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It’s close to seven-thirty in the evening, three days away from Christmas and Peter is regretting two things. One, he hasn’t had the time to find the perfect gift for MJ. And two... he decided to come out on patrol while he’s still recovering from a particularly bad case of the flu, which is also why he’s so behind on his Christmas shopping, having been bed-bound for the entire weekend.
He’s now scrolling through numerous nearby stores’ websites, swiping through endless pages of items, searching for something he can get for MJ. He wants it to be perfect, especially with it being their first Christmas together as a couple.
“Peter, I strongly suggest that you head home, especially given the current outside temperature. Per the Tattletale Protocol, I’m programmed to alert Mr. Stark if your body temperature drops to a certain level due to your body not being able to thermoregulate that well.” Karen tells him.
Peter breathes out a sigh, watching the cloud of steam flow into the cold air. “I can’t go home yet. I have to get something for MJ. Besides, the suit’s heater is on full blast and I’m as toasty as I can be. Like a chestnut roasting on an open fire.” He adds with a cheeky grin.
“Need I remind you that you’re still sick?”
“I’m not sick—” Peter weakly protests, only for his voice to come out hoarse, causing him to cough into his elbow, his chest burning. He takes a few seconds to compose himself before he clears his throat. “M’ not sick.”
“And Rudolph doesn’t have a red nose?” Karen replies sarcastically in a flat voice, causing Peter’s brows to raise in surprise.
“Okay... fair point. Geez . Mr. Stark’s new upgrade has made you very sarcastic.”
“ He says it’s good to keep you on your toes,” Karen says in her usual cheerful voice. “May I offer a few gift suggestions?”
“Yes, please.” Peter gratefully says.
“Searching for gift ideas now…” Karen says, going silent for a few seconds. “A necklace perhaps? Kay Jewelers is a block away from your current location.” She suggests.
Peter shakes his head with a disappointed sigh. “Everything’s too expensive there. I already checked online. I just want to get her something special , you know? I don’t want to get her anything based on a murder this time that’s just… not Christmasy . You know?”
“I understand... what about a sweater?”
“Mhhm....” Peter hums, unsure. Something about a sweater doesn’t exactly scream special or… I love you.
“A personalized mug?”
“No…”
“An engraved bracelet or necklace?”
“Not a bad idea… but what would it even say? I don’t want it to be too cheesy, you know?”
“Right,” Karen agrees. “Maybe you should ask her what she would like instead? Or perhaps you can ask your aunt for some ideas?”
Before Peter has the chance to answer, he hears the sound of a store alarm going off in the distance, probably a couple or so blocks away.
“Time to go to work!” He mumbles as he rolls his mask down the rest of his face as he slips down from the building’s ledge and lets himself free-fall for a few seconds before he shoots a web off to the nearest building. “Find out where that alarm is coming from, Karen!”
“On it,” She says as a map is brought up in the corner of his HUD. “ It’s at Mick’s Convenience Store, one block away from here. Take a left down the next street.”
........
Arriving at the scene, Peter lands silently on the alley wall, looking down at the robbers as they quickly work, passing boxes back and forth to each other, loading them up in a large, green cargo van.
Peter raises an eyebrow under his mask when he notices that all of them are wearing matching red tracksuits and ski masks. “Odd choice of uniform…” he mumbles to himself as he crawls further down the wall for a closer look, out of sight in the shadows.
“Come on, we gotta load this stuff up before the cops get here!” One of the robbers whispers harshly, sliding a large cardboard box into the van. “The Boss won’t be happy if we miss quota.”
“Bro, relax. We’ve got this.” Another robber says in response in a thick Russian accent. “You worry too much.”
“No, you—”
“The only thing you need to worry about… is getting these boxes loaded up.” Another robber says, interrupting their banter. “Or else you’ll have to face Maya when we get back to headquarters.”
The two robbers exchange glances with each other before they go back to work without another word.
“That guy’s clearly in charge.” Peter murmurs.
“I think you’re right,” Karen agrees in a soft voice. “ Let me check criminal databases for any known groups in the area matching their description. Local law enforcement has been notified of the situation.”
“Good. While you do that, I’m going to take them down before they take off with all of that stuff.” Peter says with a small grin under his mask.
This is going to be a piece of cake— fruit cake that is.
Peter silently jumps down from the wall once the other robbers are gone, landing lightly on the ground before he creeps over to the lone robber, who’s too busy sorting through the cardboard boxes in the truck to know that he’s there.
Peter’s thinking of a clever way to make his presence known, only to feel the all-too-familiar ticklish sensation from the back of his nose. He wipes at his stuffy nose to suppress it, only succeeding in making it worse. When the urge becomes unbearable, a loud and powerful sneeze suddenly tears up from his throat and out of his mouth before he can stop it.
So much for the element of surprise.
The robber jumps up at the sound and whirls around to face him, his eyes visibly widening through the holes of his ski mask.
“Ugh, sorry,” Peter says as he clears his throat. “You know, if you guys want to rob a store maybe don’t dress like robbers? I mean, tracksuits? Really?”
“Hey! You kid! I know you kid! These are very practical... and comfy, okay, bro?” The robber defends, clearly offended.
