Chapter Text
On July 10th, 2003, exactly one month from Peter Parker’s second birthday, Mary Parker sits at her kitchen table and tells her husband that they will be dead soon.
Richard Parker pauses as he sips his coffee, taking in his wife’s clear and calm expression from behind his thick frames, and slowly puts the mug down. When Mary’s nervous, or lying, or joking, she has a tell, which irritates her, but Richard can always see it. It’s not a physical tell, never that, but Richard can tell. Maybe it’s something in her eyes. Maybe it’s something in the way her mouth sets. Maybe it’s just that he was a man, hopelessly in love, and just knew her that well. But he can always tell, and she is completely and utterly serious.
“Okay,” he tells her, fighting to remain calm, which is hard, considering that there’s only one spy in this marriage, and it certainly wasn’t himself.
He was a man who could barely operate a toaster on a good day, despite his ability to understand the formulation of covalent bonds. A double life was a bit beyond his blood.
“Just okay?” Mary asks, arching a brow.
“Well,” Richard starts, frowning to himself, “I think I’m having a good reaction under the circumstances. Would you prefer I freak out? Because I can do that. I think I always have one good panic attack locked and loaded, if that’s what you like, but I think a meltdown would fit the circumstances, too.”
“This is not the time for jokes, Richard.”
Her voice is flat. Only time it gets like that is when he leaves his shoes just in front of the door, forcing them into the role of a stopper, and they keep her locked out of the apartment.
“I agree with you,” Richard replies, “But you tell a guy he’ll be dead soon and you have to understand that he might not know immediately what to do.”
When he’d met Mary all those years ago, and she had confessed this secret to him, Richard had… not the best reaction. He’d been terrified. Well—not at first, actually, because at first, Richard had been convinced she had to be joking, until she brought out all the passports. Unless Mary was a really selfish scammer, and committed to the bit by learning all of the languages associated with all the passports, it’d been really hard not to take her seriously on it after a while, especially when she hadn’t budged on it not being a joke. It probably didn’t help that her version of doubling down was explaining to him, in detail, beat for beat, his own secrets back at him.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting out of her from that—a laugh, a cry, anything—but she remains the same. Compartmentalizing. Remaining calm.
It’s either that, or complete and utter denial and disassociation.
“Okay,” Richard says, unsure if he’s really rearing for an answer or if he just wants to validate Mary’s reaction, or lack thereof, “Do you know when? Is it a ‘eventually, one day, when we’re old and gray and I’m just thinking about the fragility of life’ kind of soon, or is it a next ten minutes kind of soon? There’s a distinction, you see.”
Silence, while Mary’s bright green eyes bore into him. They swim with things Richard truly doesn’t want to know, but he knows Mary is just holding it in, and someone needs to jump in and fish it out. Unfortunately for both of them, it’s gotta be him, and it’s not something he can push off.
“Soon,” she says after a long, pregnant pause, “Sooner than you’d like me to say.”
And Richard simply nods, not knowing what else to do—because how do you react to that kind of statement?
“Well,” Richard says, “Maybe we really do have to cancel the bouncy castle. Dammit, I really didn’t want Peter to miss out on his first bouncy castle with his dad.”
At this, Mary’s lips twitch. It’s unclear if it would’ve became a smile or a frown, but, knowing Mary, she wasn’t sure which, either. He looks to Peter, who’s ran himself into a comatose toddler power nap, a tornado of fallen toys around him. He sleeps on their worn, loved sofa with a peace Richard is jealous of, bathing in the sun and the innocence of childhood ignorance, and he has the temptation to join him, to drink in those curls, those cheeks, that nose.
The realization that life was truly fleeting is one that he hopes their little Petey Poopy Baby will never know. He hopes innocence will continue to kiss his cheeks and brighten his laugh. It’s the least he can hope for, with what he knows is to come.
It’s never occurred to Peter before how little time a kidnapping actually takes.
For as much as his family had tried to prepare him for danger, and as much as James supplemented it in their secret training sessions, he’s not prepared for the thugs that catch him in the bathroom, of all places, a needle in his neck before he can even think of trying to defend himself.
Which, secondly, sedation. Never having had a major surgery or anything that would require him to be put under, he never had before realized how instantaneous it all is. Movies make it seem like someone gets drowsy or like they have a bit of time to fight back, but apparently, when you know what you’re doing, like kidnapping some high school twig, sedation is apparently so simple. Its the second thing on his mind when he wakes up, again, not drowsy like how the movies would make him believe, but definitely disoriented and confused as he tries to get his bearings.
