someday (i'll make it out of here)

SATURDAY, APRIL 7 — 7:58 PM

Tony’s on the floor when Peter’s blood-curdling screams finally stop.

“Stark,” states the voice on the other line.

Tony fumbles for the phone and grips it with white-knuckled hands. “Listen to me,” he says through gritted teeth. On screen, sweat pours down Peter’s face; he’s barely conscious now, eyelids fluttering, his left ear a raw mess of burned flesh. Sickening dread fills Tony to the brim. “I’m working as fast as I can. Just… Don’t hurt him. I’ll do it without you tortu—”

The bearded man onscreen raises a hand to stop him from talking. “I know the way this shit works, Stark. I’m not stupid. Parker’s your motivation. The faster you get my weapon done, the less shit that freak has to go through.”

“Please, you don’t have to—”

Charlie shoves the blowtorch closer to Peter’s head and his kid writhes in his metal restraints, his breathing quickening as he tries to get away from the threatening heat. “You’re so used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”

Tony doesn’t say a word; his whole body’s frozen, hoping that if he does nothing then Charlie won’t hurt Peter. 

Through the TV, Charlie points the blowtorch at Tony, waving at the camera. “Well, this time, I’m in charge. None of your gadgets or your fancy suits or your money will save you now.” He scoffs. “You can’t even be trusted to stop fighting back when Spider-Baby’s life is on the line.”

Tony gulps.

“Starting now, my guys will watch your every fucking move, through all those cameras and microphones and computers that you thought kept you so safe. And we’re shutting down the Internet, too. If you call anyone, we’ll know. If you text anyone, we’ll know. If you touch one of your precious suits, we’ll know. And any move you make” —the flame grazes Peter’s cheek— “means this kid hurts.”

It hits Tony like a freight train.

Whoever hacked FRIDAY knew what they were doing—they can easily view any video footage, any audio, any technological move that Tony could possibly make. That’s how they saw his virus coming. The hacker’s at Tony’s level.

Which means Tony is completely, utterly fucked.

“If I hear an Avenger knocking at my door,” threatens Charlie, “then I’ll slit his throat, understand? If you slip through the cracks with your Stark tech shit and try to save him, he’ll be dead before you can say ‘Iron Man.’”

Tony can’t fix this. For the first time in a long time, he’s completely helpless.

He feels like he’s back in Afghanistan, pain zinging through his chest, thirst raking his tongue, fear flooding his blood. He has no other option than to help them.

“Here’s how it’s gonna work, Stark,” continues the man, as the others undo Peter’s restraints. “You’re gonna give us a list” —Peter slumps forward onto two men, fighting weakly as they drag him away— “of all the shit you need to build my gun. One of my crew will come by once a week to give you supplies. You’re gonna make it, and you’re gonna send it back with my guy. If it works like the HYDRA shit used to, I’ll let Parker go. If it doesn’t…” He shrugs. “You remember what I said. Every day, your spider bleeds, understand?”

This stoner’s got Tony Stark backed into a corner.

“Understand me, Stark?”

He nods. The TV displays only an empty room now, humming lightly. 

“This is my time,” rambles Charlie, and he slings an arm around the red-haired woman’s waist, “to do something that matters. To change the world for the better. This is what my life is for—to make the world a better place, and you’re not gonna fuck it up, Stark. You should be thanking me.”

Tony bites his tongue, and the line cuts out.

Scared is an understatement. Tony is horrified .

He can’t tell anyone what’s going on, can’t leave the lab, can’t do anything but work his ass off.

His computer screen says it’s 8:12 PM. Twenty-eight minutes until Pepper comes back home.

She’s gonna know.

As soon as she sees his face, she’ll know something is wrong; now, they know each other better than anyone else on the planet. He has to do something; if Pepper comes and finds him like this, they’ll murder Peter.

Tony presses his hands against his head and pushes hard, like ideas will come springing from his brain. 

If anything more happens to Peter...

He has to do something.

SATURDAY, APRIL 7 — 8:40 PM

Pepper is exhausted. As Stark Industries’ CEO, she’s got a lot of weight on her shoulders, and after a long couple days in San Francisco, she’s ready to come home. 

As she drives into the facility, she passes Tony’s lab. Something’s off about it; from far away, it looks strange, like a different color. As she nears the lab, she realizes with a sharp intake of breath what it is. Tony’s lab is on lockdown .

It’s only for emergencies , Tony told her when he created it. I promise.

What kind of emergency , she inquired, would warrant you locking yourself inside of your lab like a prison?

Tony blew air through his teeth. I’m making one for every building here, babe. It’s just… Just in case. If something happens to me, I can’t let it happen to you, too. 

Tony… 

Just trust me, he said. We’ll probably never have to use it. It’s just in case. 

Pepper pulls to a stop a few feet away from the lab and slams the car door as she gets out. “Tony!” Lockdown is for emergencies only , not for whatever this is. “Tony, come out of there!” She bangs on the door with her fist. There are vibranium-lined sheets locked over every window, vibranium bolts securing every door. No one can get in or out, not even her. “Tony!” She hits the doorbell, too, over and over again. “Tony, come on!”

No response.

She yanks on the door handle. Locked, as expected. She did not want to come home to this; she wanted to crawl onto the couch with her fiancé and watch Netflix. “Tony!” She slaps her palm onto the metal sheeting. Still, no response. She keeps yelling his name and waiting for a response, but he doesn’t say a word.

She takes a breath. He clearly doesn’t want to answer her, so she tries another method. “Honey, I get that you’re scared after what happened to FRIDAY, but we’ll fix her, I’m sure. We’re not defenseless, Tony.” 

Still, he says nothing.

She takes another breath, holds out, and lets it out. Tony’s not an incredibly complicated person, so it’s not difficult to figure this one out. He must be scared . If she gives him some time, perhaps this will all blow over. “We’ll talk later, okay? Just…” She touches the door handle. “Don’t sleep there, Tony. And eat something, would you? Happy told me you wouldn’t eat what you gave him, so… You can’t survive off of protein bars and coffee.” He used to do that when he worked through the night, and he hadn’t done it in months. But here they were, back where they started. “It’s not healthy.”

Nothing.

Pepper sighs. She’ll talk to him again later, after she kicks off her tight heels. 

Everything will be better soon.

SATURDAY, APRIL 7 — 9:13 PM

Charlie feels like he’s flying above the clouds. 

One of his crew, a young junkie named Ava, comes up to him while he’s so far gone he can barely feel his feet. “I was reviewing the footage from earlier today, and he… He talked to someone.

The words sound like they’re coming through water. “He what?”

“He talked to some guy through the door—for less than a minute, really, while I was up to piss and Scott was watching—and the guy walked away.”

Charlie’s eye twitches. “What did they talk about?”

“Nothing important.” She wrings her hands. “He was too scared to say anything to him, just told him to leave.”

Charlie clenches his jaw. 

“Look, I’m just letting you know in case he tries anything but—Jesus, Charlie, give them a break.”

“A break ?” he scoffs. “They’re stabbing me in the fucking back, Ava! I’m gonna save the world and they think they can sabotage me? They can’t get away with this without ANY FUCKING PUNISHMENT!” Even after Charlie warned Stark not to fuck with his rules, after he told him over and over again not to do it… And Lang, too. He tried to hide it from them. He should be grateful, honestly, that they hadn’t killed him yet. Was smashing his legs not good enough? Slicing open that kid? How much pain did Lang want for his kid? And Stark for his?

Why couldn’t they all see he was going to SAVE THE FUCKING PLANET?

He storms out of the room, and Ava follows, stammering, “Charlie—Charlie, they’ve been through enough, please—”

He spins around and slaps her; the girl falls. His hand stings. “Renee!” he calls out, and his wife pokes her head out of one of the doorways. “Get the kids. We’ve got another phone call to make.”

He punishes Lang first. The man screams himself raw as Mason breaks the girl’s fingers one by one. “Cassie!” he screeches, like it’s his last word. “ Cassie, CASSIE!”

Afterward, Renee slings the wailing girl over her shoulder and returns her to the cell. Two more drag in that Spider-Kid; the injured boy lands an elbow to one captor’s gut before they lock him into the vibranium restraining chair. Mason picks up the syringe of sedative, filling it with a full dose, but Charlie pushes him back. “No sedative,” he snaps. “Stark gets to know just how much pain he puts this kid in.”

He calls Tony Stark, but he doesn’t even give him a second to explain himself. He’s in control now. The power pumps through his veins like cocaine, rippling over him. “Rule #1, Stark,” he snarls, toying with Mason’s favored hammer. “Don’t talk to anyone.”

Then he swings the hammer back and smashes it into Parker’s right knee.

The boy’s scream lights the room on fire.

Charlie smiles.

SATURDAY, APRIL 7 — 10:01 PM

The house feels empty.

Cassie’s room feels like a death trap.

Yet still, Maggie manages to step inside. Jim follows her. What are they supposed to do now? How is she supposed to live without… without… without her little girl? 

Jim puts his hand on her back, and she pushes his hand away. “Jim—” she sobs, unable to describe the pain she feels from the absence of her baby. “How—”

Jim falls against the wall, running one hand over his face. He’s crying, too. “I have to check—I’m gonna find her—I have to—” He rubbed at his eyes. “I’ve gotta find her, Maggie—I will. ”

Maggie doesn’t answer him, just braces herself against the wall outside of Cassie’s bedroom and waits for him to go. Her world is cold, numbness seeping into all of her cracks, and not even Jim can help her. She can still see her little girl, can still feel the rush of overwhelming anguish as those men pointed at her baby, shouting, there’s the kid, grab her —

She falls to her knees.

Maggie doesn’t sleep, and neither does Jim.

Jim stays at the kitchen table, checking every police scanner and every traffic camera, hoping to find something. 

Maggie is in Cassie’s room, sitting on her daughter’s bed, when Jim comes back upstairs. The question ( find anything? ) lingers between them.

Jim shakes his head and doesn’t say anything.

They sit for a while. There’s nothing to say, really. When Maggie finally breaks the silence, her voice is hoarse from crying. “Scott wouldn’t do this, would he?”

Jim stares at her. She’s a little out of it, watching the window like Cassie will come home any minute. “Take Cassie?”

She nods.

He lingers in the doorway. Maggie’s got both hands on Cassie’s favorite stuffed animal, stroking it absently. “No, he… He’s done some bad, but he’s never hurt anybody, and he loves Cassie more than life. He’d never do anything to hurt her.”

Hesitant, Maggie nods.

“I don’t know what happened—or why—but if they’re together, I know that he’s keeping our Cassie safe.” He blinks back tears. “The police are gonna find them, I know they will.” He swallows. “Cassie’s gonna be okay. I… I’ll keep looking.”

