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“But Mr. Stark—I was gonna be on time, I swear, but then something happened! I heard someone getting mugged, and I couldn’t just ignore that.”
“I’ve told you before, Peter. One a.m., no excuses.”
“But I have to help!”
Mr. Stark’s face softened slightly. “I know you do. But you need to start heading home earlier to account for that. Come on, kid. I don’t want to have to call your aunt because you can’t keep curfew, you know that, but that’s twice in the past week you’ve been late. Work with me here.”
Peter nodded, desperate. It had taken a lot of convincing before May had agreed to let him stay at Avengers Tower over summer—Peter had almost swooned when Mr. Stark had proposed the live-in Avenging internship—but her agreement came with a long list of conditions. A strict one a.m. curfew, for example.
And he had so nearly made it tonight. When he’d finally arrived back at Avengers Tower twenty minutes past curfew, it had been to Mr. Stark waiting for him on the living room balcony, arms crossed.
Peter nodded again. “I will. I can. I can keep curfew, I promise.”
“Good, because I really hope this is the last time we ever have this conversation. I feel old.” Mr. Stark poked Peter right above where Droney sat in the center of his chest. “Get your spidery ass home on time from now on. I don’t like being on the receiving end of your aunt’s wrath any more than you do.”
Peter grimaced at the thought. The aftermath of May walking in on Peter in the full Spider-Man suit had not been pretty, for Peter or the Avengers.
Well, May scolding Captain America had been fairly amusing, but Peter would never dare tell May that. Or Steve.
“I will, Mr. Stark.”
Mr. Stark gave Peter a gentle push in the direction of his bedroom. “Good. Now, bedtime for baby Avengers. I believe Nat wants you in the training room in… approximately four hours.”
Peter’s heart sank. Mr. Stark laughed.
***
“Karen, time?”
Peter swayed as he balanced on a thin web strung up between two buildings. It was Thursday, just two days since he’d last missed his curfew, and he was bored out of his mind. Today’s patrol had been extremely dull. He’d suited up immediately after dinner, leaving via the living room balcony with various threats from the Avengers to check up on his timekeeping following in the wind. Very little had happened since.
“It is currently ten twenty-three in the evening. You have over two hours before your curfew.”
“And still nothing? Anything on that drug supply chain?”
“No, Peter. I have also not intercepted any police scanners since you last asked seven minutes ago.”
“Ugh. It’s like they don’t want me to help. You know, sometimes I feel like they don't appreciate me.”
In theory, since Spider-Man was now kind of-not really-maybe an Avenger—they’d had a press conference about it and everything, it was super cool—Peter was meant to be working more closely with the NYPD to assist with ongoing investigations and raids. In reality, not much had changed. At least the cops would thank him for his help now instead of trying to arrest him, but it would be nice if they’d actually reach out to him every now and then. Swinging around hoping to overhear something wasn’t exactly the most effective approach to crime-fighting.
“I agree. I think your efforts are very underappreciated.”
“Thanks, Karen. You’re the best.”
For lack of any crime to fight, he flipped off his tightrope and lazily swung southward, practicing his flips. People waved and called out to him as he passed. A drunk college student yelled up to him that Spider-Man was the best Avenger, so he stopped to take a selfie with him. That drew quite a crowd, and he happily spent several minutes taking photos with Avengers fans, at least until a group of guys started shouting at him to “Take off the mask!” and “Show us what you’re hiding under there, Spider-Man!”.
As he swung away from the assembled crowd, distant gunshots caught his attention. He veered sharply right, picking up speed.
“Karen, what’s that?”
“I’m not sure.” After a moment, she added, “There doesn’t appear to be any officers in the area.”
“Sounds like a job for Spider-Man, then.”
He swung closer and landed lightly on a rooftop. Silently, he crawled to the edge and peered over into an alley. Several people stood in the shadows in the throes of an argument, all with guns drawn, but despite the earlier shots, no-one appeared to be hurt.
“Looks like gangs,” Peter whispered to Karen.
“Per Mr. Stark’s warnings, I must ask you to be careful, Peter,” she replied.
One of the men pulled out a glowing purple gun, and their raised voices grew louder. Peter’s eyes widened in recognition. That was a leftover from the alien weaponry Toomes’ gang had been selling. The cops were focusing on rounding up all the alien guns they could find, but it wasn’t surprising that some had slipped through the cracks.
“This’ll be fun,” Peter groaned, checking how much web fluid he had left.
The purple gun let out a hair-raising whine.