“Whatever you say, bro.” Peter says with a shrug before he shoots a web at the guy’s foot and yanks backward, successfully knocking him to the floor of the van.
The robber tries to get up but Peter beats him to it as he jumps up onto the truck and webs him to the floor, earning a string of curses from the guy as he tries to squirm his way out of the webbing.
“Wow, dude watch your language! What would Cap say? Why don’t you take a time-out and sit tight for a while.” Peter tells him as he Webb’s his mouth shut with precision, resulting in some muffled sounds of protest.
Peter backflips out of the van, stumbling as a wave of vertigo rushes over him. “Whoa... crap.” He mumbles to himself, blinking rapidly.
Okay, not the best idea coming out tonight. He thinks.
“What’s going on out here?” A voice suddenly says, only for Peter’s head to snap to the left, seeing the goon-in-charge from before standing in the threshold of the door, seemingly shocked to see Peter standing there. “ Shit ! It’s Spider-Man!” He yells over his shoulder as he whips a gun out and aims it at him.
Peter’s spider-sense buzzes at the back of his head as he deftly dodges a round of bullets sent his way. He shoots a web at the goon’s hand and successfully knocks it from the guy’s hands.
Before Peter can properly catch his breath, four more goons all run out from the shop and fill the small alley. One of them is terrifyingly tall, probably at least six-foot-four, absolutely towering over Peter’s five-foot-nine frame.
“I thought he was just a myth!” One of the robbers exclaims in a thick Russian accent as he looks at Peter in disbelief.
That’s right... in those five years of the blip, Spider-Man disappeared from the public because... you know, he was dead , and his reputation from before the blip was pretty much forgotten now, except for the people who were blipped out of existence along with him. It’s been hard building his reputation and publicity back up again, but it’s not about that to Peter. It’s about the people he saves, wherever and whenever he can.
“Nope! I’m very real.” Peter says, holding his arms out in emphasis.
“Yeah, and I’m very real going to knock your lights out.” Another robber says before he’s suddenly running at Peter with a crowbar.
Peter easily sidesteps the guy and throws a foot out, tripping him. “Oh yeah, you sure got me.” He teases as the guy slams face-first into the side of the truck and lands in a heap on the ground.
The freakishly tall robber comes at him next, swinging his large fists at him, and Peter does his best to dodge them, even managing to throw a few good punches in himself. One of the large fists collides against Peter’s face, snapping his head to the side as he stumbles backward, his back slamming against the alley wall. He can almost feel his teeth rattling in his mouth from the force of the blow. The man throws in another punch, this time directly into Peter’s stomach.
Peter takes in a sharp gasp in pain as he doubles over and lets out a deep cough, feeling like the air in his chest was completely sucked out of him. He lets out a shaky breath that comes out more like a wheeze as he falls to one knee, determined to keep himself upright as the men laugh at him mockingly.
“Not so tough now are you, Spider-Boy?” The goon teases, cracking his knuckles as the group surrounds him.
“Peter, shall I activate Instant Kill mode?” Karen asks in a worried voice.
“N-No,” Peter manages to wheeze out.
He quickly considers his options at the moment. At his best, he could easily take these guys down with his hands tied behind his back. But now... things aren’t looking too good.
He’s so screwed .
So there’s only one option remaining.
“C-Call Mr. Stark.” Peter manages to whisper to her as he pushes himself back to his feet in a defensive stance, forcing himself not to sway as his vision blurs around the edges.
“Calling Mr. Stark.”
The goon that punched him huffs out a laugh, smirking at him. “I’ve got to admit, you’ve got guts, kid,” he says. “But you are also very, very stupid.”
“Eh, it’s part of my charm.” Peter says with a weak shrug.
They come at him all at once, throwing punches left and right. Peter blindly throws a few of his own, unsure if they hit their targets or not with the pain and adrenaline flowing through his system. He manages to shoot a few webs at a couple of the goons and temporarily blind them... but they’re just too strong. His spider-sense can’t even keep up with it all.
Something hard suddenly slams against the side of his head, causing a shockwave of white, hot pain throughout his head and down his neck, causing him to tumble against the wall behind him. A sharp ringing pierces his ears as he slips to the cold alley ground, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.
He grits his teeth as he forces himself to blink his heavy eyes open, only to be met with blurriness as he manages to look up, finding that the men have backed off, but the goon-in-charge is standing above him, tilting his head to the side.
“Get him in the van.” He orders as he turns around, walking out of Peter’s view, only to be replaced with two more masked goons as they approach him, their footsteps echoing off the wet pavement under his aching head.
“Mr. Stark isn’t answering, Peter. Who shall I try next?” Karen asks, her voice sounding faint and so far away. “Peter? Peter, can you hear me?”
Peter blinks slowly as he feels himself being lifted from the ground and thrown over someone’s shoulder before he’s thrown to the ground... somewhere.
He’s barely aware of the sound of screeching tires before he feels the ground vibrate beneath him, being forced back from the force of movement... a car maybe? He doesn’t know.
“Peter?” Karen calls out to him again.
He wants to answer her... he’s distantly aware that this is a very, very bad situation and he needs help... but he’s just so tired. All he wants is sleep.
Sleep. That sounds nice.
