Mercy

Frankly, Peter Parker was tired of running. The streets of London were unforgiving against his aching feet as he fled across the pavement, his breaths coming in short huffs that burned his desperate lungs. His body was begging him, pleading with him to stop, but his muscles were on autopilot, flinging his lithe frame towards the safety of darkness.

Peter’s back scraped against the bricks as he skidded to a stop down an alleyway, but he did not flinch – in fact the pain only released another wave of adrenaline into his shaking limbs, making his legs shake and almost causing his knees to buckle under the weight of exhaustion.

Breathing deeply, but as quiet as his heaving chest would allow, Peter swallowed the lump in his throat as he peeked a dark eye out of his hiding spot, scanning the streets for any black-clad shadows. He figured that if anyone were to find him, then he could at least put up a decent fight before he’s overpowered, but the paranoid part of his stupid, stupid brain was screaming at him to keep going.

He ignored it.

HYDRA had been on him for a while now, ever since the… incident in Italy, when they had found his last hiding spot and chased him through France and across the English Channel. Peter wasn’t quite sure why he had thought that London was his best bet, and he cursed his past self for it, but for now it seemed as if he’d lost them.

Peter was pretty sure – and by that he means almost certain – that one of the agents was his old handler, equipped dangerously with the ten trigger words that would mean everything he’s done, everything he’s lost, would be for nothing. Peter wasn’t about to let them take it all from him, not again.

Hence his current position, hiding in a shitty London alleyway at three in the morning, with killers breathing down his neck. Peter could almost feel them, like rats, scratching down his arms and legs, drawing blood as if it is their only purpose in life. They brought him the plague, and it gripped a hand around his heart and took a bite from his brain, leaving him paralysed, left to rot under the cruel hand of paranoia and anxiety as he flicked dark eyes around the quiet London high-street.

There was a reason he tried to blow them up.

To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure at first how they had managed to dig themselves out of the rubble of the facility he had left them in, but he still wasn’t surprised. They’re called HYDRA for a reason – cut one head off, two more grow back. Although Peter saw the likeness between the organisation and cockroaches more fitting, considering the absolute headache they give to literally everyone who interact with them, including him. Why they went with HYDRA over Cockroaches, Peter has no clue, since the insect strikes more fear into his heart than a Greek mythological being ever could.

He pulled himself out of his monologue with a shudder – he really does hate cockroaches – and stared out into the darkness again. Down the street, there were drunks staggering their way back to their homes, the British national anthem falling sloppily from their mouths for some odd reason, but Peter paid them no mind, instead settling his gaze on a figure across the street, lazily smoking a cigarette. The grey fumes curl up under the streetlight, and Peter followed the movement of the man’s hand as it moved from his hip to his mouth as he takes another drag on the cigarette, his bright blue eyes scanning the area too rapidly to be a regular British citizen out for a late-night walk.

Bearing about as much confidence as humanly possible for someone in his current position, Peter strolled out of the alley, forcefully relaxing his taut muscles as he glances to his right, heading away from the man. His heart was beating loudly again, in apprehension rather than exertion, but he took three chest-crushing breaths.

In…. and out. He reminded himself, trying to subtly stop the tremors in his hands becoming a full body shiver. It was times like these when he was thankful for all the interrogation training that HYDRA had given him, using beatings as a punishment for flinching, and when that method finally grew ineffective, they settled for more… unsavoury methods of punishment.

Peter didn’t try to supress the way his body involuntarily goes rigid at the thought, instead blaming it on the annoying British wind that whipped at his face, stinging his eyes.

Once again, he scanned the street behind him quickly, noting how the man with the cigarette hadn’t moved from his position against the wall across from the alley, but his striking eyes had tracked Peter’s movement from the alley, if the way his gaze was burning into him was any clue. They dripped ice down his back, and in a split-second (probably stupid) decision, Peter turned on his heel and locked his dark eyes onto the strangers’, striding toward him with unfounded confidence. With his long legs, it didn’t take him long to reach the man, who’s mouth had quirked up in an amused smirk as he watched Peter’s approach.