“Uh, I don’t think so!” Peter yelled, webbing the gun out of the guy’s hands. He webbed it to a wall and landed in the alley between the two gangs. “Hey, have you guys considered group therapy?”
The only reply he got was a warning from his Spidey sense to move! He flipped out of the way of gunfire—just normal bullets, thankfully—and webbed two guys together before stringing them up from a fire escape.
Several of the guys turned tail and fled, but Peter trusted Karen to get cops to round them up.
“Spider-Man,” a bald guy snarled. “I’ve been hoping to run into you.”
“I’m flattered!” He tried to web Baldy, but the guy dodged, firing back so quickly that Peter only narrowly avoided getting shot. He sprung up onto a dumpster. “How about next time you try camping out in front of Avengers Tower like everyone else instead of committing a felony?”
Baldy’s eyes flickered over Peter’s shoulder. He turned and his stomach swooped when he saw that one of the other members of the gang had managed to pry the alien gun away from the wall and was aiming it straight at him. Peter kicked off from the dumpster, planning to do a heroic flip, but he moved too slowly. Spidey sense sang in the back of his head as the purple gun whined again. Peter twisted, but without enough momentum, he had nowhere to go. Pain seared through his thigh. He flailed for a moment, then he hit the ground and his chin smacked against the concrete.
Worst of all, his hand landed in trash juice.
“Ugh, gross,” he groaned, ignoring the burning sensation in his thigh. He struggled to his feet and webbed the alien gun away. This time, he flung it into the wall as hard as he could, satisfied when it rained down in pieces.
His Spidey sense tingled, and then an impact in his flank like he’d been punched threw him off balance. He staggered against a wall, confused when his Spidey sense went off again. A fist came out of nowhere and then the ground rushed up at him and he hit his head hard, blacking out his vision for a moment.
A weight pressed into Peter’s chest. He forced his eyes open and flinched away from Baldy’s sneering face far too close to his own.
“Not so strong without the Avengers to protect you, hmm?”
Peter pushed the guy off him and scrambled to his feet, but before he could find his balance, Baldy kicked the back of his knees in and Peter went down. His head bounced off the concrete for the third time in under a minute.
What was wrong with his Spidey sense?
He groaned, choking down nausea, and struggled up onto his elbows. His arms felt weak and shaky. When no further attacks came, he glanced up to find his attackers—Baldy and alien gun guy—busy freeing the other bad guys from Peter’s webs with a butterfly knife. No no no.
“Karen, web grenade—ah!”
A blow to Peter’s ribs flipped him onto his back, quickly followed by a boot grinding into his throbbing side. Peter cried out, strangled, as hands grabbed at his wrists.
“Stay down, you little shit.”
It was Baldy again. He fumbled at Peter’s webshooters for a moment before he figured out the release mechanism. Peter’s disoriented attempts at stopping him achieved nothing, and within seconds they were crushed beyond all use.
Baldy climbed off him. Peter knew he should be concerned about stopping whatever the bad guys were doing, but in the moment the only coherent thought he managed was relief to be left alone. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to clear the fog clouding his brain. Raising his arms made his side hurt even more, and his thigh was burning. And then, fuck, his head.
He should get up. He should definitely get up. But oh, God, his head hurt, and it was spinning, and he couldn’t think.
“Peter, you requested I do not call Mr. Stark unless I have your spoken permission, however I would suggest that in this situation—”
Karen’s soothing tones were drowned out by rough, angry voices.
“Oh, shit. You gonna take him to the boss?”
“No. I ain’t done with him yet.”
Hands grabbed at him, and even in his state, Peter managed to hit back hard enough to earn a string of curses and a kick to the stomach. He scrabbled onto his hands and knees only for a blow to the head to send him tumbling back to the floor, blackness swallowing his vision.
***
Waking up was an effort, one that quickly proved itself to not have been worth it.
Peter’s shoulders and wrists ached, the pain bleeding down his arms and sides and stabbing into a certain point in his stomach. His neck ached, too, and his head felt like it had been put through a meat pulverizer. His thigh stung as if a thousand tiny knives kept stabbing it, and his stomach churned like he could throw up at any moment.
He struggled to move, but only managed to make himself sway slightly.
With a groan, Peter lifted his aching head off his chest and craned his neck upwards. He was handcuffed, suspended from a chain that reached the ceiling. When he kicked his feet, his toes only just scuffed at the floor.
He’d been kidnapped.
Peter’s stomach sank at the realization. Oh, God, he was definitely going to miss his curfew. Mr. Stark would be furious.
