Peter could feel it in his bones. His ‘Peter tingle’ as May had affectionately called it nearly 6 years ago was sending blaring red signals to Peter, despite the fact that he was asleep in his bed in his and MJ’s apartment in Queens. It sent chills down to the depths of his fingertips and into his toes.
It wasn’t uncommon for Peter to get nightmares. He got them all the time actually. He dreamed of someone hurting his family, kidnapping and torturing them. He dreamed of aliens raining down from the sky to attack the city he loved. He dreamed that he was standing in the middle of a battle, watching as someone, something slaughtered other avengers. He saw Wanda’s dead body just feet in front of him, and it felt so real, more real then when he had been standing 6 feet away from Tony Stark while he died. He dreamed about that too, the only dream that held any truth, and of course it also happened to be the most common. But the one thing about a dream is that you wake up, and its over. And that’s what Peter did, and for the last 3 years MJ woke with him, always just there, something physical and tangible for him to touch, something that was real. MJ had never been able to express herself well, but after 6 years of dating Peter never failed to realize how much she cared through the little things she did.
But this tingle felt different than a dream. It was just as alarming, but there wasn’t a visual scenario running through his head. Peter opened one eye tentatively, and then the other. His ceiling was dark, not completely black, still light enough for Peter to notice he had left a footprint on the ceiling. He turned to his right, and didn’t see MJ in bed with him. Albeit, she could have gotten up to go to the bathroom or for a drink of water, but something in Peter’s body told him something wasn’t right. He stood up, noticing how drafty the room felt. He looked around, seeing if maybe MJ had left the grate uncovered but found nothing out of place, until he noticed the window. It was closed, but the thing about the window is that MJ and Peter never opened it. And neither MJ nor Peter cleaned anything unless it really needed it. Because of this, Peter could notice the thin layer of dust on the window latch. Or, should he say, Peter could notice the fingerprints on the window latch.
His senses were screaming at him now. Red alarms blaring in his brain, and he still couldn’t see MJ. He should grab his suit but his thoughts are scrambled, his mind running faster than he can process. He lurches forward, one foot placed in front of the other until suddenly he’s opening the door a crack. He’s greeted with three men and a tranquilizer gun. When Peter finally comes to, he looks around. He’s still in his apartment, chained to a chair. Normally he could easily break the lock but for some reason he can’t, he strains against the strong force holding him.
Must be power dampeners. He thinks to himself. Dammit.
Peter looks up, trying to survey what’s around him. But what he sees terrifies him more than what he was planning on. It’s MJ, held in restraints similar to his. He sees how tight they are, knows they will leave purple bruises on her wrists and ankles. Peter strains a little harder against his chains.
Peter knows MJ better than anyone. And to anybody else, she would look pretty calm. But Peter knows better. He sees her eyebrow twitch, the way her mouth is pressed together in just a certain way, and he knows she’s scared and confused. He can’t blame her if he’s being honest.
“Ah, Mr. Parker I see you’re finally awake! How truly lovely.” Peter turned his attention to the man standing behind MJ.
“And you would be?” Peter snapped back. MJ stayed quiet, staring at Peter, her eyes all but baring into his soul.
“That is a wonderful question, but the funny thing is we have already met. In a little bar in Prague, I believe it was.” The man was small, older, with snow white hair and round glasses. Not terribly threatening, but the giant men he surrounded himself with were just big enough for Peter to feel some concern. Peter really didn’t recognize him, but when he stepped toward MJ and laid a hand on her shoulder a fire ignited in his stomach that filled him with a rage he didn’t know he had.
“Mr. Parker, I have dreamed for years of what I would do to you. You have taken everything from me. My life’s work, my partner, the only success I had. I have been put down, told I wasn’t smart enough, for my entire life. Quentin Beck was the only one who believed in me. He told me I was good enough, he wanted me, he NEEDED me. And you murdered him. All over the news, the public rejoiced, ‘Oh thank you Spiderman you saved us all oh thank you thank you.’ But you have RUINED my life.” He paced, his eyes glazed over and his words filled with hatred.
“I don’t know enough about Spiderman, or your body or any of that science to hurt you Mr. Parker. It’s a shame really, because I would have a ball! But alas, I just don’t think it would be nearly as effective as hurting one of the people you love the most.” He smiled at Peter, a wicked, twisty, cruel grin. He walked up to MJ, grabbed her chin.
“She’s just a lovely specimen isn’t she Peter. Not my personal choice of course but I have no complaints over your choices in life my friend.” Peter couldn’t remember fighting against restraints so hard. His chair would’ve fallen to the ground if not for the man holding him back.