Which is hard, considering he can’t see. He can feel the weight of the sack pushing his hair flat against his skull, depriving him of even a hint of light, and before he can stop himself, because he’s Peter and he’s always become more talkative when anxious, he asks,
“Man, where do you guys get your kidnapping supplies? Can’t be Home Depot.”
He’s unsurprised when he doesn’t get an answer back. He knows that even though he can’t hear anyone around him, there’s very low chances he’s actually alone. Would break the rules of kidnapping-and-subsequent-interrogation if the victim is alone. According to movies, anyway.
“Maybe Lowes? Or is it Amazon? It’s probably Amazon. Everything’s on Amazon.”
James had told him that, in real life, there’s not much he can do if he’s already in bad enough of a position. He’s not strong enough to bust out of the cable ties that bind his hands behind his back, nor the individual ties that bind him to the front legs of the chair he’s in; not like James might be able to. The talking may be irritating to all involved, but it’s certainly not going to be enough to annoy them into freeing him, which Peter, with the small amount of years of frontal lobe development under his belt, knew that meant that there’s no point to talking, but also that there wasn’t anything to lose by talking, either.
“Or is there like a supervillain depot? Like, Romantic Depot, but for evil-doing? Are they owned by the same company? Because, honestly, it is a lot of the same products if you really think about it. I mean, not a crazy amount of overlap, but enough, right?”
The chair is metal. He can feel the cold through his jeans. So no chance in breaking it. Not that he could’ve broken a wooden chair, really. But James told him to take stock of whatever he can, and all he’s got is the musty smell of the sack on his head, a room in need of a space heater, a metal chair and a whole lot of fucked.
He doesn’t doubt that his tracker and his phone were taken. He can’t even feel his wallet in his pocket, nor his watch around his wrist, or even his glasses. They even took his school hoodie, and, from what he can tell, his shoes and his socks, his bare tootsies pressing into a dusty floor.
He doesn’t even, for a moment, consider the taser Natta had packed him.
He knows better than to even believe they’d left him with that much if they’d taken his shoes and socks. He’s lucky he still has pants.
Wait—does he? He shifts around a bit. Feels like jeans scratching against his knees.
“Can you get the supplies delivered in DoorDash? Like, how convenient is it to keep stock of supervillain supplies? Or do you guys manufacture in house? Like, do you have your own brand of burlap sacks?”
He does his best to remain calm despite the word vomit currently leaving his lips. There’s very little chance someone won’t figure out where he is, right? After all, he was supposed to be on a field trip to Oscorp. A field trip Dad had protested heavily. A field trip he’d begged and pleaded and cried and snotted for, all in the name of he and James’ pursuit of the truth. Of course, Dad didn’t know that part about it. Or really, any parts about it. To him, Peter just really wanted to experience bio-chemical engineering on the kind of level that even Stark Industries couldn’t match. Which, technically, was true; Peter was intrigued.
But not as intrigued as he may or may not have lied to his dad about. Which he feels bad about, yes, but this was kind of important, and definitely not something he needed to add to Dad’s plate.
“I swear, if you take off the sack and it’s Oscorp brand, I’m gonna lose. My. Mind.”
And, finally, he breaks someone.
Actually, two people.
One who snickers, and the other who, Peter realizes, smacks him, skin hitting skin.
Maybe a bald man? Is that even useful information?
“Wha?” comes a gruff voice, sounding into the silence Peter’s been relentlessly trying to fill, “The kid is funny.”
“Thank you for being an appreciator of comedy,” Peter says, “Usually, people pay the comic for the set. So… do you wanna pay me by letting me go?”
Silence greets him back.
Not a snowball’s chance in hell, he gathers it to mean.
“I mean, I’ll get out of here soon anyway,” he says with what he knows is a weak shrug.
It’s not that he’s unsure of it, because that’s genuinely not the case. He knows the clock is ticking on their evil sinister plan, but the name, Peter Benjamin Parker, if you didn’t know, is actually spelt
A
N
X
I
E
T
Y,
Which is a very commonly misspelled name, even on his social security card and his work permit, and means that even though he knows there’s a chance of him getting out of here alive, it doesn’t stop the chronic worry.
“Lots of confidence,” someone voices out.
This doesn’t sound gruff like a thug, but assured. Measured. Calculating. He didn’t, he can tell from the confidence that exudes from its timbre that this is the head honcho. This guy is the boss of this level.
“Oh, so you’re the big bad,” Peter says, swallowing back the tinges of panic at his throat, “Are the sacks Oscorp brand?”
