Chapter Text
Rain patters against the tall windows of the Avengers tower; New York sprawling out around it as Spider-man swings throughout the streets towards it.
The tower isn’t all that tall, certainly not compared to a skyscraper like the Empire State Building, but its mere presence seems to command people’s views, like a magnet of their attention. To many it serves as a symbol of safety, that no matter what they lost someone would be there to protect them, to save them. To the Avengers themselves, it serves as a home, a place of family.
The rooms, as big and as fancy as they are, are also painted in small memories; laughter and traitorous looks as Nat reveals that she was the one to steal something; dramatic stories told by Thor of extraterrestrial beings and monsters he had fought; heated debates over what movie to show Steve next. It’s often that they are so distracted arguing that they never notice when Bruce sneaks the controller from right under their noses.
At least, they don’t notice until he threatens to put Frozen on – or worse, My little Pony. ‘If you’re going to act like children, I will put on movies meant for children’. Out of all the quotes Peter had heard come out of Dr Bruce Banner’s mouth, he never expected that specific one to be his favourite.
Peter smirks at the memory, approaching the tower and swinging through his room’s window, which slides shut behind him automatically. Pulling off his mask, his hair falls in wet ringlets around his face, droplets of water dripping onto the carpet. His suit evidently hadn’t been much of a buffer against the downpour while he patrolled and he was becoming painfully aware of the wet fabric clinging to his skin, like an especially tight and uncomfortable swimsuit. He would have to look at improving the water resistance of the material.
“Hey Jarvis?” Peter asks, making his way to and rummaging through his draws for a pair of clothes to change into after quickly hopping in the shower. He’s itching to the soaked fabric off his body, his flesh beginning to crawl with disgust and he’s dripping water all over his carpet. Ugh, he’s not looking forward to prune fingers and toes.
“Yes, sir?” Jarvis replies instantly, awaiting his response.
“Has that villain been put in custody yet?” Peter grabs his towel from its place on the radiator, blissfully warm, before grabbing a pair of socks and underwear.
“Yes sir, the boss finished it off after you left. He should be here in a few minutes. Would you like me to let him know you are back?”
“Uh, sure. Thank you, Jarvis!” Peter calls, ducking into the bathroom, then stepping out to check the phone he had abandoned on his bed for the time.
“Anytime, sir.” The AI replies before he returns to the bathroom again, the door shutting behind him with a click.
His hair is still dripping when he enters the lounge area of the tower, while he desperately tries to rub it dry with a towel that had been long since been dry. Despite the rapidly decreasing sunlight, the lights are still switched off, the TV illuminating the lounge area in a soft glow. The sound of the water hitting the panes of glass reverberates peacefully around the room, the soft murmuring of voices and clattering of utensils from the kitchen drowning out the noise ever so slightly.
Peter’s feet pad silently across the room, his socks muffling the steps, yet he’s not silent or unnoticed. An advantage of living with people that have more PTSD than your average person is that they always seem to notice things, emotional or physical. It’s been the reason that he had been unable to get away with specific injuries on multiple occasions since he became an Avenger, but he isn’t complaining. If May is safe, he’ll be fine.
Sam’s in the kitchen, if the smell of delicious food is anything to go by. Seriously, where had that guy learnt to cook from? He would always love his aunt’s cooking, but he does not miss her burnt and blackened sausages or rubbery, flavourless pasta. At least she could cook spaghetti better – to a master chef degree, in his opinion.
Clint is perched on the arm of the sofa, near the furthest corner to the elevator while still being in view of the stairs. He tends to gravitate to places where he can have an eye on the whole room, a clear view of people walking in and everyone present. Old habits die hard, he supposes. Yet, as Peter approaches, a smirk worthy of the Cheshire cat forms on his face.
Now, out of all the avengers, Clint is the one that seems to get into the most trouble, whether it be because he did something or Natasha decided to skilfully place the blame on him. But Clint is always good with his pranks, the fellow jokester among the other avengers.
“Hey Peter! Quick question: which is the better movie; The suicide squad or Suicide squad?” A groan came from Sam, still in the kitchen, Nat shaking her head from beside him, abandoning whatever conversation the two were having.
“Quit bugging everyone who walks into the room, you’ve already proven your point.” She walks out of the kitchen; throwing a glare at Clint that so obviously lacked malice. If anything, her scolding only seemed to encourage him even more, as he turned back to Peter, his mischievous grin widening.
“No, go on, let the kid answer. Which one is better?” He probed, both Nat’s and Clint’s eyes on him as they wait for his answer. It’s never good to get between the two when they’re arguing over something, but when they’re up to something that seemed to concern the other? Even worse. So, Peter decided to go with the safe answer. Besides, he has no clue what the difference between the two are.
