O Brother, Where Art Thou?

“And one more.” Bruce swapped collection tubes and Peter watched as the blood flowed into the new one. Once it was filled, the tourniquet was released and Bruce withdrew the needle. He sheepishly put an Iron Man bandaid in the crook of Peter’s arm. “Morgan got them for me.” 

Peter smiled weakly. His leg bounced up and down impatiently, and he rubbed his hands together, hoping to hide some of the tremors in them. Bruce saw anyway. 

“So, that should be it with the blood. We did the MRI and ultrasound and CT. It shouldn’t take too long for us to get results and interpret everything. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Peter felt like he was coming out of his skin. 

“Pete…”

“Are we done here, Dr. Banner? I need to get back to the lab. King T’Challa just sent over the vibranium.” He actually didn’t wait for the not-a-doctor to speak. Peter wasn’t in the mood for concern or a talk or any kind of commentary on his coping skills. As far as he was concerned, Dr. Hulk could take his tests and stick them where the sun didn’t shine. If they couldn’t get the JACCASS working in a week, it wouldn’t matter anyway. There was no scenario that ended in Peter living if Ned and Tony died. 

Everyone was being stupid, and Peter was over it. When he returned to the conference room to tell them about the missing flash drive, no one seemed all that surprised. Their lack of urgency about the whole thing was ridiculous—Rhodey immediately shot down Peter’s suggestion to go after Norman and Happy started following him around like some sort of grumpy baby duckling. Every time Peter thought he shook him, Natasha would turn up. Or Clint. Or MJ. Or, in one particularly manipulative case on all their parts, Morgan. Someone—most likely the Col., though he wouldn’t put it past Natasha—programmed Friday to be a snitch, and when he went to shower, she locked the window to his ensuite. To top it off, the New Compound, which used to sport several bars for staff and residents, now lacked even cooking alcohol. It’s not as if Peter was idiotic enough to drink in front of his self-appointed bodyguards, but he was offended at the suggestion he wouldn’t have been able to control himself. 

The doors to the workshop opened for him and Peter walked over to where Rhodey was running schematics. They had cobbled together a lot of Peter’s research from memory—Peter’s obviously more so than Rhodey’s, since the man had only seen it for two days before the shitstorm in Lancaster. 

But where they started off strong, they were slowing down significantly. The coding Peter originally used was over 3,000,000 lines—and though he was fast, it was a project that took him three months with significant input from Dr. Prentiss. Rhodey was good, but he wasn’t Tony good—without the program and notes he had saved, it would be impossible for the two of them to replicate in a week’s time. And it had already been two days since they landed. 

“Hey, Pete. Bruce done with you, then?” Rhodey looked up from the 3D printer he had installed the vibranium into. 

Peter nodded curtly and sat down at the station he had Friday pull up for him—four holographic screens floated in front of him as he examined the code. 

Rhodey sighed like he was about to say something, but after a minute of tense silence, turned back to his work. 

An hour or three later, Peter and Rhodey both jumped when the workshop doors sild open and Natasha and Clint came walking in briskly. They were both dressed in black ops gear and Clint was attaching his bow to the clasp on his back. Rhodey lifted an eyebrow at them. Peter kept working—refusing to look at anyone but the screen in front of him. 

Ignoring him, they stood in front of Rhodey, as Clint began whispering. 

“Apparently, there aren’t enough agents to contain them. Sam just called and said he and Bucky were running point, but whatever mad scientist let them loose isn’t talking and now half of Broadway has been destroyed. I don’t know how many casualties we’re looking at, but this is an all-hands-on-deck situation. We need the suit, Rhodes. Thor is still off-world and we can’t get in touch with Richards and his little attention-seeking rock band. We wouldn’t ask, but it’s an emergency.”

Rhodey paused and Peter could feel eyes on the back of his head. “We need a…plan.”

“I can still hear you, you know?” Peter was so, so done as he whipped around to glare at them. “I’m not a child. I don’t need a babysitter. I’ll stay like a good little soldier and won’t get into any trouble. Colonel, just go.” 

The three of them didn’t acknowledge the outburst—which, rude—and instead Natasha nodded at Rhodey. “We have one.”

The doors opened again and Peter looked up at the person who just entered. “Oh for fuck’s sake, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

"Language.”

