I don't own YA.
A/N: Set right before the end of Civil-War, a bit before issue 6 of the main series.
I know some of you might not have read the Civil War event in its entirety, so here are the issues you might wanna look up, just to be up to speed:
Civil War issues 3-4, and 6 for plot events. Amazing Spider-Man 535 for the information about Area 42.
The Negative Zone. A hellish dimension, one not abiding by the familiar rules of what is widely considered to be reality. There of all places it was built, Area 42, also absurdly referred to as 'Fantasy Island' to sugarcoat its existence for the general public. It didn't take a genius to know the name was nothing more than a cruel joke, born of a twisted mind.
It was through the halls of that 'island' - this fortress that he made his way, his footsteps eerily creating little sound, let alone an echo. He carried himself in a sure, steady pace, traversing this path he carefully learned by heart. Time was of the essence that day, and he couldn't afford to get lost, not before he reached this, the first of his destinations, and to him - the most important one.
"Doctor Pym!"
The foot-soldiers, mere peons instantly stood at attention. He paid them little attention, sparing them barely a wave of his hand. He had no time for them.
He carried on, eyes already trained on his destination. It was a cell like all the others, structure-wise, as they had no way of knowing who its occupant would be, but there was a visual difference. The man clad in the Yellowjacket uniform paused for a moment and examined the signs, the sigils etched into the metal walls. They were hastily painted when the cell's occupant was first brought in, with his keepers in a frenzy to finish it before the tranquilizers wore off, and he regained consciousness. They were remade since then, ancient symbols meant to chain even his powers - a boy of no more than sixteen.
The man knew beyond the shadow of a doubt - he was there.
"Henry Pym." He announced and proceeded to chant his identification code while the iris scanner confirmed he was who he said he was. The door opened with a mechanical hiss.
He stalled before entering, for a moment not certain he was ready to face what was inside.
Finally he steeled himself and walked into the cell.
It was quiet inside, peaceful, even. And why shouldn't it be, he thought and gritted his teeth, the leather of his gloves tightening as he clenched his fists. The door slid shut behind him, leaving him with the prisoner.
It was one of those cells, equipped with virtual reality equipment, supposedly to make the inmates feel as though they were still on Earth, back outside, somewhere better, safer. He heard it, on his way, the pleas of those subjected to this treatment, their begging for help.
He knew not whether to be grateful for the fact the boy next to him was silent and still in comparison.
A shiver ran down him. He forced himself to ignore it and examined the room. Sigils similar to the ones he saw outside decorated the cell's interior, and for a moment he let out a bitter snort. It seemed a bit too much, in light of the boy's own miserable state.
There he was, strapped in numerous ways, bound and chained. The man noticed then, inscriptions running over his shackles and he closed his eyes tightly.
Were they really that scared of him? Of one young, inexperienced witch? A Wiccan?
He felt almost ready to gag, but he warded the feeling off with sheer force of will. What good would that do, anyway?
He instead reached for the virtual reality machine's console and inputted the necessary codes. The machine whirred a bit more loudly for a moment before it entered its hibernation state, slowly releasing its captive audience back into true reality.
A part of him wondered if he should've done that, but the boy stirred, groaned, and the doubt was gone. Something else took its place, and the man swallowed heavily.
He walked across the room, standing by the boy's side. He was disoriented, no doubt confused, the man knew, being thrust out of the forced daydream like that, and he watched him tilt his head back and forth. The helmet-like device still attached to his head seemed heavy, but the man knew the procedures - it was not to be removed until the light in its base changed, otherwise one risked inflicting brain damage. He still reached, his hand rising towards the boy's face, stopping a mere inch from his cheek. He could feel it, even with his glove, as he knew the sensations well - the smooth skin under his fingertips, the trailing of his breath over bare fingers, his warmth… oh, how he longed to touch, but only clenched his fist instead.
He mustn't, not right then, and like that?
A part of him didn't want to, either.
At last the light changed, and he reached to remove the device from the boy's head. The captive's head bowed forward, his neck limp - or was it he just couldn't be bothered? Regardless, the man took a step forward and finally dared look him over.
The boy was pale, as befitting one who spent days in that cell, away from any natural light. He seemed thinner, and his visitor could only imagine it was due to a decreased appetite. He couldn't blame him, really - he was there not even a day and he had no appetite to speak of, despite knowing he should've been famished.
What he tried to inspect next was the boy's face, at which point the teen moved, tilting his head just enough to look back, and their eyes met.
Oh, how he wished their eyes didn't meet.
He loved those eyes, and knew them quite well by then. He knew their rich, deep brown hue, and their lovely shape, and the way his eyelashes curled. He also knew the usual look in those eyes, that spark of excitement and curiosity with a smudge of bashfulness and a lot of self consciousness. And he saw, gradually, more and more, happiness.
Not then, though. Right then, the brown spheres were dim and dull, tired. There was a touch of self-directed guilt, remorse and frustration. Especially bright the longer they stared at each other was the disappointment. The man knew of the boy and about him; he knew that to him, a boy born and raised on legends, the Avengers were more than superheroes. They were myths and ideals made flesh, an embodiment of all that was good and right in the world. Proof even outsiders and weaklings and freaks could be something better - something good. They were why he set out to become a Young Avenger.
He never wanted to fight his heroes. To be taken captive by them, and to be visited by Hank Pym himself - a founding member - finally, the man saw anger, and then he saw pain. And then, he saw a lone tear.
The boy looked away.
The silence stretched as neither had much to say.
The boy? He wouldn't talk, the man knew, and felt his chest tighten.
He himself? He actually thought of something worth saying, something the boy should hear - at the very least, something worthwhile to break the silence with.
But he could say nothing, the words all mixing in his throat to form a lump he could barely swallow around, much less speak. He heard it all, though, in his head, all the things the young mage could've said, under better terms, would've said - witty retorts; snappy comebacks; rhetorical questions that might and might not be answered by 'your mother'. Perhaps they would've started a deeper debate about the war as a whole… but there was none of that.
Nothing of what flashed through his mind came true, and all he was left with was the silence, and the boy insistently looking away.
It stretched on until the boy was almost done, at his wits' end. He saw no point to this visit, feeling like a caged bird, being visited by the cat that infiltrated its cage. Only before he could finally break his oath of silence, the man moved again.
He knew he wouldn't have long, and could bare to watch his beloved boy like this no more. He towered above him, eyes soft, almost warm. It was the hardest thing he was to ever do, he thought, as he reached for the visor again and pulled it back down.
The last thing the boy saw before his reality was distorted again was the grief-stricken face of his lover.
"I'll get you out of here." The man whispered in a voice not his own, fingers tightening against the metal plate almost hard enough to break it.
"Even if it's the last thing I do. I swear, Billy."
He left almost in a hurry, leaving the boy behind to slowly come to terms with what just took place.
Of course, now it all made sense, the silences, the machine being shut down, Hank Pym even coming to see him.
A choked sob left Billy's lips as he slumped in his cage, overwhelmed with both a sense of miss, and a spark of hope.
"Teddy…"