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Time doesn’t pass in a cell, Peter finds.
It might be his first or third or tenth day here and he wouldn’t have a clue. Meals come at irregular times, bathroom breaks are just as, if not more, infrequent. Most of the time, Peter’s gathering dust in the corner of his cell, from where he refuses to remove himself.
His captors are nameless and faceless, and don’t ever have the same voice. They don’t know he’s Spider-Man, but he doesn’t have a good enough scope of the place to try and escape and blow his only element of surprise. So he hangs by his arms, toes brushing the ground if he really tries for what feels like forever.
Until forever is something he longs for.
They unlock him while he pretends to be passed out from the drugs that they not-so-sneakily put in his mashed cauliflower-tasting meal (He smelled the difference as soon as the tray slid under the door).
His toes drag on the floor. Iron hands on his arms. By now he’s not even sure if he could fight his way out — even if he wanted to. His eyes flutter and he stares through his eyelashes at the dark linoleum floor. The smell - the smell of this place is metallic and clean.
They throw him on the ground. His arms bruise and he lets out a yelp. Involuntary, surprising. The pain is dull and heavy. They kick his ribs and his face.
A hand grabs his chin. “Awake, are we, Starkling?”
Peter blinks in the light and takes in the face of the stranger grabbing his chin.
His captor.
Peter tries to bite the hand and earns a nasty right hook to his jaw in return. The searing pain turns his vision white. He falls on the iron-smelling floor, his eyes watering.
Goddamn.
“C’mon kiddie,” the voice croons. Peter’s elbows bruise as he scrambles away. He hits a wall. “Don't make this harder than it is.”
Two sets of arms hoist him up.
Peter opens his eyes and his captor, the speaking one, has a knife.
There’s a piercing pain as the cold metal cuts across his cheek and over his nose peter sobs and struggles against the captos. His tears sting the cut.
“Now. Nice and…easy.” The knife tips his chin up. He clenches his teeth.
“Hold ‘im.” Speaking Guy says.
“Let go of me you assholes!” Peter cries. “Why-”
A piece of cloth is shoved in his mouth. The sour taste zings his tongue. He continues to moan and yell into the gag.
There’s a click and a low buzzing. Peter squints at the glowing red light. They’re filming a… ransom video?
Mr Stark can’t see him like this. He’s probably already tearing himself apart. And Nat.
Oh god, nat.
Nat, who already struggles with anxiety.
Nat, who tries to hide her guilt from him but he may be dumb but he’s not that dumb.
These captors don’t know what they’re getting themselves into.
He has to believe that somebody will trace the call.
That somebody is listening.
That somebody is there.