Chapter Text
— CHAPTER ONE —
IN A DULL AND COLD ALLEY
'Okay, so the presentation was pretty standard, I guess? Like, all Mr. Osborn talked about was this new revolutionary technique or material or— or something (sorry, I wasn't paying attention) that could help soldiers in wars and stuff.'
Peter twisted in midair, snapping out his wrists and firing streams of webbing at the thugs running below him. One of them collapsed to the ground under the force of the sticky netting, while the other was flung to the side and plastered against the wall. The purse they stole clattered to the ground and sagged with a resigned sigh.
Spider-Man flipped down from his perch on the wall, landing lightly on his feet to scoop up the purse. He glared at the thugs, the lenses of his mask contracting, as he hissed to them, 'Dunno why you fellas went after that poor woman – for what? Cash? Couldn't you just use the ATM and make a withdrawal?'
The thugs had the audacity to look guilty, and Peter waved to them, letting them stay webbed-up in that small alley until the authorities arrived to pick them up. Shooting a web, Peter flung himself up into their air, purse in hand.
'So, where was I?' Peter started again, swinging back towards the area he had left the woman to whom the purse belonged to. The evening air was chilly and still, and Peter could almost feel his joints pop and crackle with every move he made. 'Oh – right, the tech. Yeah, so Mr. Osborn showed us some specs of his— oh, wait. Should I even be telling you this? Don't businesses have a rule or something that prevents their super-secret projects from being leaked to prevent their ideas from being stolen?'
Silence on the other side of the comms. Peter had only dropped in front of the woman and given her purse back to her when Mr. Stark said, 'Hmm, I don't know, it wouldn't hurt to know one thing now, would it?'
As the woman thanked Spider-Man and ran off, Peter turned and hissed into the comms, 'You are a bad CEO.'
Mr. Stark laughed dryly on the other side of the line. 'Oh, sure,' he drawled, 'me wanting to know what some fellow businessmen like myself are creating.'
'Mr. Stark.'
'Yeah, fine.' Mr. Stark grunted, then said, 'You know, I've never been a fan of Osborn's things. He's a genius, I admit that, but his methods are...questionable. Oscorp's notorious for stealing other corporations' ideas, changing their names and slapping a label on them and declaring them theirs. Then they go ahead to sue the other manufacturers. Osborn just plays dirty; it's a wonder how other biomedical and technology companies have managed to survive this long before being sued to oblivion.'
Peter snorted. 'You really hate him that much?'
'He tried to rip off Stark Industries' Nitramene, kid. I have good reason.'
Humming, Peter flung out a web and cruised through the air in a long sweeping arc, his feet grazing the tops of streetlamps. He swung through the city leisurely, slowly; evenings patrols were sluggish during winters, especially in the weeks leading up to Christmas, but it didn't bother Peter in the slightest. Sure, while crime rates seemed to go down during this time (signalling some kind of heist in the making, probably), there were other things that could occupy Spider-Man's time. Mainly the kids who went out to buy warm treats; catching them by surprise was always a delight.
'I think he's okay,' Peter said after a moment. 'He is a genius after all.'
Mr. Stark made a sound like someone had speared him through the chest. 'That's it. Your internship is over – get outta here, you traitor.'
Laughing at Mr. Stark's attempt of anger and betrayal, Peter let go of his web mid-swing and landed on the roof of a building, balancing on the corner as he righted himself. Frost crunched under the soles of his shoes. 'Also, Mr. Stark?' Peter called.
'Hmm?'
'Our school's going to have vaccinations soon,' Peter said after a moment. 'You know. Menenj—meninjock? Meningococcal, I think. Yeah, the vaccine for that one.' After Mr. Stark's affirmative hum, Peter asked, 'Should I even have it? I mean, ever since the spider bite, I haven't been getting ill or anything.'
Mr. Stark was quick to answer. 'Captain America said the same thing,' he said, his voice a little stiff. 'He had the Serum, and suddenly he's immune to every known virus and bacterium on the planet. Tell you what, just go get the vaccine; it'll be revision for your cells, anyway. That is the whole point of it, right?'
Peter scanned the streets below him, the heads-up display of his mask locking on the different people that strolled along before moving on. As much as Peter accepted the slowness of crime winter brought, he was sure he wouldn't get used to the conversations he and Mr. Stark shared. Before, Peter had thought their relationship was strictly professional – one superhero to another. But after the whole debacle with the Vulture, the conversations were drawn out, longer, they covered more mundane topics beside web shooter malfunctions and the physics behind repulsor tech.