She nods again, mute.

“I’ll find her. I promise.”

SATURDAY, APRIL 7 — 10:40 PM

There’s no clock in here.

That’s the first thing he notices—there’s no clock. He doesn’t know what time it is. There aren’t any windows, either, so he can’t tell if it’s nighttime or daytime or how long he’s been out.

Cassie’s sitting in front of the door, wide awake, running the little fingers of her left hand along the edge of it like it’ll open. 

His healing factor hasn’t kicked in as much as he would like. It’s probably because he hasn’t eaten since he arrived—his sky-high metabolism means he should eat four times a day at the bare minimum, and he’s starving. His knee… A wave of nausea rushes over him as he remembers the pain. It’s not like he’s never experienced painful things before—he’s had probably a dozen broken bones from being Spider-Man alone—but he was always taken by surprise. It never hurts as much when your body is pumping with terror and your ears are ringing with Tony Stark’s sobs.

But this… This is different. He’s never been tortured before. He doesn’t have his mask, which usually gives him a sense of security; without it, he feels completely vulnerable. Without it, he’s just Peter Parker. When he’s dragged into that room , he has to sit there, locked into that cold chair, listening to Tony scream for them not to hurt him, squirming away from their weapon of choice. 

It fucking hurts.

His knee is on fire, flames tearing up and down his right leg, so much that the pain climbs up into his chest. And the rest of his body still aches, every movement made difficult by half-healed injuries. His broken arm is healed now, thank God, and the puncture in his palm has closed up. His broken nose has healed up, as have some of his bruises, but they’re covered by fresh ones made by his captor’s fists. His clothes are hardened with dried blood, but he doesn’t have enough strength to make it to the sink to wash it out. Besides, it’s freezing in this small cell, and running water over the only clothing he has will only make him colder.

Cassie’s cold, too. She’s shaking like a rag doll, now holding her broken fingers to her chest and crying quietly.

This is bad, Peter thinks. Really bad. He’s kept up his hope so far, but it diminishes with every minute that passes. How is he supposed to escape this place? He’s injured beyond belief, Mr. Stark is stuck between a rock and a hard place, no one knows he’s here, and his only allies are a seven-year-old girl and her battered father. His captor— Charlie , he thinks blearily—is in complete control.

Cassie whimpers again, and Peter turns his attention to her. He can remember hearing them torture her, twisting his head to try to see her, her wild screaming, her cries for her dad, and her wounded father’s subsequent pleads. He sits up, and his head whines in protest, pain splintering over the burns on the left side of his head. Everything is lopsided; he tries to ignore it. “Hey, Cassie…” he says, and little girl jumps, surprised.

She bursts into tears, scampers over to him, and throws her arms around his neck. With his good arm, he hugs her and rubs her back, repeating, “I know, I know…” Because he does know. He knows exactly what it’s like to be in pain when there’s no one there to comfort him. No Karen to tell him he’s not fatally injured, no Ned to make a dumb Harry Potter reference, no May to kiss his forehead, no Mr. Stark to smile at him in the medbay and assure him that everything’s gonna be okay. Peter’s throat goes dry. Mr. Stark… 

“Never,” says Mr. Stark, rushing in and hugging him so suddenly that Peter it takes him a second to realize what’s happening, “do that to me ever again. Got it, kid?” Peter mumbles a “yes” into his shoulder. “You gave me a heart attack!”

Peter laughs, then immediately regrets it as the bandaged wound in his gut sends waves of discomfort through him. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry!” he responds, backing away now and giving him the stern I’m-Tony-Stark-so-don’t-fuck-with-me look. “Tell my blood pressure sorry! You call me to tell me you’ve been shot and you go unconscious halfway through? Peter!”

He winces. “Uhhh…”

“I’m old! My heart can’t take it!” He clutches at his chest with one hand, mimicking a heart attack. “Good God, Pete! Give a man some warning next time!”

“I’m sorry!” Peter protests lightly. “I thought the only guns he had were the ones he was holding, and I didn’t have time to pat him down, and when I was getting the victims out, I thought my Spidey Sense was telling me someone was injured ‘cause this girl got shot pretty bad—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mr. Stark grumbles. “Spider-Man had to save the day, didn’t he?”

Peter shrugs, grinning now.

The older man groans into his hands. “I really want to be mad at you right now, Pete, but you did stop what could’ve been a mass shooting.”

“Is everyone okay?”

Tony gives him this odd look, half-smiling. “You can’t be serious.”

“What?”

“You got shot three times, Pete! One went right through your left lung! And you’re worried about the other people?”

He shrugs again. “Are they?”

“Yes, Pete, they’re all fine. The two who got shot are in recovery, and they’re gonna be okay.”

“And the shooter?”

Mr. Stark makes that face again, and this time Peter recognizes what it is. Pride. A surge of warmth goes through him. “You can’t be serious.” Peter raises his eyebrows, and Tony caves, rolling his eyes. “He’s fine. Since you webbed him up after you got shot, the police didn’t see him as a threat once they got there and didn’t shoot.”

Peter slumps in relief, almost like the pain in his chest lessened. Everyone’s okay. “Awesome. Awesome.”

Mr. Stark smiles at him. “You are unbelievable, kid.”

He shrugs. “I try, Mr. Stark.”

“ Everything’s gonna be okay,” he assures her. “Let’s see if we can fix up your fingers, okay?”

She nods into his neck.

“You wanna give me your hand?”

She scoots back a little and extends her hand to him, a little shaky. It doesn’t look good; blood spots over her hand where the hammer cut her skin open, and each finger has been fractured so much that there’s no bone to even set. 

Peter swallows. She’s still looking at him like he’s a doctor or Mr. Stark or her father, but he doesn’t want her to. There’s nothing he can do to help her. Pain flares through his knee, and spots dance over his vision as he holds back a groan of pain. He can’t let her know how much pain he’s in. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she gives up, so he has to come up with something . He takes her hand by the wrist, wills some stickiness into his fingertips and dabs carefully over the bloody spots. Think, Peter, fucking think. What can you do for her? He can’t make a splint—he doesn’t have anything sturdy enough for that. How can he protect her fingers? Ned was always telling him about dumb stuff like that because he watched Survivor like he needed it to stay alive. After a lengthy scream or two, Ned would probably tell him to make the best of the situation. Figure out how to keep her hand stable until a medical professional gets there.

Peter racks his brains for medical shit, but it’s not like there was an AP Emergency First Aid class. God, now he wished there was. “Keep it stable,” he mutters to himself, and Cassie sniffles.

“What?” she asks.

Peter tries to give her a reassuring smile, but it must look more like a pained grimace because Cassie closes her eyes. “Just gotta keep it stable, that’s all,” he assures her. “You’ll be okay.”

“Are you gonna chop it?” she says.

Peter startles. “Wh-what?”

She scrunches up her face at her fingers, ready to cry again. “I saw a man with no leg and Mommy said sometimes doctors chop people’s legs off when they get hurt really bad so it doesn’t hurt anymore, and this hurts a lot .” Tears well up in her eyes. “Are you?”

Peter smiles, this time for real, and he puts his other hand over her broken hand so she can’t see it. She looks up. “‘Course not. I’d never do that. Pinky swear.” He mock-taps his pinky to her broken one, careful not to touch it. “Can you move them?” He wiggles his own.

She shakes her head and sniffles again. “No. Hurts.”

“Can you move your wrist?”

He rotates his and she copies him. Thank God. Right now he’s not sure if he can save her fingers from permanent damage, and if it was her wrist, too… “That’s good, kiddo.” God, he’s starting to sound like Mr. Stark. He turns her hand over and looks at it again. He doesn’t want her using the muscles there, even by accident, because it would cause her so much pain. The only thing he can think of, honestly…. “Do you think you could make a fist?”

She shakes her head again, clearly more agitated. “No, no…”

“Okay, that’s fine, don’t worry…”

“Please don’t” —a loud sniff— “chop it, I want it, I want it…”

Peter gnaws on his lip. It’s lined with dried blood, so it tastes a little salty, but he can’t remember ever being hit. The drug still swirls around in his head and his gut, making everything nauseatingly blurry, but he focuses on Cassie. She’s the one who matters, and there’s only one thing that he can think to do right now. “I think… We’re gonna do something a little different, Cassie.”

She blinks away tears. “What?”

She won’t look at him. 

Peter told her that it would hurt a little bit, but he knows she wasn’t at all prepared for the pain, not after all the torture she’d suffered in the past couple days. As quickly as possible, he straightened out her fingers. It was worse, in that moment, because the reason she screamed was him. He’d done it to protect her, to make sure she escaped here with her hand intact and to stop them from messing with her fingers again, but she didn’t see it that way.

She thought he hurt her on purpose. 

He’s wrapping her fingers now with one long strip of cloth he tore off his T-shirt. “By the end of the week,” he jokes, mostly to himself, “we’ll have to go shopping for a new one.”

Cassie yelps as Peter finishes wrapping. He then pushes her arm to her chest, looping the cloth around her neck once and zipping up her hoodie around it. ”We’re not,” she says, “gonna be out in a week, right?”

She’s a smart kid, so Peter thinks about his answer before responding. “I’ve got a plan,” he says finally, “to get us out of here, but I don’t know how long it will take.”

She makes a small hmph and cradles her broken hand. “Is it gonna work?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Daddy would come up with a plan,” she says simply, staring down at the floor. “Something better than yours.”

Mr. Stark would’ve come up with a plan by now, Peter bets. Something epic, with FRIDAY and Rhodey and Captain America, maybe, and soon they’d all be free. 

Right?

“Do you think they have his suit?” Cassie whispers, finally looking up at him.

“His—what?” Peter asks.

“If he has his suit then he can get out, maybe if we—if we—” She scrunches up her face. “We can steal it back! Back from the bad guys! And then he can get small and come get us out! He can! He can!”

Peter blinks. His head is still bursting with pain, but he tries to wrap his mind around what she’s saying. “Get small?” he echoes. “Cassie, that’s—” He blinks again, trying to clear his drug-muddled head. He examines her face, harder this time, and the puzzle pieces drift together. “Is your dad… a superhero, too?”

She nods, but she’s sad now, tears glistening in her eyes. “He’s Ant-Man but he doesn’t have his suit so he can’t save me but maybe they have it and if we went to get it—”

She keeps talking, but Peter’s head is in another place.

Charlie kidnapped two superheroes, not just Peter, and is locking the other away inside of his own lab. Three superheroes in total.

That freak... said Charlie, but when he remembers it the words are all slurred into pieces, took...broken arm...truckload...Winter Soldier...sedatives… There’s a red star on their door, too, just like the one on Mr. Barnes’ arm.

