someday (i'll make it out of here)

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10 — 5:29 AM

The sun hasn’t risen yet.

Jim moves quietly through the main hallway of the Medbay, and he can feel the cold metal of Barnes’ handgun against his back; with every step, it’s warmed by his skin. He’s a cop, so he’s familiar with guns—this one’s a military pistol, standard issue, black with a 21-round magazine. 

When he reaches his daughter’s hospital room, Cassie’s sleeping in the bed and Maggie’s sleeping on a cot beside her. They must’ve finished the scan. She’s got a small oxygen mask on her face—maybe to help her breathe while she was sedated. Jim moves to his daughter, standing above her bed, and his heart clenches.

He glances quickly to his wife Maggie. She wouldn’t approve of what he’s about to do—but she’ll understand once he’s got Cassie safe at home, once Cassie’s protected from that Peter Parker. He’ll let her know once he’s got Cassie safe and sound. Jim sends her a text—[Don’t worry.] [Cassie’s safe with me.]—and sends it, hearing his wife’s phone buzz in her purse.

Maggie doesn’t wake up.

Then Jim leans down to Cassie’s bed. He takes off her oxygen mask, slowly pulling the rubber straps away, getting it up and over her shaved head. The bandages there are gone, her head left only with scabbed-over cuts. She’s still got some tubes in her, one in her forearm connected to an IV bag filled with fluid. He’s seen the nurses do this enough times that he’s kind of got the hang of it. Grabbing the tube from one side, he unscrews one tube from the port, untapes the plastic tubing from where it’s stuck to her scar-lined arm, and then yanks the needle out. It bleeds a little, a sudden trickle down her inner arm, and Jim curses aloud before pressing down over the spot with his thumb. 

Cassie’s still half-asleep—the sedation must still be in her system, and she lets out a couple mumbly whispers before going quiet again. “I got you, sweetie,” he says, trying to pick her up—but Cassie cringes away from his touch so he gives her a couple seconds, hovering over her bed and whispering, “It’s okay, it’s just me, it’s just me…”

She’s not awake, not truly, and Jim manages to pick her up once she falls asleep again, gathering her in his arms. Cassie’s very, very light; months of malnutrition will do that to a child. And she’s breathing strangely, in shallow huffs against his shoulder, and her head lolls into his neck.

Jim moves.

He holds Cassie in one arm and pushes open the door with the other—god, she’s so fast asleep that she’s near limp, and he has to adjust her to keep her from falling—and Jim finds the hallway near-empty. 

He can’t take the elevator; he knows it’s connected to some kind of computer system that alerts the whole building to any mishaps. He’s heard Tony Stark and his buddies talking about it. So they’re going to take the stairs.

There is only one person between him and the stairs—one of Cassie’s nurses, a black-haired woman. Damn it. He has to go now, though, so he moves quickly, removing the gun from his belt with his free hand; the nurse faces him as he passes as though to say hello, but her eyes land on Cassie instead. 

“Sir?” she says, and before she can get another word out Jim’s pressing the gun to her side. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says as the woman’s breathing kicks up several notches. “I’m just keeping my daughter safe. You have access to the lobby?”

Her eyes glance down the hallway. Jim pokes the gun at her again, and he hisses, “Don’t lie—you have access or not?”

The nurse nods shakily. 

“Good. Then you’re coming with me.”

The nurse leads them down the stairwells one floor at a time, but they’re seventy-some floors up, so it’s a tough trek. They only make it about ten floors before Cassie begins to stir, bleary, shifting in Jim’s arms.

“Peter?” she whispers, quiet and confused, pressing her face into his arm. The sedation still pulls at her, making her voice waver, keeping her eyes closed.

He and the nurse keep moving, stair after stair, and Jim says, “No—it’s just me, sweetie. It’s Jim. You won’t ever have to see that boy ever again.”

The nurse looks at him, her eyes darting between him and his daughter, and Jim waves the gun at her so she’ll keep moving. He didn’t plan to be taking a nurse with him—just her badge—but he can’t risk the wrath of the Avengers coming after him before he can get Cassie out of the building. 

And they’re gonna make it out of this building. 

They have to make it.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10 — 6:13 AM

Peter’s eating. 

