Work Text:
No Way Out (paralytic drugs/"no one’s coming.")
***
Not having the ability to move is a scary, scary feeling. Like sleep paralysis, which has only plagued Peter a few times in his life but traumatized him all the same. There’s nothing quite as terrifying as trying to move and have your limbs acting as dead weights.
Another unfortunate example is a much more recent one—when he was after the Vulture and ended up stuck under all that concrete and rubble. He was trapped, pinned beneath tons. And sure, he did manage to muster up enough strength and courage to overcome that particular obstacle, but it wasn’t easy and it did send him spiraling into a panic attack.
But this…this isn’t even like that. This is different. Worse.
Limbs frozen, heavy. Trying with all his might to move but being unable to do so. Not even a simple twitch of the fingers. The loss of control is downright terrifying.
Peter can feel his heart pounding inside his chest as he focuses hard and tries again to simply move. There’s nothing. No response, no outward indication that he’s even trying.
He’s panicking a little now.
His brain is still a bit foggy, the how and why of the entire situation just out of reach, but he does vaguely remember the sensation of a needle being stabbed into his neck. Remembers the way his limbs slowly began to stop responding—the fear that coursed through his veins along with whatever drug was injected into his system. Then he’d passed out.
He can’t be certain how much time has passed, and with the memories of his day evading him; he doesn’t know if he can expect anyone to be out searching for him anytime soon. His only hope is that Karen was able to detect his deteriorating condition and report it to Mr. Stark before his mask was removed. But he can’t bank on that, which means he needs to start formulating a plan to get himself out of here.
There’s just one problem with any plans he might attempt to make—he is totally, completely unable to move. He can’t even lift his head to survey his surroundings. He has to settle with darting his eyes around to try and make sense of where he is.
Peter is definitely on the verge of freaking out, so he knows he needs to ground himself somehow. He takes a few careful, measured breaths before letting his gaze glide about the small room where he’s being kept. Sight. From his vantage point, it looks like it’s almost empty, save for a few random boxes and chairs. There’s a few random smudges and stains dotting the ceiling. A single door looming to his left.
Touch. He feels the cool metal of the table underneath him, the tightness of the shackles on his wrists—his captors have him cuffed with restraints that he probably could snap in an instant on a normal day—and the almost-numb feeling across his entire paralyzed body.
The mere thought of the word is enough to send Peter into another bout of panic, and he thinks if he could move, he would currently be heaving up the contents of his stomach. But he knows he has to steady himself, because if he does start to vomit, he’s not gonna be able to turn onto his side, and he’ll more than likely asphyxiate before anyone comes in to check on him. So that’s out of the question.
Peter shudders—internally, because there’s no outward expression. Okay, okay, he thinks. Smell.
The scent of the room is…indistinct. A little musty, probably not a place that is frequently put to use.
Taste. A hint of metallic flavor from blood. He must have bitten the inside of his mouth at some point, maybe when he fell as his limbs crumpled beneath him earlier. When they nabbed him.
He still isn’t sure who “they” are…Peter doesn’t know if they were able to get the drop on him or if he was fighting them. The last thing he really can recall is heading home from school.
Sound. The AC, coursing through the vent in the ceiling above him. The faint echo of voices somewhere else inside the building.
Footsteps, making their way toward this room.
Peter holds his breath. The door opens, and two men enter. Neither of them are at all familiar.
“Who would have thought that the amazing Spider-Man all of New York raves about is a little kid?” one of them sneers as he comes closer to the table. He’s middle-aged, with a graying beard and narrow eyes. “Adrian was real stupid if he couldn’t outsmart him.”
The mention of the familiar name sparks something in Peter’s memory, but he’s stuck on the first part of the man’s words—he doesn’t have his mask, but the rest of the suit is intact, which means…these guys are seeing his face.
His heart skips a beat. His breath is coming in shallow gasps and his tongue feels like cotton, but he tries to get it working. “Wh—what—who…” he manages to slur, thankful that whatever they gave him didn’t fully extend to vocal chords.
Anger wells up in the man’s expression. “We’ve been buyers of Toomes for years!” he shouts, slamming his hand down near Peter’s head. The whole table vibrates, and the chains on his arms rattle. “And you, you little…arachnid, had to ruin that.”
The dots begin to connect in Peter’s mind. Obviously the Vulture wasn’t keeping all of those weapons and tech to himself. His crew sold it to gangs and people on the street to line their pockets while they continued to experiment with and modify stuff for themselves. It stands to reason that his long-time buyers would be upset when they suddenly lost their principal supplier.
