been a long and grueling fight, but nothing they couldn’t handle. The team had worked together seamlessly, dismantling Hydra’s operations before they could even put up a serious defense. Still, exhaustion was starting to settle in, and Peter was eager to get home.
“Go check on the team. I’ll fly for a bit,” Peter instructed, keeping his eyes on the storm ahead.
Harley hesitated for a second but ultimately shrugged. “Alright, Darlin’,” he said, unbuckling his harness. Without another word, he left the cockpit, heading toward the back of the jet.
The team wasn’t at full strength tonight. Some members had stayed behind at the compound, so it was just Billy, America, Kate, and Kamala with them. The four of them were sprawled across the seating area, trying to recover from the battle.
“Everyone alright back here?” Harley asked as he strolled in, grabbing a couple of water bottles from the small storage compartment.
A few tired “yeahs” followed, though Billy merely gave a vague “I suppose,” which was pretty much expected from him at this point. Satisfied that no one was about to pass out or bleed out, Harley tossed one of the water bottles to Kamala before making his way back to the cockpit.
“This storm is really strong,” Peter commented, taking a water from the cup holder. The Quinjet trembled as another strong gust of wind hit them.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Harley muttered, getting settled into his seat again.
Just as Peter set the water down, a sudden, blinding flash filled the cockpit, followed by an earsplitting CRACK!
“Shit!”
A bolt of lightning struck the fuselage, and instantly, every electronic system in the jet flickered before going completely dark. The engines sputtered. Alarms blared.
Then, they started plummeting.
Peter’s heart leaped into his throat as he instinctively grabbed the controls, frantically flipping switches and pressing buttons to restart the system. His fingers flew over the controls, fighting against gravity as the Quinjet spiraled downward. The wind roared outside, and for a few terrifying moments, it felt like they were going to crash.
“Come on, come on,” Peter gritted through his teeth, trying to force the nose of the plane back up.
Then—miraculously—the systems flickered back on. The engines roared to life again, and Peter managed to level the aircraft just in time. He let out a shaky breath, his pulse still racing.
“We good?” Harley asked, his voice strained but composed.
Peter didn’t answer immediately. Something wasn’t right. He scanned the radar screen, which had just come back online, and frowned. “Uh… that’s odd,” he murmured.
Harley glanced at him. “What is?”
“We don’t have any air traffic nearby,” Peter said, confused. “No radio signals either. It’s like… we’re the only ones in the sky right now.”
Harley raised an eyebrow. “We did just get struck by lightning. Maybe it screwed with our sensors?”
Peter pursed his lips. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But still…”
Harley sighed. “Look, we’re not far from the compound. Let’s just get back, run a full diagnostic tomorrow, and call it a night.” He leaned back in his seat. “I don’t know about you, but I’m running on fumes.”
Peter nodded reluctantly, but his unease remained. He guided the Quinjet through the storm, heading toward the compound.
As they approached the landing pad, Peter’s frown deepened. “Uh, Harley?”
“Yeah?”
“Did we have any visitors today?”
Harley blinked and followed Peter’s gaze. Sitting on the landing pad was another Quinjet—one that wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Uh… nope,” Harley said slowly. “Should we cloak?”
“Way ahead of you,” Peter muttered, already activating the retro-reflective panels. The Quinjet shimmered and disappeared from sight as Peter guided it down for a stealth landing.
The moment they touched down, the team went into high alert. Something felt off.
Moving carefully, the Young Avengers disembarked from their jet, sticking to the shadows as they made their way toward the front entrance of the compound. Peter signaled for everyone to stay quiet as they slipped inside.
The place felt normal—but that only made it more unsettling. If there was an intruder, there should be some sign of forced entry. A broken door, an alarm going off, something.
Harley leaned in close to Peter. “Check the labs. I’ll sweep the common areas,” he whispered.
Peter nodded, breaking off from the group while Harley and the others searched the kitchen and living spaces. He made his way toward his lab, heart pounding slightly as he reached for the door handle.
The lab was dark, but as soon as Peter stepped inside, he could tell something was different.
Nothing was stolen. Nothing was out of place.
But there was someone in there.
Sprawled across his workbench, asleep, was none other than—
“Tony?” Peter’s voice came out as a whisper, barely believing what he was seeing.
Tony Stark was right there. Alive. Breathing. Sleeping in Peter’s lab as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t been dead for years.
Peter took a step closer, almost afraid that if he reached out, Tony would vanish like a ghost. His brain scrambled for an explanation. This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be possible.
Yet, there he was.
Peter sucked in a shaky breath. “Harley,” he called out, his voice barely steady. “You… you might wanna see this.”
A moment later, Harley appeared in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed. “Did someone break in or—” He stopped mid-sentence the second his eyes landed on the man sleeping on the workbench.
The color drained from Harley’s face. His mouth opened and closed like he was trying to form words, but nothing came out.
Finally, after a long, stunned silence, Harley managed to whisper:
“What the hell?”