(Not that Peter minded, oh, no. He absolutely craved casual and mundane conversation).
'Yeah, makes sense,' Peter said after a moment, scuffing his toe against the ground. He strolled along the edge of the building's roof, trying to find the perfect angle to fling himself off of it. 'I'll just have to get someone to sign the permission slip.'
As Mr. Stark offered to sign said permission slip, a chill ran up Peter's spine, turning the warm feeling in his chest to stone. He froze, then turned around to look behind him. Nothing but the chilly air and the city of New York behind him. But was that it?
'Kid?' came Mr. Stark's voice from the comms, soft and quiet. 'Kid, you alright?'
'Yeah, I'm fine,' Peter said, still not moving. He flicked his eyes around, only to see nothing out of the ordinary, and yet the chill that had settled on his spine had not backed away. 'I think my Spider-Sense is tingling.'
'I— wait, what?' snorted Mr. Stark. 'Did you seriously just call your danger sense your—'
Peter tuned him out, just for a moment, in favour of the tingles that shivered down his back. It couldn't be the wind – despite the only thing that protected him from the more bitter winds was the thin fabric of his Spider-Man suit, he could feel heat hum along the circuitry of the suit, warming his skin. This kind of chill bubbled up from within, somewhere deep in his gut.
Peter followed the tugging of the chills, his Spider-Sense waxing and waning like the moon, drawing him forward. He felt nervous, like eyes were watching him, making him twitch with every second that passed.
Leaning over the edge of the building, Peters gaze landed into the depths of a cold alleyway beneath him. The alley was mostly shadowed, a few dumpsters lining the edges and fire escapes trailing along the walls. And in the excess garbage bags piled around the dumpsters—
There was a boy. A small, frail boy, whispering things that sent Peter's Spider-Sense roiling.
The boy's left arm was missing.
'What the hell...' whispered Peter.
The sounds of Mr. Stark scrambling around emanating from his comms did nothing to deter Peter's attention. 'What is it?' asked Mr. Stark. 'What? Kid?'
'I...' Peter kept blinking, trying to see if it was just a trick of the light. Maybe the shadows covered the boy's arm? Or maybe the boy was just buried under bags of garbage? It couldn't be that serious, could it?
'Kid, I'm going to connect to your visual feed,' Mr. Stark said after a few terse seconds. Peter did nothing to object; he didn't have time to anyway, as a notification popped up in Peter's HUD in seconds, reading TONY STARK CONNECTED.
'Do you see him?' asked Peter, climbing down from his perch on the roof. He crawled slowly, angling himself to allow light to filter through the lenses of his mask. The boy was still motionless, mouth moving to whisper silent words, looking as if he was at home in the garbage...or terrified enough to seek refuge in it.
'I...what the hell,' said Mr. Stark, repeating Peter's own words. 'Is...is he okay?'
'I hope so.' The closer Peter crawled towards the boy, the more details made themselves known. The boy was thin, incredibly small and thin, couldn't be more than eleven, looking as if he was drowning in the dirtied green clothing he was wearing. The boy had wispy blonde hair and a curious birthmark on his right hand shaped like a star. He looked so pale that Peter could see the veins popping around his temples.
And the boy's arm was most definitely missing; Peter could see the stump of his left shoulder, still raw and edged with crusted blood and pus; there were lines of dark infection spreading from it like lightning towards his neck and chest. A stream of red leaked sluggishly from the boy's arm socket, and the stench of sickness and blood was so nauseating that Peter was scared he was going to throw up right then and there.
'His arm's been sawed off,' Peter noted with horror, glancing at the ragged edges of skin. His Spider-Sense twisted. 'That's horrible. Who would do something like that? Who would do that to a child? Oh God, we need to— we need to get him to the hospital!'
'Kid,' Mr. Stark's voice said softly in his ear, 'kid, just look at your feet.' Peter did, expecting to see something there, but he only saw the bright crimson red of his suit paired with vivid cobalt blue. Bright colours drowning in a dull and cold alley.
'You gotta keep yourself calm,' Mr. Stark was saying, grounding him. 'Take things slowly, logically. Tell me where you are, and ask— see if the kid is still alive.'
'I've never dealt with hurt kids,' Peter muttered. 'And, um, I think we're near Third Avenue?' Peter then knelt next to the boy, avoiding the growing puddle of garbage sludge and blood as he looked over him. The boy's skin was clammy and pale, the lines of infection seeming darker now that Peter was closer to him; it looked like blood poisoning, but worse. Peter held his head closer to the boy's chest, and his heart quivered when he heard the weak ba-bum of the boy's own heart. Alive.
