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“Peter. Peter. Spider-Man!”
Peter kept walking, resolutely ignoring Tony’s voice. Maybe if he made it to the other side of this creepy clearing dominated by a low concrete building frequented by mutant traffickers they’d just raided, he’d be able to slip into the hustle and bustle of SHIELD agents busy hunting for some runaway traffickers and escape notice.
Seconds later, however, just as Peter set his sights on a likely-looking group of agents he could use as unknowing accomplices to his little crime, a red-gauntleted hand shot out and grabbed Peter’s good arm.
He supposed it was wishful thinking, hoping he’d be able to dodge Tony’s omniscient gaze.
“Peter,” said Tony in that disappointed way Peter was unfortunately familiar with. “What are you still doing here?”
“Uh,” said Peter, hiding his injured arm behind his back. “I’m helping?”
“Right.” Tony folded his arms, his suit whirring as he did. “And explain to me why you think being here is helpful when Steve and I specifically told you to go back to the jet.”
“Well,” said Peter.
He blinked at Tony as he immediately realized he had approximately zero percent of an explanation. In truth, he’d been hoping if he managed to avoid getting caught he could continue to help out instead of being benched and sent off to the Quinjet like Tony wanted, but he couldn’t exactly tell Tony that.
Tony nodded. “That’s what I thought. Remind me. Have I or have I not already done the lecture on how part of being an Avenger means following orders during missions? And how not listening to what you’ve been told can have ramifications for not only the rest of the mission, but the safety of the rest of the team as well?”
Peter kicked his feet in the grass. “Uh. Yeah, you’ve done that one.”
“I knew my memory wasn’t failing me yet,” said Tony. “So why don’t you get your spidery butt over to the Quinjet and stay there this time? Don’t think I didn’t spot you almost snap your arm in half back there.”
Cursing, Peter flexed the fingers of his injured arm. It sent a bolt of pain up to his elbow and he fought to keep his face neutral.
Peter was incredibly thankful every time he got to join the Avengers for a mission, of course—he’d be crazy not to be. He’d almost swooned when Tony first suggested it just a few weeks after the whole Homecoming fiasco.
What did grate on Peter’s nerves, however, was Tony insisting on treating Peter like he was spun from a web and in danger of falling apart in the wind at any moment. He was so overprotective, and always sent Peter back to the jet as soon as he got even a little injured. It was completely unreasonable.
And no way was Peter giving in quite that easily today. “But Mr. Stark, I need to help! We need to find where Ross went. If I go back to the jet, I won’t be doing anything. I should be helping!”
They knew Thaddeus Ross was using this base to traffic enhanced humans, but after freeing the prisoners, the Avengers had been unable to find Ross or any of his lackeys. They’d fled.
Tony leveled Peter with an unimpressed glare. “Peter. This isn’t up for debate. You’re in no state to defend yourself if something were to go wrong, and you told me you’re out of web fluid. That means you’re benched for the rest of the mission. Capiche?”
Peter set his jaw and looked away, over to where Steve was busy handing out orders.
Sensing Peter’s disappointment, Tony gave him a slightly heavy-handed pat on the shoulder with the gauntlet. “I don’t want you to get any more hurt, kid. And besides, prepping the jet in case we need to make a hasty exit is just as helpful.”
Peter chewed on his lip. After a moment, he sighed. He knew this wasn’t an argument he had any hope of winning. Not with both the bad wrist and the empty web cartridges. “Alright.”
“Atta boy,” said Tony.
And with that, Tony jetted off to join Steve on the other side of the clearing. The heat from the Iron Man suit’s repulsors warmed Peter’s face. He blinked, kicked at the grass again, and then set off in the direction of the Quinjet with just a small pout.
He couldn’t even swing with his dud shooters and dud arm, so he had to walk the whole way.
Eventually, the metallic facade of the Quinjet appeared between the trees. Peter entered the code to pull down the access ramp and then climbed inside, not bothering to pull the ramp up behind him so the team could just walk in when they were done. He pulled his mask off and ran a hand through his sweaty curls as he made his way into the cockpit.
Humming to himself, Peter bustled around the Quinjet, preparing everything for takeoff. Once he finished, he dropped down into the pilot’s seat and kicked his feet to spin from side to side as the Quinjet’s various flight systems slowly booted up.
He gave the floor a particularly hard kick and lolled his head back as he spun around and around. Every now and then the console beeped, and Peter lazily lifted one hand to flick a switch or two before collapsing back.
His mind was a million miles away. He hated being singled out and sent back to the Quinjet as soon as he got injured. But how the hell was he supposed to convince Tony he was being ridiculous?
