Work Text:
Something is Wrong in Manhattan
…
Death – the last sleep?
…
For him, after the plane crash and the fire and the sand – for him…It was that space between being awake and asleep. It was the sound of water rushing from the sink – sounding like waves chopping against sand, and it was the crunch under his feet when he stepped on dirt. The smell of Aunt May burning something in the kitchen. The overwhelming sensation of something clogging the back of his throat where he desired to cry, but didn’t because he was stronger than that. If he was going to be a hero, if he was going to prove himself – if anything was going to get better…He had to be brave.
Peter decided when the scrapes healed, and when he had turned down the opportunity to become an Avenger, he had made the right decision. But then the ignoring began, and Peter found that maybe he had been wrong. Maybe Mister Stark hated him because of it, and that clog in the back of his throat grew, and Peter was terribly confused. Because he thought, at least after that day, things had gotten better. Improved. Mister Stark trusted him and yet it was like months before, after Germany, when Happy didn’t reply to his phone calls and text messages and silence filtered through like something – something else.
His knuckles turned white.
The blue wood under his hand broke, the pencil cracking. Luckily the room wasn’t completely silent, as their English teacher had given them a few minutes of group work to get homework done early. Peter bit the inside of his cheek, and inhaled sharply as he blinked at the instrument, before the top fell onto the desk and he swallowed – the lump ever so present and his mind whirled before stopping.
“Peter?” Ned’s voice whispered.
Peter’s head whipped up, and Ned was staring, eyes moving back and forth from the pencil to Peter’s face. Peter blinked several times again, before dropping the other end of the pencil and using the back of his hand to rub over his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well, not at all, the space between being awake and under coming too close and then Toomes – and then –
“Peter?”
“What?” Peter muttered, not opening his eyes as he continued to rub.
“Not to be a dickhead,” Ned grimaced, “But you look really gross.”
Peter’s hand dropped, face annoyed as he stared blankly at Ned, before tilting his head and replying, “Wow, thanks.”
Ned held up his hands in surrender before glancing around at the other students. When he looked back at Peter, he placed both hands on the table and leaned in slowly, lowering his head in the slightest as he questioned, “Mister Stark still isn’t responding?”
Peter felt his chest sink, his stomach clenched and his eyes glazed over. Peter didn’t know what he had done to deserve the cold shoulder. He didn’t know if it was the entire thing with Toomes, the plane, maybe because he had turned down the position with the Avengers. He thought he had made the right decision, but if he had known it would simply start him all over from square one (after Germany) he would not have done it. He would have sucked it up, overhauled his life, and began the journey into being an Avenger.
Finally, he answered, “No, he hasn’t responded.”
“Not even Happy?”
“Not even Happy,” Peter echoed, staring at the wall, eyes empty. His shoulders slumped and he crossed his arms over the table before leaning forward and laying his chin against his arms. His shoulders shrugged and he continued, “Maybe it’s for the better. Maybe I wasn’t ready.”
Ned looked appalled, “You were so ready.”
“Maybe not,” Peter tried again, “I mean, I did turn down his offer. God, I was such an idiot. Who turns down an offer to be an Avenger? And now Aunt May knows, and I’m back to doing everything I was doing before.”
He paused, then continued, “It’s like…nothing changed.”
Ned’s eyes softened. He reached out, squeezing Peter’s shoulder. Ned spoke, “Maybe it’s something else. I mean, it doesn’t make sense that he’d offer you a spot and then start ignoring you, right? Maybe he…feels bad – you know, about the whole Toomes thing.”
Peter raised an eyebrow, and Ned cleared his throat, “Just – from what you’ve said, sounds like the guy loves to blame himself for stuff. Isn’t that why he started the whole plan to clean up the mess in New York and why he started that whole scholarship thing at MIT?”
“I don’t think – “ Peter started, but didn’t get to finish.
Peter felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, causing him to jump and reach for it instinctively. However, he noticed several other students doing the same, including Ned as well, who went for his pocket and fished out his own phone. Mister Keethes looked up from his book, his feet on top of his desk and he scolded sharply at the class, “Phones away!”
A boy near the back of the class held up his own phone and cleared his throat, “Mister Keethes, something’s wrong in Manhattan.”
Peter looked down, brows furrowing as he narrowed his eyes on his cracked screen, destroyed by so many falls, one after another in his suit. His mind attempted to catch up with the alert, an emergency obviously sent out to everyone’s cell phones – most likely the entirety of NYC. In large letters, Peter’s phone continued to vibrate in panic:
PRISON RIOT: MANHATTAN CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
All residents are warned to stay inside, away from doors and windows.
“What?” Ned muttered, “What is this? The Dark Knight?”
A murmur formed across the room, quiet until it grew and Peter heard ringing in the back of his head as he pressed his thumb and middle finger to his forehead and shut his eyes a moment as Mister Keethes held up his hands and called out amongst the teenagers, “Hey woah! Calm down, everyone, we’re perfectly safe.”
Peter’s eyes opened and he looked across the table at Ned, and bit down hard enough to make his teeth ache. His eyes flitted to his backpack down on the floor beside his ankles and he pondered – barely – and nausea formed. Something in the back of his mind knew what was right, and doing something would be right, because dying, well, if someone died and he could intervene and not, then he was going against everything he had ever told Mister Stark he stood for. And now he was being ignored, and he didn’t know, he didn’t know what he had done but he supposed the past few weeks meant very little. Not in the grand scheme of things.