Raising a hand, Peter tapped the boy's unharmed right shoulder. He felt so thin and fragile underneath Peter's fingers. 'Hey, buddy,' Peter murmured to him, shaking him lightly. 'Hey, are you awake? Buddy?'
The boy's lips stopped moving for a moment, and all Peter could hear was the slow, quavering breaths and the thump of a weak heart. And then the boy opened his eyes, wide green eyes that were brimming with tears, which quickly latched onto Peter's masked face.
Peter's Spider-Sense pulled taut.
And then the boy screamed, violently flashing out his right arm and slamming it against Peter's chest. Even with his Spider-Sense whirring, Peter hadn't prepared himself for the boy's shove. For the shove that sent him flying.
Yelping, Peter was tossed off his feet and flung into the wall on the opposite of the alley. He slid down the wall, his chest aching from where the boy's fist connected with his sternum. Peter eyed the boy, who was still screeching his soul out as he tried to back away deeper into the garbage and disappear in it.
'No, wait!' Peter called, raising a hand. His web shooter flashed in the dim light. 'Wait, kid, wait!'
The boy ignored his calls, just kept howling, cowering with his right arm over his head while the remaining stump of his left arm wept red.
'Mr. Stark!' yelled Peter, fear clawing at his heart. 'Oh God, Mr. Stark, what do I do? What do I do?!'
Mr. Stark yelled back, 'What's happening over there? Is that boy alright?'
'I don't know! He just pushed me to the other side of the alley!' Peter turned back towards the boy and raised his hands placatingly. 'Listen, buddy, let me help. You need help, just, just calm down, stop screaming—'
'HELP!' screamed the boy, completely disregarding Peter's words and shoving himself violently against a dumpster, his arm latching onto an old, dilapidated microwave. 'Help, someone save me, please! Get away from me!' he snarled, his frightened words directed towards Peter.
'No, I am here to help!' Peter said, lowering his voice. 'Listen, you're hurt, and I need to get you to the hospital. Do you think you can—'
'Get away!' wailed the boy.
Peter's Spider-Sense burst to life, and he swerved back. The microwave that had been sitting on its lonesome had been picked up the boy and was launched at Peter's face, missing him by mere centimetres. It smashed against the wall behind Peter, shattering into a million pieces like glass.
No boy, regardless if he had two arms or one, could through a microwave that hard.
'Kid, sit tight, I'm on my way,' Mr. Stark finally gritted out from his end of the line. The comms clicked off, and the silence in Peter's ear was almost deafening.
Turning quickly back to the boy, Peter said, 'Dude! You could've taken my head!'
'Good!' the boy said shrilly, voice laced with panic. 'Maybe that'll show you to stop hurting me!'
Peter blinked. 'Hey, do you know who I am?' he asked softly. 'I'm Spider-Man – I, I won't hurt you.'
'Spider-Man?' The boy scrunched his face in disgust and pain, and maybe even a bit of confusion, like he wasn't quite sure what he was being told. 'Are you one of the— the— no, no, stay back!'
The boy raised his hand threateningly, and while Peter knew he could probably handle a super-strong eleven-year-old pummelling into him, he didn't want to risk the kid blowing up. Biting his lip beneath the mask, Peter desperately said, 'I'm— um, I'm an Avenger. Listen, Iron Man is on his way, he's going to help us, he's going to help you.'
The boy still glared at him, but Peter could see something tight within the boy's core unravel instantly. His voice hoarse and soft, the boy finally asked quietly, 'You're an Avenger?'
That one word had the boy locked on Peter's presence, his voice expressing his disbelief. Despite it not being true (well, the spot was still open, he just needed to accept it), it was all that was needed to have Peter collapsing to the boy's side, nodding quickly. 'I am,' Peter affirmed. 'I am an Avenger, I'm here to help you.'
'You're not...' The boy waved a hand towards Peter's face, as if he was scared to think that Spider-Man had biologically large, milky-white, black-rimmed eyes. 'You're not...'
Peter didn't hesitate. He reached up for his mask, his fingers grazing the seams before tugging it upward. The mask peeled away from the lower half of his face, and Peter pulled it up at an angle so the right side of his face was left uncovered. He winked at the kid in front of him and smiled. 'See? I'm just like you,' said Peter.
The boy visibly relaxed, his cries and shudders dying almost instantly. The boy's green eyes sparkled with what looked like unshed tears, and he mumbled, 'Oh, thank you, thank you, please...'