“Oh, uh, I have no preference?” The moment he answered, he knew he had just handed Clint exactly what he wanted, if his laugh was any indication.
“See, that’s the fifth person to not know the difference!” Clint throws a fist into the air triumphantly, an award-winning smile on his face. Natasha only rolls her eyes in response, clearly having accepted defeat a long time ago.
If four other people didn’t know the difference, then that means that Tony had already been ambushed by Clint’s question. Not that he’s worried the man couldn’t handle a simple villain, he’s just frustrated that he couldn’t finish it himself. But he was at a risk of hypothermia, and Iron man’s suit was better insulated and protected from the elements than his is. The one and only Spider-man taken down by a little rain would not be a good look, and he knows it.
He had wanted to speak to Tony about that, but he isn’t in the room, which means he and Steve had already left to drop Bruce off at his conference meeting. He already has a notification set on his phone to watch that – no way is he going to miss something like that, especially when it links to reducing carbon emissions.
“Hey Peter, weren’t you supposed to visit your aunt tonight?” Sam pipes up from the kitchen, getting plates out, wearing that ridiculous apron that Tony had gotten him last Christmas. The thing is enough of an eyesore that it’s been dubbed by Clint as ‘The horrendous rainbow, glitter vomit apron’, which no one has bothered arguing with. Tony had burned every other apron in the tower, or they had mysteriously gone missing, so Sam hadn’t had a choice but to wear it, much to his dismay.
“Oh, crap, you’re right! I was supposed to be there like an hour ago!” Peter panics, checking his phone, the screen lit up with a few missed call notifications from May. He quickly grabs his coat where he had left it in the foresight of getting it ready to leave beforehand, giving a few goodbyes to the team as he runs to the elevator.
He’s glad that May moved closer to the Avengers tower, making it easier for the two to see each other. Peter was not entirely sure what happened to her old apartment, but Tony was more than happy to pay for her new place of residence, making it all worth it.
It had become too dangerous for Peter to remain living with his aunt, and everywhere he went he seemed to be tracked down by deluded fans or crazy supervillains. Or sometimes just villains. He considers himself lucky that the Avengers willingly welcomed him into their fold, offering him a home and protection against the things that tormented the pair.
And he’s glad.
So glad. If someone had told Peter from around six months ago that he would consider the avengers as much as family as he did May, he would have called them insane.
But it’s true. For the first time ever, he has people around him that that know how he feels, how to comfort him. And he’s more than happy to take the constant load off May’s shoulders. Won’t stop her from caring or calling every day, but at least she’s less worried about him dying with a net of experienced superheroes around him at almost every moment.
He stayed the night at her place, telling stories and eating her famous spaghetti. He may love Sam’s cooking, but nothing can ever compare to his aunt’s spaghetti. Her talent in cooking went into her spaghetti. Neither ever bring up about how it had always been Ben’s favourite. They played board games against each other, Peter losing on purpose just to hear May’s cackle as she played her winning move, and to see her dance around the apartment with her hands thrown around in the air.
Her beaming smile always made it worth it, every single time.
It’s the following morning after he had left that he feels his spider sense tingle up his spine as he sits in the local café to his aunt’s apartment. He immediately freezes, gaze moving to the TV over the top of the counter, his enhanced hearing easily making out the audio over the general hubbub of people who didn’t seem to grasp the severity of what was happening. He can’t see the screen, but he'll take knowing what the threat is over no information at all.
“And we’ve just got some breaking news here – in the early hours of this morning, an unknown flying projectile struck the Avengers tower, causing damage to the building for the first time in months. The flying object has just been identified as the Avenger’s Quin jet, which was last seen departing from Washington’s conference at around midnight.”
Peter’s breath catches in his throat as the reporter speaks in a calm, languid way, voice clear and steady, a complete contrast to the thoughts derailed in his head.
“Dr Bruce Banner is the only avenger currently accounted for, and not a single word has come out of the tower since the attack. So, now we must ask ourselves one question; is this a foreign threat, or have the Avengers finally launched themselves at each other’s throats?”
Peter doesn’t hear what the reporter finished with, already pushing himself up off his seat, abandoning a few dollar bills and his cold cup of coffee at the table. He runs out of the café, without a glance behind him, eyes set on the trail of smoke that he can make out over the skyline.