His eyes are so heavy that they slip shut at the thought, even as he tries to fight against it. He can feel the numbing blackness of slumber coming for him.
“Initiating the Substitute Protocol.” Is the last thing Peter hears before he passes out.
........
Consciousness flows slowly back to Peter, like waves gently rolling against the shoreline on a beach. The first thing that comes back to him, however, is pain. It feels like this whole body is throbbing but his head is the worst of all.
He feels like absolute shit.
His hearing slowly comes back to him, everything sounding like he’s underwater, but Peter can hear laughter from somewhere nearby. Which... doesn’t sound right. Why is there laughter?
The more he wakes up, the more he wants to pass out again as all of his senses come back online all at once, making the ache in his head ten times worse. Peter can’t hold back the weak groan that escapes from the back of his overly dry throat.
“Looks like our little friend is awake,” An unfamiliar voice says before he’s aware of a hand on his chin, forcing his limp head up. “Did the little spider have a good nap?”
Peter forces his heavy eyes open, only to squeeze them shut with another groan as pain shoots from behind his eyes, all the way up to his head. He jerks back and dislodges the foreign hand from his face before trying to move away, only to find that he can’t.
He can’t move.
Why can’t he move?
Panic flows through Peter at the sudden realization as he opens his eyes halfway, squinting as he manages to look down at himself, only to discover that he’s tightly wrapped in a string of bright multi-colored Christmas lights tied to... a Christmas tree.
Why is he tied to a Christmas tree?
Peter frowns, his head letting off a particularly sharp throb as he racks his brain, trying to remember how the heck he got here.
That’s when it comes back to him.
The store robbery, the green cargo van, the tracksuit guys, one of them hitting him over the head with a crowbar... and then being thrown into the van before he passed out.
Peter’s eyes widen as much as they can against the harsh lights, ignoring the way the pounding in his head worsens. He can now see several tracksuit goons in front of him, at least ten, some standing and sitting down.
Oh shit.
He’s been kidnapped.
This is very, very bad.
Peter swallows hard as he looks around himself, squinting against the lights as he takes in his surroundings as best as he can. It seems like they’re in a warehouse and judging by the remains of brightly colored support beams, the scattered toys on the floor, and the two kiddie rides across from them... Peter would guess they’re in an abandoned toy factory of some kind.
“Well...” He starts to say, only for his voice to come out hoarse, like he just gargled a bunch of nails. He clears his throat before continuing, “This place isn’t creepy or anything.” Peter mumbles to himself.
“What was that?” One of the goons snaps.
Peter’s eyes dart over to him, the same guy he remembers webbing to the van floor. Fear flows through Peter as the guy starts to walk over to him.
“N-Nothing,” Peter quickly says, wincing as his voice comes out as a pathetic, raspy squeak. “I-I just said... what a cool place for a hideout. It’s really... homey.” He lies, glancing around the dark warehouse, noticing a few scattered toys on the floor.
To his surprise, the man actually smiles at that. “I know, right? That’s exactly what I was thinking when I found the place. Not too creepy, pretty good heating, a great view of the harbor—“
“Hey!” A new voice yells before the tall goon Peter remembers from the alley stands up from a rolling chair. “No talking to the prisoner until the Boss gets here.” He says as he walks over, his heavy footsteps loudly echoing off of the walls.
“Okay, bro,” The other man says, almost guiltily as he looks down at the ground, only to smile when he bends down and picks something up, his attention turning back to Peter. “Well, why don’t you take a time-out and sit tight for a while, huh?” The goon mocks with a grin as he places a Santa hat on Peter’s masked head, letting out a string of laughter at the sight of him.
Peter weakly glares at him from underneath his mask as he turns around and walks back to the group, followed by the tall one.
“Karen?” Pete whispers once they’re out of earshot, praying that there’s no signal jammer or something in the warehouse that would prevent her from working.
“Yes, Peter?”
Peter closes his eyes, relief flooding through him. “Oh, thank God, Karen... where are we?”
“You appear to be in an old warehouse in Brooklyn at the docks, alongside the Hudson.”
“Great,” Peter mumbles with a sigh, only for it to trigger a sharp tickle from his throat, causing him to break into a harsh coughing fit, forcing him to double over to catch his breath.
The men don’t even bother looking up, which he’s grateful for.
“Peter, it appears that your symptoms are worsening,” Karen points out in a soft, worried tone. “The Substitute Protocol has been activated and help is on the way.”
Peter’s brows pull together in confusion as he hangs there, panting slightly. “T-The what?” He whispers.
“The Substitute Protocol. Mr. Stark created it in case he’s unable to assist you so—”
The sudden sound of a door being slammed opening cuts her off, causing Peter to jump at the suddenness of it as the sound echoes off the walls. The tree he’s tied to shakes a little from his movement, threatening to topple over.
“Uh oh… you’re in trouble now, bro.” One of the tracksuit goons says, shooting Peter a smirk over his shoulder.
Peter’s stomach drops as his eyes fall to the staircase across the space, only to see a woman walking down the stairs, followed by a man—and she doesn’t look happy.
They both walk past the other tracksuit goons before the woman comes to a stop in front of him, her face set as her brows pull together, looking him up and down, almost with a hint of curiosity.