Without wasting another moment, Peter pulled his mask back over his face and leaned forward to wrap his arms around the kid; he noted how the boy had flinched backwards but then relaxed into Peter's touch. 'What's your name, bud?' asked Peter.
'Um,' the boy said uncertainly. 'I— I don't know. Max, I think. Sorry—'
'That's okay,' Peter told him softly. 'We'll call you Max for now. Listen, Max, I'm going to carry you to the hospital. I'm going to tell Iron Man to meet us there, okay?'
The boy, Max, nodded hesitantly and Peter pulled the kid closer, adjusting him so the boy was pressed against Peter's left side. Max hooked his right arm around Peter's waist, burying his head into the crook of Peter's neck. Peter's heart hammered with worry as he watched Max's shoulder leak gooey blood over the front of his suit; did it hurt? Was Max in so much shock that he couldn't register his missing left arm? Who would do such things to a small boy like him?
Straightening, holding Max close, Peter flicked out his arm and fired a strand of webbing into the air. It latched onto a nearby building, and Peter launched himself upward towards the sky.
Max shrieked in surprise, his fingers curling sharply into Peter's side in fright. Peter tried to ignore the reflex to curl in on himself from having Max's finger dig into his kidney, and opted for yelling, 'Karen, call Mr. Stark for me, please!' over the rush of wind in his ears.
The A.I. of his suit chirped quietly, quickly carrying out the task by scrolling through a list of contacts that Peter had saved. The number to Mr. Stark's personal mobile blinked as Karen made the call. Peter had just swung over Saint Patrick's Cathedral when Mr. Stark answered with a stiff, 'Kid, why are you swinging? I thought the kid wanted to murder you.'
'His name is Max and we're on our way to the hospital!' replied Peter loudly, trying to navigate the jungle that was New York City with half of his vision vanishing behind Max's mop of hair. 'Mr. Stark, I'm heading for the one in Midtown – can you, like, save a spot for us?'
'Sure, okay, you got it, kid. Get there as quickly and as safely as possible,' Mr. Stark told him, the humming of the Iron Man suit loud and somewhat comforting. He didn't click off the line.
The next two minutes passed in a blur, with Peter taking a few seconds extra as he tried to figure out the best possible way to shoot his webs without jostling Max too much. Halfway to the hospital, Peter could feel Max's grip start to slacken, and he was terrified that the kid had fallen unconscious and was probably on his way to Death's doorstep; the infection crawling across Max's skin seemed a lot worse now in the light of the dimming evening sun.
With his Spider-Sense guiding him safely through the streets, Peter dropped lightly onto the ground, jogging slightly to slow his momentum. Midtown Medical loomed above him, windows glinting white in the shadows of towering buildings around it. People milled around, and Peter caught the sight medical professionals running up to him, yelling at people to move as their white coats fluttered like flags.
His wasn't sure what prompted him to open his mouth, but with blood dribbling down his front and a limp Max already slipping down from his grip, Peter was shouting, 'Here! Please, take him! Save him, please!'
Nurses carried a stretcher between them, and with gentle hands they pried Max from Peter's grip; he hadn't realised he was hugging Max to him. Peter watched the nurses lower Max into the stretcher before carrying him away to the emergency ward, a weight being pulled from Peter's chest and letting despair filter into his lungs from the gap that remained.
A nurse was shaking Spider-Man's arm. Peter turned to her sluggishly, faintly registered her question directed towards him. 'His name is Max,' Peter responded. 'His name is Max.'
'Yes, we know,' said the nurse patiently, calmly, but Peter could see in her eyes that even she was shaken up slightly. She tugged on Peter's arm, as if she wanted him to come inside. Peter followed her, people parting as they went. As they entered the waiting room, Peter was hit by the sudden wave of antiseptic, the smell quite literally drowning him as the nurse turned back to him and said, 'We just want to confirm that both you and Tony Stark were the ones who brought him in.'
Tony Stark.
Peter blinked. The black-clothed man at the front counter had his shoulders hunched as he leaned heavily on his elbows, seemingly chatting with whoever was behind the desk. Despite the absence of the Iron Man suit or the signature blazer or the Pink Floyd shirt he wore earlier that day, Peter recognised the way the figure tapped his feet impatiently across the ground, the scuffed shoes squeaking slightly as he did so.
Peter swallowed down the lump in his throat, and the emptiness in his chest receded just a little bit as he quietly said to the nurse, 'Yeah, Mr. Stark and I brought Max in.'
Tony had offered money. The hospital took it without a word. Sometimes he wondered exactly when services that provided physical and mental support turned to lapping up money like every other organisation that thrived in New York.