He was in what appeared to be an empty warehouse. A few abandoned crates were piled up in a far corner against the bare brick walls; the only sources of light were the streetlamps outside, casting the room in a strange orange glow.
“K’ren?”
“Who’s Karen?”
Peter jumped. A figure slowly walked into view. It was Baldy, his hands behind his back, grinning in a way that sent shivers up Peter’s spine. He pressed his lips together, swallowing away a wave of nausea, and said nothing.
Baldy lifted one hand, the Spidey mask dangling between his fingers. Peter’s breath caught in his throat.
“The whole of New York’s been wondering who’s under this mask,” Baldy said with a smirk. “Bet it wouldn’t go down too well if they found out it’s a fucking child.”
He tossed the mask away and stepped closer to Peter.
“Who’d have thought the ever-so righteous Avengers had it in them? A child soldier.” He shook his head. “Cruel, honestly. If I was a better man, I’d probably let you go. No-one wants to hurt a child.”
He stepped even closer, looming over him. Peter’s head spun.
“Unfortunately for you, I ain’t a better man.” He grabbed Peter’s chin and leant in, close enough that Peter could smell his breath. “You kept interfering where you aren’t wanted. You fucked up my supply routes, got my best guys arrested. You lost me a lot of money, Spider-Man”—he spat the moniker like an insult— “and you’re gonna pay.”
Peter tugged at his chains weakly. Baldy noticed and laughed.
“Those babies are vibranium. I paid good money for them, but they’re worth it. You’re not going anywhere.”
Baldy moved out of his line of sight, and Peter could hear him rummaging through something. He took the opportunity to crane his head up again, pulling at his chains.
Was it Peter’s imagination, or were the cuffs around his wrists and the chains connecting them a slightly different color? The cuffs were silvery and dull—definitely vibranium. But the chains looked brighter, shinier, and slightly bluer.
A scraping sound made the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck raise. After a moment, Baldy came back into view dragging a baseball bat behind him. Peter’s mouth went dry when Baldy tapped it against the ground, the sound echoing throughout the empty building and ringing in Peter’s ears.
“I’m gonna have to take you to the boss—he’s the one you’ve really pissed off, Spider-Man. But so long as you ain’t dead, he’ll be happy. And you’ve got a long way to go yet.”
He raised the bat, and Peter’s Spidey sense, that had become buried somewhere within all the pain, shrieked. It left him no choice but to act upon it.
Baldy swung the bat backwards as Peter pulled at his wrists, leveraging himself to land a kick square in the middle of Baldy’s chest. He landed in a heap several feet away, winded. Peter’s side screamed in pain, but he ignored it and flipped upside down. He stuck his feet to the chain leading up to the ceiling for purchase and yanked his wrists apart hard enough to send pain shooting through his triceps.
The chains snapped. Peter fell to the ground, only just managing to twist slightly so that he landed on his uninjured side instead of on his back. He forced himself onto his feet, panting.
“Sorry, Baldy,” he said, voice scratchy, “but you’ve been ripped off. Those chains definitely weren’t vibranium.”
Baldy, still winded, didn’t manage a response before Peter knocked him unconscious. He used what was left of the chains to tie him up, and then swept his mask up from the floor.
“Karen?”
“Hello, Peter. You appear to have a mild concussion, as well as several injuries requiring medical attention. Should I call Mr. Stark?”
“Karen, what—what time is it?”
“It is currently twelve forty-two a.m.”
“Twelve forty-t—oh my God, Karen, quick, show me the fastest route to Avengers Tower! Mr. Stark is going to kill me if I’m late!”
Karen obliged him. “May I also recommend calling Mr. Stark?”
Peter ignored her. He ran to the nearest window and almost threw himself straight out of it before he remembered that his webshooters were currently lying crushed to pieces in an alley somewhere. Ugh, as if the situation needed to get worse.
He cursed under his breath, climbed out the window, and scaled up the outside of the building. From there he took off across the rooftops, Avengers Tower just visible in the distance.
He was never going to make it.
His whole body hurt, and his head throbbed, and every now and then he misjudged a jump or simply veered sideways and almost fell over. It wasn’t his fault—the world was just spinny right now. Every time he landed on his left leg it sent pain jolting through his thigh, and his stomach hurt like a knife was embedded there, ripping his insides open further with every step.
Peter really wanted to crawl into a vent and just curl up there for a few hours, but he needed to get to Avengers Tower, pronto. Mr. Stark had said no excuses.
Fairly soon however, as the skyscrapers of Manhattan rose up around him, he ran out of rooftop.