Peter swings through the streets, glad he had ensured his suit would be dry by morning, the usual enamour he gets from the brief sensation of falling and then flying missing as adrenaline and primal fear runs through his veins. He can’t help the gasp that leaves his mouth as his eyes focus on the sight of the tower. The Quin jet had obviously lost control at some point, deep gouges and broken windows shrouding the building. The jet itself is resting embedded into the lading pad, half hanging off it at a precarious angle, a deep grey smog trailing from the marks in the metal.
Peter doesn’t register the crowds of people under the tower, pointing and staring, eyes creased with worry. He doesn’t notice the cheers as he approaches the tower, doesn’t acknowledge the barrier the NYPD had encased the tower in, preventing civilians from approaching and getting themselves hurt. He just swings up to the tower, landing and crawling his way up to the landing platform, intent to make sure that no one is still there and possibly bleeding out.
He hoists himself up, over the ledge, avoiding the few stray shards of glass on the surface. His footsteps are light as he rushes to the back of the jet, coming to a stop, letting out a curse at the sight. Because he can’t get to the back of the jet. That’s the side currently tipping over the edge of the landing platform.
Peter could jump into the back, he has no doubt that he could make it with a run up, but he can’t risk the chance that the Quin jet will spin or fall off completely and crush the civilians below. Muttering under his breath, he rounds back to the front, feeling relieved as he notices that the windshield of the cockpit is smashed, leaving him a place to get in without turning a few people into a pancake – including himself.
He walks up to the nose of the jet, pushing down on the material, glad when he hears nothing shift, no skittering of rocks falling off the side. He draws in a deep breath, resting his forehead against the metal before he begins to climb, hands and feet sticking as he crawls up.
He reaches the frame of where the windshield had been, shards of glass still clinging to the edge, but Peter ignores that, gripping the outline with both hands. He carefully uses the warped metal to gently vault into the cockpit, landing on the glass strewn floor, brushing it off his hands, disregarding the small amount of pain it brings him. His accelerated healing will deal with it quickly enough; there’s no point putting any extra thought into it.
The glass crunches under his feet as he glances around the ship, gulping nervously at the sight of the drop he got from the back, the ramp hanging out above thin air, New York visible before him. Spotting no signs of life, Peter is about to leave when something enraptures his attention, an item wedged under the pilot’s seat.
He frowns, crouching to pick it up, the thing obvious to be a gas canister on closer inspection. Simple and green, the print of a manufacturer logo on the side, and clearly empty, whatever gas it once contained long gone. But something irks him as he turns the thing in a full circle, inspecting the top and bottom. Why is there be a gas canister on the ship?
It takes him half a millisecond before the reason clicks in his mind.
The glass is in the inside.
That means it had been broken from the outside, and Peter’s willing to bet that the glass had already been broken when they arrived at the tower. There must have been a struggle just as they returned which would explain why the tower had taken a few hits and why they had crash landed, in a way, on the landing strip. But then why hadn’t anyone heard from the avengers inside? Unless… unless the avengers weren’t inside. They might have been taken or overpowered or killed.
But they’re the avengers. They can’t just die, especially without telling you. The small voice in the back of Peter’s head tries to argue but now he had to check, a seed of fear and doubt growing in his mind. He’s waisted enough time in a place that has nothing of importance to him at the moment.
Perhaps if he had stuck around for a few moments more, he would have seen the pair of eyes glowing from the shadows.
******
He barely registers the click the door gives as it swings shut behind him, instead focusing on the dents and scorch marks adorning the walls, accompanied by small splatters of dark red.
Blood.
The dents are obviously Cap’s shield and the scorch’s the repulsors of the Iron man suit, but the blood? It could have been their enemy’s or theirs and Peter had no way to tell.
“Jarvis?” Peter attempts, the lights flickering above him as only the churning of static echoes on the loudspeakers.
A pang of anxiety runs through him as he realises something is wrong. Really wrong.
Jarvis is always operational, and Tony ensures everyone is out of the tower for at least a few hours if he does have to be shut down for a system reboot. The AI is never offline in emergency situations, and Peter is sure this counts as an emergency.
He counts this situation as an emergency; he’s been left unsupervised. He winces at the ridiculousness of the joke.
Peter walks forward, senses working on overtime as he sneaks, eventually reaching a ladder that he knows will lead him up to the training level, from the maintenance floor. He glances around before he begins his climb, a pit in his stomach, his heart beating just fast enough to feel pumping in his chest, keeping him alive.
His spider sense hasn’t tingled since he left that café, barely twenty minutes ago now.
Just paranoia.
The eyes watching from the shadows don’t agree.
Peter climbs the ladder, the metal cool against his fingers, his thoughts spiralling as the static sound plays in short bursts. It sounds like waves lapping at a beach, which would be relaxing under a different situation.