She looks to the man that followed her in and jerks her head in Peter’s direction before he steps forward and clears his throat. The woman starts making signs with her hands, and immediately Peter recognizes it to be ASL. The only bad thing is that he doesn’t understand what she’s saying. The woman looks at him expectantly, almost as if she’s waiting for him to answer.
“U-Uh… I don’t—” Peter hoarsely replies, only for the woman to glance at the man beside her again.
“She wants to know why you were snooping around the alley.” The man asks.
“I wasn’t snooping—”
The woman tilts her head to the side, raising an eyebrow as she signs again.
“You were and that’s why you are here now, Spider-Man,” The man translates. “So why did you stick your nose in our business?”
“Because I-” Peter starts, only to trigger a sharp tickle in his throat, causing him to break out into another coughing fit.
How embarrassing. Like his ego hasn’t been bruised enough tonight— literally .
The women’s brows pull together but Peter can’t tell if it’s because she’s annoyed or not.
Peter sucks in a wheezy gasp of air as he tries to compose himself again, coughing a couple more times. “I-I’m not going to let your men s-steal. I-It’s wrong. That shop owner… he has a family to support.”
The woman’s face remains blank as she looks at him for a moment before looking at the man, signing to him.
“The shop owner owes a great debt to my boss and you have no right to interfere with our operation.” He says.
“T-That doesn’t mean you can just break into his store.” Peter says.
The man sighs from beside him, rubbing a hand over his mouth before he goes to stand in front of Peter. “What we do is none of your concern. What you should be concerned about… is your own life.”
Peter’s eyes widen beneath his mask. The woman watches him for several long seconds before she looks at the man and signs something before she turns around, walking past the other tracksuit goons to the staircase. The man stands in front of Peter, watching him as well, before he turns around and follows her, pausing beside the tall goon.
“Teach him a lesson.” The man orders before he follows after the woman.
The tall tracksuit goon grins before his eyes slide up to meet Peter’s. “You got it, bro.” He says as he raises his hands, cracking his fists for emphasis.
Peter’s stomach twists with fear as he starts to squirm against the tight lights wrapped around him, trying to get loose. If he wasn’t so sick right now, snapping out of these things would be a breeze.
“K-Karen?” Peter shakily whispers.
“Hang in there, Peter. Help is on the way. ETA two minutes.”
“I-I don’t think I have two minutes.” Peter shoots back as the men surround him.
“Awe, the itsy, bitsy spider is caught in his web?” The tall goon taunts in his thick Russian accent, flashing an evil, toothy smile. “I guess we’ll have to take him out of his misery, right bro?” He asks the other goon next to him, who laughs in response.
“Right, bro.” The goon says.
“Y-You know, you really don’t have to do this,” Peter tries. “How about we just talk this out, huh? Uh.. bro to bro?”
Fear flows through Peter as he thinks about May, who’s probably waiting up for him back at home, scared out of her mind, wondering where he is. What would happen to her and his friends if these guys unmasked him and found out who he is… or worse… if they killed him? Would they go after May, MJ, and Ned?
“I don’t think so. After what you did to us… we’re going to make sure you never spin another web ever again.” The tall goon says as he raises one of his large fists back before drilling it at Peter’s face.
Right before the fist can collide against Peter’s face, a sharp swooshing sound fills the air, only for something to hit the guy’s fist, encasing it in a weird, purple goop. The man lets out a sharp cry in pain as he jumps back, shaking his hand. Peter squints against the lights, only to see something sticking out from the goop.
An arrow.
That means…
Peter’s brows pull together in confusion, only for his head to snap up when more swooshing fills the air as the men scramble around, yelling, their eyes searching the semi-darkness for the source. One by one, more arrows with purple goop hit the tracksuit goons, trapping them by their feet to the concrete floor.
“Oh b`lyad'!” One of the men closest to Peter curses, who’s managed to avoid being hit. He’s holding his gun out, his eyes darting around for a target as he backs up to stand next to Peter, who’s still struggling to get himself free. “Hey! You’re not going anywhere!” He yells at Peter, aiming the gun at him.
Peter freezes as he stares down the barrel of the handgun, a cold chill running down his spine. Despite having guns aimed at him on a daily basis, Peter’s never been able to get over his fear of guns… and he doesn’t think he ever will.
“What’s going on?” A voice yells from across the room.
Peter manages to turn his head to the side, seeing the man and woman from before running down the stairs, their guns drawn as well.
Before they have a chance to respond, an arrow whizzes past Peter’s face and hits the man beside him, only for him to let out a scream of pain as he falls to the ground, dropping his gun to clutch his shoulder where the arrow is sticking out from. Peter’s stomach churns at the sight as he forces his eyes away, looking up at the man and woman across from him, who are back to back, guns aimed in the air.
A few tense moments go by as nothing happens. The arrows have stopped, leaving them in silence. Peter tries looking around himself, but he’s still blinded by the bright lights in front of him.
“Show yourself!” The man calls out as he backs up towards Peter, followed by the woman. “Or else…” he says as he raises his gun and presses it against the side of Peter’s head.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his spider-sense tingle in warning at the back of his head, so clearly this guy isn’t bluffing.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. Peter chants in his head as cold dread fills in his stomach, only now realizing how much he’s shaking.