Peter let out a strangled, bitter laugh as Steve Rogers looked around the room interestedly. Natasha snapped her fingers at Peter. “You. Stay. Here. I briefed Cap on everything. He’ll be here to help you with whatever you need while the rest of us go and take care of whatever these creatures are in the City.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize Captain America had his PhD in Engineering or BioChem or medicine. Or are we saying the answer to taking the fucking tumors out of my best friend’s and father’s brains is leeches and clove cigarettes?”

Captain Fucking America scoffed. “We didn’t use leeches in the 40s.”

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“Peter.” Rhodey snapped, “Just stop. We’ll be back soon.” With that, the three rushed out of the room leaving Peter with a retired super soldier who still only knew him as Fitz. 

It was quiet and awkward—two things that Steve Rogers could never leave alone for long. 

“So, um,” the man cleared his throat, “Nat filled me in a few days ago. A magic spell, huh? Did we know each other pretty well?”

Peter’s clipped “no” didn’t dissuade him from continuing the conversation. 

“I looked back at the footage from our last battle together,” and Peter wondered at the audacity of this man to bring that up at this time, “and I just wanted to thank you—Spider-Man, I guess—for your courage and bravery on the field, son. We couldn’t have done it without you.” 

Peter gave a non-committal “mhmm” as he kept typing. 

“I…uh, I went to see Tony and, um, Ned—was it?—before coming in here. They seem…comfortable,” and Peter hated the care he was taking, like he was china or spun sugar, some delicate thing that needed a soft touch, “Bruce said you’re working on a cure for them. That this thing you’re making won’t only cure them but be the answer to a lot of different cancers? That’s amazing, son.” 

And Peter was going to respond snarkily, but instead, he recalled a memory of something Tony said to him once. “Captain Conscience can’t tell you no if it’s the Right-Thing-To-Do. His sense of duty and honor will trump any rules set forth. It’s why he’s the best partner for laser tag.”

And, see, Peter wasn’t a genius for nothing. It was very easy to call up tears (not because they had been gathering all day, or anything) and all it took was a well-timed sniff to get Steve to look at him in concern. 

“Oh, son. Are you ok?” He knelt by Peter’s chair and put a hand on his shoulder. 

Peter shrugged and looked at the floor forlornly. “I don’t know, Mr. Captain America, sir.” Peter looked up at him, and subconsciously tried to make himself look younger. “I just don’t know what to do. You know when you have a decision in front of you and one of the things is the right thing to do and the other thing is what everyone else has told you to do?” 

Steve nodded, his brow furrowed. “Yes, of course.” 

Peter went on, “And you don’t want to disappoint people because they said they are just doing it for your good, but while doing it for your good, it harms other, innocent people. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in that situation before?” 

Hook. 

Steve looked concerned, and handed Peter a tissue to wipe his eyes. “I have been in that situation before, son. Many good men have had to struggle with that very dilemma. It’s why I joined up in the first place.”

Peter nodded along. He looked up innocently at Steve. “I know. I had all your comics and action figures growing up. When I became Spider-Man, I knew I’d make a difference if only I could be even half as good as you are.” 

Line.

Steve patted him on the shoulder. “That means a lot to me, son. What are you thinking?”

Peter brought up the hologram of the code he was working on and maneuvered it in front of Steve’s face. He looked overwhelmed, as Peter had always known him to be when confronted with computer code. He was counting on it. 

“As you can clearly see here, I’m missing a block of coding that will interpret the command to neutralize the mutations on the cells without destroying the cells in the first place. It took me several weeks to get this right, but Tony and Ned only have a few more days at the most. If I could get this code, then I can input and Col. Rhodes and I will be able to get them cured by tomorrow. The problem is everyone here wants me to replicate it without my notes. If I was allowed to retrieve the flash drive I was working on, everyone would be safe.”

He looked skeptical. “Natasha said that the flash drive you wanted to get was at Oscorp and it was too dangerous to let you go.”

“Too dangerous?” Peter tried to look incredulous, “For me? Mr. Rogers! When Dr. Strange did that spell to help them all remember, they just became way too overprotective. You just said you were impressed with what I could do in the battle with Thanos. I’m Spider-Man! It’s just an easy in-and-out recon mission. You used to let me do them all the time by myself.” Peter could almost see his resolve wavering. He pressed on seriously. “You became Captain America because you would lay your life down on the wire for anyone. That’s what being a hero’s about, right? You told Bucky, “to the end of the line.” Well, Ned is my Bucky. Am I just supposed to give up and let them die because I needed to follow the rules?” 

And sinker.