But when he's trying to keep a constant ear out for a shout or a scream for help, the unnecessary noise just jumbles and confuses his brain.
He reaches the top of the ladder, into a small room which is suspiciously unmarred by the damage on the level below. He quietly opens the door, and steps into the hallway.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
He scurries to the first training room, the one on the front side of the tower, but everything is in disarray.
Arrows lie snapped on the floor; guns scattered everywhere and tasers smashed. Other weapons are abandoned too, each in a similar mangles, unusable state as the others.
All the blue training mats are down, something that is usually only done on one side of the space and when someone is training. But it’s empty, not a soul in sight.
“Helloo? Anyone home?” He calls out, his voice too loud in the silence, the static from before washed out by unnerving vibe he gets from the dishevelled room.
With the mats down, it reminds him of the sessions that he gets almost every weekday for preparation, vital training. They usually involve him getting beaten over and over by Nat and Steve, sometimes Clint, but he doesn’t really beat him up as much as the terrible two do. What was it that Steve said that one time?
“It hurts because a villain never cares about whether or not you’re in pain. They rarely care about anything other than themselves or the thing that you’re stopping them from getting.”
Steve was far too relaxed, not a singular bead of sweat on his forehead while Peter lies on the mat, back throbbing. He hadn’t moved since Nat had thrown him, her hair remaining frustratingly unruffled and perfect. He felt like a ball of sweat and other yucky things as he groaned from his position, breathing in rough pants.
He was like a human dog, minus the drool.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t go easy on me! Isn’t it easier to adapt if you slowly increase the difficulty instead of starting on Ultra Hard Mode, level 3000?” Steve frowned slightly at his wording, Nat only smirking as she offered Peter a hand up.
“This is us going easy on you. Trust me, kid, you would feel it more if we were going Ultra Hard Mode level 3000 on you.” Peter accepted her hand, standing with sore muscles. He stretched, before resuming the fighting stance he had been thrown about in at least fifty times, that morning alone.
“I also fail to see how this helps me against villains with superpowers and stuff.” Peter supplies, ducking Steve’s fist but meeting Nat’s kick and then one of Steve’s, which he promptly admits defeat to and just lays on the floor.
He wasn’t going to deny that he was getting a little frustrated with never winning, with getting chucked around like a mannequin. He could see their point, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.
“Because you can’t always rely on your powers, Pete. You’d be surprised by the things people will do when they’re desperate. Those villains will have no quarrels with tagging you with something that negatively impacts your powers. Besides, if you can’t beat me then how will you be able to beat anyone else with super strength?” Steve smirked a little at the joke, eyes glinting mischievously before he crouched down next to Peter. “It may not feel like it right now, but this will help you in the future.”
“And if it doesn’t, we give you full permission to steal our portions of Sam’s meals for the rest of our lives.” Natasha supplied, sitting on the opposite side of Peter, her words drawing out a smile on his face.
“Well, let’s get this over and done with then.”
Peter is drawn out of the memory as suddenly as it came upon him, smiling fondly at the recollection.
It had been when he was new to the team, only a few weeks into his stay with them. Nat had constantly been that warm face, willing to give him a chance, not questioning why he was chosen to be a part of the group.
She didn’t question it when she found him sat wide awake in the middle of the night, traces of tears on his face. She had just sat with him and waited.
The others had done the same with him at least once in the six months he had been an Avenger, and he had done the same with almost each one of them, even if they were less willing to accept his help. Actually, he hadn’t been too willing himself at times.
He was too used to being alone, too used to being the one to protect people. He supposes that’s how they felt too.
He's given a rude awakening when his spider sense shrieks in his head, an urgent and unforgiving sound.
In a split second, he moves his head to the left, narrowly avoiding the fist flying at the back of his head.
He whips around, catching the second fist before it could catch him square in the face, almost completely dropping it when he meets the eyes of their wielder.
Because he recognises the burning, fire orange hair.
He recognises the way it falls at her shoulders in an arch.
He recognises the black suit, that she once fessed up to not zipping it all the way up so she could breathe properly while wearing it.
He doesn’t recognise the hate and confusion in her eyes, and he does not recognise the tangled and matted mess of her usually neat hair.
“Nat?” he whispers, eyes wide.
Natasha Romanov is many things. She can be vengeful and harsh, can be mean.
But she's also kind. Kind to those she believes deserves her kindness, for she doesn't believe the world owes it.
She is never hateful, not the burning uncontrollable rage he sees in her eyes now and she is never confused, not even when they’re playing scrabble with Thor.
