Chapter Text
this week has been, well, eventful, to put it lightly.
you see, the week started pretty interestingly; spider-man has been, uh, dodging this BL/ind operative for the past two days. he works alone, you see, and he’s been managing to sneak up on spider-man when he’s all alone as well. this is the third time it happens. he splits up with widow from a simple supply run, he kneels down, and then BAM!
it’s like his very being is yelling
L O O K O U T !
at him.
he ducks, just barely missing the knife (?! who the hell brings a knife to a blaster fight?) and draws out his blaster in one swift movement. he thinks of iron man. incapacitate. let widow handle the rest. widow’s not around. handle it yourself. be careful. like hell.
the ghost stands there, still, silhouetted in the dark by the bright sunlight from outside the deposit. “hey there,” spider-man says. “got lost? the clown fair is on zone 2.”
that was lame. god. that was lame.
“okay, not talking.” the guy lungs forward and spider-man jerks back. pulls the supplies towards him with his webs, sticks to the ceiling and makes a run for the door. but the guy is real fast too, almost weirdly fast, and closes the door right on his nose, grabs him by the neck and slams him against the floor. oof, ouch. my bones. “come on,” he chokes out. “that was just mean.”
and then he freezes.
every fiber of his whole being hums in understanding.
i’ve seen you before, they say. you’re like me, they say.
the other guy seems to get it, too, but doesn’t let him go. his eyes twitch a little. they’re so light, spider-man thinks. eyes i’ve seen before.
“you’re like me,” spider-man says. “aren’t you?”
the man nods, almost imperceptible. there’s a black muzzle on his mouth, as if to stop him from talking. spider-man tries to reach for it, but the hand around his neck tightens.
“it’s okay,” he gasps out. “i’m just taking it off.”
a moment. his head should be spinning, but he knows that’s not how his body works anymore. after this, he’s gonna have bruises for a while, though. he hopes they heal before they reach home. widow might cover for him, but iron man will definitely question him and he can’t really keep secrets under pressure.
and the man lets him go.
slowly, peter reaches for the mask and clicks it off. “there.”
he recognizes the face from somewhere. gruffy-looking. beautiful. he knows where this guy came from, but can’t tell exactly who he is. maybe a fellow captive, he’s thinking.
“do you know me?” the man nods. “i’m sorry, i don’t remember you. i was very little. who are you?”
the man doesn’t speak.
“it’s okay,” he says. “you can talk to me. they won’t hear.”
he hesitates. then: “soldier.” his accent is very thick, unlike anything peter has heard around the zones, but very much something he’s heard before.
“soldier,” peter repeats. the soldier tenses up. “you gave me your rations once.”
“you were small,” the soldier replies.
peter rubs at his neck and sighs. if someone saw him, he’d be over.
“they look for you.” the soldier doesn’t hold back. not anymore. “always have. they’ll catch you.”
“is that why you’re here? to bring me back?”
“yes.”
“dude.” he wants to die. not now. not like this. he hasn’t apologized. he hasn’t told the truth. “i can’t. i’m not going back. you’re not taking me.”
“i know.”
“then what are you still here for?”
“warning,” he says. “stay in the outer zones. if you breach zone 3, they’ll get you.” his hands are shaking. his face is as stoic as ever. “eyes everywhere. always listening.” it dawns on peter so suddenly it makes him almost crash. “i will forget this. don’t trust me anymore.”
“you’re disobeying orders,” peter says.
“yes,” the soldier says.
“why?”
he heads to the door. “you are small,” is all he says.
he’s vanished before widow even comes back. she only catches a glimpse of his back. the winter soldier , she tells him, pressing cold soda cans to his neck. a ghost story. a myth. if you live, you’re blessed by the winds.
spider-man’s throat doesn’t feel very blessed, but for the soldier, he’ll skip on going beyond zone 4 for a while.
the bruises fade and they’re not even halfway home.
he wonders who he can tell. about the winter soldier.
he knows iron man won’t let him step outside ever again if he finds out. won’t let him leave the relative safety of the gas station, won’t let him do what he has to do. what he was made for. so he’s out of the question. widow and hawkeye, as much as he likes them, would snitch on him instantly. falcon and nomad are out, too.
he thinks, maybe the witch. but he’s scared letting her know a bit will prompt her to look deeper. she’s done it before, on accident; he’s found her awake at two in the morning, shivering outside the shelter of the gas station because of some old, repressed war memory from nomad’s mind or dreams of a cave and a car battery.
so his only options are, well, hope and scott.
but they’re out of town.
so he guesses he’ll just carry the secret to his grave.