Spider-Man. Iron Man. Ant-Man. Winter Soldier. 

When he became Spider-Man, he thought he’d be facing robbers and rapists and muggers and the occasional drunk asshole, not...this. This isn’t something he can escape easily—the smashed leg, the restraints of the Winter Soldier, the drugs that bleed his mind dry of substantial thought, the torture that strips him to pieces every night… 

He might not be able to Spider-Man his way out of this one.

He needs to talk to Mr. Stark.

SUNDAY, APRIL 8 — 2:36 AM

Pepper’s back.

Right now she’s complaining that he shouldn’t sleep there, but he can barely hear her. Something’s happening to him, something that seizes his arc reactor and jerks it around inside his chest. He can’t fucking breathe, not when Peter’s out there, being fucking tortured —

“Tony, just talk to me! I know you’re there!”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Fine.” Through the audio, he hears some shuffling. “I’m going to bed.”

A pregnant pause, like she wants to say something else. But no words come through the speaker, and he watches her walk away on the video screen next to him.

It hurts so fucking much. Pepper means everything to him.

“I understand,” she says finally, “that you’re scared about what happened to FRIDAY. Just don’t… don’t sleep there, okay? It’s not healthy, honey.” She sighs. “I love you.”

Tony covers his mouth with his hand, crying quietly into his palm. I love you, too.

Tony doesn’t sleep. 

He couldn’t possibly sleep.

He works harder than he’s ever worked in his life. The framework of the gun isn’t difficult; he spent years of his life building weapons, after all. But it’s the technology that is stopping him from finishing so soon. The power source for HYDRA’s weaponry, Tony knows, was the Tessaract, a magical power source that will be difficult to replicate with technology. Although Charlie was incredibly high when he said it, he wasn’t wrong. Tony’s arc reactor technology had similar chemical signatures.

He doesn’t have most of the parts he needs to create the weapon; what is he supposed to do without it? The framework is plausible, most likely, but without the other parts and the reactor energy combined, he doesn’t know how it will work. 

He works frantically, chugging coffee like it’s water, working until his back aches and his hands shake and his computer screen blurs in front of him. He has to save Peter. He has to.

He blinks. There’s an indicator light at the corner of the screen: DOORBELL ACTIVATED. Who would be knocking at this time of night?

Another indicator: DOORBELL ACTIVATED.

It’s Pepper, he knows, because she’s the only one who visits him this late. But how can she be here so soon? He glances at the time. 

It’s 8:04 AM. Fuck.

It feels like no time has passed at all since Pepper last visited him. But she’s here now, again. When he approaches the door, a headache pricking through the back of his head, he can hear her knocking on the door. 

She’s hurt, he can tell. “Tony, really? I—” A frustrated sigh. “This is immature and—and—I thought we’d gotten past this, you can’t—you can’t just run every time it gets scary, Tony! It’ll be okay, we’ll figure this out, but you have to come out of there.”

“I can’t,” he whispers, without even touching the audio button. She can’t hear what he says unless he presses it, anyway. “I’m sorry, Pep. It’s gonna be a while, I think.”

“I just want you to be safe and healthy, Tony…” she continues. “But I’m going to a meeting now, and when I get back, I hope you’ve come out of there.”

Watching her walk away on the screen in front of him, Tony puts his hand against his chest and presses like he’s doing CPR on himself. This all feels like some kind of sick dream—he wants to wake up, right fucking now , but when he pinches at the skin of his arm, nothing happens.

He’s fucking stuck.

He stands up on wobbly legs and heads back to the computer. He has work to do. 

SUNDAY, APRIL 8 — 9:57 AM

The shiiink of the opening food slot startles both Cassie and Peter awake. 

Sitting up from her spot on the bed, Cassie lights up like a Christmas tree. “Daddy!” 

Beside her, Peter jerks awake, throwing his arm out towards the sound. A bad thing , thinks Cassie sharply, watching him scan the room and then hone in on the open slot. He thinks it’s a bad thing.

Instead of Daddy or a bearded man’s fist, two half-crushed Happy Meals squeeze through the opening. Peter slides towards the opening, shoving the boxes out of the way before croaking “Hey!” and sticking his hand out—

Another shiink, and the slot is shut again. 

Peter’s hand hits metal instead of open space, and he huffs in frustration. “No funny business,” warns the voice on the other side. “I’m just giving you breakfast.”

“I like to take my vitamins before my breakfast,” says Peter, and Cassie inches towards those red-and-yellow boxes. “Got any medicine?”

A shout from down the hall. The voice says nothing.

“She’s only seven,” Peter says. His voice is higher now. “Her fingers are broken. Please, just some pain meds, or something.”

“No,” says the voice. It’s a girl voice, Cassie determines. “This is all you get.”

“I’ll trade,” assures Peter. “My food for medicine—she’s only seven. ”

A thick silence. “She’ll live,” declares the voice finally, and a set of footsteps scurry away.

“No!” cries Peter, and he slams his hand against the door before crumpling in pain. 

Cassie is now struggling to unwrap a burger with one hand, and she grumbles in frustration. Her broken hand is still zipped into her hoodie, but her other hand still hovers by it, like the closer it is the less it will hurt. 

Two hands pry the burger from her hands, unwrap it, and hand it back to her. Peter looks at her with a weird frown-smile. “How much does it hurt? One to ten.”

“Six,” she answers quickly, looking down at her hand through the cloth. Last time with the red-haired lady hurt a lot more. That was a ten for sure.

He winces. “I’m sorry, kiddo.”

She’s still mad about last night, and she frowns. “You promised.”

“Cassie, I didn’t mean—look, I’m sorry.”

She wrinkles her nose. “It doesn’t hurt like last time,” she says. “It’s...better.” 

Peter smiles. “That’s good, Cassie.”

She’s glad she has Peter here to tell her everything’s gonna be okay. At least she’s not alone. Being alone… It’s something that’s hard to understand. It would be like timeout, but forever. She takes a bite of her burger and grimaces. It’s gross . “I hate mustard,” she announces, glaring at the deformed sandwich. “Mommy always lets me take it off.” She holds out the burger to him. “Can you ask for another one?”

Peter stares at her, and the expression on her face bothers her so much that she repeats her question. “Sorry, kiddo,” he says, and his voice sounds like the broken mug Jim once dropped on their kitchen floor. “That’s all we’re gonna get, I think.”

She scowls. “But it’s gross, and—and—and I’m hungry!”

“I know,” he says, and he opens the second Happy Meal Box. He’s hurt, Cassie knows, because every time he moves his face tightens up. “But you’ve gotta eat it. That’s all they’re giving us.”

“I don’t want it!” Frustrated tears bubble up in her eyes, and her lower lip trembles. “I hate mustard! I hate it!”

Peter’s eyes whip over to the door. “Cassie,” he says, like he’s her Mommy and she’s in trouble. “Just keep it down, okay? Gimme the burger, I’ll try to get it off—”

“I don’t want it!” Her voice whirlwinds into a screech. “I want another one, I want a—”

“Calm down, Cassie, just calm—”

“I don’t want it, I hate mustard, I won’t eat it—”

Down the hall, a door slams. 

Peter’s eyes go wild a second later, and he shuffles towards her in this frantic half-crawl, half-limp. “Get under the bed.”

“But—”

“Under the bed! Now!”

She scrambles under the bed as fast as she can. There’s just enough space for Peter to squeeze under, too, and he grips the railing at the top and presses his feet to the other at the bottom, letting out a pained sound as he does. His arms shake and his eyes squeeze shut, and Cassie crowds herself as far away from him as possible.

Boots storm into the room, slapping against the concrete, and she slaps her hands over her ears. “Is it too much to ask,” snaps a male voice, “for a little peace and quiet ?” The door slams against the wall, and the loud noise makes her yelp in surprise. Peter’s eyes open, and he makes some shushing sounds before the boots reach them. 

“We’re safe,” he whispers, and the boots hit.

Cassie knows her daddy gets beat up sometimes. It happens to superheroes when they’re out fighting the bad guys. But she’s never seen it up close. Now, hands scrabble at Peter’s back, trying to pull him out from under the bed, but he holds fast with his magic hands, gasping in pain. His eyes are closed again. “Get—out—Parker!!” The voice whips into an angry snarl, and Cassie starts crying. 

“We’re okay,” Peter manages, just as the boots turn into angry hands, and his eyes are closed again. More of the voices are screaming and shouting and kicking at Peter, but he’s right. She’s safe. Under the bed, surrounded by Peter, a thick wall, and the bed’s railings, with the bed bolted to the floor, she was safe. Her back presses against the wall, but she has one hand still curled in the hem of Peter’s hoodie. Peter’s that fourth wall, the one thing standing between her and the angry, screeching boots.

She closes her eyes and pretends it’s over already.

SUNDAY, APRIL 8 - 11:11 AM

Julia puts down the picture of Cassie and pulls up at a picture of her brother instead. She still hasn’t heard from him, and it’s starting to really freak her out. She’s been trying to gather more information about the missing drug addicts, but no one will talk for fear of being arrested themselves. There are five total drug addicts that disappeared around the time her brother did.

By putting a reward out for information, she’s already gotten a couple tips about what might’ve happened to Charlie. “He’s into angel dust now,” claimed one addict. “That shit’ll kill you.”

Angel dust . After a search through the police database, she quickly discovered that angel dust was a street term for phencyclidine, a drug she knew nothing about.  “You know anything about PCP?” Julia asks Woo, as soon as he enters the station that morning.

“The drug?” he asks, leaning against the nearest table to stare at the wall full of photos and information.

“No, the musical,” she quips. “Yes, the drug.”

Woo scratches his head. “Yeah, I mean—I started out in narcotics, so… I know a lot about it. Why?”

“You know that other case I’m working on?” Julia raps the board in front of her with her pen. He nods. “According to my sources...That’s some of the missing drug addicts were getting into.”

He nods. “It’s pretty addictive—it’s a dissociative drug, makes you numb and out of it at low doses. Can be mixed with weed or tobacco… It’s not too common, honestly, ‘cause people’ve heard too many freaky stories to want to take it. It’s pretty unpredictable, and side effects all depend on how much you take, uh…”

“What about if” —she frowns— “you take it at higher doses?”

He shrugs, helpless. “Not good. Remember that rapper, Big Lurch?”

It sounds familiar, and she nods.

“He’s the one who killed his roommate and” —he scratches at his head again— “ate her?”

She remembers the news story. The Cannibal Rapper: Man Gets Life for Woman’s Murder. The perpetrator been reportedly found naked and covered in blood in the middle of the street; the victim had teeth marks all over her and her lungs torn from her chest. “No,” she says, blinking away her disbelief. “That’s PCP?”