This can’t be how Spider-Man goes out, tied to a Christmas tree, wearing a Santa hat. He always thought he’d go out in a blaze of glory or something, heck, even just naturally after living a good, long life.
Just… not this way.
“Put the gun down, Kazi.” A new voice says, breaking the tense silence of the warehouse.
Peter’s eyes snap open, catching the mixed expression that crosses over the guy’s face as he turns to the woman beside him, raising his hand in a sign. Her brows pull together in a steely expression, tightening her grip on her gun.
“I won’t ask again.” The voice says.
The man next to him, Kazi, shifts nervously from foot to foot, keeping his eyes trained on the darkness around them.
It happens so fast, Peter doesn’t even hear the arrow flying through the air until the lights in front of him are shot, glass flying from the bulbs as the lights go out, leaving them in semi-darkness.
“Shit !” Kazi yells.
Rapid footfalls echo throughout the space, only before Peter can hear the sound of flesh meeting flesh from someone being punched. Someone slams against the tree he’s tied up to, only to feel it wobble from underneath him. Peter is barely aware of the tree tilting to the side until his face collides against the hard concrete floor, probably adding to the head injury he already has.
Peter manages to weakly cry out in pain, gritting his teeth as he feels his already sore face throb even more than before. He lays there, feeling the heavy tree above him, pinning him to the ground, as he hears the fighting continue.
For just a second, Peter’s mind flashes back to Homecoming and being trapped under the warehouse, remembering the feeling of the heavy debris on his back, pinning him to the ground like he is now.
Peter’s chest seizes up with fear at the memory.
He knows he’s not back there, trapped under that building.
He’s just trapped under a tree.
But his brain doesn’t listen to him, of course.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut as the all too familiar symptoms of a panic attack hit him.
He’s going to die.
He’s going to die and he’s never going to see May again.
He’s never going to see Happy again.
He’s never going to see Ned again.
He’s never going to see MJ again, to tell her how much he loves her, and sit with her at their usual spot on the Empire State Building, overlooking the twinkling city lights.
He’s never going to see Tony again, or Pepper, or Morgan.
Morgan… they were supposed to build, as she put it, ‘the world's best fort,’ when he goes up to the lake house this weekend. It doesn’t look like that’ll be happening now.
Peter lets out a raspy, desperate gasp, trying to get air into his lungs.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t breathe.
He’s barely aware that the fighting around him has stopped, or the feeling of the tree being moved, or the pair of hands pulling at the lights around him.
“—not breathing—out of this!” A faraway voice yells.
“—got it—out of here—” Another voice says, sounding panicked.
Peter manages to crack his eyes open, only to be met with two blurry figures above him.
“Kid, you’ve—stay with us—here!” One of them tells him.
Peter tries to stay awake but his heavy eyelids are starting to slide shut against his will and his ears are further drowning out any sounds around him.
When his eyes finally slip shut, Peter feels like he’s falling into a pit of darkness, until he knows no more.
........
Consciousness flows back to Peter, for a second time that day, but this time it takes a little longer for his brain to come back online. His hearing takes a while to come back, but when it does… he’s met with silence. He can feel that he’s lying on something soft, unlike the cold, hard concrete floor he had the pleasure of face-planting against. Peter can smell a faint, musty smell from somewhere nearby, nothing like he’s smelt before.
After a while, he manages to peel open his heavy eyelids, needing to blink a few times for his vision to clear, only to be met with a white, popcorn ceiling above him.
That’s… not right.
Peter’s brows pull together in confusion. The more he’s waking up, the more he remembers, like the tracksuit’s warehouse, being tied to a tree, the fight that broke out before someone knocked him and the tree over… and that’s all he can remember. At least he has his mask on, though.
And it’s obvious that he’s no longer in the warehouse anymore so… where is he?
His thoughts are interrupted when he feels a weird, rhythmic hotness on his right cheek. Peter’s frown deepens as he manages to slowly roll his aching head to the side to get a better look at where he is, only to be met with a big, golden face.
Peter’s eyes widen as he gasps, shooting up from lying down, ignoring the way his vision blurs and how his head achingly protests against the sudden movement. He blinks rapidly, only to see that it’s a dog.
The golden dog is looking up at him with its tail wagging, panting, clearly not a vicious guard dog.
Peter lets out a relieved breath, only to break out into a cough.
Which then leads to him almost choking up one of his lungs.
The pain isn’t like anything he’s remembered having during his short bout of sickness this past few days. But now… it’s excruciating .
“Hey, hey— you’re alright, kid. Try to take a deep breath.” He’s able to hear a familiar voice say over his hacking and the sudden ringing in his ears.
He can feel a hand on his back, gently patting him in the right spot, helping him through the coughing fit. When it finally subsides, it leaves Peter very shaky and exhausted.
“You good, kid?” The voice asks again. “That cough doesn’t sound good.”
Peter blinks his watery eyes and looks up, only for his eyes to widen in shock when he sees who’s sitting next to him. “M-Mr. Barton?”
“It’s Clint, kid. We’ve been through this before.” The archer says, offering him a small, reassuring smile.
Peter wants to pass out; he's so relieved to see the man.
