Work Text:
It was time, the date had been set a week ago, and the time has come today.
Don Costa finally had the upper hand and was meeting with Don Macchio in two hours.
Ricky knew that what Costa had to offer was way too good to pass up, and so did everyone else. Macchio would concede, take their generous gift, and forfeit control to Costa. How much control and for how long was still TBD, probably in the meeting in two hours, but Ricky figured, if he were Don Costa, he’d demand no less than half for ten years. Of course, Costa knew more about the situation than he, which was why he was Don, and Ricky was just a henchman.
“Eyo, Ricks! Franky wants me in fourth step later, so Imma ditch early for food and fuel.” That was Oscar, currently on babysitting duty—well, not anymore, he was leaving early apparently.
Ricky was in the break room, pouring himself a cup of lukewarm coffee. His shift didn’t start for twenty minutes, so he had a newspaper in one hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear for the crossword. He turned around, eyebrow quirked. Oscar was leaning on the doorpost twirling the cell keys on his finger, mischievous smirk in the place of a friendly smile.
Ricky nodded up, rolled his eyes, and prepared to start his shift early, “He good? Boss wants him presentable for the trade.”
Oscar shook his head, tossed him the keys, and crossed his empty arms, “No, he’s being difficult, like he knows what’s going to happen.”
Ricky’s hands were full so the keys just bounced off his chest and rattled onto the floor. He didn’t so much as glance at them, but instead, donned irritation, and replied, “How much you wanna bet that he actually does? Guy’s a freak, who knows what he can do…”
Oscar stood tall, dropped his arms, and turned to leave, but stopped, adding, “Oh, he bit Adam again, so he didn’t get breakfast. He’s probably starving. Plenty hydrated, though, drank lots’a bathwater.”
Ricky just nodded, and Oscar left with a wave.
At least the guy had been cleaned. Bath time was the worst. All five escape attempts had been during bath time, and two of those on Ricky’s watch. He was very grateful that Oscar had gotten that over with.
On Ricky’s plate for the night was now dressing him, feeding him—well, let’s feed him first then dress him, in case of messes—and transporting him. Transporting him would be a lot easier now than four weeks ago when Spider-Man still roamed the streets. Guy had a crazy intuition when it came to crimes that were being orchestrated.
Ricky downed his coffee in one long swallow, stooped down to grab the keys, and headed down the hallway to the containment area, plucking the pencil from behind his ear to set on the guard’s desk along with the newspaper. The hallway was large with the desk beside the prisoner’s door. The change-of-guard clipboard and notes were empty as usual. Oscar was only a bodyguard because he literally couldn’t do anything else. He didn’t know how to read, but he was the softest guy with the biggest heart on the team.
Ricky scribbled his name, the date, and the time of his shift at the top, and everything Oscar told him below. He set the board down and leaned back in the chair, thinking about the events of the next several hours.
He would need to page Jillian for the outfit Costa picked out, and she could have it here in a half-hour. He would need to feed—dammit, he left the food in the kitchen. If they wanted Spider-Man conscious for the trade, he needed to get some food into him.
They’d discovered the uncanny metabolism the guy had on him in the first week when he straight up told them about it, but they hadn’t believed him until his words came true and he almost died. Don Costa came down himself, yelled at the men, and shoved a can from the pantry into Adam’s arms with instructions to feed him twice daily.
Feeding time was eight on the dot every morning and every evening, but the trade was scheduled for 8:30, so Spider-Man would need to eat a little earlier so as to leave time to get ready. What were twenty extra minutes anyway?
Keys still in hand, Ricky pocketed them and jogged back down the short hallway and into the kitchen. Their pantries have been a lot fuller as of late, now that Spider-Man’s off the streets. The freezer had but the best of the frozen foods, the fridge never lacked delicious home-cooked leftovers, and the pantries had all the delicacies canned food provided. Even the dogs had the best dog food, and Ricky bent down to grab a can.
Blue Buffalo brand of Chicken Dinner with Garden Vegetables and Brown Rice.
God, it smelled horrid, but it was healthy, packed with nutrients.
