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Peter flexed his wrists against the metal cuffs binding him to the chair, but between the blood loss and the vibranium shackles, the odds weren’t exactly in his favor.
The blood dripping down his leg from the wound in his side looked almost black in the warehouse’s dim lighting. It collected in a puddle on the concrete floor, creeping toward his discarded mask. Peter’s head swam with a probable concussion and he could feel the bruise that was starting to darken his cheek.
A door behind him creaked open. Peter’s spidey sense hummed a persistent warning along the back of his neck, but he already knew who it was. He already knew how much trouble he was in.
There was a rumbling, squeaking kind of sound just to his right, like someone was dragging something heavy on wheels. The Vulture lumbered into view, hauling behind him a large TV on a rolling stand. Peter had a sudden memory of being in middle school and cheering whenever the teacher brought in the TV so the class could watch a movie. Nostalgia and dread mingled in his stomach.
Toomes wheeled the television in front of Peter and then walked to an outlet to plug it in. He walked back, then crouched down to look Peter in the eye.
“Funny thing about me knowing your identity--” he said, taking Peter by the chin. Peter tried to twist away, but couldn’t. “--is that it’s not only you I know about.” He let go, and Peter slumped, not meeting his eyes. “I know you go to school at Midtown High, and I know you live over in Forest Hills. I know you’re just a poor little kid with half a family.”
Peter tensed. Toomes apparently noticed, because he laughed.
“Oh yeah, Peter, I know all about your dear Aunt May. She’s pretty, isn’t she? Does she know about all of this?” Peter didn’t answer. Toomes continued. “I doubt it. You don’t strike me as the sharing type. Probably why you only have the one friend.”
Toomes pressed a button on the remote in his hand and the TV switched on. Peter glanced up, and his stomach dropped.
It was Ned. Ned, walking along the darkened sidewalk with his phone in his hands, texting furiously.
In the warehouse, on the table, Peter’s confiscated phone buzzed.
Back on the screen, the camera followed Ned from across the street as he walked the familiar route to Peter’s apartment. Ned looked both ways as he crossed the street. He was only a few blocks away. Peter dropped his eyes.
“Leave him alone,” he growled, even as his voice shook. He’d never wanted Ned dragged into this, he was never supposed to be involved. His hands gripped the arms of the chair and the wood creaked.
“Like I asked you to leave me and my boys alone? Now that didn’t really pan out, did it?”
“He’s not a part of this!” Peter insisted. His heart pounded against his rib cage and his chest was starting to constrict. He kept his eyes trained on his lap. “Leave him out of it!”
The Vulture just looked at him for a minute, took in his tense shoulders and quick breathing.
“Are you scared, Peter?” Peter’s head whipped up to glare at him.
“You don’t scare me.”
Toomes tilted his head and smiled. “Then why won’t you look at the screen?”
Peter swallowed around the panic rising in his throat and didn’t answer. He glowered, hoping he could project every hateful thought he couldn’t say without his voice breaking. Toomes looked him in the eye without flinching.
“Look at the screen, Peter,” he said softly. Peter didn’t want to, didn’t want to give in to this sadistic bastard, but something about the thought of not watching made him feel sick. He felt like he was abandoning his best friend. He looked.
Ned continued walking, and the camera got closer. Whoever was holding it crossed the street to join the empty sidewalk ten feet behind him. They moved closer. Peter couldn’t breathe. Ned stopped at the edge of the road to wait for the walk signal and then the camera was right there , close enough to almost read the screen of his phone over his shoulder. Ned glanced back, looking at something just above the lens and for a split second it was like he was meeting Peter’s eyes.
“Don’t hurt him,” Peter whispered, his voice hoarse. His hands started to shake. “Please, I’m begging you, don’t hurt him, please.”
“There are always casualties, son,” Toomes said, sounding genuinely remorseful. He stood, walking behind Peter and placing his hands on his shoulders. “The price of war.”
The walk light changed and Ned crossed. Distance grew between him and the camera, each extra foot of space feeling like a miracle as Peter watched. The camera person dropped back to about ten feet again and then kept distance until Peter’s building was just in sight, only a block away.
No. No, they couldn’t-- His home . They had to stay out of his home , it was the only thing Peter had left, the only place he wasn’t waiting for someone to jump out and try to kill him, where he felt safe.
His only solace was that it was Tuesday and May was working late. She wasn’t in the apartment. They would leave her alone, they had to leave her alone. Peter didn’t know how many more people he could lose.
“Don’t hurt him,” Peter said again, but it was a vacant plea. Toomes wasn’t going to listen to him. He’d gotten his chance to cooperate, and Ned was going to pay for his mistake.