As Peter was busy programming in the flight path back to New York, his Spidey senses tickled the back of his neck.
“Maybe I activated the self-destruct protocol or something,” Peter muttered to himself sardonically. That would definitely convince Tony not to leave him alone in here, at least.
But then the Quinjet shuddered and multiple pairs of footsteps thundered across the metal-plated flooring. Peter’s heart leaped into his throat and he spun around in his chair. His mind immediately jumped to the conclusion something had gone wrong and someone was hurt.
Instead of panicked Avengers, Peter’s gaze landed on multiple guns aimed straight at his head.
At least ten men crowded into the Quinjet, all dressed in black fatigues. And from the middle of the group emerged a man in a slick gray suit, who looked at Peter like he was a gross piece of scum marring the bottom of one of his shiny leather shoes.
Thaddeus Ross.
Peter swallowed dryly. Looked like he’d found the missing group of mutant traffickers the others were looking for.
Thaddeus Ross drew up short. “Spider-Man,” he said slowly. “You weren’t meant to be here.”
“Oh, no problem—I’ll get out of your hair,” said Peter, climbing to his feet.
Several guns cocked, their muzzles following his every movement.
“No,” said Ross, a dangerous smile creeping across his face. “No, I don’t think you will.”
Briefly, Peter’s mind flitted through his options. No webs. A busted arm. And his mask—and with it, his connection to the rest of the team—was on the floor on the other side of the jet. The odds he could fight his way out of this one without a bullet or two winding up lodged in an organ he’d rather were kept lead-free were looking a little low even by Peter’s reckoning.
Weakly, Peter raised his hands above his head.
***
Tony’s helmet whirred as it receded. He reached up and dabbed a hand against his forehead but thankfully, despite a particularly nasty hit he took earlier, his metal fingers came away clear of blood. He smiled at the thought of the grief he’d saved Pepper. They had a key annual shareholders’ meeting tomorrow, and Pepper always complained that Tony arriving with visible, gaping wounds from his Avengers missions was “unprofessional” and “off-putting”.
With a sigh—his whole body was aching as the adrenaline started to wear off—Tony made his way across to where Steve, Clint, Sam, and Natasha were gathered just inside the clearing.
“I don’t like it,” Tony announced. “Something’s fishy about this whole thing.”
Despite their best efforts, they’d been unable to find Ross or his men. It was as if they’d vanished into thin air—or, as SHIELD suspected, deep into hidden tunnels, although they’d been unable to find any evidence that any of those existed.
But Steve had finally called it a day, and Tony wasn’t inclined to argue.
Clint stretched his arms, only narrowly avoiding hitting Sam with his bow. “Well, no point looking a gift horse in the mouth. Let’s head home. I haven’t been taking good enough advantage of the bath on the training floor with the jacuzzi jets. It’s calling my name.”
“And Peter’s probably getting antsy,” Sam said, brightly.
“Right,” said Tony with a fond chuckle.
They set off into the forest together, retracing their steps to the Quinjet. When they arrived at the clearing where they left the jet, however, Tony’s stomach dropped. The forest floor was carved with deep, muddy tracks from the jet’s wheels, marking this as undeniably being the correct clearing.
The Quinjet, however, was nowhere to be seen.
“Did Spidey take the jet for a joyride?” Sam joked, but his forehead was creased.
Something wasn’t right.
Tony touched the comm in his ear. “FRIDAY? You got a location on the jet?”
“The Quinjet is currently located approximately one hundred and fifty miles northeast of here, boss.”
Tony exchanged a worried glance with Steve. “And Peter?”
Peter had gone quiet on comms soon after he’d left, but that wasn’t too unusual. Peter didn’t like wearing the mask longer than he had to—Tony had listened to more than one rant about the acne Peter suffered after particularly long stints in the mask—and so he usually took it off as soon as possible.
“Mr. Parker is located within the Quinjet, but I am unable to contact Karen.” He’d definitely taken his mask off. “Boss,” FRIDAY continued, suddenly sounding urgent. “There also appear to be twelve unidentified individuals on the jet alongside Mr. Parker.”
Tony’s chest seized.
His helmet slammed down in front of his face. “Go check in with SHIELD,” Tony snapped at the team. “I’ve found Ross and his traffickers, and they’re flying off with my kid.”
Steve nodded, and without a word, Tony shot up through the tree canopy, heat rising behind his sternum.
***
“Well I wasn’t going to sell the Avengers out, but since you asked so nicely...”
The back of Ross’s hand cracked across Peter’s face. Peter slumped to the side, screwing his face up to alleviate the sting, and after a moment he straightened back up onto his knees with difficulty.