Blech.
He scooped half of it out into a paper bowl and made his way back to the cell. He didn’t bother checking the room through the peephole, Spider-Man doesn’t attack them anymore, but he did grab the stun baton from the bottom drawer of the desk. Oscar said Adam had been bit this morning, and Ricky wasn’t going to take chances.
Garcia always made sure everything is clean and in top-notch condition so the door doesn’t squeal anymore. It slid open soundlessly. Music to his ears.
Spider-Man was in the corner again, knees to his chest and head resting atop them, and he didn’t move the slightest when Ricky opened the door, just sat there staring at him. Oscar was right, he’d been difficult again.
He knew damn well that he was supposed to kneel when someone came in—Costa didn’t know this, but they were all trying to train him, break the fighting spirit, and find some purpose for him—at least, that’s what they all wanted. He had been stubborn and prideful every single day and today was no different.
But nonetheless, if he wanted to eat the food himself, then he’d kneel. Otherwise, Ricky would feed it to him, like he’s done for the last four weeks. It’s why Adam keeps getting bitten, probably riles him up and makes him angry.
Ricky really didn’t want to feed him this time, and after tonight, he would be out of their hair, so it didn’t matter if he broke the training. He sighed. He tossed the bowl of gruel at the guy, pulled the chair from around the corner into the doorway, and sat, watching.
Spider-Man still didn’t move, eying the bowl warily, and then glancing inquisitively back at Ricky. Ricky squinted and glared back, daring Spider-Man to open his mouth and challenge him. That was a part of their training that he wouldn’t break. If Spider-Man spoke, Ricky wouldn’t hesitate to beat him with the stun gun.
But he didn’t, just uncurled and reached for the bowl (which had landed upside-down, spilling its contents), and scooted closer.
Ricky could see from the way his hands shook and his jaw quivered that he was hungry, desperately starving. Six ounces of dog food twice daily wouldn’t satiate his metabolism regardless of brand. He’d been starving for weeks, and they all knew it. They all knew the beatings made it worse because it meant his healing used up energy that wasn’t replenished.
Speaking of his healing, it seemed to be failing him slowly.
There were bruises that hadn’t healed yet—probably from Adam this morning. The guy was cruel, and those had not been there last night.
His ankle was clearly still broken—he’d tried to escape a week ago, and Miguel stopped him with a sledgehammer—and honestly, they were all surprised his shin had already healed.
The burns were still raised and pink on his sternum—Frank Costa himself came to visit Spider-Man last week and having heard about Spider-Man’s behavior from his men, brought with him a customized cattle brand. Took a while for it to stick and stay, and Ricky thought Costa might have been down here for at least an hour working on it. Spider-Man hadn’t screamed like that since.
Of course, they all assumed he’d just heal from the brand by now. Costa had just thought it was funny at the time, a good way to break his spirits. But it reflected poorly on the Maggia family, trading him away like livestock while branded with their symbol? They’d be lucky if it didn’t scar. He’d be lucky if it didn’t scar.
It was clear by his posture and stance that he still had pride left, dignity that was proving all too stubborn. He was sitting again with his knees up next to his chest and back against the wall, hiding his nudity, scooping the gruel with his right hand as if it were a spoon, and taking measured and slow bites in an attempt to not overload his stomach.
Ricky’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he momentarily glanced away from the prisoner to check it.
It was Jillian. She was here early. That was good news!
It was rare that they were ahead of schedule, but then again, this meeting later was the most important meeting of the year, if not the decade, and they were all pulling their weight and doing their part to ensure everything went off without a hitch.
He replied with the night’s keyword for entrance, so that she could come to help him dress Spider-Man. Ricky anticipated much protest and struggling, so he also sent a text to Edmund for assistance.
Edmund was the door guard up top, so he just had to lock the deadbolt and padlock after he let in Jillian, and they’d both be down within minutes.
Spider-Man must have known something was up when they approached because he gave up his charade of pride and began digging in with both hands, knowing that they weren’t about to let him finish.
He was right, of course.