Peter was sad, but not selfish.
And he knew what he was.
“Ned,” Peter was already reaching down for his backpack. Ned’s head turned towards him, murmurs still growing among their peers and Peter continued, “Distraction.”
Ned’s eyes went wide, “Now?”
“Now.”
Ned glanced at the wall, around the room, the windows. Ned stuttered, “U-Uh now, right now?”
Peter leaned forward, gritting his teeth as he put his weight on the table through his elbows, after slinging the backpack over his shoulder, “Yes, now Ned. I gotta get there, I gotta get there now. Probably like, ten minutes ago when they were deciding whether or not to send out an alert.”
“But right now?”
“Ugh,” Peter plopped down in the chair behind him, “Yes, now, now, now. C’mon, are you my guy in the chair or not?”
Peter felt guilty, asking it of him as Peter’s eyes went wide and round, begging silently for Ned to comply. It was too much to ask, but it was all he could do and he saw the turmoil on his best friend’s face as he contemplated what he was about to do and how he was going to do it. Ned licked his lips, looking around again and something told Peter, yes, it was going to be okay and the murmuring was louder now and suddenly – without much warning at all – Ned let out a shriek.
“Oh God!” Ned shouted, “Oh God! All the prisoners are escaping! Oh God! Oh God!”
And it was like a light switch. Mister Keethes’ attempts at calming the class was drowned as everyone erupted into panicked screams, mimicking Ned’s as mass panic broke out. Ned jumped from his seat, running towards the fire alarm in the corner of the room. Mister Keethes called after him, “Leeds, don’t you dare - !”
The threat was cut off as Ned yanked the fire alarm down, and the room was filled with flashing lights and a siren. Everyone jumped from their seats, like ants, and began to run around the room and several other classrooms opened their doors beginning mass evacuation. Peter too jumped from his desk, rushing towards the door as people in his classroom moved to do the same. It was like an entire herd, moving through the halls as students screamed, spreading from Peter’s classroom and into the echoing walls of Midtown High, unorganized, unlike any drill they had ever done. Peter squeezed through the crowd, beginning his way down the stairs, only glancing back a couple of times to see if he could spot Ned.
Kids started scattering when they hit the grey sky of the threatening rain and Peter could already feel droplets trying to invade his eyes as the students started running from the school. Peter cringed inwardly, feeling guilt and hoping that Ned didn’t get into too much trouble and that maybe they could simply blame it on the panic of the moment. That he had thought they were all going to die and it was the only thing he could think of doing.
It seemed like a good idea, as Peter moved into a sprint, quickly ducking down into a back alleyway, feeling as the rain began to fall steadily. Peter yanked his sneakers off his feet, then his belt next and his sweatshirt before pulling the baggy suit and pressing the spider on his chest and having it absorb to his body. Almost immediately after putting on his mask, blue popped up and Karen spoke, sounding as chipper as ever, “Hello Peter.”
“Hey – hi,” Peter greeted, shooting his webbing upward in a rush, pulling himself to the top of the nearest building. He peered over, towards Manhattan as Karen started to speak before Peter could even process his train of thought –
“It seems your school day is three hours from finality,” Karen hummed, “Is there a reason you’re leaving early? I’ve been programmed to refrain from allowing deviant behavior.”
Peter sighed, sliding his gloved hand over the back of his neck, “Uh, yeah, yeah well, school got out early – well, more so we evacuated cause of – there’s a prison riot, Karen. Manhattan Correctional Facility, it’s kind of a big deal.”
“A big deal?”
“Kind of,” Peter reiterated, “And by kind of, I think people are probably being fired from their jobs as we speak.”
The AI, without hesitation responded, “What does this have to do with school, Peter?”
The fifteen-year-old sighed deeply, running to the edge of the roof and jumping to the next. He answered, continuing onto the next and then the next, “It means that we need to go to the facility and see what’s up, just in case they need some back up, you know?”
“Manhattan is outside of your ‘friendly neighborhood Spider-Man’ description.”
Peter grimaced, “Well…I figure we can look past that and stretch our legs a little, yeah? A nice look through Manhattan won’t hurt anyone, in fact I think a little fresh air will do us some good, you know?”
“And not school?”
“Karen,” Peter groaned, “Enough about school, this is more important. It’s an actual riot.”
Karen answered, “As opposed to which other type of riot?”
Sometimes Peter forgot how literal Karen could be. Sometimes she made jokes and laughed, but then sometimes she didn’t seem to understand, which was fine, but sometimes he forgot she was an AI at all. She felt more like a friend that he saw nearly every night, someone to talk to and almost like a second mother next to Aunt May. Except a mother that could be with him, even when he was absolutely losing his shit, like there and jumping and knowing he was going towards something that was probably going to suck.
Peter was just glad it wasn’t the same prison they had sent Toomes to. That would have been pretty damn awkward to see him, especially when just a few weeks ago Toomes had been traumatizing him on the beach and Peter had to pretend that he didn’t know it was his fault as to why Tony was ignoring him, and how getting hurt and then refusing the position of an Avenger had ruined everything. The only upside was that he had gotten the suit back, nothing else really seemed okay.
“I guess every other type, Karen.”
He didn’t know what he meant by that, but it was something. A hole, and then nothing and Peter was terribly alone, swinging to Manhattan.
…
…
…
“Drink another champagne and I’m leaving you here.”