“Karen, time?”
In response, his AI brought up a clock in the corner of Peter’s vision. Twelve forty-nine. The clock stayed there, counting down the seconds, as Peter began to sprint through the ever-present New York crowds.
Something about the sight of a bloody and injured Spider-Man sprinting through Manhattan with a broken-off handcuff around each wrist drew attention. Peter dodged concerned and well-meaning pedestrians, his Spidey sense coming online to inform him that people were filming him.
Where were you when I actually needed you, Spidey senses? I don’t need a freaky sixth sense to tell me people are filming me, my other senses managed that!
“Spider-Man!” a cop called as Peter passed.
“Sorry, can’t stop!” Peter called back, and, when speaking sent another wave of nausea through him, immediately wished he hadn’t. He felt all hot and cold and gross and his curfew was getting closer—
Somehow, he managed to make it all the way to Avengers Tower without passing out. He threw himself at the building and leapt as high as he could, but it wasn’t quite high enough, and his knees slammed into the paneling. Shocked gasps rose from below, along with several cries of “Are you alright, Spider-Man?” but Peter ignored them. With a groan, he began to climb.
Had Avengers Tower always been this tall?
Peter’s fingers were beginning to turn numb and tingly, and he’d lost feeling in his left thigh a while ago, which probably wasn’t a good sign. His shoulders and wrists still ached from being chained up and that really wasn’t helping him to climb any faster either.
Just as his vision began to turn patchy, Peter reached the balcony he was looking for. He threw himself over the railing and landed in a heap, but he forced himself to get up one last time, he had to get inside, he had to make it on time so that Mr. Stark wouldn’t be mad—
He yanked open the doors to the penthouse living room and staggered through them. The living room was empty aside from Mr. Stark and Steve, who were sat together on one of the couches, drinks frozen halfway to their mouths and twin expressions of shock on their faces.
The clock in the corner of Peter’s vision read twelve fifty-nine and forty-six seconds. He ripped his mask off.
“I made it,” Peter panted, chest heaving. “Please don’t be mad at me!”
And with that, he promptly collapsed.
***
“So you had a bullet in your stomach—”
“To be fair, I hadn’t noticed.”
“—and third degree burns across your entire thigh—”
“I wasn’t fully aware of that, either.”
“—as well as a concussion—”
“…Okay, that one I’d definitely noticed.”
“—and you decided to run home instead of calling for help?”
It was morning, and Peter had woken up in the medbay to the smell of pancakes he apparently wasn’t allowed until he got an all-clear from Bruce. Mr. Stark was still dressed in his clothes from last night, and despite his disheveled hair and the bags under his eyes, he didn’t appear to have any plans to leave Peter’s bedside. Peter picked at the IV in the back of his hand until Bruce, who was busy checking on his burn, grabbed his hand to make him stop.
“I… it was nearly one. I had to get home, you said no excuses.”
For a moment Mr. Stark stared at him, expression unreadable. Then he turned to where Steve sat on the other side of Peter’s bed and shot him a look like he wanted to wring Peter’s neck.
“Kid—the no excuses rule applies for normal patrols when you haven’t managed your time properly, not when you’ve been kidnapped. If you miss your curfew because you’re chained up in a warehouse somewhere, then that’s what we in the business call an extenuating circumstance. We’ll probably find it in our hearts to forgive you.”
“Are you gonna call my aunt?”
“Am I gonna—Peter, you came home covered in blood. Of course I called your aunt. She’s coming over as soon as her shift’s over. And no—she’s not mad at you.”
“None of us are mad at you, Peter,” said Steve. He hadn’t changed either and his shirt was covered in Peter’s blood.
“Well,” said Mr. Stark. “We’re not mad because you nearly missed curfew. Not calling for help and then barely making it home before passing out, on the other hand? I reserve the right to be mad about that.”
“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I thought it would be better if I just got home. Like, I probably got to the Medbay quicker than I would have if you’d come to get me, right? I feel like that should count for something.”
The look Mr. Stark gave him was one of obvious disagreement.
Bruce said from where he was now removing a butterfly bandage from Peter’s chin, “If you hadn’t run anywhere, that bullet probably wouldn’t have torn up your insides as much as it did.”
“Your official diagnosis is should have called for help,” said Mr. Stark.
“But I’m fine now,” Peter said, although he suspected his lack of pain was artificial and definitely something to do with the IV in his hand.
“You were unconscious for most of the panic,” said Steve, with an amused glance in Mr. Stark’s direction.