He gives another helpless shrug. “I mean, that was an isolated incident—besides, the only people who act crazy violent on PCP are people on high doses with histories of violence.”

“And without a history of violence?”

“On high doses...there’s a lot of delusions, paranoia, suicidal thinking… If you put them in a calmer setting, they’ll get all spaced out, but any stressors will really make them freak out. I mean, and this still all varies from person to person, how much, how long—do you know, have your suspects been using for a long time?”

“I don’t know,” she answers. “I need more info. But this...this is a start.”

“Glad I could help,” says Woo. “Now, let’s go. We’ve got some more potential witnesses for the Paxton-Lang case.”

She nods. “Got it.” She shrugs on her jacket. “I’ll drive.”

SUNDAY, APRIL 8 — 12:25 PM

Pepper’s back again.

Again, again, again.

To Tony, it’s only been minutes. Time’s blurry now, jumping between seeing Peter’s bloodstained face and his plans for the HYDRA weapon. He can’t tell how much time has passed; he feels like he’s back in that fucking cave, where every second was a year and another pained heartbeat through a car battery.

She’s mad this time. She yells at him through the door, telling him he’s being childish and immature and he wishes he could scream back.

But he can’t. Not with Peter’s life on the line.

He’ll do whatever it takes to get Peter back home safe, even if it means ignoring the love of his life. As she continues to talk, he sits with his back against the door, and before long he’s crying again, legs slack on the floor, tears streaming down his face. He cries so hard that he can feel it in every part of him, so hard that he thinks he might throw up, so hard that he can feel his body wither with each sob. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t slept all night or because he hasn’t like this in months, but it happens, and all he can see is Peter in that fucking chair as Pepper yells through the door, and all at once he can’t breathe.

They have his kid.

His throat tightens to a metal straw, and every breath becomes a mountain, avalanches of panic crashing into his lungs and into his arc reactor. His hands shake like crazy, trembling as he tries to calm himself, but nothing is working. He can hear Pepper walk away with another shout. If he looked at the videoscreen beside him, he’d probably find her stabbing her finger in his direction like a knife, but he won’t look. He’s still struggling to breathe, tightness wrapping around his chest. His left arm hurts, and as soon as he can breathe again he struggles to his feet, clutching his arm to his chest. He stumbles over to the TV and touches it, leaving his hand there like he can pat Peter’s shoulder through the screen. It’s warm but dark, void of any life. He can’t help but remember the way Peter thrashed— 

They have his fucking kid .

SUNDAY, APRIL 8 — 2:18 PM

“Luke?”

“No.”

“Han Solo?”

“No.”

“Anakin?”

“No. Ned, it’s like you’re not even trying.”

Ned snorts. “Well, sorry! Tell me which one you are then.”

MJ looks up from her drawing to give him a half-annoyed look. “Darth Maul.”

“Darth—are you serious?”

She keeps sketching. “Yup.”

“But you’re not—MJ, that’s like—in what universe are you Darth Maul?”

“This one.”

Ned flips down on the floor and groans. “If Peter was here he would agree with me!” He shakes his fist at the ceiling. “PETER!!!” A pencil smacks him on the side of the head. “Hey!”

MJ smirks. “Quit being such a loud dumbass, or my parents will make us go to the library or something.”

“I can’t help being a dumbass,” he mumbles, still looking up at the ceiling. “It’s in my bloo—hey!” Another pencil soars over his head.

“Where is Peter, anyway? He was supposed to be here” —she taps at her phone— “like an hour ago, what the hell. You did text him, right?”

Ned props himself up on his elbows. “Uh...yeah. A bunch. Maybe it didn’t send, lemme check.” When he taps open his and Peter’s conversation, all of his messages have sent. No loading bar, nothing. And they’re unread, too. “Maybe he overslept.”

“It’s past two,” MJ mentions. “Doubt it.”

Ned shrugs. “Maybe he had a long night.”

She scoffs. “Doing what?”

“Legos?” Ned offers.

MJ launches another pencil at his head. 

SUNDAY, APRIL 8 — 4:13 PM 

She was too harsh with him before, she knows it. The last time their AI shut down he was practically manic, unable to sleep or think until it was back online. “I know you’re going through a lot, Tony, but just talk to me, okay?” She sighs. “We’re going to get married, honey. You’re the most important person in my life. The most important relationship, and what matters most is communication. Right?”

Nothing.

“So just talk to me. Talk to me.” 

It’s like talking to a wall. Actually, she is talking to a wall: one made of vibranium-reinforced steel.

“I’m sorry, Tony, I really am. I didn’t mean to get so...upset with you. I’m just worried, that’s all. You can’t—” She sighs. “Don’t shut me out like this. When you’re feeling...like this, we can work it out, but we have to do it together. You and me, remember? That’s how we do things now. Not like…” She gestures vaguely even though he’s probably not watching the camera feed. “...this.”

She begs and pleads and gets mad again and apologizes once more. It doesn’t matter; he’s not responding at all. There isn’t even a flutter of movement that she can see through the locked-down lab that would let her know that he heard her.

As soon as she gets back to the house, she calls Rhodey. There’s nothing else she can do. 

He picks up after the second ring. “Hey, Pep. How are you?”

“Fine—you talked to Tony ,lately?”

Scuffling on the other end. “No. Not since FRIDAY went off the rails. How is he?”

Pepper tenses. “He… He shut himself in his lab.”

“Sounds like him. FRIDAY’s still down?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you shouldn’t be too surprised. He always gets like this when he feels...attacked. Just wait it out.”

Pepper sits down on the couch and shifts the phone to her other ear. “Yeah, I know. I’m just worried.”

“This is Tony we’re talking about,” Rhodey reminds her. “He used to spend weeks in that place, just working, trying to make some genius idea become reality. He’ll be fine.”

“He’s not eating,” Pepper adds.

“There’s food in there,” he replies. “He’s not gonna starve, Pepper.”

She sighs. “I know.”

Rhodey pauses. “I wouldn’t worry too much about him. He knows how to keep himself alive, even if it is on coffee and protein bars. He’s just gotta get this out of his system, you’ll see.”

“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

She calls Peter next. If there’s anyone who can get Tony out of a funk, it’s him. She calls his cell and his home phone, but both eventually go to voicemail. So she votes to text him again later—he’s probably busy with homework—and she texts Happy instead.

You know about Tony? she texts.

It takes him a few seconds, but he does respond. Yes. Still in the lab?

Yeah. Hey - you heard from Peter lately? I think he might be able to get Tony out of there.

Three dots flicker on the screen. Got an email from May. Said Peter got a scholarship to do some research thing - they won’t be back for a few weeks.

He’s taking time off school?

Yes.

Pepper blinks at her phone. Wow. Good for him.

Email said there might not be service - I don’t know if you can still contact him. 

Ok, she replies. Thanks.

At least she doesn’t have to worry about Peter; having to worry about whether or not Tony is taking care of himself is like torture.

SUNDAY, APRIL 8 — 5:22 PM

“ Mi amor ?”

Julia blinks. She’s been staring at this little girl’s file for far too long, and now she sits back in her chair and rubs at her eyes. “Yeah… Sorry.”

Cristian sits down across from her and taps his finger on the file. “They shouldn’t have given you a case como esto , Julia. I know how…”

She winces.

“It’s not going to be easy for you.”

She flips the case file over. She’s not supposed to let him see confidential files like this one. “It doesn’t matter… It’ll be a quick one, I think.”

“Why?” he prompts.

“‘Cause the kid lives with her mom and stepdad, but the biological dad is missing, too.”

“You think he took her?”

She shrugs. “It’s either that, or someone took them both. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred, when kids go missing, it’s a relative. And if the dad’s gone…”

“...then he took her.”

She nods, fiddling with the edge of the file. “So we’ve just gotta find where he took the girl, probably to a grandparent or something, and case closed.”

Cristian takes her hand from the papers and holds lightly. “If you’re so sure that the father did it,” he asks, “then why is this bothering you so much?”

Julia looks back down at the file, where Cassie’s name sticks out in front of her. “I don’t know,” she says quietly. “I don’t know.”

SUNDAY, APRIL 8 — 7:00 PM

The phone rings. He scrambles to pick it up, and the voice on the other end growls in his ear. He knows the routine by now. “Eyes on the screen, Stark.”

He watches in barely contained horror as, once again, Peter is dragged into the chair as his captors lock in his arm restraints. This time, he’s more awake, blinking and confused and shouting something at someone offscreen. No, Peter , he thinks. He knows what the kid looks like when he’s about to fight, and he’s got that face on right now, but it’s smattered with bruises—

He swings his foot out at his captor’s face, but his movements are floppy and sluggish, slowed by drugs. His face is swollen and purpled, his knee is a mess of blood, and burns line the left side of his head. He shouts out, but the sound is so crowded by the other yelling in the room that Tony doesn’t understand him. It isn’t until they hit him in response, sending a crack through the middle of his face; blood snakes down his bare chest.

Again, Tony is helpless. “Peter!” he screeches, and he fists the phone in one hand, pressing it against the side of his head as though it’ll get him closer to his kid. He’s helpless . “Peter, it’s gonna be okay, it’s gonna—stop it! Don’t fucking—”

“Quiet, Stark!” barks Charlie.

He bites into his hand to make himself stop. His heart pummels away in his chest—he can’t breathe, so he slumps to the floor and tries to inhale through his nose, but his chest burns.

Finally, once Peter is locked into the chair, with one guy pinning his head to the back of the chair to stop him from moving. He’s trying to stay calm, Tony notices, but his eyes are wide and he’s shaking like a leaf. “I need you to do something for me, Stark.”

“I’m doing,” Tony growls, “everything you—”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” snaps Charlie. “I’m in fucking charge here, Tony Stark. Me. Not you. Me. Apologize.”

His voice catches. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Louder.”

“Sorry,” he says again.

Peter’s head turn at the sound of his voice, and he starts with a croak, “Mr. Sta—” 

They hit him again—”Shut up! ” cries one—and this time the guy holding his head pulls out a knife and puts it to Peter’s throat.

Every cell in Tony’s body screams, and bites down again into his hand, harder.

“What you’re gonna do for me,” continues Charlie, as if blood isn’t currently gushing from Peter’s nose, “is make sure that bitch stops coming up to your door. We don’t need that kind of attention. It’s dangerous.”

“Please,” says Tony, but his eyes are trained on Peter. How long can the kid last like this? Sure, he’s got superpowers, but he’s only sixteen and he’s been tortured for so long—what if Tony doesn’t make the weapon in time? “Let me—let me talk to her. She’ll keep coming unless you let me—”

“Is that a threat, Stark?” There’s a red line down the side of Peter’s neck now, and he’s whimpering, eyes fixed on the knife. 