Pepper’s hands were on her hips. Their quiet hotel room, a celebration of their engagement, meant something like relaxing and Tony had to admit, he had gotten carried away. She looked pretty the way she was, hair pulled back from the sun on the beach and he had missed Malibu so terribly. Sometimes he considered resurrecting his old home, but he wondered if it was worth it, living once again in a spotlight that was only good for keeping him terrified and paranoid. The truth was, he wasn’t even drunk, and hardly buzzed, but the fear was still there within Pepper of some sort of relapse and he could hardly blame her. He knew she sensed the rift, over the past few weeks, he was stressed. Stressed about what they were going to do about the Avengers, about Steve, about everything else.
About the boy.
Tony set the glass down. Part of this stage of their life was meant to be listening, and taking the other’s feelings into consideration and so he stopped downing the champagne like water, even if he felt fine, and it was honest. He wasn’t drunk. In the past maybe it would have been a lie and he would have kept going, but he was trying to be better and sometimes he focused too much of his energy into the complying bit, and not enough into the angry bit. God, he was still so angry some days his teeth wanted to break at the way they clenched and his jaw ached.
“Right,” Tony breathed, folding his hands over his abdomen as he looked at her across the suite, “Right, right…I didn’t hear what you asked.”
“How did you know I asked something then?”
“Because you’re waiting,” Tony replied and tilted his head, “For something.”
Pepper held out her hands in expectancy, “A revelation maybe. I admit, the past few weeks of all this doting has been nice, but I have to go back to work. There’s an entire company that keeps emailing and calling and they expect someone to run it. And you…” Her finger moved in a circle, “Need to sort this out.”
“What?”
“This…brooding,” Pepper grimaced, “An engagement does not call for what…two months of celebration?”
“Three,” Tony corrected, mumbling under his breath.
“Right, three,” Pepper scoffed, “I know you’re avoiding, diverting, putting your energy elsewhere. I get it, it’s hard. You’re still upset about everything, about the team, about Steve.”
Tony leaned forward, standing and moving away, “Ah, ah, ah, we don’t mention the antichrist in a holy place like a seaside suite.”
“Right,” Pepper rolled her eyes, “You’re angry…and I think you will be for a while. But I think you could benefit from a break of your own. You know, a break from The Compound and trying to put something back together that maybe the world doesn’t need.”
Tony looked at her, appalled, “You don’t think the world needs the Avengers?”
“Well, maybe not anymore,” Pepper shrugged, “Or not right now, at least.”
It wasn’t really offensive. More so, Tony found something appealing in avoiding the obvious. The obvious being, there was no team anymore. Steve, Wilson, Romanoff, the others…They had picked a side, and even though there was him, Rhodey, technically Vision who really was only interested in one person – things just felt broken. Then the kid, and his refusal to join the team, and a realization that same kid could have been killed on that beach trying to save his goddamn plane –
“Tony?” Pepper’s voice asked.
Tony realized he had his glass in his hand once more, and it was nearly shattering under his hand, pressure, wanting to break in half. The kid had looked at him and at the time, when Tony thought Peter would say yes, he had thought…well, he could protect Peter if he became an Avenger. But now there was something different, the kid was out of reach and Tony himself was dangerous and it was bullshit.
Tony wasn’t the kid’s father, it didn’t fucking matter.
Tony set the glass down again.
Pepper sighed…
“Is this about Steve or not?”
Tony glanced over his shoulder. A part of growing up and becoming someone that was able to be married probably meant being more transparent. It was about Steve. But it was about so much more than that. Tony was struggling with this idea, that the kid had gotten on the plane to save some of his trinkets and had almost died doing it. It was a shame, but the offer to be an Avenger didn’t exactly come from a place of pride, it came from somewhere else.
He took too long to respond, and Pepper made a face, “Oh…It’s about the boy.”
Tony found it somewhat comical that he had taken all of these precautions to never father a child and yet somehow he had gotten stuck with the anxiety of it anyway. It wasn’t exactly fair, and it showed he wasn’t ready to be a parent, because he was angry and selfish and frustrated with Peter’s behavior and not feeling the need to be frightened of death. Tony turned fully and put his weight on the table behind him, placing both palms near his hips on the cold tabletop.
That was enough of an answer.
Pepper sighed, “Your need for control.”
“Huh?”
“I know what you and Happy have been doing,” Pepper replied, “Ignoring him and yet keeping an eye on him without telling him. Basically, stalking if you ask me.”
Tony felt offense well, “It’s not stalking if I created the suit.”
“Then what is it?” Pepper held up her hands, “I know the real reason why you asked him to be an Avenger. You wanted him under your thumb, so you could keep an eye on him. You wanted him living and training in that Compound without even thinking if it’d be healthy for someone his age – “
“Wanda did it.”
“And look how well that turned out for her,” Pepper’s mouth pulled downward, and Tony thought his teeth were going to break again from how hard he was grinding them to keep his mouth shut. At least he could say he had learned that over the years with Pepper, sometimes it was better to be quiet. And he couldn’t say that what she was talking about was a lie. Pepper went on, “We both know he isn’t the same. At least not to you.”
Tony spent a lot of time telling himself Peter was simply an asset. A creation. Something to grow and to create into the next generation, because Tony didn’t believe he would live forever as much as he desired it. He couldn’t protect the world forever, and Peter had to be kept alive and yet he was constantly trying to kill himself. The plane, the entire situation with Toomes and Peter shouldn’t have even been involved. Tony had been wrong to give him the suit, but the thought of looking at Peter again, at taking it the way he had done before and driving away while the kid stood there. The way he had sat in Tony’s car, had tried not to cry, had shoved the emotions down in a way Tony used to do in front of his own father even though it was boiling around the creases of his eyes…Tony realized maybe he was in fact, as selfish as Howard had been.