There's always a plan in those eyes, a mirror the reflects your emotions because Natasha understands every emotion.
She understands the pain, the silents torment.
She also knows the laughter and smiles.
This isn’t Natasha Romanov. Just someone using her as a host.
The not-Nat but Nat breaks out of his grasp, hands moving to his wrists and twisting them, pulling him over her shoulders.
He hits the floor with a thud, much harder than she usually threw him around in their training sessions, sending sparks of pain through his veins.
“Trust me, kid, you would feel it a whole lot more if the were going Ultra Hard Mode 3000.”
Only now does he realise what exactly she meant.
“Woah, is this strictly necessary? We literally have a schedule for this for a reason, you know?” Peter scrambles up, missing the boot that would have crushed his skull by mere inches.
Nat growls, her teeth looking sharper in the harsh glow of the sun, her eyes flickering to the colour of dead, wilting vegetation.
She pounces forward, knocking him down once more, before something cold is harshly pressed against his sweaty forehead, the presence of the gun making his heart stutter for a moment, his breathing increasing into fearful pants the longer she smirks down at him.
She - no, whoever is doing this - is enjoying it.
They’re enjoying watching the fear in his movements, enjoying toying with his life, enjoying every second of his suffering, Nat’s red curls blocking her eyes from his view.
“Nat, Natasha, please, please.” He struggles, but she drives a knee sharply into his ribs, her free hand hand twisting his wrist with a crack, smashing it into the ground in a wave of agony.
His web shooters snap with the wrist, hut he’s in far too much pain to take a note of it, eyes trained on to Nat’s every movement, his body dangerously still.
He sees the exact moment her fingers tighten on the trigger, clamping his eyes shut in an instant.
He will not allow the last thing he sees to be the face of someone he loves killing him.
The empty click of the gun is music to Peter’s ears, but the relief is short lived, his eyes shooting open as Natasha goes to grab one of the several broken arrows lingering around.
He takes advantage of her desperation, twisting and pushing her off him, sending her rolling, a glint of madness in her eyes as they trail him to where he jumps on the ceiling.
There’s no way that he’s going to let her in stabbing range, cradling his almost definitely broken wrist to his chest.
“Alright, I can see that now’s not a good time, how about we reschedule for later? Oh, we could do a picnic!”
There’s a sharp alarm from his spider sense, and Peter snaps his head to the entrance of the room, only to meet the gaze of an intact arrow, coupled with a pristine bow. Clint’s eyes are startingly the same wilted yellow as Nat’s, teeth glinting sharply, too sharply, as he grins, his fingers releasing the taught string, releasing the arrow straight at his face.
Fear flashes through his mind, almost freezing him in place as the silver tip seems to move closer and closer in slow motion.
He has a deft hope that his weapon is be sabotaged in some way, like Natasha’s gun, but as his spider sense shrieks in his brain, he knows that the wish is foolish.
Parker Luck always attacks him at the worst moments.
The arrow is travelling too fast, no time to duck out of the way, but Peter has better sense than to let himself be struck in the face, to get himself killed. Always protect the face, don’t neglect it, Nat had advised him once, while he nursed a broken nose from a villain.
So, Peter does the only viable option in the moment.
He raises the hand protected against his chest to block the arrow’s path.
Clint’s aim is true as ever, and for the first time Peter wishes it wasn’t.
He wishes that he missed his shot, that he fought whatever is controlling him and misdirect the path he had chosen even by a little.
Because having your hand pierced right through by an arrow sucks, big time.
Or is it called being impaled when it travels right through?
Peter drops down to the floor almost instantly, unable to swallow down his cry of pain as the impact truly hits. He holds his hand out in front of him, the thing shaking like he had just plunged it in an ice bath, crimson beginning to stain the fabric of his suit an disconcerting shade, the arrow lodged in his palm, half having gone through.
His eyes are drawn away as both Nat and Clint begin to advance on him, the murderous look never leaving their faces as they hold their weapons.
They’re going to kill him.
And they won’t stop until they succeed, until he’s out of the picture.
Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, ignoring the pulses of pain radiating from his hand, he puts the jokester mask back on, blinking the tears out of his eyes.
“Hey, so I can definitely see that I’m not needed here right now, so I’ll catch you later! How’s brunch for tomorrow, maybe 11?”
He carefully shuffles backwards, towards the broken window, prepping his web shooter, a small part of his mind grateful that he can still use his right hand to escape.
The pair glance at each other, Nat baring her teeth into a growl before breaking into a sprint.
But Peter is already gone, jumping out of the window, twisting mid air to angle his web at the floor above.