Onscreen, the room is still, the only movement now the flighty twitches of Peter’s body. “No,” Tony says quickly, and he swallows hard. He has to be careful. “It’s just a suggestion. Please. Let me talk to her. She’s my fiancé, she’s worried—”

“Break up with her.”

Tony stares at the man on his television screen. What? “No,” he says automatically. “I can’t—”

“This isn’t a game,” Charlie says. Picking up his hammer, he moves towards Peter, and the boy flinches back, twisting his body in the chair. “I already planned it out. I’ll tell you just what to say. I’ll have Parker on lockdown the whole time.”

“No—please—I just need to talk—don’t make me—”

“You’ll do exactly as I say,” warns Charlie, swinging his hammer from side to side, “or I’ll take out Parker's other knee.” 

Tony doesn’t miss the way Peter’s entire body shakes in response.

“Please,” Tony begs, “if I could just explain—”

Charlie laughs, and sweat drips down his forehead. “Explain what? That her precious Tony Stark is my bitch?”

Everything is crumbling between his fingers. “No—no—please, please, just don’t make me—don’t hurt him, I’ll—please, this is” — too much, he wants to say, for me to take— “ not gonna work—”

“Shut up! ” 

Tony hates that they can see him right now, that they can see how much he’s shaking, that they know how much this is destroying him. He’s too old for this.

“You’re gonna do it,” Charlie continues, “and you’re not gonna fucking whine about it, Stark! You’re gonna do exactly as I say!”

SUNDAY, APRIL 8 — 10:21 PM

Of course she went back. Tony’s her fiance, after all, and she’s not going to let him lock himself away in his lab like this. So she heads back, this time with a venti iced coffee, but this one’s decaf. She knows how he gets when he’s like this, so she’s not about to give him his usual six shots of espresso.

“Tony,” she begins, mostly because she doesn’t know how else to start, “I brought you…” There’s a strange noise from the inside of the door, some clicking and releasing. “...coffee.”

The door opens slowly, as though a hesitant child expectant of a scolding is on the other side; instead, Tony’s standing there now, and Pepper almost chokes on her surprise. “Tony!”

He looks like a wreck.

Pepper has seen Tony on his worst days (and his best ones, too), but she’s never seen him like this . It’s something entirely beyond hurt or traumatized or upset. There’s simply no word for it. It’s like he’s been destroyed from the inside out . Lack of sleep is written all over his face; Tony is ghostlike—exhaustion bleeds from his features. “Tony,” she echoes, and his face is completely empty. She knows Tony better than anyone, but she’s never seen...

“You have to stop,” he says first. His voice is scratchy, so dry that it cracks on the second word. To her surprise, he doesn’t even glance at the coffee. “Please.” He winces.

She’s never, ever seen him like this. “Honey—” She blinks at him. “Come on, let’s go home—”

“I’m staying here,” he continues, and his voice is so strange that she takes another step towards him. He’s shaking . “You have to go. I’m not leaving.”

“Like hell I’m leaving,” Pepper snaps, and when she moves forward again, her hair tickles the side of her face. She only pulled it into a messy bun before leaving the house. “This isn’t healthy, this isn’t safe, and I’m worried , Tony—this isn’t like you!”

He’s eerily silent, and his eyes fix on hers. His gaze is so perfectly still, like it was the day he proposed. I know, he said that day, more than anything else in the world, that I would do anything for you. You mean the world to me. He was so still then, so sure, so positively still that the world seemed to stop around them. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I would die for you.

She laughed, then, and rolled her eyes. Don’t be so dramatic.

I’m serious , he said, and he kissed her palm. I would.

“I don’t” —his voice falls into nothing— “want to see you anymore.”

Pepper ignores him. “Did you sleep last night?”

“Why does it matter?” he snaps back, and then he flinches. There’s something wrong here, but Pepper can’t put her finger on it. His sentences are all stilted, all wrong, like he’s reading off of a broken teleprompter. “I don’t—want you—coming back here. This is my lab, and you don’t belong here.”

“I’m no engineer,” she says, “but I belong here as much as you do! You can’t just kick me out of your life because you’re scared —I’m not going away anytime soon!”

Again, Tony steps back. She examines his face all over again, but still she doesn’t understand. He blinks, finally, and his mouth twitches. “I hate you,” he says.

The air tastes bitter. “Don’t do that,” she snaps. She knows she came back with the intent of being gentle with him, but she’s pushing past that. “You can’t just push me away because you’re scared! Just talk to me, Tony. I’m here and I’m not going away, you’re gonna hurt yourself like this—”

“Shut up! ” he shouts, and this time his feet stay rooted in the ground. He’s holding his left wrist, rubbing it, which Pepper knows is a sign of severe anxiety for him. “Just listen. We can’t—be together anymore.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

His eyes glance left. “We’re not good—together. It’s not—it’s not working. I don’t want you here.”

“Tony—”

“I don’t love you.”

Her heart twists; her body stiffens. It’s the most hurtful thing he could say to her, and he knows it. I love you, Pep, he said just the other night. They were watching Big Hero 6 for the fortieth time in their living room, Tony’s sprawled over their wide couch with his head in her lap. She simply made a mmhm sound in response and tilted her head back against the couch cushion, stroking her fingers through his hair.

For such an incredibly intelligent man, Tony didn’t watch a lot of documentaries or historical films. He watched cartoons. It was something they had in common—something about having to grow up too fast made both of them crave the easy rhythm of cartoon movies all the time. As they watched, he kept saying it, all while watching the TV. God, I love you.

What is it? she asked finally. You want me to join a superhero-robot team with you? Is that what you’re picturing? Pepper Potts, the next Avenger?

He laughed. No, I mean… I’ve just never felt like this before with someone. 

That’s why we’re engaged, she reminded him with a tap to his cheek.

I know. He closed his eyes and smiles, that easy, dopey smile that she cherished so much. It’s just… I want that.

What?

That. And he pointed vaguely at the screen, where the young protagonist was talking animatedly to his robot friend. Kids.  

Now, Pepper stares at him, still blinking in shock. “Don’t,” she repeats. “I know you’re upset—don’t say something you’ll regret.”

He takes a step towards her this time. He’s in pain—she always knows when he’s in pain like this, but he looks different this time. “Pepper,” he says. “I don’t want to see you here again.”

“Don’t do that, Tony, just come home—”

She sees it coming a split second before it happens, and the drop in her stomach isn’t soon enough to allow her to duck—he hits her, whips his right hand across her face hard enough that she’s left stunned. It’s so out of place that she stands there dumbfounded for a couple seconds before fury rushes in. “You asshole,” she seethes, dropping her hand from her cheek. Tony flinches, and she wants to slap the look right off of his face. “You goddamn asshole! ” He doesn’t say anything. There was a rule they made, when they first started dating. They each had their flaws, piles of trust issues and poor decisions and boundaries… But you can’t ever, ever hit me, she said. If you do, I’ll be gone. I know what it’s like, and if it happens again, then this is over. I can’t do that again. 

He gave her this sad, tilted look. Me, too.

And that was it. Over the years, they’d had their fair share of disputes, fights, and screaming matches, but they never got physical, never neared a physical threat or even abusive language. They’d never laid a hand on one another.

Until today. 

Pepper twists at the ring on her finger, feeling the burn of shame wash over her face. She can’t believe, after all this time—

“Get out,” Tony says, and she can’t even see him anymore, just streaks of color blurred by rising tears. 

“You’re just like your father,” she hears herself say, and Tony’s body seems to tense with her words.  “A selfish, abusive asshole.” Then she finally twists the ring off of her finger and drops it at his feet before storming away.

Tony doesn’t say a word as she goes.

She hopes she never has to see his face again. After all this time… Tony was just like the rest of them. As the heat fades from her cheek, she realizes she’s still holding his coffee.

She throws it as far as she can.

MONDAY, APRIL 9 — 11:14 AM

“I don’t want to do this,” says Riri Williams for the umpteenth time that night. “He’s gonna kill me.”

Nick grips the steering wheel harder. “Not likely, kid. You’re fifteen. He won’t touch you.”

People tend to change, Riri thinks darkly, when you torture their sixteen-year-old intern. But she says nothing, instead fiddling with the box of supplies in her lap. 

She’s the youngest in Charlie’s crew by a few years, and she’s the only one who hasn’t gotten into any heavy drug shit. Her older brother Eric, who practically raised her, used to run around with Charlie and the others, selling and using, but he dove in way too deep, got himself killed over a money squabble.

After he died, she went into foster care for a while. Got a nice family, a real good one who fueled her passion for engineering and helped her learn more about computers. Even though she loved them to death, she loved her brother more. So when Charlie came to her a few weeks ago with a proposition to avenge her brother and change the world, she couldn’t say no. She left her perfect world behind and joined Charlie’s team.

Now… She’s starting to regret it.

From behind the steering wheel, Nick looks over at her. “Riri, don’t worry. He’s not gonna do anything to you, not while we have Spider-Guy.”

“But what if he—”

“He won’t,” he assures her. “We’ve got cameras all over him. You don’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

That doesn’t stop her stomach from crawling up into her throat. She feels sick. 

From the base to Stark’s lab, it’s a six-hour drive, so they pull over halfway through, stopping at a McDonald’s to get something to eat.

The drive-thru’s five miles long, so Nick parks it just outside the place and hops out of the car. “Whaddaya want?” he asks. She gives him her order, and he taps it into his phone so he won’t forget. “Don’t go anywhere,” he jokes as soon as he’s done, and he slams the door shut. 

Riri relaxes as soon as he exits the car. She’s never felt safe around them, not really, only closer to her brother. Eric used to get himself into a lot of trouble hanging with Charlie and his crew, and now Riri sees why. She never thought Charlie would go so far as to… Nausea twists in her stomach as she recalls seeing the little girl with the brutalized arm and the teenage boy reeking of burning flesh. She didn’t sign up for this. 

She didn’t sign up to be an accomplice to torture.

She’s alone in the car now, and when she drops her gaze to the driver’s side, she spots the keys sitting in the cupholder farthest from her, glinting dangerously. Her hand twitches. How easy would it be? She could take the keys and drive, leave Nick in the middle of nowhere with nothing but his hunger and his tempestuous temper. It would be so easy . She could stick the keys into the ignition and drive like she’s Ferris Bueller in a bright red Ferrari, blazing over the streets of wherever-the-hell-they-are, free.

She digs the keys out of the cupholder and raises them up. Free . It’s a concept she hasn’t known in a long time. It’s not easy to be free when the people caring for her are aggressive, delusional addicts. 