The arrows back at the warehouse should have been a dead giveaway, but Peter was a little too distracted with the gun pressed up against the side of his head to put two and two together.
“W-What—H-How did you find me?” Peter stutters out.
“Well, it was pretty easy. Your suit’s AI… Kathy was it—”
“ Karen .” Peter corrects lightly.
“Right. She called me, told me what was going on, and sent me your location. It looks like you got yourself into a real mess, getting mixed up with the Tracksuit Mafia.”
Peter raises an eyebrow at him. “That’s really their name… Tracksuit Mafia?”
Clint lets out a sigh as he nods, standing up from the couch. He walks out of the small living room and over to the kitchen sink, grabbing a cup and filling it up with tap water. “Why were you there anyway?”
“Um… well… I was on patrol and I saw them breaking into a shop,” Peter raspily says, his voice painfully breaking at the end. He clears his throat with a grimace. “I beat up a few of their guys but one of them managed to hit me with a crowbar. I blacked out… and woke up in the warehouse… tied to a Christmas tree”
“Real mature of them.” Clint says as he walks back over with the mug, handing it to Peter as he sits back down beside him.
“Thanks.” Peter says as he gratefully accepts the mug, pulling his mask off since the man already knows who he is.
The water feels heavenly as it goes down his dry throat, managing to soothe the ache a little.
“Oh, shit. They got you good, huh?” Clint says as he looks at something on Peter’s face, causing the teen to look up at him.
“What?”
“You have a cut on your forehead,” Clint says as he leans forward, squinting slightly as he raises a hand to Peter’s forehead, inspecting it. “It looks deep.”
“Oh… I don’t even feel it.”
“It might be because you have so much adrenaline going through you.” Clint guesses as he stands up again and heads back into the kitchen. “Keep drinking that water, it'll help.” He calls over his shoulder as he opens a cabinet and takes out what looks to be a first aid kit.
“Right,” Peter says, taking another sip.
Clint lets out another sigh as he sits down and opens up the first aid kit, taking a few items out and putting them on the coffee table in front of them, all while the dog sits next to the couch, looking between them happily.
“I didn’t know you had a dog.” Peter says after a few moments of silence.
“He belongs to a friend of mine.” Clint responds as he uncaps a bottle of rubbing alcohol and dumps a little on a cotton ball. “This is her apartment. I’m just staying here until I’m able to go home once work settles down.”
“Oh. What’s his name?”
“He doesn’t have one,” Clint says as he turns, moving a little closer to Peter, raising the soaked cotton ball to his forehead. “This might sting a little.” He warns.
It does sting.
Peter hisses through gritted at the burning sensation, bunching his free hand that isn’t holding the mug into a fist.
Clint winces in sympathy as he continues disinfecting the wound, replacing the cotton ball a few times, tossing the bloody ones to the table. Once it’s clean, he inspects it closer.
“Well… sorry to break it to you but it looks like you’re going to need a couple of stitches. Five at most.”
Peter lets out a groan at that.
“I know but you don’t want this to get infected, trust me,” Clint says as he digs around in the first aid kit before he takes out a suture kit, ripping open the package. “Why don’t you lie down and get comfortable?” He suggests, shooting him a knowing look over his shoulder.
It’s no secret Peter hates needles. Clint just so happened to be at the Compound one time when Peter got hurt on patrol and witnessed Peter fainting when Dr. Banner whipped out the needle for stitches. Peter had been embarrassed to all hell, knowing not just one but three Avengers had witnessed him eat it right there in the medbay, well, technically Tony didn’t count because… well… he’s Tony . But Hawkeye seeing him faint over a little needle… was super embarrassing. Clint was thankfully super cool about it though.
Peter stares at the needle in Clint’s hands with wide eyes as the archer begins threading it. Clint looks over at him before motioning to the couch. “Lie down.” He says.
Peter swallows thickly, feeling his stomach churning slightly, now regretting drinking all of that water as he places the now-empty mug on the coffee table. He lets out a shaky breath, only to cough into his elbow when it tickles the back of his throat before he lies down when it subsides.
Clint’s brows pull together in concern as he looks down at him. “Are you sick?” He questions.
“Mmh…” Peter hums once he’s caught his breath, ready to lie, only for Clint to give him a look he knows all too well, one that Tony gives him practically every day.
The Dad look.
“Uhm... a little?” Peter says with a sheepish, tired smile.
“Does Tony know? Hell, does your aunt know?” Clint asks as he turns around and grabs something off the coffee table.
“No… not really. I left a little after six and May had a late shift at work. And Tony didn’t answer when Karen tried to call him… so I don’t know.”
Clint hums with a frown, facing Peter again. “That’s not like him,” he says. “I’ll try to call him after. Now, this is going to sting a little. So just take a few nice, deep breaths and try to relax. Okay?”
Peter nods shakily. “O-Okay.”
Looking up at the white popcorn ceiling, Peter does everything in his power not to look at the needle. He can feel his hands shaking, so he balls them at his sides, mindful to not grab a fistful of the couch cushions under him. The last thing he wants to do is rip up someone’s couch.
“So… how’s school?” Clint asks.
“Uh.. i-it’s good.”