He doesn’t care that people may be able to see him, that cameras are trained on him at every angle, he just needs to get away, away from the nightmare he’s trapped in.
He swings up to the nearest entry point, the multiple shattered windows of the lounge area, not caring as he falls onto his knees on the sharp pieces of glass scattered on the ground.
He only stares at the arrow, watching with horrified fascination as droplets of his own blood drip, drip, drip down, discolouring his suit a darker, uglier tone of red.
He can feel the nausea creeping into his mouth, can feel the sting in his eyes, can feel the constant throbs of stabbing torment emanating from the sharp projectile.
His spider sense alerts him once more, the pain being blocked out by a fresh wave of fear induced adrenaline.
Peter’s eyes survey the massive room immediately, his working hand moving to the shaft of the arrow, snapping off the sharp tip still covered in his blood. He leaves the rest in, resolving to deal with it later, standing with a tense frame, ready to move at any moment.
Then he glimpses the red, white and blue coming around the corner, Captain America’s iconic vibranium shield nowhere in sight, the man’s blonde hair painted red by a wound, still bleeding sluggishly.
Despite the injury, the man moves almost robotically, as though unable to feel the agony it should be causing him.
“Steve?” Peter calls out tentatively; frame still tense despite the friendly face. “What exactly is going on? And no leaving out parts because I’m young, I just had Clint and Nat attack me, and if two super spies are working against you, it gets you scared that they’ve been through your search history.”
Steve just looks at him, tilting his head in a strange way as Peter speaks.
It’s almost the same way a dog would tilt its head in confusion, or a wolf in consideration.
It takes Peter far too long to realise that the look of consideration held home to the colour of wheat, a match to both Clint’s and Nat’s.
He doesn’t need the shriek of his senses to warn him when Steve leaps forward, surprisingly fast for a man who looked like he had been pulling a few all-nighters in a row, which Peter supposes he has, if he can remember correctly.
Peter jumps up to the ceiling at the last second, ignoring the protest from his injured hand as he sticks by his fingers, using his legs to push the man down, preventing a hundred feet tumble to become a mark on the pavement.
Steve hits the floor, grabbing Peter’s legs and tugging him down too, rolling to pin him down, hands too fast for Peter to stop as they grip at his throat, restricting his air flow to zero.
At first, he struggles, kicking his legs up, but Steve is immovable, as impossible to move as a stone gargoyle falling from an old decrepit building.
Wouldn’t stop him from trying.
He claws at the hands squeezing around his throat, his attempts growing weaker by the second, as he gasps wordlessly, nothing getting in or out.
He can’t breathe.
He’s going to die like this.
He’s going to die by a friend’s hand, his last words a pitiful excuse for a joke.
He lets his arm fall, tears welling up as he goes redder from lack of oxygen, but Steve can’t see that.
At least the person controlling his mind would not get to see his dying moments, can’t see the desperation and terror in his eyes.
His vision is blackening, spots dancing around like trees casting dappled sunlight, his fingers brushing against something jagged and sharp on the ground. A shard of glass. A shard of glass.
With the last of his strength, Peter thrusts the piece into Steve’s arm, the man loosening his grip as his eyes flicker from rage to shock at the wound.
Using his lapse in attention, Peter kicks back at the super soldier's chest, throwing him off, Peter scrambling towards the vents that are never blocked off, even in emergencies, airflow more important than anything else.
He can hear Steve following suit up behind him, can hear the snarl he let out as Peter makes a bid for freedom, a desperate escape attempt.
Disregarding the pain in his hand from the still present arrow shaft, he hoists himself up, for once glad of Steve’s larger frame preventing him from following.
He doesn’t wait to see the yellow irises burning with contempt, he just crawls through the vents, not stopping until he can no longer hear Steve’s desperate attempts to launch himself up and follow.
He finally pauses when the sharp sting of his senses finally subsides, the burning fire of torment pulsing in his hand replacing it in an instant.
He groans, clenching his teeth together as places his back against the wall of the vent, hands trembling as he stares down at the shaft still stuck in his hand. He had forfeited the only thing that had any semblance of a weapon in the room where the living incarnation of America’s truth and justice had almost strangled him to death.
God, what was wrong with him?
Peter heaves in sharp, burning breathes as his chest seems to constrict around him, clamping one shaking hand around the body of the arrow, squeezing his eyes shut as he desperately attempts to psych himself up.
He takes one last stuttering inhale, before exhaling and yanking the shaft straight out of his hand.
He cries out, chocking himself off before he can alert to the now apparent murder team of where he is.
He tears his mask off, tightly wrapping it around the wound as a fresh wave of red bleeds out from the entire hole in his hand.