“Don’t you dare touch her! Do not pull her into the past grievances with me!” Peter suddenly found his voice, and he struggled to remain calm. His voice shook and bile rose in his throat when he saw a single tear shed down MJ’s cheek. She remained impossibly stoic otherwise.
“Well I have loved all this chit chat Parker but I really have bigger fish to fry. Nice little talk we had.” Suddenly he was striding toward the door and two of the men were descending toward MJ, one began untying her from the chair while the other gave her a shot in the neck.
Peter watched with panic as his once calm and collected girlfriend turned frantic, flaying and screaming his name. He screamed back that he loved her, and how sorry he was. Whenever he was in the field, Peter always tried to remain impartial and calm. But he was in his apartment, watching his girlfriend screaming for help. There was nothing impartial about this situation. Tears blurred Peters vision as he watched MJ. She fought for a short time, leaning against the restraints and away from the men until the shot kicked in and she slumped forward, unconscious to the world around her. The men finished untying her restraints and one picked her up, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
And just like that, they were gone. Peter was still stuck in the chair. He knew he should try to get help, call someone, just into action. But he sat in the chair, tied up, defeated, sobbing. MJ was his person, and they had always promised that they would keep each other same. Peter kept her safe from harm (not that MJ couldn’t handle herself, she forced Bucky to teach her some hand to hand combat, some old school stuff, when they were at the Avengers compound) and MJ kept him safe from his mind. Peter wasn’t unstable, but being a superhero is challenging mentally and having someone there to give you a hug and tell you it’s going to be ok went a lot further than most would think.
Peter stayed in the chair for 2 days, trying everything in his power to get out. He tried to scooch to a surface where he could get a phone, something, but the chair was bolted into the ground. He tried yelling out for his Edith glasses, but they didn’t work unless you put them on. He didn’t have any AI system because he didn’t want it to freak MJ out. It was the perfect storm.
It was Bucky and Wanda who came looking for him. Peter heard them approaching, screamed out for help. He was weak but lucid and he could hear two sets of footsteps go from a stroll to a sprint. He watched as red tendrils picked the lock on the door, unlocking the deadbolt. All at once, a flurry activity Wanda and Bucky were there, asking him if he was OK, where was MJ, who took her, what the hell are these things on your wrist?
It was pure luck that Wanda had decided to come with Bucky because with some lovely magicy hands she was able to block the power dampeners long enough for Bucky to get in there with his arm of steel and get Peter out of that damn chair. They ushered him into the black SUV parked outside, barely pausing to lock the door. Peter didn’t care. He wanted to get to the compound, needed to find MJ. He looked out of the window into the city he cared about so deeply, but somehow it seemed a little more empty, a little less colorful.
-----------------------
*3 months later*
Peter slammed his hands down onto the desk, causing May to jump, nearly knocking the sandwich she carried off the plate she held in her hand.
“Peter…” She said softly, setting the plate of food onto the hologram desk.
“May, please don’t. It’s been three months and we can’t find her. We don’t have a single lead. We have a name, but nothing else. Not a single thing. I can’t, I can’t do this. I mean…what if she’s-“
“Peter Parker you stop that right now. MJ is fine, you and I both know that. That girl is a fighter in every sense. Don’t give up on her.” May rubbed Peters arm and smiled sadly at him. Peter nodded, only mildly convinced. Peter rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Pete, when was the last time you slept?” May asked, her eyebrows scrunched together, her head tilted in concern.
“I’m fine May, I slept last night.” Peter wished he hadn’t gotten so good at lying. The problem was now any time he closed his eyes all he saw was her, her screaming his name, staring into his soul, the single tear running down her cheek. And when he woke up the dream followed him. He woke up screaming her name, and she wasn’t there with his, the empty space on his bed more obvious every day. Even at the compound, it didn’t change. He was still stuck on that day, what he could have done differently. He hardly went patrolling or out, as Spiderman. He didn’t feel worthy.
“Peter, go take a nap honey.” May said softly, leading him out of the lab and into the kitchen. Wanda was dressed in a black T-shirt and a flowy pink skirt. Her ginger hair looked as though it was burning in the late afternoon sun. She turned to Peter, her eyes soft and kind, her skin dewy and supple. She smiled gently at Peter.
“A cup of tea?” She said, her words laced with her Sokovian accent. Peter shook his head and attempted to give her a small smile, which she returned along with a slight nod, as though dismissing him. He moved out of the kitchen, and into his bedroom.