This was not poetic, just sad and if Mister Rochester had a face, it was Tony.
Before Tony could reply, his phone dinged loudly in his pocket. He pulled it out, looking down at the message that flashed across the screen. Pepper leaned forward curiously, from across the room and questioned, “What’s up?”
As if their previous conversation was forgotten but Tony realized, no, of course not, because as if it was perfect timing –
“Peter just left school early in the suit.”
Pepper’s eyebrows raised, as if to say ‘speak of the Devil’, but Tony was already moving towards the window, clicking away on his phone. Pepper’s face morphed into confusion as she followed him towards the balcony of the suite, “Wait, where are you going? From what you’ve said, the kid goes out after curfew all the time anyway, why does it matter?”
“It matters because a riot just broke out at the Manhattan Correctional Facility,” Tony sounded irritated before he even realized he actually was, “Which means our little friend is getting in way over his head and I’ve got a bit of a flight, so I mine as well leave now before something goes wrong.”
Pepper stopped following, and said nothing else. It was the silent resolve of knowing he had already made up his mind. Tony slid his hand over his watch, the familiar feeling of his creation enveloping him protectively, just as he was opening the door, stepping over the railing and into the sky.
…
…
…
Peter didn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe a scene out of The Dark Knight, or something of the sort.
But it wasn’t like that.
The riot had managed to be contained indoors, behind the lonely walls of the prison and the cinderblocks. It wasn’t pouring through the doors like his mind had dreamed, but he could see police cars nearly pulled at the way to the door, officers outside of their cars and guns drawn towards the door as if they had left the security inside to fend for themselves, causing Peter’s stomach to drop just a little. He could hear the yelling from inside, loud enough to travel out and Peter could only imagine the chaos that was breaking out, and he tried to mentally prepare himself for it as he landed on the roof, moving towards the barricaded door to his left.
“Karen, what we got?”
A scan, then a reply, “A lot of movement from the floors below. Looks like most of the fighting is centered on the second floor, what appears to be the commons.”
Peter teetered, wondering if it was the right etiquette to just use the rooftop door to go down and fight the prisoners. Didn’t seem very Spider-Man like, but he supposed it was the best he could do. Or the most logical, but he was still in this state of mind where he wanted to have a little fun to prevent the anxiety pooling in his belly. Still, he grabbed the handle and pulled it open, before he slipped inside what seemed to be a dark hallway.
“Where’d the lights go?”
“The prison went into lockdown,” Karen replied, “No power, no one comes in or out.”
Except the rooftop door obviously. It didn’t seem to be electrically controlled. Peter began hopping down the staircases, over the railings to speed up the trip a bit from the rooftop tower down towards the second floor. The further down he went, the louder it got, and he supposed the racing in his chest was normal. Of course, he was used to fighting baddies, but so many at once was kind of intimidating.
Once Peter made it to the door that had a giant 2 painted on the wall, he placed his gloved palm against it. He blinked under the mask, and took in several deep breaths before Karen asked, “Why are you hesitating?”
“I’m just – “ Peter rolled his eyes, “Give me a second, Karen. I’m preparing myself mentally, I can’t just run in there, guns blazing.”
He was almost expecting her to make some comment about how he didn’t have guns, but she didn’t, instead she responded, “It’s good to take deep breaths before a stressful situation.”
Slowly he exhaled through his mouth stifling a laugh. Before he could think too much, he pressed down on the door and pushed, entering a corridor where he could clearly hear the shouting and the sounds of things breaking. There were figures running past and Peter used his webbing to pull himself to the ceiling and began to crawl towards the fray, still trying to remain invisible in the darkness to some degree in case surprise would benefit him.
There was the shouting, but he couldn’t understand most of what people were screaming. It seemed to be an abundant amount of profanities though, and the sound of people ordering others to cease and desist their behavior but obviously it wasn’t working. Once Peter made it to the end of the hallway, he saw a balcony that went around a room beneath them. That room is where he figured the commons were, because there were several cafeteria style tables and what looked to be a mass amount of people fighting, mostly in jumpsuits with the occasional security guard popping up in the fray. Peter swallowed, and tilted his head as the emergency lights were the only thing really illuminating anyone and he wondered how they knew if they were hitting their friends or not.
Peter hopped down from the ceiling, moving to the balcony before he climbed over, and perched himself there on the railing in a crouched position, knees close to his shoulders. He questioned, “Jesus, Karen where do we even start?”
“Maybe with the guard near the south entrance,” She responded, and his mask lit up and zoomed in at her control, showing a mass amount of people fighting and kicking someone on the ground. She continued, “It seems he has been overtaken.”
Peter nodded, but said nothing verbally in return before he hopped down and shot his web on the ceiling, swinging towards the ground. As Peter was landing, he kicked one of the men in the head, causing him to fall several feet away and the other men jumped back in surprise, leaving the guard on his hands and knees, gasping for oxygen.
The teen looked around at the men in the dim lighting, all appearing shocked at his appearance as he grinned under the mask, “Hey now! Six against one isn’t exactly fair guys!”
“It’s that YouTube-Spider!”
Peter rolled his eyes at one of the statements, and he replied, “Spider-Man, dude.”