Ricky and Edmund approached together so each could grab an arm and lead him out, but he stood to his full height and backed to the far wall, shaking his head, and limping off of his damaged foot. Fear was in his eyes, and it was clear he didn’t know what was going to happen, only that he knew something was going to happen. The rhythm of the entire day had been thrown off, and most dogs pick up on that kind of thing easily.
The last time they dragged him from this room and into a new one was when he’d managed to break Sal’s arm clean in two, bone piercing flesh and spewing blood everywhere. The cell needed to be cleaned—no, no, he had a bucket to defecate and piss in, that was different—obviously, so they’d jammed him with the cattle prod until he was crying and twitching and threw him in the industrial-sized freezer at the end of the hallway. When they retrieved him forty-five minutes later, he was surprisingly still conscious and tears had frozen his eyes shut, but he was completely compliant the rest of the day.
That had been the only time he’d actually knelt for them as they’d instructed. But he had still been beaten ruthlessly for that little stunt, so it’s probably a bad memory for him.
This time, Ricky and Edmund were taking him to the employee lounge to change. His cell wasn’t clean by any means and smelled pretty bad, and they didn’t want all that to transfer to his fresh, new clothes. That’d leave a bad impression on the family, and in the Maggia business, impressions were everything.
Spider-Man froze against the wall, eyes wide and body trembling, but Ricky approached anyway, cautiously, as if trying not to spook a horse. For demeaning purposes, he added tenderly, “Easy, easy there big guy.”
Spider-Man didn’t like that, baring his teeth and striking out at Ricky but missing as he ducked, and Edmund shoved the cattle prod under his ribs, dropping him to the ground.
His jaw was clenched but still silent when Ed let up, and they reached for him again. This time he complied, letting them lift him up, and he swung his legs under him, standing his weight on his good leg. He leaned heavily onto Ed, so Ed passed Jillian the prod in case he decided to fight back.
Spider-Man was stubborn the entire short walk to the lounge, dragging his leg and making the whole ordeal more difficult than it should have been, and it was clear as Jillian followed behind that she didn’t approve of the family’s treatment of their prisoner. Women were just too softhearted.
After following them in, she said firmly, “I have an eclair in the fridge, Spider-Man, and if you behave, you can have it while we wait.”
His head jerked up and toward her in surprise that quickly shifted into eagerness and then into wariness and distrust.
Honestly, that was a good move on her part. Sure they could beat and torture him into compliance, but rewarding good behavior was known to work better than punishing bad behavior.
Jillian revealed from the confines of her overly-large handbag the outfit Costa wanted Spider-Man to wear tonight, and Ricky was surprised to see it was just the Spider-Man suit.
Well, it was at first, and that’s what it looked like all folded up.
As she unfolded it and laid it on the table, Spider-Man’s eyes welled with tears, and Ricky could see the defiance setting itself in his mind. It was going to be a struggle forcing him into this.
It was his old Spider-Man suit, yes, but it had been modified—which was why Jillian was the one to bring it, being the Boss’s seamstress daughter-in-law.
There was no mask, no gloves, and no shoes. In place of the black spider symbol on the front was the Costa family crest.
And a thick black collar around the neckline, complete with tags that jingled.
Simple, yet utterly humiliating. It screamed to on-lookers that Spider-Man was owned, was no longer his own, was a dog, a slave. He was their bitch, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Ricky grabbed a towel, wet it in the sink, and approached him to wipe his pits and face, needing him actually clean before putting on that suit. Spider-Man of course was ready to fight again, food in his system and energy in his muscles. He sneered distastefully at the modified suit, turned to Ricky, and spit at his feet. And then—and then this guy had the audacity to open his mouth and talk.
“I’m not wearing that,” he firmly stated, voice clear and strong.
Holding his head up high, arms crossed in front of him, he looked completely normal, completely ready to pummel them and escape, but he wouldn’t, because Ed just threatened, “You will actually, Ben, and thank you in advance for your compliance.”
Oh yeah, they’d tortured his name out of him on the second day.