Clint hums as he leans over Peter and squints as he brushes away some of Peter’s hair from his forehead.
“Uhm… h-how’s everything going with you?” Peter asks, not wanting to be rude.
“Okay, all things considered,” Clint says with a small one-shouldered shrug. “Okay, little pinch.” He says.
Peter grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut when he feels the needle pierce his skin. It’s not as bad as he initially thought, but it still hurts.
“Have any plans for Christmas?” Clint asks.
“N-Not really. Just going up to the lake house for the Christmas party.”
“The good old Stark Christmas Party,” Clint says with a small laugh. “Tony’s been bugging me about a mandatory ugly sweater contest all week.”
“Oh?” Peter asks, managing to breathe out a small, hoarse laugh.
“I told him no but he’s insisting on it. And my kids will probably want to do it… so I guess I have to shop around for the best ugly sweater I can find.”
Peter tries not to wince when he feels the needle go in again, or the way his stomach flips.
“S-So who was that woman back at the warehouse?” He asks to distract himself.
Clint sighs above him. “Trust me, Pete… you don’t want to know.”
Peter opens his eyes, looking up at him. “But I do. She’s having her goon squad break into stores and steal. It’s wrong.”
“It is,” Clint agrees, nodding. “But… this is a huge case. A dangerous one. She’s not someone you want to cross paths with. The less you know the safer you’ll be.”
Peter blinks as he looks off to the side. “But she can’t get away with this… she said something about the guy that owns Mick’s owing a debt to her boss.”
“Look… you need to forget all about this stuff and the Tracksuit Mafia. They’re bad news and they’re dangerous. You don’t want any part in this. I’m looking into it.”
Peter’s eyes widen. “Is it Avengers business?”
Clint tilts his head to the side. “I guess you could say that,” he says. “It’s being handled. So I want you to promise me that you’ll keep away and not go snooping around anymore, alright?” He asks as he pauses stitching, looking down at Peter expectantly.
Peter blinks up at him, biting the inside of his cheek. He knows he won’t ever be able to let this go. It’s his responsibility to protect the neighborhood and the people in it. He’s not going to let this continue.
“Alright?” Clint repeats.
Peter closes his eyes, nodding. “Alright.” He lies.
“Good.” Clint says, seemingly convinced.
Peter winces again as Clint goes back to stitching his wound, the room settling into silence until Clint grabs a pair of small scissors and cuts the remaining string after tying a knot to the stitches.
“Alright, you’re good to go,” He announces once he’s finished. “I’m going to put a bandaid on it with some bacitracin, so keep it dry and let it heal. You can have Bruce or Tony take the stitches out in the next few days when it heals,” Clint uses a cotton swab to slather a little ointment across the small row of stitches before he gently places a bandaid over it, sealing it in. “You’re all set.”
Peter offers a small, grateful smile at him. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing,” Clint says with a nod as he turns away, gathering up the used supplies and bloody cotton balls before going over to the kitchen to dispose of them in the trash barrel.
Peter debates on just staying here, lying down but he decides against it, not wanting to be rude. He should probably start heading back home anyways, and given by how it’s starting to get light outside, it’s probably close to at least four in the morning, well over his curfew.
May is going to kill him when he gets home.
With a small sigh, Peter slowly sits up on shaky arms, closing his eyes against the dizziness he’s met with. He has to lean against the back of the couch for a few seconds until it passes, feeling lightheaded.
He feels like absolute shit .
All he wants is to go home, crawl into his bed and just pass out for the rest of the week. But he has to go home first before he can do that. Of course, right after May and Tony yell at him for being so reckless.
Peter opens his eyes and throws his legs over the side of the couch, ignoring the growing lightheadedness he feels as he starts to stand up. His body protests against the movement.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Clint asks from the kitchen.
“Home?” Peter says, brows pulling together as he looks over at him.
“I’m not letting you go home in your condition. Sit back down, kid.” Clint orders in a serious, yet worried voice.
“But I can-”
“Sit down.”
Peter sighs lightly but he listens, plopping himself back on the couch. Clint moves around in the kitchen for a few minutes before he walks back over, carrying another mug.
“Here’s some tea to help with that cough of yours.” He says, handing the steaming mug to him.
“Thanks.”
Clint lets out a sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. “It’s late, so how about you get some rest? I’ll see if I can get a hold of Tony so he can pick you up in the morning.”
“Okay.” Peter says, feeling guilty for keeping him up this late.
Clint probably has better things to do than get him out of trouble and babysit him.
“I’m sorry… for making you do all of this.” Peter apologizes.
“It’s no problem, kid,” Clint reassures as he heads back towards the kitchen, patting the dog along the way. “You feeling up for eating anything?”
Peter’s stomach churns at the mention of food. “No, I’m good with the tea. Thanks.”
“Sure,” Clint nods. “I’m going to grab you something to change into so you can get out of that suit. Be right back.” He says, disappearing down the hallway next to the kitchen.
Peter tilts his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes, lifting a free hand to rub at them. It’s been a long, tiring, painful night. The sudden feeling of something nudging his knee has him lifting his head, only to see the dog sitting there in front of him, looking at him.
“Hey, buddy,” Peter says softly, managing a tired smile as he pats him. “Sorry about earlier. I hope I didn’t scare you.”
