Stranded

No. Peter shook his head rapidly, letting out a quiet gasp of pain when the movement caused the ringing in his ears to kick up to a higher pitch.

He stood abruptly from the chair, knocking it back with a clatter that made him flinch, which he did again when the banging started up once more.

His chest expanded and contracted rapidly with his breaths, and his eyes skittered around the room as he tried to figure out where he could go, what he could do, where he could hide. 

He found nothing.

The bathroom had no door, so it was completely open, and he didn’t want to risk trapping himself in one of the cupboards or the wardrobe - half the team was strong enough to crush him while he was still inside.

His rational mind tried calming him, some faint reminder going off in the back of his head that he could leave the room just as well as whoever on the other side could enter it - as in, not at all.

Still, each violent bang against the metal door sent harsh, quaking reverberations across the room and caused him to spiral deeper into his near hysterical state, fleeting thoughts skittering away like bugs from a disturbed nest.

He clutched his hands against his elbows, arms crossed protectively over his chest as he backed away from the door, beginning to feel light headed as he continued to inhale shallowly. He dug his nails into his skin, leaving harsh crescent moons into the flesh as he tried to calm down. 

He knew he wasn’t helping anything with his panic. He knew. It was making it worse, and it would make him less prepared if anything did happen. 

But the thought of whatever - whoever - was on the other side of the door…

A whimper crawled its way up out of his throat, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, crouching down behind the half-destroyed kitchen counter and pressing his knees to his chest, wrapping his free arm around them.

He had to calm down. He had to calm down. 

He kept repeating the mantra in his head, even as he felt himself nearing the edge of hyperventilating. He had no doubt that the whites of his eyes were more than visible, and his pupils were likely shrunk to pinpricks by the way everything past his feet seemed to blur. 

He pressed his palm into the burns in his side and let out a pained gasp, his mind clearing for a moment. He took hold of the clarity like a lifeline, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, squeezing his eyes shut and doing his best to ignore the continued booming clangs against the door as he went through one of the breathing techniques he’d learned for panic attacks. 

He’d never really thought about how he might one day use them for himself, having learned them to help victims in need at the time, but it managed to pull him back from the precipice, and he distantly realized his cheeks were damp. He hastily wiped the wetness away.

His arms were still shaking, but he refused to let his mind fall away again, tensing his muscles and clenching his jaw until his teeth ground together. 

He flipped his arms around so his wrists were exposed and pulled down the sleeve to his left arm; he popped open the contraption containing his web capsule in the spare mechanical spinnerets. 

There was barely any fluid left inside, and he found the same when he checked the right. He had maybe enough for ten, fifteen shots total, a few more from his left than the right. He popped the capsules back in and slid his sleeves back down to cover everything except for the hardly noticeable ends from which the webs would fire from.

Then he stood on still shaky legs, and, step by step, he inched towards the front of the room, towards the entrance. He didn’t head directly for the door, instead going for the left of it so that if - when - it opened, he could engage immediately. He wouldn’t be caught by surprise.

He knew that, whoever it was, it had to be one of the heavy hitters, from how their assault on the door literally made the floor and walls vibrate with the force of it. That meant it could be Mr. Stark in his suit, Captain America, Thor, or the Winter Soldier. And he didn’t have a clue which one.

He didn’t think it was Steve - if only because it seemed like the man had been sticking to the other end of the tower, but he had no idea about the other three. 

He shivered. He hoped there wasn’t more than one of them out there, waiting for him.

He took another deep breath and closed his eyes, still flinching minutely when another especially resounding bang echoed across the room, practically rattling his teeth.

Still, he did nothing more than crouch down a bit, ready to spring up but also not overexerting himself while waiting to do so. His fingers hovered over the buttons to release his webs, but he didn’t hold much hope for them; after seeing how Steve had reacted to it, it’d likely be just as ineffective against the others unless he got them directly up against the wall.

It was part of why he had spiraled. 

There were so many reasons why he spiraled. 

He wasn’t up against some stranger, some random person in a dingy alley, some criminal. He wasn’t up against your ‘average day Joe.’ No, he was going against the Avengers - ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.’ Against people who were just as good - no, who were better than he was. Sam had been in the army and was more resourceful than Peter had given him credit for - and that was without his wings. Natasha was a trained assassin and spy. Clint was the same, and had impossible accuracy. Tony was Iron Man - he was continually making feat after engineering feat and could command who knows how many suits. Steve was a supersoldier with the strength of half a Hulk and top notch athletic abilities in every field. Bucky was another trained assassin who had half a century under his belt and a metal arm that could punch through walls. Thor was a God with a massively destructive hammer and the ability to command lightning. 

And, again, all of them were heroes.

All of them were heroes who were now trying to kill him.

All of them were heroes who were not currently in control of their own actions.

All of them were heroes who he had no chance again normally but now had to fight against with disproportionate odds.

All of them were heroes that Peter would never, even at the cost of his own life, attempt to use lethal force against.

And it seemed that that last point might really end up coming to a head.

But what could Peter do? He couldn’t escape, he couldn't avoid them, he couldn’t trap them either because they’re too strong or help one another get out.

Clint had tried to strangle him. He and Sam had shattered bottles aiming at him - trying to impale him. Natasha… Natasha had burned him (had Clint and Sam planned that? Had they known what she would do?), stabbed him, tried to snap his -

Steve… Steve had looked at him with such palpable hatred that Peter didn’t know if he’d ever be able to look him in the eyes again, the man who continued to try to hunt him down.

And Tony, Mr. Stark, his mentor... he’d trapped Peter in a room with one of his suits that then ceaselessly did its level best to blast a hole through him.

Now… now Peter wasn’t sure who was next. He didn’t know who was after him, who was on the other side of the door, who would try to erase his existence yet again.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized he was tired - exhausted. He knew he was near completely spent. That once the adrenaline pumping through his system a mile a minute finally faded away, he would hardly be able to stand, let alone fight.

For now, though, the blood rushed through his ears at a staccato beat, and he could practically feel his veins throbbing with the rapid pulse of it. His limbs still shook faintly, either from nerves, the adrenaline, or from how taut he was holding himself. Likely a combination of all three.

Another resounding bang pounded against the door, and it was followed by a faint, near inaudible click. 

Peter bowed his head, but his eyes remained locked on the entrance.

Someone - and he hardly had any doubts as to who - had unlocked the door, and now whoever was on the other side could get in.

The door creaked open, and a shoe-clad foot came into view as the man it was attached to stepped inside.