On screen, Ned crossed the final street. He looked both ways. He stepped up onto the pavement and Peter wanted to scream at him to run but he knew he couldn’t do anything. He was tied up in a warehouse miles away and he was useless.
A man strode toward Ned from the street perpendicular and slung an arm around his shoulders, hauling him off in a different direction, and a sob almost escaped from Peter’s chest before he recognized him.
Tony.
Mr. Stark led Ned away, walking fast, the distance between the them and the camera growing wider by the second. They disappeared around a corner and the cameraperson started running after them.
Toomes’s hands tightened around Peter’s shoulders, his fingers digging into Peter’s collarbones.
“What the hell?” he growled.
The camera raced around the corner, but the sidewalk was empty. Ned and Mr. Stark had disappeared. The camera turned off. The television went black.
Ned was safe. He was safe, he was safe, Iron Man had saved him, he was safe . Peter slumped in relief, allowing his chin to thump against his chest. He let out a shaky laugh.
“Foiled again, Birdman.”
Toomes fisted a hand in Peter’s hair, yanking his head back by the roots. He brought his face right up next to Peter’s, rage turning him red, and looked him in the eye. Peter met his gaze and glared. Toomes shoved his head forward and stomped over to the table.
“You keep your damn mouth shut, brat.”
The Vulture sighed, leaning over the table and burying his face in his hands. He stood still for a moment, then snatched his phone up and stormed out of the warehouse. Peter listened to him go and didn’t flinch when the door slammed behind him.
The ensuing silence filled the open space, weighing down on Peter’s overtaxed body. He was already crashing, his body working through the adrenaline and leaving him exhausted, his limbs too tired to even try and test the cuffs again. He wasn’t getting out of this one just yet.
But it didn’t matter. Ned was safe. May was safe. Mr. Stark knew something was wrong and he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to Peter’s family. That was all that mattered.
Peter’s head lolled to the side. He caught a glimpse of the puddle of blood on the floor and remembered he was bleeding. A lot, apparently. The puddle had grown. Right on cue, a dull pain flared through his side and he winced.
His chest rose with slow, sore breaths. His head felt even fuzzier. Black dots faded in and out of existence in the corners of his vision. He was so tired. He wanted to rest.
Peter’s eyes drifted shut. His spidey sense hummed, but he ignored it. He just wanted to sleep. Mr. Stark could handle it.
--------
Peter first noticed the hands around his neck.
No, not around. Fingers pressing against his jugular. Feeling for a pulse. Another hand cupping his cheek. Gentle, trembling, holding his head up.
“Peter?” a voice called from far away. Peter tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t push the thought past the soupy mess in his brain. “Peter, kiddo, talk to me, please.”
When Peter didn’t answer--he couldn’t, he tried to, he really did--the hands lowered his head and moved away. Something twisted in his gut at the sudden absence that loosened only when he felt the hands close around the cuff chaining him to the chair.
“Vibranium,” the same voice breathed. A tense sigh. “That-- That complicates things.” Something whirred near the shackles. “Hold still, squirt. Not that you’ve been doing much else since I got here.” A choked, pained laugh, and then heat near Peter’s wrists. In a couple minutes, the cuffs dropped to the floor. The sound echoed around Peter’s brain.
He was falling. Without the cuffs he slumped forward, sliding off the chair. He crashed into something warm and then arms were wrapping around him, lowering him slowly.
“I got you, I got you, kid.”
A hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair.
“I got you,” the voice said again. “You’re gonna be okay, Petey. I promise.”
The arms wrapped around him shifted to pick him up. He and the voice rose together. Peter tried to open his eyes again, but exhaustion and blood loss were ushering him back to sleep. He wasn’t in danger anymore. He was going to be okay. The voice had said so.
He slipped back into unconsciousness.
--------
Pressure. Tightness, wrapped around his torso. Something pinching his finger, something else pinching the crook of his elbow. A steady beep, beep, beep just to his left. His head still felt like it was full of cotton, but he managed to open his eyes.
The white sterility of the room made his head ache. He winced as he looked around, and his gaze landed on Tony Stark, sitting in a plastic chair at his bedside, leaning on his knees. There was an open file in his hands. Dark circles sat like bruises under his eyes.
“You look like you need this bed more than me,” Peter croaked. Mr. Stark startled, dropping the file. He looked at Peter in shock and then his face broke into a smile.
“You looked in a mirror lately? You look like shit, kid.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “ Thanks , Mr. Stark.”
He tried to sit up and pain rocketed through his side, making him gasp. Mr. Stark rushed to make him lie down.
“Take it easy, Peter,” he said, taking him by the shoulders and easing him back onto the bed. “Someone basically took a broadsword to your abdomen. You’re not doing much moving for the next few days.”