She’s just a kid herself, really, so seeing a kid just a year older than her restrained to a chair and drugged up to his eyeballs made confused fear ripple over her. If they’re willing to do that to a sixteen-year-old and a seven-year-old, what would they do to her if she tried to leave?

She drops the keys back into their original position. Who is she kidding? She’ll never be free of them. She’s too damn scared . She’s seen them at their worst and at their best. She’s been beaten at their hands and protected by their weapons. These people are the only link she has to her family, the only true connection she has to the world. Besides, she’s one of the only people in the crew who knows how to calm Charlie down. If she can do that, then maybe she can talk him out of hurting these kids. 

If she can’t run away, then at least she can help those two escape. She hasn’t done something good like this in a long time; maybe this can be her redemption.

It’s around two when they finally arrive. Nick parks way outside the property and sends her the directions from his phone. Shoving the box of supplies into her arms, he reminds her, “It’s gonna be a long walk, but you’ll be okay. Stay out of sight. Remember, Lang unlocked the back gate and took out all the cameras. Stay out of sight , you hear me? If they find you, you’re fucking screwed.”

“Great,” she mutters.

Nick scowls. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Riri. This is the only way we’re ever gonna come out on top. This is the way we’re gonna save the world.”

She hates it when they talk like this, like torturing and blackmailing is gonna stop world hunger or bring her brother back. “Fine,” she says.

“Now, tell me what you’re gonna do.” She repeats it back to him a couple times, and once he seems satisfied, he settles back into the driver’s seat and nods his head in the direction of Stark’s lab. “Then get moving. We don’t have a whole lot of time.” He pats her shoulder. “You got it, Riri. I’m gonna call Charlie—he’ll make Stark open that back door to let you in. We’re all counting on you.”

She gives him a half-grimace, half-smile and shifts the box in her hands.

It’s not a difficult trek, but the box makes her much less stealthy than she’d usually consider herself to be. Nobody sees her, though, and when she finally passes through the back gate and makes it to the back door of Stark’s lab, she sets the box down and bangs firmly on the door. It’s a strange-looking place; the outside is mostly lined with shining white plates or exposed metal. It looks geometrical, every line connecting to another at a ninety-degree angle. Where windows should be are massive sheets of reinforced metal, and it covers the door, too, as well as any other opening that would be useful. There’s no sign of life from within, but Stark must be in there; Nick said he would call.

There’s a sudden whirr before a series of clicks, and then the metal over the door slides into the ground. A few seconds later, Tony Stark stands in front of her, silent. She doesn’t know what she expected, but this middle-aged man with graying hairs and tired eyes holding his arm like it’s broken... He is not the Tony Stark she has seen on TV.

She clears her throat. Her heart’s spinning in her chest—she’s usually behind the scenes, so meeting the man who she’s heard sob into his phone because of what Charlie did...this is different. “...hi.”

Tony Stark clutches his arm a little harder, and his eyes linger on her before scanning the area behind her. He doesn’t say a word. 

Riri holds out the box. “There’s, um…” His stare is relentless. “...food. And the parts you asked for.”

He looks around again, like he’s waiting for someone else to show up, but this time his eyes twitch and he glares at her with a vicious heat. She thinks, briefly, if Nick could get to her in time before Tony Stark strangled her to death. She shoves the box into his hands and bolts back to Nick’s car.

As she runs, she can still see the look of absolute devastation on his face.

MONDAY, APRIL 9 — 7:08 PM

Ned’s been texting Peter since yesterday, but he still hasn’t gotten a response.

Early Monday morning, he shows up at the Parkers’ apartment. They’ve still gotta work on that project for history class; he’s come to Peter’s early before, and he texted May, so he hopes it’s okay. Ned doesn’t live far from Peter, so it’s not much of a trip anyway. 

But neither of them are responding. His strings of texts to both May and Peter are unanswered. He knocks repeatedly, but no one answers. There’s light trickling out from under the door, but after knocking for a solid ten minutes and getting no response, he assumes they’re asleep. 

Maybe they’re both sick, he thinks. Or they went on a trip and forgot to tell him. 

It’s a little strange, this whole situation, but stranger things have happened. At least if they’re together, Ned knows they’re okay.

By lunch, he’s worked himself up to a full freak-out. “You good, Nedward?” MJ asks, after launching a crumpled sketch of the cafeteria lady at him. “You look like your dog just died.”

He shakes his head. “Peter’s not responding.”

“He’s not your Siamese twin, dude,” she reminds him. “Let the guy breathe. He probably took the day off.”

Ned snorts. “Peter doesn’t take days off! He’s in four APs!” Maybe he’s at Tony’s. That could happen, right? He’s had to stay home from school after recovering from Spider-Man injuries before. It could happen. “I’ll...be right back.” He snatches up his phone and runs out into the hallway, dialing Mr. Stark’s private number. It’s meant for emergencies only, but Ned can’t help it. He has to know what’s happening to Peter. 

Mr. Stark doesn’t pick up, so Ned texts him instead. hey mr. stark do you know where peter is? he’s not answering his phone or anything

is he with you? i know you’re busy but i’m really worried

sorry mr. stark can you please just get back to me? may isn’t answering either

He texts Peter, so much that he knows Peter’s gonna kill him when he finally responds. 

hey peter plz don’t be dead haha

where r u man

u sick?

ill ask around for notes if u want 

He wouldn’t be worrying so much if this wasn’t Peter Benjamin Parker who’d gone radio-silent. Peter texts all the time. Nonstop. He texts ike there’s a demon in his hands. He texts while Spider-Man, texts while driving, texts while in class. Any time Ned texted him, Peter responded. He’d woken Peter up from his naps by waking him up with the buzz-buzz of his texts.

And now he’s gone completely silent. It’s creepy, and Ned lets him know.

dude, he texts, this is creepy lemme k ur alive. u got ur phone takin away?

u with mr. stark? please lmk

where’s may? 

dude respoooond

Peter doesn’t answer.

By the end of the day, Ned’s full-on freaked.

For the second time that day, Ned finds himself at the Parkers’ apartment, banging on the door.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Peter won’t answer the phone. May won’t answer the phone. Tony won’t answer the phone. And the worst part is, he can see light still under the door. He redials and redials and double-checks the numbers and redials again until finally, fucking finally, Tony Stark picks up.

Euphoria shoots through Ned, the kind of relief that makes him slump back against the wall. “Oh, thank God! Peter hasn’t responded to my texts in like two days and I thought maybe he was with you on some kind of important mission—like an Avengers thing or something—so you gotta let me know that he’s okay, I’ve been calling for—”

“Ned.”

Ned stops talking. He’s never heard Mr. Stark say his name like that. “Yes—um, yes, Mr. Stark, sir?”

“I need you to listen very carefully,” states the man on the other line. It’s Tony Stark’s voice for sure, but something’s off. “Peter isn’t coming back for a while.”

Ned feels sick, dread churning in his chest. “What—whaddaya mean—not coming back? Is he hurt? Is he” —not dead, Ned thinks, shit, please,not dead not dead— “on an Avengers thing?”

There’s a strained silence. “I can’t tell you where he is. It would put you in a lot of danger.” Ned blurts out more questions, but Tony stops him. “Ned. Stop. Listen . Stop looking into this. If you do, you could put Peter in a lot of danger, understand?”

“Is he okay?” he squeaks out.

“He’s fine. For now. Right now, your mission is to keep quiet about it.” He’s speaking slowly, carefully, like every word is painful. “Make sure no one get suspicious—if anyone finds out anything about Peter he could die, got it?

Ned swallows. “Got it.”

“Good. If anyone asks, he’s doing a research program somewhere. Alaska—no service. 

“Okay, um… And M-May? What do i say?”

There’s a long silence on the other end, followed by a series of muffled noises. After a minute or so, the noise clears and Tony responds. “May Parker is in the hospital right now.”

Ned feels like he’s being strangled; his voice comes out smaller, weaker. “Wha-what? From the—the—the stuff that Peter’s involved in?”

A pause. “Yes. She’ll be okay...eventually. I need you to stay calm about this. If you tell anyone, I will find out. The Avengers are working with SHIELD on this one, Ned. If they find out you told anyone, you’ll be arrested. You. Can’t. Tell. Anyone.”

“Okay, okay, but… Can I talk to him?”

“No.” Ned’s heart clenches. “I’m trusting you, Ned. Peter’s life is in your hands.”

TUESDAY, APRIL 10 — 6:02 PM

The little girl in the corner doesn’t know him very well—and he hasn’t spoken to her much since the whole thing started. He’s been planning and planning and thinking and planning more and listening to every single conversation he can. He’s learning their names: Riri. Charlie. Haroun. Nick. Ava. Lyle. It’s hard to think with all of the sedatives in his system, but he keeps going to the sink and drinking straight from the tap. He’s not sure if drinking water will dilute the sedation, but he’s trying .

Cassie’s not really talking a lot. She cries, and she hugs the McDonald’s toys a lot, and she sits and watches him. 

“I’m hungry,” she says. 

Peter doesn’t have even a morsel of food for this little Cassie; and he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself and the little girl, so he says, “Drink more water from the sink then.” He’s in so much pain that it’s impossible to think even a sentence without getting through a gasp of pain. 

Cassie listens to him, walking over to the sink and reaching inside. She’s not quite tall enough to reach with her mouth, so the little girl cups her unbroken hand and lets it fill with water before slurping from her palm. 

“Better?” he says, once she’s gotten her fill. 

“No,” she says, so she keeps drinking more.

Their cell is so small. Toilet, bed, sink. Sink, bed, toilet. A pile of flattened Happy Meal boxes in the corner. A collection of McDonald’s toys in a bucket. 

They’ve created a kind of routine. When Cassie or Peter has to use the toilet, the other one has to close their eyes and face the other way for privacy—it’s as much privacy as they can get. Because they’re so hungry all of the time, they drink a shit-ton of water, enough to fill the rest of their empty bellies; using the bathroom becomes a constant activity. 

The little girl’s crying. Cassie , he remembers. “I wanna go home!” she wails. “I want Mommy!”

Peter can hear every sound in this stupid cell; she’s being way too loud.  Down the hall, his captors mumble and argue about ‘that loud little bitch.’ “I know,” he says, ignoring the pain in his leg. “But we gotta be quiet, okay?”

She’s crying still: “I WANNA GO HOME!!” 

Peter listens hard; again, complaints about the girl. “Cassie,” he says, and the girl sniffles through her sobs. “Cassie. Hey. I’m gonna get you home, okay?”

She sniffles again. “What?”

“I’m gonna figure out a way to get us home,” says Peter. “You just…gotta be quiet, okay?”