He turned, grabbing the guard by the arm before pulling him to his feet. He glanced at the guy’s badge, reading the name ‘Chris Nettles’. Peter patted his shoulder, “It’s gonna be alright –“
Before he could finish, one of the men stepped forward, fist raised. Peter pushed the guard out of the way, and Chris Nettles hit his back on the wall, but luckily stayed standing as Peter moved in front of him and caught the fist with ease. He twisted it, and the man let out a loud shout as Peter released it and kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. Peter glanced at Chris Nettles and groaned, “These guys are rude, right? I’m trying to introduce myself.”
The guard held his chest and coughed, “How old are you?”
“Don’t let the squeaky voice fool you,” Peter stepped out of the way of one of the other men, tripping him with a simple movement of sticking his foot out in front of him, “I’m actually fifty-six and very, very adult.”
The guard also moved when another prisoner came towards him and he took out a baton, swinging it. He put his back to Peter’s and spoke, “Thank God you came, thought you heroes were just gonna leave us out to dry. Guess we’re not quite high enough profile for you guys, huh?”
“I’m just a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,” Peter grunted, swinging at another man, though he couldn’t ignore the tinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Sometimes he thought about how desperate he was to get out, to do bigger and better things, to handle international terrorists and such. To get out of Queens, out of New York, to handle the high-end deals. But then he ran into people like this guy, who felt abandoned by heroes to the point he didn’t even expect them to show up.
Peter cleared his throat and said, “I’m not too good to help anyone, Mister Nettles.”
“Mister Nettles,” He chuckled, “You sound like my son’s friends. You’re definitely not that old.”
Peter smirked, and at some point, that might have offended him, but now it was funnier. Something out of Scooby-Doo. Peter ducked, and replied, “Well, let’s make sure you get home to him and his friends, yeah?”
“Right,” He responded, “It’s burger night. Gotta get home to grill ‘em.”
Peter turned just in the slightest to say something else, however something rushed towards him, hitting him right in his middle and sending him against the wall, the body coming with him and following with several blows to his ribs and side. Peter grunted, shoving the guy and managing to overpower him with his strength enough to get him off and Peter stumbled to his feet. He felt winded, and his side stung greatly as the man fell to the ground, something slipping from his hand and sliding across the floor. Peter held his side before moving forward and picking up the object, finding the end red with blood, a sharpened end of a plastic toothbrush.
Peter removed his hand from his side, looking down at the glistening liquid on his gloved fingers, unable to feel the warmth through the fabric.
“Shit,” Peter muttered.
Karen’s voice spoke, “Peter – “
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been stabbed,” Peter threw the toothbrush down in frustration and Nettles turned after hitting another guy with his baton.
“You okay, kid?”
Peter nodded, “Just a scrape –“
One of the prisoners grabbed Nettles’ baton and yanked, pulling it from his distracted grip. Peter raised his hand to shoot his webbing, only to have someone else slam into his arm, yanking it downward sharply. Peter tried to wrench his arm out from the grip, watching helplessly as the baton was used to slam into the back of Nettles’ head, knocking him limply to the ground. Peter and the other man both fell as well, as Peter fought for control of his arm.
As soon as he got it free and moved to stand, the same baton that had slammed into Nettles’ head hit his own, blood pooling from above his eyebrow and filling his mask. Peter’s world went dark.
…
…
…
Nettles stood, apron on and spatula in hand. Peter could smell the burgers, and hear them sizzling on the grill as the man simply stared at him in a green backyard, several kids running around behind him. When Peter looked at him, his eyes appeared blank and unseeing, over and over again.
A boy’s voice shouted, “Daddy! Daddy look!”
Another voice, “Mister Nettles’, look!”
Nettles wouldn’t turn around.
Peter’s nose filled with water.
It was a sharp sense of panic, as he felt a grip on the back of his neck and his hair, and he was pulled back above the surface. His eyes were blinded by the blood on his head, not completely washed away by the bath water. Peter gagged and sputtered, water vomited out into some kind of tub and Peter didn’t know if he was in a bathroom somewhere else in the building, but this room was much quieter than where they had been in the commons.
The emergency lights felt a lot brighter and in one surge of terror, Peter realized his mask wasn’t on his face anymore. Men were laughing, one cackling, “Who knew a kid was just dressing up for Halloween all this time?”
Peter’s hands went to the edge of the tub, but he was shoved back down into the water, palms slipping and mouth filling with water once more and bubbles pooling up and beside his head in a silent scream. Peter struggled, but he felt lightheaded and his side was still burning from the stupid sharpened toothbrush. He wondered where Nettles was, and as he surfaced again, coughing, he tried to look around only to find he and three other men were the only ones in a small bathroom.
Peter’s mind whirled.
Peter tried once more to brace against the tub. The man with his hand in his hair pulled his head back and leaned downward, taking Peter’s chin in a tight grip, squeezing until he knew he had to be bruising. Peter gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes in hopes maybe it would hide his face, but he supposed it was different, he was just some kid from Queens, as long as they didn’t know his name, he would be safe. But still, there was something vulnerable and exposing in that moment and Peter refused to look into the man’s eyes. They were dark, a beard thick on his face as he grinned and Peter refused to look, “Think you’re a hero or something, kid? Like a comic book or that dickhead Stark on television?”
The other two laughed and the man continued, “He can’t even fight his own battles without getting the government involved! All you little kids, thinking you’re big and bad, but really? You’re gonna disappear like the rest of us. Like him.”