“Nice one,” said Peter, scrunching his nose. “Very impressive. Bet that made you feel real big.”
Ross grabbed Peter’s chin to tilt his rapidly bruising face toward the light. “Your jokes are not welcome here, Spider-Man,” he sneered. He shoved Peter’s head aside and stared down at him, considering. “How pathetic of the Avengers to resort to recruiting a child.”
“Better that than kidnapping one,” said Peter, tugging at his handcuffed wrists.
“Oh, I’m not kidnapping you,” said Ross, with exactly the kind of unnerving smile Peter imagined a child kidnapper might sport. “You’re a mutant. You’re not human. I’m fully within my right to do as I wish with you.”
Creepy. “I’m not a mutant. Technically, I’m a mutate.”
Ross scoffed. “Always something smart to say. Did Stark teach you that?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “I literally only met him a few months ago. He didn’t invent being annoying, although he does excel at it.”
One of the traffickers called from the front of the Quinjet, and Ross turned to speak with them. Peter rolled his shoulders and shuffled, glaring at the other trafficker currently aiming a gun at Peter’s head. He was unbelievably uncomfortable like this, forced to his knees with his hands tied behind his back—because of course one of Ross’s lackeys had found the super soldier-grade restraints they kept on the Quinjet in case of emergencies.
Peter would definitely classify this as an emergency. The Quinjet had been hijacked and was being flown God knows where. But Peter was not panicking, not at all. Why would he be panicking? He’d only been kidnapped by Thaddeus Ross and his gang of mutant traffickers, and he didn’t know if the Avengers were even aware yet, or if they’d be able to catch up if they were.
This was fine.
Peter had a math test this week anyway, and he hadn’t studied.
He pulled at his restraints impatiently as he glanced around the jet. There were twelve hijackers; Ross, and his eleven lackeys. It would be a tough fight even if Peter weren’t tied up, held at gunpoint, and forced to his knees in a flying, pressurized tin can. Right now, it looked pretty impossible.
Peter chewed on his lip, glancing over at Ross. What would Tony do if he were in this situation?
He’d probably have some genius hidden tech up his sleeve that could take out all the traffickers before they even realized the jig was up. Which wasn’t particularly helpful, since Peter’s only tech was his suit that was fairly useless without the mask connected and the webshooters empty.
It wasn’t exactly a winning arsenal.
Ross returned to Peter’s side. “Well, child. If you refuse to tell me any useful information about the Avengers, then all there is left to do with you is see how much money you can make me.”
Great. He’d always wanted to be ransomed off. “You know there’s like way easier ways to get money from Mr. Stark? If you’d just make friends with him you’d find out it’s impossible to get him to stop throwing money at you. You should see the oven he wanted to buy my aunt. It talks.”
That disconcerting smile crept back onto Ross’s face. “It is not the Avengers who will be bidding for you.”
Oh. Peter’s stomach sank.
Something hit the outside of the Quinjet with a loud bang.
The entire jet shook. Peter’s head snapped up to the roof as the traffickers burst into action, drawing their weapons.
“It’ll be an Avenger,” Ross shouted over the chaos. “If it’s a mutant, attempt to capture it.”
With an ear-splitting metallic screech, whoever was outside began to force the loading ramp open. Every hair on Peter’s body raised and he tried to cover his ears on instinct, but couldn’t. Ross grabbed the collar of Peter’s suit and yanked him to his feet as the hijackers gathered in front of the ramp.
Blue sparks crackled at the edges of the loading ramp, and then, without further warning, the entire thing was ripped away. Deafening wind roared in Peter’s ears as Iron Man appeared in the gaping wound at the back of the Quinjet. Bullets pinged off the suit as Tony took a brief moment to assess the situation, the emotionless slits in the face plate lingering on Peter for a heartbeat before Tony attacked.
Ross cursed as the Quinjet descended into chaos. The traffickers had the numbers on their side—but their fancy guns designed to take down mutants were mercifully useless against the hard titanium of Tony’s suit. In moments, half the traffickers were down, and the rest dispersed backward deeper into the Quinjet, shouting to one another over the roaring wind.
Ross cursed again. As Tony fought the traffickers down the left side of the jet, Ross tugged at Peter’s suit and dragged him down the right side. Peter tried to yell to Tony, but his voice was lost in the wind and the chaos. Ross dragged him all the way to the end where the loading ramp had once been, reaching up to stabilize himself with a grab handle as he nudged Peter closer and closer to the edge.
Peter struggled, but he couldn’t grab a handle with his bound hands. He stuck his feet to the floor, but he was so close to the edge he was already dizzy with vertigo.