“What do you want?” Peter demanded, crossing his arms like a petulant child – which, technically he was – and scowling at the man. He’s no stranger to dangerous situations, no not at all, but something about this man completely unsettled Peter, with his bright eyes that just seem to know too much, hidden partially behind shoulder length brown hair that fell into his eyes like a mask.

“I’m surprised you even approached me маленький,” the man replied, taking another long drag of his cigarette and meeting Peter’s eyes as he smiled, surprisingly gentle as the boy tenses, “You don’t have to be afraid of me Peter.”

Peter felt his eyes widen exponentially at his words, and scoured the man’s face for any notable features he should recognise. He knew his face looked familiar, but that may have been the slight mania talking. Either way, the man was a stranger, and as he did with everyone he didn’t know, Peter slipped on a mask, dripping with false confidence and sarcasm – AKA his only defence mechanism.

“I don’t know you,” Peter replied shortly, a parody of a South-West London accent that he had been using while in the UK falling from his lips. Obviously, this man knew who he was, so the accent was probably unnecessary, but it never hurt to try, “I don’t think I’m the person you think I am.”

Flicking his cigarette and sighing, the man looked down the street, watching a group from the pub hunch over a drain in the street. Silence overtook the pair, but Peter’s head was racing – was this some kind of psychological manipulation? Was this the part when Peter was supposed to break down and tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

“Relax kid,” the rumble from the man was a ripple in smooth water, “I can hear your brain working. I’m not here to hurt you, just to say that I know where you’re at right now and…” he trailed off, huffing lightly, a small smile gracing his features, “It gets better kid. You’re out. Enjoy it.”

Peter stared incredulously, “Listen pal, I don’t know what you think you know but-”

“Peter.”

A pause.

“It’s okay.”

Another moment of silence.

Logically, Peter knew he shouldn’t trust this guy – hell, he didn’t even tell him his name! But the flame in his chest that he had shielded for so long seemed to jump at each word he spoke, as if to tell him that this was familiar. This was one of his kind.

HYDRA.

Clearing his throat, Peter nodded lightly, knowing the man didn’t need any other confirmation – he could probably guess what Peter’s brain was doing – and turned his back on him. A sign of trust. Respect perhaps. It didn’t matter really. Peter just wanted to go home.

Home.

He didn’t even know where that was anymore. His childhood had been a whirl of quiet singing in a damp, desolate room to calm his cries, a spatter of blood on manila walls, and then training. It was all he had ever known, only dreaming once or twice about the loving hand that ruffled his curls in the dark after a nightmare about trivial things – monsters, and such. It had been a lonely life, Peter mused as he watched his feet hit the pavement in a lulling rhythm. He didn’t even know where he was going, but the sound of boots against concrete accompanied his thoughts down the street, nevertheless.

Headlights passed in flashes occasionally, never stopping to check on the random sixteen-year-old wandering on his own at 3:43 in the morning, too busy keeping their eyes out for irresponsible adults amidst the throes of inebriation careening into the road. It was taxis mostly, Peter noted absently, they would be getting a decent amount of business on a night like this.

Kicking a stone in front of him, Peter shook himself out of his mind, “What the fuck am I doing?”

He sounded exhausted even to his own ears, and the sudden panic that came with the realisation that he had been wandering out in the streets for God-knows how long, when there was a terrorist organisation hunting him down only amplified the rough edge that tainted it.

Midnight eyes met the midnight sky as they searched rooftops. Nothing. They continued along the windows and fire escapes of the buildings. Nothing. Gaining some semblance of optimism, Peter wondered if maybe the stranger was right. Maybe he was out for good, and maybe, just maybe, he could enjoy life a little.

“Well,” he murmured to the moon, knowing she would keep his secrets, “I’ve always wanted to go to New York.”