“Calm down,” the man’s companion says, looking bored as he takes a step closer. “The kid’s clearly not that amazing if a simple paralytic drug can take him down like this.”
Peter lets his eyes switch between the two men looming over him, desperate for his limbs to just listen to him and move. But it’s useless. There’s no way out.
He isn’t sure why these guys felt the need to bring him in alive—if they hate him so much, why not just kill him? Do they think he can get them access to Toomes’ confiscated tech? Do they want him to suffer as much as possible first? If so, they’re already succeeding with the whole…paralysis thing. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever been so afraid in his life.
He glances past them, toward the door. If only he could move, he could easily pull out of the cuffs and make a break for the exit.
The guy with the narrow eyes grins. “Sorry, Spider-Man,” he says the name like it’s dirt in his mouth, “but no one’s coming to save you. You’re ours now, and you—”
Out of nowhere, the room seems to just explode. Glass shatters, the door splinters, and Peter watches as his two captors stumble back and whirl around, high-tech guns drawn.
They barely have time to get off any shots before there are several subsequent blasts, smaller than the first. Suddenly the men are sprawled out on the ground, unmoving, and Iron Man is standing in the doorway. “Boom. The Spiderling is off-limits, bozos.”
Relief fills Peter’s chest at the sight and sound of his rescuer, the adrenaline pumping through his unmoving body exiting in short, shaky exhales.
Tony moves past the two men on the floor and over to the table. “Kid, you okay?” he asks, his fancy suit making quick work of the cuffs. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t break out of these—I’ve seen you single-handedly catch a bus.”
Peter wants to answer the man, he really does, but the combined fear and relief is too palpable and overpowering. He doesn’t know what to do with the onslaught of emotions.
“Whoa, hold on, are you crying?” Tony smoothly steps out of the Iron Man suit, revealing an incredulous expression as he blinks down at Peter. “This isn’t daycare, I don’t do crying.”
Another tear runs down Peter’s cheek, but he can’t even reach up to wipe it away. He blinks back at his mentor, hoping to convey some of what he’s feeling while he attempts to get his slow mouth moving to form a sentence.
Thankfully, Tony seems to realize from Peter’s response—or lack thereof—that something deeper is going on, and his expression quickly morphs into something resembling concern, the joking tone dropping off right away. “Pete, kid, you all right?”
“C—can’t…m—move,” Peter stutters out, desperate to explain the situation.
“You can’t move? At all?”
“N—no.”
Tony lifts one of Peter’s hands and lets go, watching it fall limply back to his side. He curses.
Peter puts all his effort into speaking. “Para—paralyzing…drugs. Don’t…don’t kn—know—” He’s working himself up into a panic again.
“Okay, okay. It’s okay,” Tony says. “It’s fine. You’re fine. We’ll figure it out.”
And Peter is surprised to see the panic and worry that’s fluttering across Tony’s face. Not that he thinks the man is that heartless or uncaring—they’ve been spending a lot of time in the lab together since the whole Vulture incident and subsequent offer for Spider-Man to join the Avengers, and Peter’s gotten a better glimpse of the man Tony is under all the sarcasm and bravado—but still. Maybe he can sense how freaked out Peter is about the whole situation.
Tony takes a deep breath, splaying a hand across Peter’s sternum. “Can you feel that?”
Peter tries to nod, but nothing happens. “Yeah,” he says.
“Okay. That’s good.” Tony pats him gently on the chest.
Peter isn’t sure if it actually is or not, but he’s not going to argue. Plus, just having someone else here now to take charge and reassure him is relieving enough that he isn’t quite as freaked out. He trusts that Tony will take care of him.
“Just—take deep breaths. I’m gonna get you out of here, and we’re gonna get you fixed up,” Tony tells him, moving to step back into his Iron Man suit. “Pronto. ASAP. You’ll be back to your wall-crawling duties in no time.”
Peter closes his eyes, letting the reassurances wash over him. He’s okay. He’s fine.
Wait. His eyes pop open. “My…my mask,” he breathes out, worried eyes cutting over to the two men still out cold—or maybe worse—on the floor.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tony says abruptly. “I’ve got everything handled.”
And when somebody like Tony Stark says that, he means it.
So Peter tries to relax as much as he can while Tony gathers his limp form up in his arms—his hold surprisingly gentle, almost the way a parent would hold an infant—and takes them back to safety.