Stranded

He saw Natasha move, but his attention was thoroughly elsewhere, as he instead quickly pressed the release button on his chest so the suit decompressed and fell into a limp, burning pile on the floor. He leapt over it and flung himself onto the carpet, rolling across the ground and smothering the flames that’d already eaten through the material and into his soft undershirt and flesh. 

His neck twinged and he jolted to the right in an attempt to roll off his stomach, but he felt a blade embed into his shoulder, making him cry out. A boot landed harshly on the small of his back, pressing him into the carpet and making him whimper as the fresh burns across his torso rubbed against the rough floor. He grit his teeth and heaved, hissing when the move caused the knife to dig further into him, but after a moment succeeding in throwing Natasha off his back. 

Unfortunately, she took the knife with her, and she gave one final twist of it as it left his shoulder with a rip of his skin and a gush of blood, and a pained scream erupted from his throat behind his still clenched teeth, making the vein in his neck pulse out.

He whirled to face her just as she did a neat tuck and roll, not seeming out of sorts in the slightest after being bodily thrown nearly two meters back. 

The now bloody knife was held firmly in her grasp, and a matching one had appeared in her left hand. 

He heard the thundering echoes of someone making their way upstairs. 

Natasha darted forward, and Peter leapt back out of range, landing on the sofa in a crouch. The wound on his shoulder continued to let out a steady outpour of blood, but Peter couldn’t do anything to stop it. Natasha was watching, waiting for a moment of weakness to spring at him again, and Peter could see the moment her patience snapped - definitely much shorter than what it’d normally be - and he flung out both arms at her, spraying two webs that connected to the blades in her hands, and tugged. “Yoink,” he muttered, flinging the blades towards himself and sending them flying past to be stuck against some far wall or piece of furniture. 

Natasha snarled, rushing at him, and he sprang up, but she snagged his ankle, wrenching him back down, his wounded shoulder colliding painfully with the arm of the sofa.

Her hands, like Clint’s, found their way to his throat, but the way she grasped it was distinctly different, and his eyes went impossibly wider as he ripped her arms off him barely a moment before she made to snap his neck.

He jumped up and sprinted away, heart palpitating and lungs stuttering as his head pulsed with the still echoing siren that his senses had pounded through him barely a second ago. 

Natasha was so close on his tail that he could practically feel her breath against his back, and, not for the first time, he wondered if she was actually enhanced.

He put on another burst of speed and flung himself forwards and up, this time landing safely on the ceiling and avoiding her swipe at him. “Not today, Satan,” he declared, high strung, the whites of his eyes no doubt showing behind his mask as he stared down at Nat, who glared back up at him unblinkingly. He let out a tittering, reedy laugh. “Sorry sorry - I know you’re not Satan - you’re just, like, as scary as Satan, or. No. I can’t say I personally know him, so, honestly, you’re definitely scarier than Satan. For sure. So. Compliment?”

She bared her teeth, turning and stalking back towards the kitchen. Probably for more knives. Yay.

The thuds of footsteps sounded like they were only a floor below now, so Peter decided it was most definitely time to skedaddle. 

He eyed the vent but just as quickly vetoed it. He could hear Clint clanging around somewhere inside. 

He spared a glance at Natasha and was most definitely the exact opposite of pleased to see that she was in the process of stashing on her person an entire armory of knives and a… spoon? He was totally not okay with that last one because the only use he could think of for spoons in a life or death combat situation was to scoop - 

Yeah, no. Not thinking about it.

Having seen more than enough, he shot a quick flurry of webs across the room. 

Natasha managed to dodge a good chunk of them, but enough hit their mark that she was webbed down against the kitchen island from shoulder to just below the knees, staying put regardless of how much she thrashed against it.

Peter gave a slight nod of his head and moved on, heading for a different stairwell than the one the footfalls - which were, yep they were on this floor definitely not good - came from.

He entered the stairway just as the other set’s door burst open, and his breath nearly stilled in his lungs when he turned and looked through the minute crack he’d left open in his door to chance a peek at whoever had joined the party.

It was Steve. Barrel chested, brows furrowed, red faced, fists clenched, teeth bared, completely terrifying, All American Steve.

Great.

The man made to move for Natasha, who’d stilled at his entrance, and Peter knew right then and there that, just like with Clint and Sam, he needn’t worry about their safety from one another, only for his own.

Small blessings. 

His now blistering burns and bloody shoulder twinged heavily in disagreement. At least my nose seems more or less fine now, he mused, dabbing above his lip and only finding dried flakes of brownish red instead of the flowing blood that was steadily pouring from his shoulder.

He crept away from the door as Steve set to work on the webs, slowly cutting through them with a handy knife and a precision the teen hadn’t expected from the man.

Peter hesitated for a moment, but ultimately decided to head up again; there were only a couple more floors until the roof, and then he’d be out. He could get to the ground from the outside, since that way he wouldn’t have to interact with anyone else - something that he definitely didn’t want to do. He started to crouch for a jump but immediately aborted the movement when it made his burns feel like they were writhing angrily against his skin, instead taking to stealthily edging up the stairs one at a time.

There was a frustrated growl from where he’d left Steve and Nat, and Peter surmised that they were probably having more trouble escaping the webs than they’d expected - it wasn’t like he’d made it easy to get out of, since that’d kind of defeat the purpose.

On the final floor’s landing, he let out a soft exhale, cupping a hand against his shoulder and grimacing at the feeling and the sting of the weeping, gaping wound that left his back damp and tacky with fresh blood. 

He kept walking forward with his hand pressed against it despite the pain, trying to staunch the bleeding as best he could for the moment before he could figure out a more permanent solution.

He took the final step to the exit and twisted the door’s handle. 

Correction.

He tried to twist the door’s handle.

A wave of dread engulfed him as a mirror image of what happened at his own door barely any time ago repeated, and the knob remained stubbornly in place.

The door was locked, and his strength would do nothing to help him break through it.

“FRIDAY,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

There was a faint crackle. 

He held his breath, waiting.

‘Do-rs lock-’

“I can see that,” Peter said with a tight smile, aiming for levity and utterly failing. “Can you… unlock it?” he tried.

‘S-cure- breach-’

He nodded his head amiably, then winced when the motion pulled at his shoulder. “You’re totally right. I’d like to, um, leave the breach? Maybe?”

More crackling, harsher. ‘Box’n pro-tc-’ FRIDAY cut off abruptly.

“What Protocol?” 

No response, only silence.

Boxun? He wondered. Boxon? Boxan, Boxin -  Box- in?

Ice crept down his spine. Box-in.

Box-In Protocol.

His lips pressed together tightly, and he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. He let it out on a slow exhale, but his breath still stuttered in his chest. 

Blood trickled between the gaps of his fingers. 

He had a feeling he knew what the name implied, and if he was right - which he grew more certain of with each dread filled moment that passed - then he wouldn’t be getting out of the tower any time soon.

He wondered if he'd get out of the tower at all.