The dog wags his tail in response, opening his mouth into a smile, his long pink tongue hanging out as he pants.
Peter smiles down at him, gently rubbing behind his ears. “You’re a good boy, huh?” He asks.
The dog closes his one good eye almost as if he’s saying ‘I am.’
Peter huffs out a hoarse laugh. He continues petting the dog and sipping his tea until Clint comes back, carrying a bundle of clothes in hand. A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth when he sees Peter petting the dog. “It looks like you two hit it off.”
Peter smiles. “I think we did,” he agrees, only to frown. “He really doesn’t have a name?”
Clint sighs, shaking his head, still smiling slightly. “No. The girl that owns him can’t come up with a good name yet,” he says as he leans against the wall behind him, folding his arms over his chest. “His temporary name is Pizza Dog.”
Peter manages to weakly laugh at that. “Really?” He asks, looking back at the dog, tilting his head to the side, nodding. “Yeah. You look like a Pizza Dog to me.”
Clint chuckles, shaking his head to himself. “She found him and the first thing he ate was pizza. So it’s fitting, I guess. He still should have a proper name though. Any suggestions?”
Peter hums to himself as he looks down at the dog. “Well, he kind of reminds me of Air Bud.”
Clint huffs out a laugh. “My kids were obsessed with those movies when they were younger. Buddy is a good name.”
The dog closes his eye, almost like he’s squinting as his mouth opens again into a smile.
“What about Happy?” Peter suggests.
Clint laughs at that. “I don’t think Hogan would like a dog being named after him.”
Peter shrugs, smiling. “Maybe not.” He agrees.
Clint breathes out a sigh. “Well whatever his name will be, his owner will figure it out on her own time I guess. I think we should start a suggestion jar to get the ball rolling, though. So I’ll add Buddy to the list,” he says. “For now, why don’t you change so you can go to bed and call it a night?”
“Okay.” Peter agrees.
He thankfully manages to stand up from the couch on his own without any dizzy spells and heads down the hallway to the bathroom. He passes by several photos of multiple cats on the walls and it makes him wonder what Pizza Dog’s owner is like. She’s clearly a cat and dog lady, that’s for sure, and has an interesting taste in furniture, judging by how vintage the apartment is decorated.
When Peter reaches the bathroom, he flips on the light, engulfing the small space in soft yellow light. He closes the door behind himself before turning to the sink, only to see his reflection in the mirror.
And wow, he looks absolutely terrible .
His face is puffy with light bruising already coming in, especially around his right eye, which will probably turn into a nasty black eye. The dark circles he’s had all week seem worse now, given how pale he is.
It could be worse. Peter thinks to himself.
Thankfully it wasn’t worse. Things could have gone terribly wrong tonight if Clint hadn’t gotten there in time and saved him. He would have been killed for sure. Those tracksuits weren’t messing around… and that’s why they have to get off the street before they can hurt anyone else.
But for tonight and the next few days… he’ll just have to rest up and do a little online research.
Peter taps the spider symbol on his chest, feeling his suit bands retract and get baggy around him. He carefully gets out of it, wincing as his muscles protest against the movement before he folds it up and leaves it on the sink countertop.
Once he’s changed into the clothes Clint gave him—a plain grey t-shirt with black pants—Peter goes to the bathroom and washes his hands, taking the opportunity to clean his face up a little bit. When he’s finished, he opens the bathroom door and flips off the light before stepping back out into the hallway, his suit tucked in his arm. Walking back out into the living room, he sees Clint tossing a white duvet over the couch.
“Thank you, for all of this—for helping me.” Peter tells him again.
“No problem, Pete,” Clint says as he stands back from the couch, tossing the pillows back in place where they were. “I’ll grab you some more water. Is there anything else you need? Tissues? Cough drops?” He offers.
“Uh, no I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay. You lie down and relax.” Clint tells him as he goes over to the kitchen.
While he does that, Peter walks over to the couch, dropping his suit to the floor next to it, before he carefully sits down. Clint comes back after a few moments, placing a cup of water down on the coffee table for him.
“Alright. Try to get some sleep, okay?” Clint tells him, offering him a small smile.
Peter’s mouth turns up in a tired smile in return. “I will.”
Clint disappears down the hallway again, probably to get ready for bed himself, as Peter lies down, tossing the duvet over himself, closing his eyes against the coolness it brings him. It almost reminds him of the times May used to set him up on the couch when he was sick as a kid. His chest warms up at the memory.
He opens his eyes and looks around the small space until his eyes land on Pizza Dog, who’s now lying on his own bed on the ground, lying on his side, looking content as he looks up at Peter with his big, brown eye.
“Goodnight.” Peter whispers to him.
The dog’s tail wags in response.
Peter smiles as he closes his eyes, breathing in a deep breath slowly, thankfully not triggering any coughing fits this time. He lays there for several minutes in silence, until he feels himself start to drift off.
Today was one heck of a roller coaster, starting with the robbery, getting kidnapped, only to wake up in the tracksuit’s warehouse, nearly getting killed, getting saved by none other than Hawkeye himself, and then meeting a cute dog ( temporarily ) named Pizza Dog.
What a day, indeed.