The final trafficker hit the floor and Tony turned just as Ross pulled a handgun from his back pocket and rammed it between Peter’s eyebrows.
“Stand down, Stark!” Ross yelled over the howling wind.
Peter couldn’t say if Tony even heard Ross’s order. A tiny, hidden gun emerged from the shoulder of the suit and fired. It clipped Ross’s hand, close enough that Peter flinched, and the handgun went sailing over the void behind them.
Ross’s face went purple as he shook his wounded hand. His gaze turned to Peter, and Peter’s Spidey sense shrieked.
Ross had nothing left to lose.
The man’s face twisted, and then the hand tangled in the front of Peter’s suit shoved him backward.
Peter screamed out as his center of gravity shifted. He stuck to the floor of the Quinjet with all his might, but it was too late. He was falling—and taking a section of the Quinjet’s floor with him.
The world spun like a drier around him—sky, ground, sky, ground—as Peter tumbled from the Quinjet. He kicked and thrashed, but with his hands restrained, he couldn’t even try to slow his fall. Despite the height the Quinjet was flying at, the ground rushed up towards him unbelievably fast.
This was it. This was it. His terrified mind kept repeating the same few words. He was falling out of the sky, and he couldn’t save himself.
Sky, ground, sky, ground.
A brief flash of red.
The ground below filled his vision more and more as he fell. He was falling toward a forest, an endless expanse of green. Briefly, Peter’s mind told him that that was good, that hitting trees was his best chance at survival. It didn’t really feel like it right now.
All he could think about now was that hitting anything was going to hurt.
Something collided with him from above.
Peter screamed as he was violently jerked to the side, like a giant hand had come down and plucked him from the sky. His head was spinning still, unable to catch up, as he suddenly found himself no longer falling.
No. Now, he was flying.
And above him was Iron Man, clutching Peter tight around his midsection as they soared over the forest Peter had so nearly hit.
They burst through the canopy. It was dark below, and Iron Man drew up just in time to save them both from a fatal landing. They hit the ground heavily and rolled, Tony curled up around Peter and did his best to protect him as chunks of the Iron Man suit snapped off with the force of their landing.
When they finally rolled to a stop, Peter could only lay there, unable to catch his breath.
He’d nearly died.
Tony burst into motion, rolling off Peter and crowding over him as his helmet receded back into his suit.
“Peter!” he cried, voice hoarse. “Are you alright?”
“I—” Peter tried but broke off into a hacking cough.
Tony grabbed his shoulders and helped him to sit up as he choked and spluttered. One of his hands rubbed Peter’s back soothingly, and Peter couldn’t help but slump into Tony’s protective grip.
“Oh my God,” Peter said once he’d recovered. “He just threw me out of a fucking plane.”
Tony sounded hysterical. “Yeah, Pete. I noticed.”
“They’re—” Peter yanked against the restraints he was still wearing. It hurt like he’d broken the skin in all his thrashing. “He’s gonna get away!”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Tony. He brushed Peter’s windswept hair out of his face and frowned as he took in the blossoming bruise Peter had almost forgotten about. “All I care about is you, kid. SHIELD can focus on finding that bastard.” He winked. “You’d think Ross would know all our Quinjets are tracked.”
Peter laughed. He sounded pretty hysterical too, but they both ignored that.
Tony shook his head and pulled Peter tighter. “Holy shit, kid. Don’t—don’t ever do that to me again.”
“Don’t get abducted and thrown out of a jet?”
“Yeah. Definitely not. That’s—that’s being added to the list of household Don’ts. Absolutely not. Put a dollar in the jar.”
“I don’t—I don’t live in your household.”
“Shut up, Pete.”
“Okay.”
For a moment, they just sat there on the forest floor, surrounded by the broken branches they’d torn from the trees in their fall. But then Peter twitched, yanking on his aching wrists again, and Tony abruptly pulled away to saw through the restraints with a laser Peter could only hope wasn’t as shaky as Tony’s voice would imply.
“Next time can I… not have to go to the Quinjet?” Peter asked weakly.
“Fuck. Yes,” said Tony, his voice thin. “Absolutely. I’m so—I’m so sorry, kid. I shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have separated you from the team—that’s literally our policy.”
Well… that was a positive, at least.
Finally freed, Peter pulled Tony back in for a hug. Tony sighed contently, running a hand through Peter’s hair.
“Um, Mr. Stark?”
“Yeah, kid?”
Peter pulled back and eyed Tony’s torn and broken suit. “How… are we gonna get out of here?”
Trapped in thousands of square miles of forest, Peter could only hope at least one of their trackers was still working.