“Yeah,” Peter agreed with a groan, “backflips might be out of the equation for a little while.” He lifted the blanket laid over him to take a look at the bandage wrapped around his torso and he grimaced. “What am I gonna tell May?” Mr. Stark shifted in his seat. His eyes flitted to the other side of the room.
“About that...”
Peter’s heart monitor beeped faster.
“Is she okay?” he demanded. “Vulture? He didn’t--?”
“I got there first,” Mr. Stark said, squeezing Peter’s wrist in reassurance. “She’s fine, that’s not the issue.” Peter narrowed his eyes.
“Then what is?”
Mr. Stark cleared his throat, dropping his gaze to the floor. He sighed.
“She knows.” Peter stilled.
“She knows...how much?”
“Everything,” he said, finally looking up. “You being Spider-Man, your run-in with the Vulture, us working together. When I brought her to the Tower she knew something was up, and I couldn’t lie to her, not when I had no idea if you were alive or dead or-or bleeding out in some warehouse in Staten Island.” Tony shook his head, sitting back in his chair. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
Peter swallowed. He took a deep breath, trying to quell the panic and guilt that flooded his chest. He chewed on his bottom lip and didn’t say anything.
“She was here,” Mr. Stark continued. “She’s been staying with you since I brought you into medical. She stepped out a few minutes ago to get a cup of coffee and asked me to-- y’know. Sit with you. She’ll be back pretty soon.”
“That’ll be a fun conversation,” Peter said, closing his eyes. “‘Sorry for almost getting killed by an evil bird guy, May. And for almost getting you killed by an evil bird guy. And for not telling you when I went and got superpowers. And for lying to you for months. And for generally being a horrible nephew.’”
“Whoa, whoa,” Mr. Stark cut in. “You are not a horrible nephew.” Peter opened his eyes to shoot him a look.
“Did you miss the part about me lying to her for most of a year and then nearly getting her killed?”
“That’s not...ideal,” he conceded, “but that doesn’t cancel out everything else you do for her. You’re caring, and intelligent, and everything you’ve done was to try and keep her safe. And yeah, she might be a little annoyed that you kept this from her, but she knows you always had good intentions. She loves you, Peter. And she knows you’re a good kid.”
Peter fiddled with the IV tubing--trying to pretend it wasn’t going into his arm because ugh --as he thought over Mr. Stark’s words.
“She’s the only family I’ve got left,” he said after a moment. “I can’t-- I don’t even know what I’d do if I drove her away.”
“Sorry, tough guy, but you’re stuck with me.”
Peter’s head jerked up and there was May, standing in the doorway. There was a paper cup of coffee in her hand and a watery smile on her face.
“May…” Peter opened his mouth to say more, but the sight of her, right there, safe , rendered him speechless with relief. May put her coffee down on a table next to the door and swept into the room. She planted a gentle kiss on his forehead, and then leaned her head against his.
“I’m so happy you’re okay,” she said. Peter’s chest constricted. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“I’m so sorry, May,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry for-- for everything, for lying, and keeping this from you, and--”
“Sweetheart, shut up,” she laughed. She pulled back and ran her fingers through his hair. Peter looked up at her, his hands twisting in his lap. “You and I are going to have a long talk about all of this, but it can wait until you’re out of the hospital. Right now you’re safe and that’s all I care about.”
Peter’s shoulders let go of their tension. A soft smile wormed its way onto his face. “I love you, May.” She kissed his forehead again.
“I love you too, Petey.”
Peter allowed himself a moment to just sit in that feeling, that warmth and contentment that May radiated. Then he noticed Mr. Stark hovering awkwardly in the doorway. Mr. Stark nodded to him and then gestured out into the hallway.
“I’ll, uh, give you two a little time and go tell the doctor you’re awake,” he said.
“Tony, hold on a moment,” May said. She caught him by the shoulder and kissed his cheek. His stilled, his eyes widening, and May smiled. “Thank you looking out for Peter.” Mr. Stark coughed and shuffled his feet.
“Happy to,” he said. He turned again to leave.
“Wait, Mr. Stark!” Peter called. When Tony looked back, Peter looked him in the eyes, trying to project his sincerity. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me and my family. I really owe you one.”
Tony’s gaze went soft. After a moment of hesitation, he walked back over to Peter’s bedside.
“You don’t owe me anything, kid.” He smiled and ruffled Peter’s hair. Peter pretended to glare and swatted his hand away. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He strode out into the hallway and threw over his shoulder: “Be back in a few!”
Peter relaxed against the pillows as May took the seat next to his bed. She took his hand in hers and he squeezed her fingers and for the first time in a long time he felt safe.