He can feel numerous bruises developing around his body, can feel his ribs tighten with every inhale, can feel tiny puncture wounds from all the shards of glass he had encountered around the tower.
He’s hurting, in pain.
The Avengers are trying to kill him.
He’s already thought he would die twice today, his fast-beating heart a relieving indicator that blood still circulates through his body, that he is, in fact, alive.
But his whole world has been tipped upside in a matter of hours, his friends seemingly intent on murdering him.
He’s afraid.
He knows that three of his closest friends, people that he trusts, are controlled by something, something robbing each one of their personality and ability to make decisions, while the other three are unaccounted for.
Perhaps that’s what truly scares him.
The realisation that he may never get his friends back, that he’ll have to keep on tangoing with death until it wins, taking his soul, someone else controlling his actions.
He’s not afraid. He’s terrified.
******
He drops down onto the cream carpet, eyes taking in the organised clutter of Bruce’s living space.
Stacks of papers litter the guy’s desk, along with half-finished projects, tools lingering near their needed places.
The bed's sheets are made, a corkboard with a few polaroids pinned onto the surface, a gift from Tony, noticeably less embarrassing than Sam’s apron.
It’s a distant hope in his mind that this floor will be uninhabited with Bruce’s absence, which he’s eternally grateful for. The Hulk running around, rampaging everything?
He wouldn’t have stood a chance.
His theory is proven wrong as he clears the rattling of metal chains and the echoing growls of a voice he recognises, a voice taken over by someone he doesn’t know.
He peeks around, the source of the noise coming from the bathroom, which he slowly creeps towards, the pain in his hand and wrist keeping him quiet.
He swings the door open, letting out a half delirious laugh of relief at the sight that greets him.
Thor is tied up against the wall, the vibranium chains jostling and clinking with his every desperate movement.
His eyes are wild and possessing the same sickening yellow everyone else has, his movements clearly not able to access his full strength.
“Hey Thor. Which law did you break to get chained up?” He smiles, even if he feels bad at the action, watching his friend with slight sympathy. “Why are you tied up?”
No sooner are the words out of his mouth when he realises the answer to his question.
The broken weapons, the unusable and inaccessible Quin jet, Steve without his shield; they had done their best to ensure minimum damage, to protect whoever stumbled upon them first.
And if that meant tying up and incapacitating the alien god that can be insanely strong when he wants, he’s not going to start complaining.
Peter supposes that it’s just his luck that that person to find them first just so happened to be him.
It’s a smart move to put Thor here, chained to the reinforced walls of Bruce’s floor, made like that in case the Hulk decided to make a guest appearance and do a little bit of a smashing. He’s never been more grateful that they took those precautions.
Once he’s sure that Thor won’t be doing a little bit of his own smashing, he turns his gaze to the mirror, wincing at his reflection.
He’s pale, his cheeks flushed, sweat dampening his hair to his face, a necklace of bruises visible just above the neck of his suit.
He looks ill, the fear obvious in his constantly flickering eyes and gaunt cheeks.
His attention is drawn, robbed away with the blare of his spider sense, the sound of whirring repulsors giving him a brief moment to duck, the blast shattering the mirror into a thousand shards, one nicking him dangerously close to his eye.
Tony stands in the doorway, blocking his way out, eyes a dead hazel, not even a glint of recognition in his eyes as he raises his hand once more, wearing only the gauntlets of his suit.
But Peter is so over it, and something breaks just a little bit more inside him.
Peter runs forwards before he can fire, adrenaline coursing through his brain as he jumps up to grab the doorframe, a scream of pain drawn from his mouth as he kicks forwards with his legs, sending Tony tumbling down, Peter perched on his chest.
The man underneath him snarls and bucks, but Peter bares his own teeth down at him anger replacing his fear in an instant.
He’s done being thrown around, done being a ragdoll, done being underestimated, done running, done –
A force barrels into him, sending him crashing into the wall, whatever is left holding his ribs together snapping, leaving him reeling as he gasps on his hands and knees.
Through blurry vision he can make out Sam, helping Tony up, no part of him thankful that the Falcon does not have his wings.
He doesn’t offer a parting quip as he staggers up, jumping into the vents without so much as a glance backwards, words drowned out by pain.
The eyes watching from the shadows crinkle with glee.
******
Peter’s breathing is shaky as he drops down from the vents, into Tony’s workshop, a few tears spilling down his face as no one jumps out at him, no alien god chained up in the bathroom and no archer waiting to ambush him.
He wipes the tears away as quickly as they came, letting out a breathy laugh at his stupidity.