“And in future, you will be calling me if something similar happens,” said Mr. Stark. “And no, you don’t have to promise me that. I updated Karen whilst you were busy being passed out.”
“Mr. Stark!” Peter protested. “You didn’t have to do that—I can call for help.”
“Sorry, Spiderling. You’ve lost the right to make that decision. It’s up to Karen now.” Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow. “Thank God I can just program her to be more responsible. Why can’t teenagers work the same way?”
Peter sank into his pillows in defeat, then sat up abruptly when something occurred to him. “The guy who kidnapped me—he saw my face!”
Mr. Stark waved a hand as if to dismiss Peter’s worries. “After you passed out, we checked the Baby Monitor footage and sent a SHIELD team to deal with your big baddie. He won’t talk—we made sure of that.”
Peter’s eyes widened and he turned to Steve. “Did Mr. Stark kill a guy for me?”
“Yes,” Mr. Stark said, at the same time Steve said, “no.”
Steve continued, “He hasn’t left your bedside all night, Peter. It was very sw—”
“That’s enough out of you,” Mr. Stark interrupted. He pulled out his phone. Peter didn’t quite have the energy to try and tell what he was looking at through the back of the hologram, but he caught a flash of red and blue. Mr. Stark made a face. “You don’t need to worry about your big baddie telling everyone all about your baby face. The photos and videos of your great escape, however, got too many hits for FRIDAY to deal with.”
“What photos? What videos?” Even as he said it, Peter’s mind flashed back to the phones pointed his way as he ran to Tower last night.
“You’ll find out soon enough. Sam retweeted them at you,” said Mr. Stark.
“Oh my God,” Peter lamented, heat rushing to his cheeks. “Mr. Stark. That’s not—I was—I was concussed. I wasn’t making good decisions. This isn’t fair, no-one else’s concussed mistakes end up on Twitter. The Daily Bugle is going to have a field day. I don’t know how they’ll spin this one so that it’s my fault, but they’ll find a way.”
“Sorry, kiddo, but the videos are too widespread to be taken down. Although if it makes you feel better, I could buy the Daily Bugle and fire Jameson for you.”
Before Peter could reply, Bruce removed his IV. “You’re good to go, but take it easy for a few days. No patrolling until I’m satisfied that burn has healed.”
Peter grumbled to himself. He couldn’t have patrolled any time soon, anyway. His suit needed patching up, and the look in Mr. Stark’s eyes promised that it would be a mysteriously long and arduous patching-up job.
As he followed Mr. Stark, Steve, and Bruce to the kitchen for breakfast, he quietly pulled out his phone and opened his Twitter.
He winced at the video that greeted him immediately on his home page. There was less blood than Peter would have imagined given the pain he remembered, barely enough to be visible in the dark video. However, the video made his limp obvious, as well as the way he couldn’t run in a straight line, veering all over the place and nearly colliding with several pedestrians even within the space of the short video clip. The commentary from the guy who had filmed the video didn’t help much, either. “Oh my God. What’s happened to Spider-Man? Should we help him?” Then another voice: “Isn’t he just drunk?”
And, like Mr. Stark had said, Sam had retweeted the video.
Sam Wilson @TheFalcon
@SpiderMan would do anything to get attention
Iron Hoe @ironavenger72
@TheFalcon is spidey okay????? please tell him I love him
Sam Wilson @TheFalcon
@ironavenger72 yeah he’s like a cockroach he’ll be fine
Peter rolled his eyes.
Official Avengers Mascot @SpiderMan
@TheFalcon bold words coming from captain america’s sidekick
Mr. Stark noticed Peter lagging behind and stopped to wait, letting Steve and Bruce go on ahead. Once Peter caught up, Mr. Stark put an arm around his shoulders.
“For what it’s worth, kiddo—you did good. I’m proud of you.” Mr. Stark’s other hand lightly punched Peter’s arm. “Very cool, very collected. You responded far better to the situation than I would have at your age. Granted I didn’t have your spidery powers, but—you did good. And… I’m glad you’re okay.”
It was a strange compliment—you responded well to getting kidnapped, I’m so proud—but it made Peter’s steps a little lighter.
“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”
“If you take that as permission to do it again, however, I’ll upload the Baby Monitor footage of your Thor impressions to YouTube. Oh, and your curfew still stands.”
Peter spluttered. With a final pat on the shoulder, Mr. Stark walked on to catch up with Steve and Bruce. Peter followed with a sigh, bracing himself for Sam’s inevitable teasing over breakfast.