Cassie nods through her tears, and she leaps forward, hugging him around his bruised middle. She buries her cries in the front of his shirt. Peter hesitates, but he finds himself wrapping his arms around her. 

Their plan is simple: Operation Falcon. 

Peter will stick to the ceiling, Cassie will cling to him, and they will crawl all the way to the exit on the ceiling. What could go wrong? They’ve forgotten to dose him, so he’s slowly getting his senses back, and they’ve only been here for a few days—maybe they won’t expect it.

They get ready early in the morning, Peter sticking to the ceiling with his hands and bare feet. Without his socks, he sticks much better. The ceiling is covered in grime and random black spots, but he ignores the grime. His forearm’s still recovering from a stab wound, and his whole body shakes with the weary effort of holding himself to the ceiling, but he sticks, Cassie clinging tightly to his middle. 

Noise at the door. A key. Peter tenses up, and the cell tints with hallway light as the heavy vibranium door opens up. “The hell?” says a drug-addled voice. “Yo! RJ! The kids aren’t here!” Taking the opportunity, Peter scampers over the top of the door-jamb, and Cassie screams in surprise. Their captor looks up—“Oh, shit!”—and jumps to grab at them as they crawl across the ceiling.

It takes every ounce of strength in Peter not to drop the little girl.  

Spider-crawling as fast as he can, he races to the doors at the end of the hall. He’s pictured this moment already a hundred times: freedom, freedom, freedom! I’m coming home, Aunt May! Mr. Stark, everything’s gonna be okay! Just a hundred feet to the doors, then ninety, then eighty—

He hits his knee on a ceiling light, and there’s a burst of pain so nauseating that he loses control of his legs. Cassie screams, and her hold on him tightens astronomically. He’s dangling from the ceiling by his sticky hands; the pain in his knee is so intense that he starts to gag. “Peter!” screams Cassie.

Even from the ceiling, he can recognize their bearded, addict captor. Still dizzy with pain and hunger, Peter manages to lift his leg back to the ceiling, but his mangled leg dangles in the air like a ripe piece of meat. 

Charlie’s got the sledgehammer; the fear in Peter rises so fast that he tries to move again, but he only manages to dislodge his other leg. He’s not strong enough. Straining, Peter shouts, “No !” and kicks out at the man. Charlie dodges his leg with ease and grabs it with one hand.

Pain like barbed wire strangles his knee where the man grabs it, and his arms loosen—Cassie slips from his battered arms with a scream: “ Peter! ” She’s flat on her back, crying, as Peter still sticks to the ceiling, helpless.

The red-haired woman grabs Cassie; Peter hears the whistle of steel hammer through air, and he tries to jerk away from the blow—a shock of pain explodes over the side of his leg—

Peter passes out before he hits the ground. 

They beat Peter after the escape—and slapped Cassie around a bit—so they’re laying on their ratty mattress side-by-side and being still. It hurts to move.

“Can we play a game?” asks Cassie quietly. She sounds tired, far more tired than a seven-year-old should be. 

“Sure,” he says, wincing. There’s a new flood of sedatives in his system, stuff that makes his mouth taste like rust and his limbs feel like pillars of ocean-wet sand. The ceiling swims above him. 

“I spy?”

Peter can’t ‘spy’ anything but the drug-induced whorls in the concrete ceiling, but if it’ll keep her from crying... “Sure,” he says again. 

“You start.”

His head lolls to one side. “I spy with my little eye…” Peter starts. “...something gray.”

The game takes pleasantly long, Cassie picking out nearly everything gray in the room: the ceiling, the walls, the toilet, the sink… Every tally mark scratched into their walls. Every railing in their bed. Every stain in their mattress. Every pockmark in their floor. 

And by the time they’re finally done, Cassie says she’s tired and curls into his side. “My head hurts,” she says.

“I know,” says Peter.

“I don’t wanna try to leave again.”

Peter closes his eyes. “We’ve got to.”

SATURDAY, APRIL 14 — 2:30 PM

Peter and Cassie have been planning nonstop since Operation Falcon went south. 

Peter keeps her up and running in the cell by playing ‘Red Light, Green Light.’ They don’t play too much, afraid of losing the precious few calories they’re given, but it keeps the girl’s hopes up, which is worth more now than a couple hundred calories. “Green light,” he whispers, and Cassie dashes to the toilet, patting the wall when she reaches it. “Red light!” She pauses like a deer in headlights, smiling.

It’s so good to see her smile.

Peter has never thought too much about kids, given that his childhood was so scattered, but having Cassie around makes him think about it way more. He always thought he’d be a scientist or an engineer when he grew up, but… He wouldn’t mind being a teacher now. Elementary school or middle school or something. He likes being around her—her infectious laughter and naive humor and infinite curiosity. 

Lunch comes late, around three o’clock. Two happy meals alongside a gift from one of their kinder captors, a woman named Ava. Cassie squeals when she sees it—a brown paper bag stapled shut—and looks up at Peter for permission. It smells like food. “Can I open it?” she asks, face eager with hunger.

Peter’s own stomach gnaws on itself; he’s so hungry he’s been biting his fingernails to the quick for the extra couple calories. He saw it on Survivor once: a fingernail is two calories. “Sure thing,” he says, and the girl squeals. 

Seven-year-olds shouldn’t be so excited about getting a meal that’s barely enough to keep them alive. 

She tears open the bag: apples. They are apples. There are six of them inside, and Peter’s never loved anything more. 

Saliva pools in his mouth; one-handed, Cassie’s already sinking her teeth into a reddish gala with a crunch, making little joyful sounds as she does.

They separate the apples between them: two for Cassie, four for Peter, and they eat them whole—all the way to the core, seeds and stems and all. “Daddy says apple seeds are poisonous,” she says, sucking on one like a mint. “But you have to eat, like, a hundred apples.”

“Your dad’s a smart guy,” says Peter. 

“I want a hundred apples,” she says. “Two hundred. A thousand.”

Cassie always says stuff like this now, her sentences tainted by hunger. 

“I want apple pie,” she says. “Jim makes apple pie. He always lets me eat some apples before we put it in the oven.”

Jim, her stepdad. Right. She’s always talking about her parents: Scott, the one stuck down the hall who’s slowly losing his mind; her mom, who works part-time at the retirement home; and Jim, her stepfather who’s also a police officer.

“And applesauce!” she says, with her mouth full. “With cinnamon.”

Peter can play this game: “Ooh, yes, apple jelly on toast.”

“Apple pancakes!”

“Caramel apples.”

“Apple cake.”

“Apple strudel.”

“What’s strudel?”

Peter blinks. “Uh,” he says, and he reaches automatically for his phone in his pocket. Fuck. He keeps forgetting that they took it. His hand still drifts to his pocket every time he wants to know the time or text his friends or know some random fact about apples. “I don’t remember. Some kind of pastry-bread thing, I think.”

“Like toast?”

“Toast isn’t a pastry, Cass.”

“But toast is bread and you said bread is paste-ry.”

“Pastry.”

She tries, “Paste-ry.”

“Pastry, Cass.”

“That’s what I said!”

They eat the rest of the apples quickly.

Today’s the day, then. They have to escape today. With the apples, they’ll have enough calories to sustain the run, any fighting they have to do, and the way out. Sure, Peter’s leg is completely fucked, but if they don’t go now, then they never will. His body is adapting to the sedative, He has to get out of here before Charlie comes after his knee again. It’s healed halfway, but shattered—he can feel the shards of bone beneath the skin, trapped in limbo between muscles and fat. 

Which, by the way, he’s losing by the second. He’s already lost probably five pounds, and he’s been here barely two weeks, his mind on a constant overdrive for food. He’s still thinking about that imaginary apple pie. “Cassie,” whispers Peter as they eat. “you remember the plan?”

Crunching on a french fry from her Happy Meal, she nods furiously. 

“Good. Let’s go over it again.”

There’s a code on the door. Peter knows because he hears the beeping every time they move in and out of the cell. It’s a series of numbers, eight of them, probably a zero to nine code. Numbers. Peter’s smart—he’s in multivariable calculus. So how difficult could it be to figure out a door code? He’s listened so many times that he knows the pitches by heart, like a song. There’s always eight differently pitched numbers followed by a long affirmative beeeep. An eight letter combination with eight numbers. If the same pitch equals the same number and higher pitch equals higher number….

He listens to those eight beeps over and over and over again. They don’t have any pen or paper, so he dips his fingers in sink-water and writes on the concrete wall like he used to do at the public pool—drawing pictures in the sun-dried concrete with water and pretending he was a painter until the sun evaporated his works. 

Cassie will draw as he does it. They’ll play Guess-The-Thing, a game Cassie came up with, to pass the time: someone draws a picture of an object and someone else guesses. Peter knows there’s a real title for the game, but he honestly can’t remember it.

There’s only a few possible number codes that Peter comes up with: one, if the highest pitch equals the highest number; two, if the highest pitch equals the lower number; and three, if the highest pitch equals proximity to the keypad’s motherboard.

Three possible options. 

He memorizes each code, and then he memorizes it again. Cassie tests him on it, too, just to make sure he won’t forget.

This escape plan should give him enough time to insert all three codes. One of them has to be right. 

Peter hates seven o’clock. Even without a clock in his cell, he can tell that the time is coming like it’s a blade at his throat. He can feel it in his gut—it’s only been eight days of this shit, and he can feel it coming as though he’s already cuffed to that cold vibranium chair. “Cassie?” he whispers, once they’re only minutes away.

She looks at him, her little brows forming a determined glare—God, she’s such a good kid. “I’m ready,” she whispers back. 

“Get the cord,” he says. She crawls over to the Treasure Chest, that bucket in the corner, and pulls it out—a cotton cord made from braided strips of their bedsheets. Cassie gives it to him, and he ties the cord around his waist so it won’t fall.

Then Cassie loops his arms around his neck and her legs around his ribcage, clinging to him like a monkey; painstakingly, he crawls up the wall and to the ceiling above the door. He sticks his hands firmly to the ceiling and his legs as well, although his left one hurts so badly that his vision goes blurry for a moment. 

He can do this.

He can do this.

He’s Spider-Man. He’s Spider-Man. He can do this.

She lays on his chest, clinging tightly to him; Cassie’s not a fan of heights. Just a few minutes more. They stick to the ceiling, quiet and hidden, the only evidence of their hiding spot a slight shadow on the floor. When one of the addicts finally staggers in, shouting, “Come on, Parker! Time for our favorite show!”

Operation Black Widow is a go.

The man enters, scanning the room for the two kids. “What the hell?” he mutters to himself. He checks in the corners and then stares pointedly to the bed. “Ah. Playing this game, are we, Parker?” It’s Mason, the one with the hammer.