A chuckle meets his question, and then they reply,
“You’re spending more time worrying about some sack than what we could’ve gone through all this trouble for.”
To this, Peter shrugs, and tries not to let his voice quiver when he responds, “I’ve come to know that I’m a bit of a hot commodity for Oscorp, if I’m honest. Cards on the table, I was kind of expecting this to happen.”
“Were you, now.”
It’s not a question. Peter knows that.
Doesn’t stop him, though.
“Well, yeah, but I was kind of hoping to get to lunch first. I got hot Cheetos in my lunch bag, and I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”
“So we’re taking up your time, then, is that right, Mr. Parker?” Big Bad asks, sounding a hint of amused, but Peter knows he’s not. He can hear the irritation all the same, even if Big Bad’s pretty good at hiding it compared to most people.
“Yeah,” Peter drawls nonetheless, pretending to be tougher than he is, “So if we can get this show on the road, I’d really appreciate it.”
There’s a hint of silence before Big Bad coughs out a laugh so booming and so powerful that every muscle in Peter’s body tenses as if he’s going to be pounced on. He’s not Big Bad for nothing. Before he has a moment to come to terms with the new set of panic washing through his stomach, the sack is ripped off his head unceremoniously, and he has no time to think before his retinas are flooded by a surprisingly well-lit room. Despite wanting to close his eyes, he forces himself to blink through the light, trying to get as good of a grasp on his surroundings as possible. Anything that could be a weapon. Anything that could be an escape.
There’s a table, but it’s metal too. A box, or what he assumes to be a box, sits atop it, covered with a disappointingly unbranded black sack he guesses to be similar to his own. IV bag. Blood bag, too, which is concerning in its presence alone. His book bag and its contents are on the table too, with his phone, camera, and watch in surprisingly undamaged condition. He can’t say the same for his glasses, though. Those are a surprisingly mangled mess of what he formerly used to see. He’s just barely getting by with squinting, his prescription is so bad.
Past the table are a surprising amount of scientists. Doctors, maybe? All staring at him. Clipboards in hand, waiting for something, anything, which is confusing for Peter, not just because they’re there at all, but because they were somehow so quiet that Peter didn’t even know there were more than two people in the room with him. They all look so incredibly normal and mundane that no part of Peter’s mind can reason out why they are there, or why they are already scribbling notes as Peter watches them.
There’s no windows. There’s one door, straight ahead of him, to the left of the doctors, and astonishingly enough, it’s even cracked open. Not that Peter could really do anything with the opportunity, mind you, what with the bonds and the fact that, even when Peter tries to stand, he finds that the chair is bolted into the ground.
It’s only then that he realizes that, in front of him, sits a television. He can’t make out the face of the man on the other side of the lens, only his silhouette, before he speaks again, over speakers so incredibly clear that Peter is surprised the man isn’t actually here.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter,” the man intones smoothly, before he adds, “Meet you again, I should say. It’s been a long time. Look at you. So grown. Last time I saw you, you were barely up to my knee. Cutest little kid.”
He can’t see anything but the outline of a person, but, despite that, Peter knows that the man is smiling at him. More than anything else about this man, more than the unknown of his appearance, the knowledge of his smile is terrifying to Peter. It’s only seconded by the idea that this man has met him before.
“We’ve been looking for you for quite some time,” he says, his voice clear and, yet, so insidious that it makes Peter’s insides crawl, “We’re happy to have found you. It was a little hard to accomplish, what with the Avengers and your little lapdog, watching over you, but I am glad you can finally join us.”
Peter knows Oscorp knew about his family, but hearing this man confirm it is nonetheless terrifying, and it completely dries out his throat.
“Oh, now we’re not bantering anymore, Peter?” The man asks, his deep voice a mockery of Peter’s attempt to be strong; teetering on sarcasm, if sarcasm was dripping with danger and the promise of explicit violence, “That’s fair. If I were your age, sitting we’re you’re sitting, I’d probably want to be silent too.”
Peter says nothing. There’s nothing he can say. He merely looks back, hoping his face does not betray his fear.
“Since we got your attention and your silence,” the man sighs out, sitting back in his chair now in a display of authority, “We can get started. We can muzzle you if we have to, but I’d rather not muzzle a child, especially you. It would be… dirtier, I believe, than this has to be.”
Two doctors move forward from the crowd. Peter can barely make out most of them, really, so counting them just hadn’t been an option, but considering how just two thinned them out decently, he’s guessing there’s six total. He’s not sure it’s important. He’s not even sure what’s important to know, in this situation. He’s basically a sitting duck until help arrives, whenever that may be.