“listen, spidey,” iron man says. “there’s something i want to show you.”
spider-man looks up from the table he’s hoarded; puts the broken circuit board from the radio they’d picked up earlier that day down and turns everything off. “yeah?”
“yeah, could you come check it out?”
it’s when they’ve reached iron man’s room that spider-man pauses. “no way,” he says. he stares straight ahead and his eyes seem to shine.
iron man grins. “do you like it?”
next to tony’s bed there’s a self-standing suit of armor. a mask of seemingly seamless metal, though spider-man can hear its internal mechanisms click and turn, like clockwork. a long-sleeved top of the same material; golden webshooters that twist around the wrists.
that’s for me, peter thinks.
he tries it on after iron man insists. it fits him like a glove. he loves it.
iron man calls it the iron spider. it’s for emergencies only, he says. there’s not enough energy for it all the time. it probably only lasts a few minutes. but it’s good to have.
he gives it to him in a bracelet. says it’ll form over his current look when it does. “try it on,” he says.
“you sure? don’t wanna waste batteries.”
“got a new pack just for this. come on, i didn’t sneak into zone 1 for nothin’. try it on.”
spider-man puts on the bracelet and presses the tiny bump on it.
it’s not a top, he realizes. it’s a bulletproof vest. the webshooters are seamless, beautiful. the mask fills his world with a blue hue.
iron man grins like a child on christmas.
“perfect,” he says.
(peter doesn’t deserve any of this.)
there’s a bullet hell if he’s ever seen one.
eventful week, alright. he presses his back against the barricade, blasts barely missing him. his leg hurts a lot. fuck. Fuck with a capital F. where’s a miracle when you need it? fuck.
he thinks he can hear hawkeye’s blaster whistle through the air. it’s hard to tell; the draculoids are merciless today. if they don’t think of something fast, they’re not gonna live to see tomorrow.
or worse.
they’re cornered in an old shop’s backroom. the others are glued behind walls and old furniture, gasping; spider-man can see nomad’s worn-out jacket, ant-man’s gun thrown on the floor—
down there. he looks down. scott has shrunk his way out of the mess. he’s sprinting towards him. clever. he kneels down (ouch, his leg is killing him) and picks him up.
ant-man places a small something on his hand and makes it grow. it becomes heavy in his hands; it’s an explosive. there’s something scribbled on it. blow em 2 hell & back .
he pockets scott and whistles; an alert. he notices nomad’s shoulders tensing up and everyone moving back just as he flings the bomb forward.
it explodes on impact, and he swings into the action, despite nomad’s orders to retreat, spider-man! . pulls out his blaster. faintly, he thinks he hears something through the smoke . he dismisses it just as quickly.
at the end there’s twelve dead bodies at his feet and two bullet holes through his shoulder. he thinks he can feel tony’s hands holding him, but everything’s too hazy to tell.
he dreams of the soldier’s back, holding his hand from behind. he dreams of bullet shells and a dead man at his feet. he dreams of a dogtag he’d seen once, just caught a glimpse of it, but doesn’t remember what it said. he dreams of his mom, one afternoon after school, helping him and gwen and bake cupcakes for harry’s surprise birthday party.
and then he wakes up. he’s in his room, he thinks, the familiar smell of old wood and burnt cotton. feels the stiff pillows under his head.
he can hear iron man yelling at someone out there. he’s so not dealing with that right now.
he wraps himself in uncle ben’s jacket. it’s cold, he decides, before falling asleep again.
what a week.