He laid down to sleep but instead stared at his ceiling. He stared and stared, until suddenly he was waking to the blaring of an extremely loud alarm in his room. He jumped with a start looking around. His clock read 3:28am and yet the blaring continued. Suddenly, Peter realized what it was. It was the alarm he set in case of any sighting of William Ginter Riva, the man who took MJ.
Before he really realized what was going on he was sprinting down the hallways of the Avengers compound, running into the doorframe to ricochet into the lab. Peter was typing furiously. Riva had screwed up, he’d been sighted in Vermont, getting into a van with a logo. The logo was for a company, but not really a company. To the ordinary eye it looked like a simple company that manufactured metal, but Peter could easily see through the cracks. It was fake, the whole thing an interface. It led him through an internet scavenger hunt, led through server after server, loopholes, tricks, and some seriously well written code. But finally, he found it, a company with one building. The thing was basically an old concrete box of a building, in rural Vermont.
Peter was banging on people doors, screaming that he was pretty sure he knew where she was. It was 6:30am but everyone needed was suited up and in the quinjet in 15 minutes (which was practically a new record) and everyone else was taping away on computers, trying to dig up information of the building, old ownership, etc.
The flight to Vermont was 45 minutes on the jet but it was the longest 45 minutes of Peter Parkers life. All he remembered from the entire flight other than staring at his lap was looking up to lock eyes with Wanda, her reassuring smile as she tied her hair up to fight. He was thankful that all of them were coming with him, even if he couldn’t express it right now.
Peter barely remembered the landing. He barely remembered running through a grass field, storming the building. He remembers seeing the cages, looking back at his team before saying with a calmness that stunned them into silence to find her, while he swung to him, found him. He was a sick man, and when Peter found him, he pinned him. There was chaos around him, fighting and commotion but Peter was calm. He put his hand around his throat, the man who had taken the love of him life, and made a choice. He handed the man, unharmed, to Sam, handcuffs fashioned out of webs. On his own, without his team of strong men and fancy tech, this man was nothing. And he would rot in a prison cell knowing that. Plus, Peter had bigger issues.
It had been at the back of his mind this whole time.
What if he just kills her. What if he had just killed her.
He never voiced it out loud, never wanted to give it power, but it was always there, nagging him, lurking in the back of his brain. He looked around, there were hundreds of cages filled with tech and junk and god knows what. Humans. Human beings.
Most were dead, and the few that left most likely wished that they were. Peter wanted to take off his suit helmet to vomit but a tiny voice in his ear stopped him.
“I found her.” It was Wanda.
Peters heart stopped. Time stopped. The air seemed to pause, and Peter pulled in a deep breath.
“Wanda, is she alive?” He asked, his voice quiet. Every millisecond felt amplified, unbearable, the wait agonizing him.
“Yes.” Relief dripped off her voice, her accent purring the answer into his ears. Peter held the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Wanda, get her outside. The rest of you, get these men under control and then over to the local authorities. They’ll have to handle the rest. We can send in the Stark Relief Fund to help.” Peter wasn’t the leader of the team, but for once nobody questioned his authority and everyone did as they were told.
Peter swung toward the entrance of the barn, and it was there that he saw her. Clinton was carrying her bridal style with Wanda next to her. She was so thin, so pale. But she was there and he was on the ground, sprinting, his feet moving faster than they ever had before. He nearly slammed into Clint but suddenly there she was, her frame filling his arms, her scent invading his senses. She looked up at him and smiled ever so slightly.
“I knew you’d come looking for me weirdo.” It was so perfectly, wonderfully MJ. He carried her to the jet, refused to leave her side. He told her he loved her over and over on repeat, apologized until she yelled at him to stop.
Helen showed him the x-rays. He saw what that son of a bitch did to MJ. He had starved her, beat him, cut her, and she still came back to him and stayed and told him she loved him. He promised to never leave her and she believed him. She recovered slowly, but it was better with Peter. They completed each other, a complicated and messy puzzle but the pieces just fit, not for any good reason, they just did. They always came out on the other side, and while both would have physical and mental scars for the rest of their lives, they would still love life and each other in spite, but also because of it.
It was twenty-two days after the accident that it happened. They went to bed like usual, Peter making sure MJ went to sleep, her breathing even and calm before drifting off. But his thoughts clouded, became dark. He saw things, horrific things, the kind of things nobody ever wants to see. He woke with a start, his heartbeat racing and his breath quick. But she was there, holding tight onto him reminding him that he was loved, grounding him, lulling him back to sleep for the first time in nearly four months. For the first time in months, Peter felt content and safe, here in her arms.