As Peter was slipping on the standard Shield-issued black ops uniform and checking to see if his web shooters were filled, a timid knock came from outside his door. He opened it to find Morgan staring at him. 

“Are you going somewhere?” She sounded so much like Pepper, Peter felt his heart dive into his stomach. 

“Yeah, bug. Don’t tell Happy or MJ, ok?” 

She walked inside his room, arms crossed. “Uncle Steve is cooking pasta from scratch for Uncle Happy and MJ and making them taste everything. They’re going to be in there for a while.” Peter couldn’t help smiling at her accusing tone. 

“Well, why don’t you go help them?” He grabbed the black balaclava and the car keys Steve swiped for him from Happy’s room. 

“I want to come with you.” 

“Absolutely not, Morgie. Not even on the table, kiddo.” 

Her face was turning red and Peter knew he had just a minute before she had a full-on meltdown. He could tell she was tired, stressed, and something was bothering her these past few days that she was refusing to talk about. He didn’t think it was about Tony, but the few times he saw her while working on the JACCASS, he couldn’t get her to open up. He bent down and grabbed her shoulders gently. 

“This is going to be so quick—I promise. I’m going to get the flash drive, and then come right back and work on the program and get Dad and Ned to wake up and then we’ll go to Disneyland.”

She sniffed, “You promise?”

He hooked his pinky around hers—”I promise.” (Orange lingered at the edge of his vision. He wondered how many promises he would end up buried with.) 

“Fine.” She huffed, but hugged him anyway. “I love you, Petey.”

He hugged her back and then ruffled her head. “3000 x infinity, Momo.”

As he pulled away from the garage in the fastest car he could find, he tried not to think about Morgan’s hopeful face, and instead focused on his task. Friday—who was lowkey-judgy and snarky with him when he asked—directed him over the car’s audio system, helping him avoid the fight with the science experiments gone wrong in Manhattan. The last thing he needed was War Machine recognizing Tony’s Bugatti sports car and wondering who was driving it. 

Whatever was happening downtown cast the city in a dense, smoke-filled fog, and for once, luck was on Peter’s side as he found the barricades that had been erected left many streets empty. He parked a block away from the Oscorp Tower and examined the map of the building he found on Tony’s server. 

Pulling the balaclava over his face and making sure no one was watching, Peter climbed up the building. He would enter from the 56th floor. Friday’s notes showed that the floor had been closed for renovations for the better part of the year and wouldn’t be occupied. There were two places Norman could keep a flash drive—his personal office or his personal lab. Both were secured on the topmost floor of the tower, both monitored by video and armed guard. (Friday was really invaluable with the information once Peter convinced her to give it—Tony must have already been suspecting Norman of something to have this much intel on him.) 

Peter, it looks like all of the buildings on this side of the road have been evacuated due to the developing situation downtown. I detect only two heat signatures on the topmost floor. 

Friday’s voice echoed in his earpiece. 

“Thanks, Fri. Those must belong to the two guards. Perfect. They’ll be easy to web up.”

Peter, I wanted to let you know that Harold Hogan has left a message with me that says he doesn’t care what bullshit you fed the Captain, that you are grounded until eternity, and that is the least of your worries when he tells Boss what you did. 

Peter quirked his lips. “Mute for now Fri. Intercept all their messages to the Avengers about this. No use in getting them all worked up over nothing. Thanks, girl.”

As Peter swung gracefully onto the side of Oscorp, as he opened a window on the 56th floor with the glass cutter he brought, as he slipped inside the empty office space, covered with tarps and paint cans and stacks of floor tiles, he wondered if things were finally looking up. 

It was just as easy as he told Morgan it would be.

He crawled through the vents and webbed up the two security guards outside of Osborn’s quarters like a pro. His body was vibrating with adrenaline and he felt more alive in that moment than he had in over two years. 

Crushing the locking mechanism to the doors in front of him, Peter stepped onto the 101st floor with a confidence his fourteen-year-old self would have only dreamed of. 

So when the gas creeped through the vents, and the lights flickered out, and the emergency lights came on, Peter could only think of one thing as his body hit the floor: his fourteen-year-old self was an idiot. Despite his best effort, Peter’s eyes closed and the last thing he heard before he passed out was a deep voice serenading him over the building’s intercom:

“The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout…”

“Down came the rain, and washed the spider out…”

“Up came the sun…

“And dried up all the rain.”

“And the itsy bitsy spider never lived again.”