They’ve given him one of those cans—Cho filled it with some high-nutrient porridge of some kind, something with matching nutrients to what he would’ve been given through the tube. “This is good,” says Cho, “this is really, really good, Tony.”

Like the little girl, Peter eats with his hands—he’ll hold the can with one and scoop out the insides with his fingers, shoveling it into his mouth at rapid speed, shovel and swallow, shovel and swallow; the kid’s moving in such a maniacal way that he’s finished in mere seconds, and sucking at his fingers for any semblance of remains. He’ll go on like that, dragging his fingers along the inside of the can until it’s shiny and clean, sucking at his fingertips for minutes afterward.

They can only give him one at a time—right now, they’re up to two cans per meal, extra fluids through his IV and extra calories through his NG tube. And when the mealtime is over, he’ll just fall onto his side with his hand at his belly, the open mouth tilted towards his nose, inhaling deeply. He was smelling the can. Pete was so hungry that even smelling the empty, licked-clean can was worth something. 

They starved him, Tony keeps thinking. They starved him and this was all they gave him. He’s walked past the little girl’s room—he’s seen Cassie Paxton-Lang do the same thing, eating as fast as humanly possible, scraping the food into her mouth and barely chewing. 

Why do they eat so fast? Did they threaten to take it away? Were they punished if they didn’t? 

“I think they’re just hungry,” says Sarah Wilson when Tony asks her. “I think they’re just really, really hungry.”

Tony is the only person that Peter will allow to get close—almost close enough to touch, but whenever he tries Peter makes these small gasping noises and stiffens before just going entirely pliant. So Tony just speaks to him in a quiet, steady tone and eventually Peter will pull himself out of it with a shudder and curl up into a ball on the bed, stroking that teddy bear’s back, his whole body trembling.

Peter’s not fully aware—but he’s better. He’s doing much better. He can always tell now when Tony’s in the room, he’s sleeping through the night as long as he has the stuffed bear, and he’s eating with his hands on a near regular basis. As long as they keep the door closed and interaction minimal, he’s okay.

And his super-healing—it’s kicked in, and his heart looks near-normal on recent scans, the wounds on his back have almost entirely healed, and the bruising around his neck has faded completely. It’s not helping much with the scarring, but he looks like a patient now instead of a bloodied corpse. Even the spots where his IV have poked in have healed, leaving nothing but slight bruises at their insertion spots. 

They’ve still got to work on his leg, though. The right one. That knee that Charlie took the hammer to nearly every time he tried to escape. Tony keeps asking, and Dr. Cho keeps saying, “He’s not strong enough yet.” 

But he looks better. He looks like Peter.

His delirium is getting better one hour at a time—although his answers to the mental exams are messy, he is definitely aware of his surroundings. Lucid, like a dog would be of his crate. This morning, after Peter finishes his breakfast—one can of oatmeal and one can of mushed banana—and he’s done inhaling the can for more, he places the can beside him on the bed and then watches it, glancing from Nurse Kaelyn and back to it as though waiting for her to do something to it.

That nurse is usually the one who gives him food—so maybe that’s why he stares at her so intently.

Whatever the reason, he’s doing better—even the nurse has commented on it, how he’s growing used to the people coming in and out, how he’s much, much calmer than he was when he first arrived, when he could barely be touched without screaming bloody murder. 

He’s doing better, Tony reassures himself. It’s a good sign. He’s doing better.

He thinks momentarily of what Matt Murdock said: Two weeks. And it’s already been put off for a while now—I think that’s as long as we’ll get. Tony’s got some pull with a couple judges—maybe he could convince them to let Peter do something prerecorded instead. Or a video conference. Because honest to God—Peter will never last more than a minute in a courtroom, or any other room that’s not this one. 

But they’re getting closer. Every day, Peter gets better.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10 — 6:30 AM

Cassie’s waking up.