After paying for the one-armed miracle Max's medical expenses, Tony lingered at the back of the waiting room and leaned against the wall, Spider-Man sidled up beside him with his head hanging low. Tony was aware of the discrete stares that were aimed at the two of them; it was rare for a superhero, let alone two, to be hanging around in the hospital for more than five seconds.
Spider-Man sniffed violently just then, and Tony thought he should have brought a packet of tissues.
'You okay?' he asked the young super beside him.
Spider-Man nodded stiffly, but Tony could tell that Peter Parker wasn't faring as well as he let on. Some of Peter's mannerisms leaked into Spider-Man's strong figure, like the hunched shoulders and the nervous fidgeting of his hands, making him seem even smaller than he already was.
'Do you think he'll be alright, Mr. Stark?' Peter asked timidly, gesturing to the corridors that wound away from the waiting room to the place where Max was presumably held.
'Hopefully,' Tony said, but he wasn't so sure himself. He tried to steady his voice, tried to hide any traces of doubt, but he was afraid Peter picked up on it from the stiffness in his voice anyway. 'He didn't lose a lot of blood, did he?'
'No, I don't think so,' Peter said. 'When I got there, his arm...his shoulder was raw, but it wasn't bleeding, and then when he woke up, I think it reopened the wound. I...' Peter fell silent and looked down at his suit; the red material was tinted a few shades darker from the dried blood, the cobalt blue over his sides and legs a dull and ugly purple. If it were not for the antiseptic smell that hung in the air, Tony was sure he would collapse from seeing the amount of blood on the kid.
The next few minutes lapsed in silence. Patients came and left, either for good or for future visits. Tony watched them idly, vacantly; they probably had normal lives to return to. He wasn't sure he could return to the life he was living an hour ago; seeing kids with their arms lobbed off did that to people.
'Where's your suit?' Peter asked after a moment. He waved a hand over Tony's form, gloved fingers twitching.
Oh. Right, Tony hadn't exactly shown him the final specs of this particular suit; the kid was trying to distract himself from whatever horrible news would soon turn up. Tony played along.
'It's a prototype suit,' Tony said, lifting a hand to tap it against his chest. He wasn't wearing normal clothes; instead he was clothed in the slim undersuit, the sides tinted grey and lined with orange. Against his sternum was a detachable arc reactor, triangular rather than circular, held to the undersuit through magnets and minute plating. The arc reactor hummed against his chest, brilliant blue light spilling outward.
'The arc reactor,' Tony continued, tapping against the small contraption, 'is actually a housing unit for nanoparticles. I haven't fully integrated the software into the nanotech yet, so most of the internal skeleton of the suit is still part of the undersuit I'm wearing.' He pointed to the metallic exoskeleton of the final suit that was still clasped to his body. It glinted, stuck around his joints, the spaces in between them waiting to be filled with the rest of the nanotech should he call them forth.
Peter nodded his head, the lenses of his mask contracting slightly as his eyes scanned over the basic form of the prototype suit. Then he turned away and made no attempt at conversation.
After a period that seemed to last forever, a nurse finally walked up to them, her hands folded in front of her. She was the first person whom Tony had run into when he first arrived at the hospital; she had quickly introduced herself as Amara upon Tony's arrival.
'Mr. Stark?' she called, her voice lilting in a way that helped Tony focus on her with the sounds of furious chatting echoing loudly around him. 'You and Spider-Man brought in a boy with an amputated arm?'
'Yep, that's us.' Tony pushed off from the wall, watching from the corner of his eye how Peter did the same. 'How is he? Max?'
'He...is not doing so well,' Amara admitted quietly.
Tony could almost feel the way Peter's body went taut, snapped to attention. Waiting.
Amara pulled the two of them to the side of the room to discuss without other patients overhearing. 'We initially didn't know who this boy was when you brought him in,' Amara said, 'so we had to run some blood tests and fingerprint identification. His name is Mack Hollister. His parents had registered him into a list of missing children late last year.' Amara's dark eyes glinted with sympathy. 'He was presumed dead, until you found him.'
'Yes, but will he be okay?' Peter stepped forward, wringing his hands and with a note of desperation in his voice. 'Will Max— Mack recover?'
The nurse shifted on her feet. The cool glow of the fluorescent lights made Amara's warm brown skin look pale and sickly, and her silky black hair look wiry and grey. 'I'm sorry,' she finally said, 'but Mack lost a lot of blood on the way here. The infection that we have yet to identify had spread to most of his body and rendered most of his vital organs useless. Chances are that he won't make it to tomorrow morning.'