Peter shot his fist outward, but missed and the hand in his hair yanked back harder, causing Peter to let out a shout of pain, opening his eyes. Peter spat, and the man flinched as the saliva made contact with his cheek. There was a moment of silence, as the man slid his palm over his face to remove it, before Peter knew what was coming came and his head was shoving downward, back into the bathtub and under the water. He didn’t even know if they were still in the prison, but they had to be, really. Just a different place as he was pushed further and further down into the water and his mind hazed over.
You’re drowning, Peter.
And he was.
His muscles went lax and just as his eyes rolled back, the pressure on his spine disappeared. The hand in his hair went away and then two hands took him under the arms, pulling him from the water and flipping him around so that his back was leaning against the tub. Peter’s chest spasmed, water filling his nose and mouth before air pushed them out where they did not belong in his body. He coughed again, several times, the wound on his eyebrow flowing a fresh round of blood and getting into his left eye.
“Hey, hey, kid breathe,” Part of Peter hoped he would see Nettles in front of him, but instead it wasn’t. It was an open metal mask, revealing the face of James Rhodes. Peter tried to catch his breath, unable to speak as he stared in shock, blinking over and over again, trying to make his brain connect the pieces. Colonel Rhodes, and it made no sense, and he didn’t know where they were or what they were doing but he could not breathe.
“Where’s your mask?”
Peter didn’t know. He just shook his head, and looked at the unconscious men around him. Before he could even gather himself, he was being yanked to his feet. Colonel Rhodes was saying something, not to Peter but into a com. Peter felt his knees shaking, and Colonel Rhodes had to take most of his weight in that moment as he struggled to put on foot in front of the other. Colonel Rhodes continued talking and when Peter nearly collapsed again, Rhodes snapped, “C’mon, kid, we gotta go, they’ve got charges in the prison.”
Charges.
Not great.
Peter was practically dragged to an open window before they were flying out. The sun had set and Peter wondered how long he had been unconscious, the vision of flashing police lights on the street blinding him. They landed, a bit to the side and Peter figured it was because he didn’t have his mask on anymore. Peter pulled from Rhodes’ hold, stumbling a little away and he turned back towards the building. He could still hear distant shouting, there were still people inside and Peter croaked, “Nettles.”
“Huh?” Rhodes asked.
“Nettles,” Peter groaned, holding his side and blinking blood from his vision, water droplets falling from the hair plastered to his forehead, “Chris Nettles, he’s a guard, he was with me.”
Rhodes shook his head, “Peter, no one was with you besides the asses dunking you. You’re lucky you had on your suit, I probably wouldn’t have even been able to find you without the tracker.”
Peter swallowed past the lump in his throat, before stepping forward. He began walking towards the prison once more before Rhodes stepped in front of him and Peter ordered weakly, “Get outta my way.”
“Where are you going?” Rhodes questioned.
“To find him,” Peter replied sharply, “If there are charges in there, I need to find him, he has a son, he’s – he’s supposed to grill burgers tonight.”
Rhodes looked terribly confused. Confused and angry and frustrated. When Peter tried to move forward again, Rhodes stepped to the side, cutting off his path once more. Peter kept one hand on his bleeding side and shot the other one out, shoving Rhodes on his shoulder, “Move!”
“You’re not going back inside.”
“Yes, I am!” Peter argued, eyes burning, “I have to, he’s in there!”
“No, you don’t.”
This time it wasn’t Rhodes. It was a voice behind him. Peter whirled, eyes wide at the familiar voice, and sure enough behind him in his Iron Man suit was Tony, mask open similarly to Rhodes’. Tony nodded his head towards the building and Rhodey nodded back, automatically turning around and flying off towards the danger. Peter almost ignored Tony completely, also turning around to go back towards the building as well, unwilling to speak to the person that had been ignoring him for three months, especially not now. Blue and red flashed from the police lights, and a metal hand gripped his arm, yanking him back sharply. Peter turned around to face him, before reaching with his free hand to shove Tony’s chest away.
“Get off me,” Peter snapped, again blinking blood from his vision and using the back of his hand to assist.
Tony shook his head, “You’re not going in there.”
“Oh, so now you care?” Peter snapped, stepping back as if he was going to make a break for the building and Tony seemed to flinch forward at the motion, ready to chase him if need-be. Peter continued, voice hoarse from the water and the crying and the drowning, “I’m glad it took me getting dunked in a bathtub for you to show up. Really, I don’t need your help, I’m perfectly fine.”
Tony scoffed, “Yeah, you look perfectly fine. Go sit down on the curb and wait for us to finish.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Peter couldn’t remember the last time he was so contrary. He usually listened to adults, to teachers, to his Aunt May and Uncle Ben. To Tony. Besides the ferry boat thing…He tried not to argue. But something was welling and he kept thinking about Nettles and his son and those burgers and a waiting grill. Peter continued shakily, “You can’t ignore me for three months and then just show up to tell me what to do, that’s not how it works. Someone in there needs my help, and I’m going to help him, so get away from me.”
Peter whirled on his heels and moved to the building again. This time his wrist was grabbed, and he was pulled back again, only this time Tony wouldn’t let go, despite Peter’s shove. Peter looked at him, eyes round and shocked at the rough handling and he argued, “Let go! They need my help!”
Tony grabbed his face, and Peter felt the same place where the prisoner had bruised him awaken in pain and Peter yanked his face away. Surprisingly Tony let go, but still the man hissed sharply, “You don’t have a mask on, stop drawing attention to yourself.”