Mason kneels by the bed and thrusts his arm beneath it, waving it around to try to get ahold of a kid who wasn’t there. 

While the guy’s distracted, Peter silently lowers Cassie to the ground and then crawls above him on the ceiling, unraveling the cord from his waist and extending from the ceiling by his good leg, throwing the cord down and—yes!—looping it around the man’s neck with one flick of his sore wrist.

Before his captor even realizes what’s happening, Peter has twined the cord around his neck and he pulls, wrenching it up with enough force that he pulls Mason off the ground, toes grazing the floor, gargling and scrabbling at his throat, scraping his nails over Peter’s knuckles in an attempt to pry him off—but the plan is working. 

Just like they practiced, Cassie grabs the gun from the man’s belt before he can reach for it, running to the wall, far enough from the wall that she’s safe from any of Mason’s flailing.

The man chokes quietly, the only noise in the room Peter’s heavy breathing and the man’s strangled coughs. 

It only takes a minute or two before he passes out, arms and legs going lax; Peter lowers him with a pained groan, loosing the cord gradually to the floor so as to make no noise. Mason’s out cold. 

Just like they practiced. Just like they practiced.

The door’s open—they’ve gotta go now. Cassie hands him the gun and grabs the man’s phone from his pocket, dialing 911 as Peter scoops her up, limping quickly through the cell door.

They’re out. They’re out. 

It’s working! God, Peter’s gonna give Mr. Stark so much grief about this when he gets out. He’ll make Mr. Stark stock the pantry with pizza rolls and mini powdered donuts and all that shit he loves. Netted bags of oranges—god, he misses oranges—and bowls of miso soup. Scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese. 

The door is at the end of the hallway—only a couple hundred feet away—and Peter runs. But his leg, his fucked up knee, shattered joint… On the fourth step, the pain in his leg is so much that he gags, tripping over himself and falling—no, God, no!—so they both sprawl over the concrete floor, Cassie groaning in pain. 

On Mason’s phone, the emergency operator is saying: Hello? Hello? 

The noise alerts some of the addicts down the hallway, and a female voice says: “They’re getting away!”

No, no, no, they’re so close. He has to get out—he has to find May, he has to tell Mr. Stark that everything’s okay. He has to—

“Cassie,” Peter groans, pushing himself off the ground with weak, shaking forearms, “the phone!”

She picks it back up as Peter climbs back to his feet, dragging his leg forward with his hands, each pull wrenching a scream from deep in him. By the time he reaches the door, Cassie’s crying into the phone, her words barely intelligible. “And we need… We need help…”

All the while, a crowd of their captors rush towards them; “I’ll shoot!” screams Peter, near-hysterical as he tries to remember the number combination through a haze of sedation and pain. “I’ll shoot, I will!”

He punches in the numbers with one hand (What was it? One-four-eight-nine something?) and with the other hand points the gun above Cassie’s head and towards the crowd of drug addicts. “Don’t come any closer!”

Cassie’s crying, the addicts are shouting, and the pain in his knee is making his whole body tremble. “Get behind me, Cass.”

Bvvvp. A negative beep from the keypad.  His combination was wrong. Fuck, fuck— He tries another one, glancing back between the oncoming addicts and the numbers, frantically pointing the gun from one person to another, and he hits the wrong key—

“Put the gun down, Parker!”

He doesn’t have the combination. The pitch of each number is all wrong; it’s the same with every combination. 

“Somebody get him!”

The changes in pitch are the same with every combination. That means all of his calculating, all of his guessing and his listening and his writing on the wall—it was all for nothing. 

He’s so fucking stupid.

“I’m not getting shot by a kid—”

He’s got nothing. No combination ideas, no numbers, no calculations. The number to set them free could be one out of a hundred million possible permutations. He’s only guessed, too.

“She’s got a phone!”

They’re fucked. Peter shoves Cassie behind him, flattening them both against the door, and starts pressing random buttons in a desperate hope for a correct code. She’s still talking on the phone; the operator’s saying, “Honey, slow down. Just tell me where you are…” to which Cassie sobs that she doesn’t know.

Peter doesn’t even know what state they’re in. What country they’re in. Nothing. He hopes it’s the US still, because that’s easier to find help, but he’s not completely sure. The star on the door is the Winter Soldier’s, so they could be in Russia—but all their captors seem American. An American base in Russia, maybe? He has no clue.

Peter waves his gun at the hallway. “Parker,” says one,  dark-haired guy. “There’s only eight bullets in there. Even if you had the aim of a sniper—you’re not getting out of this one, man.”

“Get back!” he shouts, and he waves the gun again. “All of you, get back! I’m not going back in there!”

Beside him, he can hear the 911 operator: “We’re having trouble tracking your location, so just stay where you are—”

They’re not going anywhere. They’re not going anywhere. 

They’re trapped.

They’re never getting out of here. 

There’s a sob in Peter’s chest, and he raises the gun. If they’re not getting out now, then he’s at least gonna take some of these guys down with him. He aims at the red-haired woman and pulls the trigger—

The gun just clicks. 

He stares at it, horrified. He pulls the trigger again and again, that disappointing clicking sound his only outcome, and the rest of the addicts take that as their cue to rush him, all of them coming forth in a wave of dirty hands and bloody weapons.

A freezing wave of panic—Peter thrusts the gun forward and pulls the trigger at the oncoming crowd—click, click, click.

Peter’s never shot a gun before.

Peter’s never shot a gun before.

“I’m not going back in there!” he yells, his voice so high and frightened that he can’t recognize as it leaves his mouth. He shoved Cassie behind him, blocking her with his bad leg. “You’re not putting me back in there!”

But then they’re grabbing them and pulling them apart, and the gun’s ripped from his hands, and Cassie is screaming like she’s hurting—

Peter hates this fucking room.

It reeks like blood. His blood.

Two addicts have him pinned to a wall, his hands cuffed and held above his head. He bucks against them, thrashing, and one hits him in the stomach so hard he swears he feels his organs shift. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “Please, please, just don't hurt Cassie… I made her do it... She didn't... ”

Charlie paces in front of him, yanking anxiously on his beard. “Don't hurt her?” he says, eyes bugged. “Don't hurt her? You two betrayed me! Trying to run from our plan to save the world? You’re gonna pay, Parker. You’re gonna pay. You and Stark have to learn that there are consequences to your actions. You don't. Run away. From me.”

The addicts are adjusting the Chair, flattening out each arm and pushing the backrest into a horizontal position. It’s like a table now, flat metal with cuffs attached.

He didn’t know the Chair could do that. 

“You know what my dad used to do when I fucked up?” says Charlie, fiddling with his pants buckle. “And you’ve fucked up, Parker. Royally.”

Rattled with fear, Peter shakes, deep in his chest. For a man to turn out like Charlie, he must have endured unimaginable things. May always used to say: people aren’t born bad; someone or something makes them that way. “I don't know,” he manages.

The bearded man pulls his belt through the loops of his jeans—a quick thwip, thwip, thwip—as the tail hits each loop, and then folds it in half. “Alright, Jon—strap him in.” 

It falls into place: the flattened chair, the folded belt, his dad— “Charlie,” he blurts out, trying to get the man’s attention as the two addicts holding him shove him facedown on the table. His shirt’s gone—he and Cassie tore it to pieces for bandages already. “Charlie, please—” He saw on TV once that if you appeal to your perpetrator’s humanity that they’ll be less likely to hurt you. “I'm sorry that happened to you, I really am. You didn’t deserve that.” They get one wrist cuffed in, then the other, then both of his ankles. “Parents aren’t supposed to do that.”

This only seems to make the man angrier because he bristles,  “Shut your mouth, Parker!” shouts Charlie and he says. “Say one more thing about my family, Parker, and I’ll cut your goddamn tongue out!” He slaps the folded belt against the side of the chair-table.

Peter flinches but he doesn’t stop talking. “Parents are supposed to protect their kids,” he says quickly, cheek against vibranium, “not hurt them.” He sees the black girl in the corner make a face. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do it to me, right? I… I had someone hurt me, someone who’s was supposed to take care of me, so I know what it’s like—”

The whistle of leather through air—

The first hit burns like a lick of gasoline down his back. “Charlie,” he begs, as soon as he hears his arm go back again, “Charlie, please, you don’t have to—”

Another hit, and pain streams down his naked back. His knees tremble; he really has to pee. It’s just a belt, he thinks. How bad could it be? It can’t kill him. It can’t kill him. 

Hit after hit after hit, and his whole back is on fire. 

Peter remembers it later, when the cloud of panic has washed away from his brain, filled instead with the feverish lucidity that comes with pain: guns have safeties. 

He forgot to turn off the safety.

They lay on the bed in utter silence when they finally drag him back to their cell.

Both Peter and Cassie in so much pain that they don't even speak for an hour. Her face is swelling—they hit her. “Did they hurt you?” he whispers, finally. He has to know. He has to know exactly what they did. 

Whatever they did to her—it was his fault. 

Cassie nods tearily. “The needle,” she croaks.

Fuck. 

“Did they touch you?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she says.

Oh, God. “Where?”

She’s too tired to speak, so she gestures, imitating their hands on herself. Hand around her bad wrist—that must’ve hurt—then her swollen cheek, then stomach, then her other arm, and the crook of it, where Peter can see a reddening needle mark. 

Good. She's safe. She's okay.

Well, as okay as they can be. 

“What happened to the sheets?” he asks, wincing as his chest moves. 

“They took them away,” she explains, squeezing her eyes into wrinkled lines. 

Probably because they’d used them to strangle their captor.

Cassie starts crying then, and Peter doesn’t know what to do. This kid has cried so much in the past couple weeks that he’s surprised she has anything left in her system. If Peter were Mr. Stark, and Cassie were Peter, he would just hold Peter until he stopped crying. Offer him food. A movie night. Another hug. 

So he does what Mr. Stark would do.

Peter holds Cassie until her crying stops, until it’s just the occasional hiccup. He holds her and rubs her back, letting her sob and sniffle into his shoulder. Goddamn it, Mr. Stark, he thinks. Please. Find us. Help us. They’re hurting a kid.

She’s so fucking quiet. Even when she cries, she’s quiet. Compared to the talkative little girl that he first met, she’s a mouse. Cassie says after an entire lifetime of silence, “I wish they used the needle on you.”

She’s missing a couple words: instead of me. Peter knows what she means, but it still hurts. “We just gotta keep trying,” he says, tired. 

She presses her tear-wet cheek into his shoulder. “I don't want to,” she whimpers.  

Peter’s done the math. Even if they escaped once a day, every day, able to attempt five codes with every escape for the foreseeable future—it would take them over fifty thousand years to get through every possible permutation. 

They’re never getting out.