Stranded

A shiver wracked up his spine as he tugged on his boots, and he kept his eyes trained on the entrance to his room. He could still hear sounds outside - clearer now that both the vents and the airtight seal on his door had been released - but they hadn’t yet gotten much closer to his floor, at least. 

He couldn’t hear anyone talking, anymore.

He went to his desk, checking his phone again, but there was still no service.

His nearly wall to ceiling window tantalized him with the view of the city at night, twinkling lights of buildings and cars and street lamps shining innocently nearly a hundred floors below. 

It wasn’t an exit, though. He knew that already. As a precaution from outside attacks, Tony had made the glass thick and strong enough to probably withstand a nuclear bomb, so trying to break through it would likely only result in a few extra broken bones.

So, the door it was.

He considered staying in his room for a brief moment before immediately scrapping the idea when his neck prickled with unease. 

It’d be too easy to get trapped. He already felt like he was.

He reached for the door, and heard a scuffle, so faint he only registered a moment later that it’d come from his floor.

He snapped his hand back and took a small step backwards, then another.

His senses were picking up more and more at the base of his skull in warning, and he heard another scuff, closer.

His eyes flicked up to his vents, and he shot over to them, heart already thrumming in his chest and his eyes continuing to twitch over to the door while he jumped up to land on the ceiling. 

He easily tore the vent slats off, and he threw the metal piece onto his bed before changing his mind and hurriedly flipping down onto the ground, grabbing the vent lid, and shoving it between his bedframe and mattress - out of sight. Only then did he eye the open maw that would lead to an intricate maze of tunnels that connected the entire Tower. 

He could tell he was out of time for hesitation, the sounds outside having changed from quiet shuffles to the violent throwing open of doors and harsh movements and crashes. 

He sprang back up to the vent.

It wasn’t a tight fit to get in, which he was immensely grateful for, and his only regret was that he couldn’t cover up that the vent had been uncovered in the first place because, if anyone knew he was there, they’d know where he’d gone.

And it certainly sounded like someone was looking for something, at the very least . 

They were progressing closer, and Peter knew there weren’t many doors left between his own and the room whoever the intruder was was currently searching through. So he moved forward.

The vents were a decent size inside as well, and, when crawling, he didn’t have to worry about narrowing his shoulders or ducking his head. He could even crouch upright if he wanted to. 

He fumbled along for a while, frame continuing to go through a cycle of taught tension and forced relaxation. His ears strained, listening to the sounds of people moving throughout the tower. Still no voices to be heard.

He’d tried calling out to Karen and FRIDAY a couple more times, but there was no answer from either AI. Even the dull thrum of the alarms had faded away to quiet.

As for the vents, the only person he knew really entered them was Clint - and maybe Natasha, but he couldn’t be sure. So when there was a dull echo and then the sounds of someone clanging softly as they made their ways through ahead of him, he had one suspect in mind.

There were open slats below him often enough that a faint light trickled in, and, coupled with his spruced up vision, Peter could see where he was going well enough, which was how he spotted Clint turning one of the tunnel corners several meters away to face him.

Peter’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Clint,” he called out on an exhale of a breath.

The man was already looking at him, and his eyes narrowed as he switched from a crawl to a creeping forward crouch, one foot sliding forward in front of another as he approached Peter.

The teen's senses began a keening blare of warning, and Peter whipped his head around and down at the closest slats, but he didn’t hear or see anything close by. 

He turned back to Clint, who was almost right in front of him now, and something about his expression set Peter’s already singed nerves on edge.

“Clint,” he said slowly. “I think something’s wrong-” he yelped when Clint sprang forward at him, leaping backwards and slamming his head on the roof of the vent.

Clint took advantage of his momentarily stunned state and climbed on top of him, straddling his chest and constricting his lungs. Peter let out a choked inhale as calloused hands wrapped around his throat, his wide eyes unable to look away from the look of complete and utter hatred marring Clint’s features as he stared back down unrepentantly at Peter and squeezed.

Peter scrabbled at the man’s fingers for a moment before steeling himself and peeling them away from his throat, getting in a few gasping breaths before Clint slammed forward, headbutting him in the nose with a wet crunch.

Peter cried out, grip slipping, and the hands were back on his throat, blood that flowed over his mouth and nose seeping through the fabric of his mask and slicking the unforgiving band the man's hold formed on his neck. 

‘Clint,’ he mouthed weakly, hips bucking. 

There was no reply.

Peter’s lips tightened and he tried to take a steadying breath. No air came.

He grasped Clint’s wrists and wrenched them away from himself, throwing the man off of him and scrambling backwards as soon as he was free, wheezy inhales finally making their way past his bruised throat. The taste of copper was heavy on his tongue, seeping further to line the back of his throat.

Clint was already coiled to spring at him again, eyes sharp and teeth bared.

Peter scooched further away, hands fumbling to feel for something - an opening, a turn off - he felt the grates of a duct.

He punched down hard against it and it crumpled and shot down, clanging harshly against the floor below as the tunnel shook faintly.

Clint lunged for him, and Peter flung himself out into the open air, landing onto the tile in a practiced crouch and immediately springing to his feet and sprinting away, hearing the thud of Clint touching down behind him. 

He was still on his floor, and was heading back towards his room, where the original intruder he’d heard was.

Now, he wondered if it was an intruder at all.

He got his answer not a moment later, Clint left behind in the dust but someone else stepping out in front of him. 

Sam.

Sam, his friend, occasional impromptu therapist, fellow Avenger. Peter couldn’t say the two of them were best buds, but they got along well enough. They’d bonded over pulling 21st century specific pranks on Steve and occasionally Bucky, and Sam never missed a chance to tease Peter for being the kid of the group - not maliciously, of course.