Right. Peter’s mouth went lax and he thought maybe he was going to say something, or maybe Tony was going to say something else. However, there was a loud popping behind them, then a deafening explosion. Peter’s hands went to his ears and Tony whirled placing himself in front of Peter as some debris came towards them, though not much. The prison was engulfed and Peter felt his heart drop, knowing it was bad when he heard Tony speak into his com, “Rhodes, get Vision here. You guys are going to need all the help you can get.”
In a surge, firefighters ran towards the flames, dragging hoses and Peter stepped around Tony, running forward as well, despite the heat radiating. An arm grabbed around his waist and he was shoved to the concrete. Peter didn’t even realize he was shouting and fighting until his shoulders were forced down and he realized he was pushing at Iron Man’s chest, the suit glowing behind it with the flames. Peter’s body went limp against the ground, and Tony’s mouth was moving, but Peter couldn’t hear past his own shouting…
“Get off, please, please, please let me help,” Peter’s chest quaked, “Mister Stark, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay? Please let me help them!”
When Tony didn’t budge, Peter’s back arched, “Get off!”
It was swift, the entire thing. Someone appeared, and Peter’s brain connected, yes…It was Rhodes again, having returned with something in his hand. Tony took the object and suddenly it was plunged into Peter’s arm and cringed, looking at Tony with the face of betrayal as his mind whirled and he sunk under, the concrete swallowing him whole.
…
…
…
Tony had never forcibly sedated another person and he didn’t think he ever wanted to again.
It felt like killing him, the moment Peter’s body went limp and his eyes rolled back and eyelids shut. The way they just had to leave him there on the concrete while they tried to fix the situation and assist the firefighters and police in anyway that they could. It was swallowing, and hot, and the smoke was filling the air. People were fucking dead, and Tony didn’t know how the prisoners had managed such a thing and why they had chosen to blow the place to smithereens with themselves still inside. None of it made any goddamn sense.
And of course, the kid had been there. Had intervened. Had left Queens.
When they finished, there were over fifty dead. Fifty. Prisoners and guards alike and it was such a fucking waste, in Tony’s opinion. Tony searched for Chris Nettles and found him, slashed to death down the hall from the bathroom where Peter had been taken to. He didn’t even make it to the ‘torture chamber’ he wasn’t fascinating to the guys like Peter had been, with his Spider-Man suit, a superhero at their fingertips. From that moment, Tony kept thinking of how he was going to tell Peter, how he was going to apologize for sedating him, for not being more patient, for not explaining enough.
For not responding in three months.
And so, they had put out the fire, and Tony had scraped Peter’s bloody and bruised body off the concrete and had flown him to The Compound. A simple call to May, who had to catch a plane home and wouldn’t be there for another twenty-four hours. Angry and heated, and Tony was starting to think she was going to be the one to confiscate the suit. Tony found the mask, charred and decided he would put together a new one if Peter wanted it.
Tony stood outside the medical wing, pacing with his hands deep in his pockets, occasionally sending May or Pepper and update. Cho had come in, had started working on Peter’s list of injuries, which were all superficial in her opinion but still needed care. A doctor that could understand the body of an enhanced human was hard to come by, so he was grateful for her willingness to help.
Footsteps moved down the hallway, and Tony turned to see Rhodey approaching. He had changed clothes, face clean of sweat and soot. He had a look of concern as he stopped a few feet away and asked, “So?”
“He’s gonna be alright,” Tony answered, knowing, “She’s stitching him together as we speak. He should wake up soon, she didn’t give him anymore sedative.”
Rhodey breathed, and nodded, “Good, that’s good. Didn’t need you to have another reason to fall down the rabbit hole.”
Tony stared, unamused. The rabbit hole, and the plane, and all of it felt like one deep and dark void and it was opening again. Seeing Peter scream and beg to be able to go into the fire, seeing him bleed and knowing what those asses had done to him. Peter deserved more than that, and Tony couldn’t be what he needed. He couldn’t protect the kid, it was like at every turn he found another way to almost get killed and Tony felt so pissed off, even though he didn’t want to be.
Tony sighed, “Why would he do that? Why would he go in there?”
“Because he’s self-sacrificial, like someone else I know,” Rhodey responded.
It wasn’t fair.
Then Rhodey continued, “Tones, you can’t just put the kid in a bubble. And…avoiding him is definitely going to make things worse. You gotta find a happy medium somewhere that doesn’t involve you stalking from a distance but also doesn’t involve you smothering him like a newborn. He’s fifteen…he’s gonna do what he wants.”
“Not him,” Tony couldn’t look at Rhodes.
“Not him, what?”
Tony ground his teeth, “The world has screwed me out of…a lot. But not him. It can’t be him…someone has to be there when we all bite it.”
Rhodey let out a breath, then shook his head, “Tony, you can’t exactly think it’s fair to forcibly pass this…all of this, Stark Industries, Iron Man, the Avengers…Onto a child.”
The other man swallowed, then shrugged, as if it was out of his control.
“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.”
…
…
…
Mister Nettles turned and looked at his son.
Peter jolted. It wasn’t slowly coming out from a drug induced slumber, like breaking his arm in elementary school or getting a tooth pulled. It was instantaneous and he supposed he could blame that on his metabolism and his body’s ability to burn through drugs like nobodies’ business. Peter swallowed, throat scratching all the way through and he looked up at the ceiling where the tiles stared back down at him, awaiting him to return to the real world and wanting to, with arms wide open.