Of course no one would be in here, Jarvis is shut down, Tony doesn’t have his whole suit and that means he can’t get in here.
He’s safe.
He doesn’t feel safe. Not by a longshot.
A few suits lay on the ground, but they’re completely gutted, wires spilled out onto the ground and repulsors smashed to pieces.
He can’t help the flinch that seeing them invokes out of him, his hands clenching into fists, blood dripping down from his left, leaving droplets on the smooth floor.
He can’t bring himself to care, instead tottering with unsure steps towards Tony’s desk, brushing documents out of the way, smearing blood on the snow-white as he does, shoving old plates and mugs onto the ground.
But he can’t find it.
Panic clasps at his throat, strangling him as his chest tightens into a vice grasp.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, it has to be here! It has to be!
He yanks the drawers open, crimson staining the mahogany, his mask completely soaked through.
The wound should have shut by now, but he has more important things to worry about.
He sinks to his knees as he finishes rummaging through the drawers, the comm link nowhere in sight.
He places his hands on his head, running them through his hair, the blood smearing in his brown hair.
He’s about to lay down and accept his fate when a burst of static from across the room reaches his ears.
In a split seconds he’s off the ground, leaving a red handprint behind as he follows the noise.
He almost sobs with relief when he finally finds the comm, picking it up with trembling fingers.
“Hello? Does anyone read me?” his words are more desperate than he can find himself to care, his fingers crossed as he anxiously waits for a response. Almost instantly he gets one, the voice cutting through the fog that had begun to shroud his mind.
“Peter! Peter is that you?” Bruce’s voice is like music, full of relief, as though he had been sat at the comm the whole time the tower had been silent.
Peter’s fingers tighten around the communicator, the metal creaking hazardously under his fingers and he instantly relinquishes his grip, bringing the thing up against his ear.
“Yea-Yeah, yes, it’s me, Bruce. What’s going on? I leave the tower for one night and everyone manages to go feral! I hadn’t even been gone 24 hours and shit hits the fan, what the actual fu-” he rambles, tears pricking his eyes the more he talks, to the extent that he’s grateful when Bruce cuts him off.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry we didn’t contact you, we assumed you’d go through you rooms, they left a note for you in there. But that’s not important – are you hurt, Peter?” His words leave Peter in a shocked silence, the first real conversation he’s had with someone since this fever dream began. He brushes the tears from his eyes, shaking his head before speaking again, ignoring the cracks in his voice, just like his shattered façade.
It’s comforting, in a strange, completely messed up way to have someone concerned for him, someone acting like he expected, like he could predict.
“No, not-not anything I can’t handle, I’ll be fine, but you have to tell me what’s going on! I-I can’t just sit here in the dark after I’ve been attacked and almost killed by people I consider as family! Please, Bruce, I deserve that much.” He lets out a soft sniffle, and he swears he can hear Bruce sigh softly on the other end of the line, his voice quieter and more concerned than before when he starts talking again.
“Tony and Steve were attacked when they were just getting back to the tower. The others went out to join them, to fight this villain, but I suppose that was exactly what they wanted because they threw down that gas canister and did a magician vanishing act. When they realised they were going to lose control, lose themselves, they contacted me and we shut everything down. Or at least tried to, sabotaged weapons and similar. I'm working on a cure from my end, but we’re still running the risk that the others will escape and wreak havoc.” Bruce’s words hit like a freight train, Peter sliding down the wall, onto the cold hard floor, feeling like he was just punched in the gut.
They had tried, tried so hard, but he just wasn’t good enough, he had already gotten himself injured.
“Sabotaged weapons? But Clint has his bow and Tony has his repulsors.” Peter wondered out loud, the sounds of movement from the other end of the line ceasing at his quiet words.
“What? Those weapons were in the vault, they shouldn’t have been able to get them, not unless they have access to the codes and that would mean…” Bruce trails off, both reaching the same conclusion.
The eyes, the weapons they shouldn’t have been able to have, the way they all growled and snarled, their teeth looking sharper, pointier.
“They’re all being controlled by the same person. It explains the eyes, it’s not a random blood thirstiness, it’s calculated. The Avengers aren’t feral; they’re being wielded like weapons. Whoever is doing this must have access to their memories too. That explains how they were able to get their weapons, if they were in the vault.” The silence is deafening as Peter numbly talks, all the fear drained out of him as the truth comes to light.
This is planned.
They want to see him suffer, want to record his final moments for the world to see.
They want to hurt people, and he just can’t stand for that, can’t let it happen under his watch.
He isn’t having another Uncle Ben.
He needs a plan.