Right now, though, Sam looked pretty malicious.

In his right hand was a shattered bottle, held at the neck like a weapon, and he was staring dead at Peter, face chillingly blank compared to what Clint’s had been. There was only the faint twitch that looked like he was on the verge of having his lip curl and his nostrils flare but was somehow holding it back.

If he was being honest, it made it worse.

Peter couldn’t help taking a minute step back, and he heard Clint sprinting around behind him, still not close but definitely closer.

Sam took a step forward.

“Hey Sam, sorry I was late to movie night, I know you’ve gotten along in your age, but come on, don’t tell me you have to call it in earlier than the grandpas of the group, right? What’s a couple of minutes being late between friends?” Peter babbled, still taking baby steps back as Sam started forward again.

At this point, he didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t get one.

He sprang onto the ceiling, and Sam’s head snapped up to look at him, the man coming to a stop just shy of being directly below him.

“You don’t happen to have some kinda explanation for what’s going on that you’d like to share with the class?” Peter tried.

Sam threw the broken glass at him in a sharp, arcing swing, and Peter leapt off to the side and onto the upper wall to his left to avoid it. Sam stepped back slightly so he wasn’t under the shower of glass shards that rained down from where they shattered against the ceiling.

“Noooooope, nope nope nope,” Peter muttered, crawling back onto the ceiling and turning to stand upside down. He shook out his limbs, about to set off into a gravity defying run, but he hesitated.

Sam slipped into the room by his side and was back out in just a couple of seconds, now carrying… more glass bottles, unbroken ones this time. Great. 

The first one shattered against the ceiling by Peter’s head, making him flinch as whatever liquid was inside - definitely alcoholic - splashed over him. 

“Not cool, Sam, not cool,” he called, springing further away from the second arcing bottle. 

Still, he didn’t leave. 

Clint was almost here.

Said man turned the corner just as the third bottle connected with the wall behind Peter, who’d ducked out of the way once more.

Peter watched warily as Clint barreled down the hall, getting ready to intercept the man if need be.

He looked on with a kind of disturbed fascination as Clint came to a stop in front of Sam, the two making a brief second of eye contact before Sam handed Clint a couple of bottles from the stash he’d laid at his feet. 

Well, Peter thought with as much false optimism that he could imbue, It seems like he didn’t have to worry about them attacking each other, at least.

But it seemed worse, almost. Definitely felt worse, he thought, as he now truly did sprint away on the ceiling, only managing to avoid the aim of Clint’s shot thanks to his spidey sense screaming at him to move left. 

He still got sprayed again, the right side of his suit - around his torso - becoming damp and sticky and a couple of glass shards embedding themselves into his shoulder.

He didn’t falter, though, instead pumping his legs to go faster, and - when he was almost out of range - he turned around and shot two webs out, sticking both men’s feet to the floor.

He made for the stairs, ignoring the enraged snarl that echoed behind him. He licked his bottom lip and winced at the coppery tang that still lingered on it, sparing a glance at the elevators before giving a slight shake of his head.

That had been his first idea, but with FRIDAY still out of commission, a possible intruder in the building, and the Avengers being… unhelpful, he didn’t want to risk being trapped in a box.

So he went for the stairs, deciding to head up a couple of floors when his stomach made its hunger known. He took a glance out the window - still very much dark out. He wasn’t sure how much later - probably not as long as it'd felt, but he’d forgotten to swipe his phone.

It was late enough to be hungry, though, and going up was better than going down for now anyways - there was definitely more noise coming from below, and he didn’t feel at all prepared to investigate, the blood having just finally stopped leaking like a faucet from his nose and his mouth twitching into a grimace as he picked out a few of the larger pieces of glass stuck in his skin.

He kept moving forwards, though, staying to the ceilings as he entered the 96th floor, keeping his body tucked tightly up against it as he moved towards the end of the hallway that would open up to the kitchen.

There, he came to an abrupt halt, spotting the head of red hair as the woman it belonged to turned around to look up at him.

Natasha eyed him for a moment, then looked away, calmly opening a kitchen drawer. 

Peter felt a spike of panic, then confusion when he realized it wasn’t the knife or even a reasonably sharp utensil drawer. 

Well, there were the kebab sticks, right next to the marshmallows, but it didn’t seem like a particularly practical maneuver compared to the other options.

Peter let his grip slacken gently, and he landed on the ground with a soft tap. 

“Natasha?” he called tentatively. She tilted her head in acknowledgement. He took a hesitant step closer, still out of range. His fingers fluttered in the air and hovered over his throat. “Can you - do you know what’s going on? I - I met - Sam and Clint. They - something’s wrong.”

He edged forwards. She shifted so her back was to him, closing the drawer. He relaxed minutely, but not by much. She still hadn’t given him a verbal response. The others hadn't either.

“Natasha?” 

Nothing.

He crept closer, shoulders hiking, tension thickening the air around him. The burner stove clicked on.

“Nat?”

Her arm moved gently forwards, and Peter saw a faint flicker of flame dancing along the edge of the shadows of the wall behind the stove. 

His senses screeched, and he leapt backwards, but it was too late, he was too close, and when Natasha whirled around and threw the innocuous little stick, tip aglow with a softly fluttering flame that barely held against the wind, it reached him, and his side was set alight.

The alcohol coating his suit took readily - hungrily - to the little spark and the flame roared to life, racing across the side of his stomach to cover every inch soaked deep with the liquid, the fire licking at his hip and just below his underarm, slowly beginning to spread.

Natasha watched impassively as his eyes widened behind his mask and he stood horrified - struck still with shock and, a moment later, burning agony. 

He screamed.