He groaned, reached up and tried to touch the itchy place above his eyebrow where he found a sticky bandage blocking him. Another hand wrapped around his wrist tightly, causing him to jump and a voice spoke quietly, and yet it sounded loud through his pounding head, “Don’t touch.”
Peter looked over, mouth partly open and blinking blearily at Mister Stark, who was standing beside his bed. His hand continued to hold his wrist and Peter swallowed thickly past the lump in his throat. He was dressed in a hospital gown, and he felt cold, even under the blanket. Peter croaked, hoarsely, “Where?”
“Compound,” Tony answered, releasing his wrist and moving to stand fully. He put his hands in his pockets and continued, “May is on her way, she had to catch a flight. It should be soon though.”
Peter felt like the bed was eating him, he felt like he was something else as he shut his eyes and opened them again, the explosion burning off behind his irises and Peter wondered if Mister Stark could see them too in their brown eyes that stared at each other. Peter had longed for months to get to speak to Mister Stark again, to get to see him, but when he did at the prison he had been so full of anger, it wasn’t like himself. He never got so mad, he wasn’t like that. But in that moment, he felt like a chasm had opened and welcomed him into darkness.
Abandonment, like Uncle Ben hitting the pavement.
Peter studied his face, studied the wrinkles, studied the way he wouldn’t meet Peter’s eyes and he remembered the needle and knowing – forgiving almost instantly. Stupidly. Peter felt like someone else in their lonely home, a chasm of just the two of them. He was the only one Peter could ask questions, and yet he had been the one to ignore him and leave him all alone. Peter felt betrayed and buried himself deeper into the pillow behind him, like a child that was about to be left all alone once more, his lower lip threatening to tremble and his eyes burning.
Tony’s head whipped towards him, and he looked almost horrified.
“Why’re you crying?”
“I’m not,” Peter whispered, but he was.
Tony looked…like one of those people left alone with a baby and Peter felt nauseous at the thought of being viewed as such. He questioned, “Does it hurt? Cho is downstairs, she can give you something – “
“No,” Peter shook his head, “No more medicine.”
Peter looked away, chewing the inside of his mouth, remembering how they had screamed at each other. Been angry, like on the rooftop after the ferryboat. The clip on Peter’s finger was beginning to annoy, so was the IV in his arm and he felt over stimulated, too much – like when he would have sensory overloads. He ignored it though, inhaled deeply and turned towards Mister Stark once more, whispering, “Mister Stark…I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Tony replied, and it was sharp, and Peter nearly flinched, “Okay? Just…don’t. It wasn’t your fault, kid.”
Peter’s mouth trembled, “He needed my help. He had a son.”
Because Peter knew – he knew – he knew he was dead, Tony didn’t have to say it.
His stomach twisted when Tony looked away and Peter wished he’d look him in his eyes as he continued, “He was gonna make burgers tonight. A-and you know…my uncle, he was gonna…he was gonna make spaghetti and meatballs.”
Peter leaned back against the pillow, blowing air out slowly and shakily trying to calm himself as he blinked the tears away. Calm, he was alright. He was fine. His fingers slid over his scalp. Peter shook his head, “I wasn’t scared to die.”
“And that’s where I’m gonna stop you,” Tony held up a finger, “You should have been. Alright? It’s not a goddamn bad thing to be scared to die, Peter. It’s self-preservation and you should want to live through that bullshit.”
Peter frowned, “I did want to live but…I wanted him to live more.”
There was a look, that Peter could not read. Something that said Peter was out of his mind for saying that. Something that said he was wrong and that he shouldn’t feel that way. Peter grimaced and whispered, “That’s not wrong.”
“Yes, it is,” Tony snapped, “Cause I’m not burying you. You think your aunt wants to? You have any idea what its like when you get hurt and I call her, and she sounds like she’s about to put another one of her loved ones in a grave? She and I, we don’t want to…fucking do that.”
Peter watched as Mister Stark slid his hand over his face and turned away towards the glass wall. When he turned back towards Peter, he looked like he had aged five years, swallowed by dread and exhaustion. Peter’s eyes softened from pain to concern and he whispered, “Mister Stark…you should sleep.”
Tony let out a shaky exhale, then…
“Just…why? Why did you do that?”
There wasn’t even a beat.
“Because it was the right thing to do,” Peter answered, “Don’t you think?”
Peter watched him, the way he was folding in on himself in a way that wasn’t crying like Aunt May did when she worried but instead it was something like uncomfortable longing. Like he had the urge to just shake Peter until his brain came out his skull and Peter maybe would have let him without being offended. Tony gritted his jaw and he said, “The right thing to do would have been for me to return your phone calls.”
And he was sorry. He didn’t say it, but Peter could see it.
Peter nodded, mutely. He thought Tony would move to the door, and would leave the room, but instead he took a hesitant step forward. His arms were limp at his sides before he put them in his pockets and took a few more steps, eventually closing the space between Peter and himself. He removed his left hand from his pocket and reached out, setting his palm on the back of Peter’s neck before squeezing firmly. He leaned down, his cheek resting on the top of Peter’s moppy head and Peter heard him whisper firmly, without room for argument, “I have to keep you alive.”
And he didn’t tell Peter why. He just stood back to his full height, before releasing the base of Peter’s neck and turning, leaving the room.
…
No, it is the final awakening.
…