Ricky smirked and punched him in the face, grabbed the stun gun, and shoved it in the armpit he was about to wipe down. Spider-Man just collapsed in a twitching mess, and when the electricity stopped, he just laid there and moaned in pain.
Ed kicked him in his ribs a couple of times for good measure, and he coughed, groaned some more, and tried to curl up.
“Oh, no, no, no. I don’t think so,” Ricky said, crouching down and pulling on his arm to lift him up. Spider-man might’ve lost a lot of weight since falling into their grasp, but he still weighed quite a bit, and Ed had to help lift him. Together, they stood him up again as Jillian approached with the suit, holding it out for him to put on.
He held his head high, chin up, eyes on the far wall, stubborn as he was on day one, defiant as ever, and Ricky’s blood boiled. They’d been beating him every day, around the clock, trying to knock this attitude out of him, and it hadn’t worked. Four weeks they’ve had him in their clutches, and still no change in behavior. Four Weeks.
Yet, still, as Ricky stared, he could see the fear so evident. Spider-Man’s head may be high but it shook, his chin quivered, and his brows were pinched over obstinate eyes. His pride may be battling his fear, but not for long, Ricky vowed.
Not for long.
He knew how much Spider-Man hated the stun baton because the feeling of burning hot electricity flowing through one’s veins was something you just couldn’t get used to. The inability to move or express your pain made the trauma worse.
So he waved it in front of his nose, sneering, “You will put that on, or we will force it on you ourselves.”
He made to strike him, jerking out swiftly, but pulling back abruptly, messing around. Spider-Man flinched, jerked his whole body away clumsily and into Ed’s loving arms.
Ricky and Ed both laughed at his reaction before Ricky continued, “The difference is the amount of pain you put yourself through.”
Spider-Man’s eyes darted between each of them before glancing at the door, and Ricky knew he was planning to escape. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t play this time, jabbing the baton into his ribs and smirking as Spider-Man let out a pathetic whimper before locking up and collapsing to the floor.
Ricky didn’t let up though, bent down and jammed the baton at him again, sending the electricity through his muscles.
Spider-Man once had a high pain tolerance, but after four weeks with them, it all but disappeared. He writhed on the floor, broken fingers twitching very oddly in their sockets, and Ricky had to look away. That was just gross. Fingers were not supposed to move that way.
When he removed the baton, Spider-Man just whined long and low, and then actually—freaking actually—shook his head no while laying there. He would rather be tortured than just put the stupid suit on. Wow.
So, yeah, Ricky nodded, muttered, “Okay,” and shocked him again.
The poor guy managed to shove through gritted teeth a desperate sort of scream, almost like the cry of a broken man if Ricky didn’t know any better—and, oh yeah. He knew better.
Spider-Man might be breaking but he wasn’t broken. Not until he begged Ricky from his knees—no, not even begged, because dogs don’t speak unless commanded to.
He hadn’t realized how long he had it pressed to the trembling side until Ed gently grabbed his arm, “I think he’ll comply now.”
He let up, took a step back, and nodded to Ed that he had himself together again. He hadn’t meant to get lost like that.
Ricky looked back down at his prey, tears streaming from his eyes, snot dripping from his nose, and he actually felt pity for the unfortunate soul.
“Get up, and put this on.”
Before Ricky could do or say anything more, Jillian stepped forward, having grabbed that delicious looking chocolate eclair she’d mentioned. She crouched beside him, gently laid her free hand on Spider-Man’s exposed shoulder—he flinched—and spoke softly, “I know you’re hungry and didn’t get to finish your food, but this eclair is all yours if you swallow your pride.”
He barely moved, angled his face to more easily see her, his brown hair flopping in his face.
She continued, “It’s demeaning and humiliating, I know, but please don’t put yourself through this for the sake of your pride.”
She stood up and set the pastry on the table beside the suit. Spider-Man just laid there for a few seconds more, softly crying, slightly trembling, before pulling himself to his knees and using the table to help him stand up.
When he looked at Ricky, his head was hung and resignation sat in his eyes.
No more defiance.