As the drugs drain from Cassie’s system, she gets clearer and clearer, blinking and moving, twisting in his arms. “Peter?” she says, and Jim feels that twist of hate in his gut again. “Peter—Peter—Peter—”

“He’s not here,” Jim says, perhaps too sharply because Cassie immediately starts to cry, “no, no, sweetie, we’re going home, don’t worry—we’re going home… I’ve got you—”

Cassie sobs, pushing away from him, and Jim nearly trips down the stairs in his effort to keep her in his arms. “Cassie—stop—stop that—”

“Where—where—Peter—”

“We’re going home,” Jim repeats, “we’re just going home—”

Cassie’s crying and shoving at him, and the tears are wrecking her voice. “I don’t—wanna go home—they’re—they’re gonna—”

“No one’s gonna hurt you there,” he assures her, but she’s only crying harder, her palms pushing into his chest, punching and punching and scratching, every movement growing more forceful as the

“I wanna, I wanna stay—with Peter—”

“No more Peter,” he says harshly, and when he turns to take the next stair she starts wailing— “Cassie, stop, you’re gonna be safer without him, stop fighting, just let me—”

And then she’s screaming.

She’s screaming.

The sedation must be entirely out of her system now because she’s clawing at him with renewed vigor, and Jim’s trying to get a hand over her mouth, because god, if someone hears them then they’re screwed—and Cassie’s just hitting at him as hard as she can, and shrieking incoherently into his hand, and the only words Jim can make out are, “PETER SAYS NO!”

And they can’t get her calm again so the nurse waves her badge against a door to a random floor and they hide inside—but it’s barely a couple minutes before Cassie claws at him hard enough to draw blood and, as soon as Jim drops her, dives bodily under the nearest surface—a desk stationed in the open hallway, cowering beneath it like a rabbit in a hole. 

He tries to draw her out, promising they’ll go home, but she just won’t, crying and crying for Peter, for her mother, for Scott Lang, anyone but Jim. Why does she call for Peter and not for him? Why does she call for Peter and not him?

Jim’s never gonna get her out of here like this. 

He’s still got the gun pointed to the nurse, who is glancing between him and Cassie, and he approaches her then—she backs up towards the wall like she did the first time, hands raising. “Give her something,” he says, “you’ve got something, right?” He knows they usually have them—a couple syringes full of drowsy sedatives, just in case Cassie or the Parker kid go ballistic. “You keep it on you, I know you do—the sedatives—”

“I’m not sedating her,” the nurse says quietly, and she gives Jim this hard look.

He waves the gun at her, pointing the barrel at her chest, and she doesn’t move, hands still raised in the air. “I don’t think I asked your opinion,” he snaps. “Give me the—”

And the nurse moves out of the way.

Jim’s never been so pissed. He pokes the gun at the nurse, and he says, “She’s not staying here any longer—I’m not leaving her here with you people—”

“She doesn’t want to go with you,” she says coolly.

“She doesn’t know what she wants—”

“She does,” says the nurse, and she’s backing up and backing up and Jim’s coming at her with his gun, “if you’d just listen to her—”

“She’s a child!”

“She’s your child,” she says, “and you’re scaring her.”

Jim glances back then to that desk, and Cassie’s still crying, calling for Peter—for Ava—for Maggie. Anyone but Jim. 

He remembers then, that a couple days ago, Cassie was playing with her toys after a breakfast of soft-scrambled eggs. She’d been playing with that stuffed zebra—Ava—and when she was done eating she held the edge of that metal can to her stuffed zebra’s head and scraped along it slowly, slowly, quiet the entire time. Is that how it happened? Jim asked, glancing back and forth between the stuffed toy and his daughter’s shaved scalp. The cut’s there were still there, scabbed over. Who did that to you?

That child psychiatrist gave him a warning look and said, Jim, very carefully.

But he ignored her—and he asked his daughter again, Who did that to you, sweetie?

Peter did it, his daughter said, and she’d continued scraping that can along her zebra’s head as though she hadn’t just made Jim sick to his stomach.

There was no way in hell that Jim was letting Cassie go back to that place.

“Shut up,” he says to the nurse, and he waves the gun again. “Just tell me how to get out of here.”

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10 — 6:41 AM

“We’ve got a problem,” says Pepper, looking very CEO-of-Stark-Industries, and Tony hushes her. Peter’s focused intensely on Pepper, his arms hugged around his knees, watching her with these wide-fearing-eyes. 

He’s a little more agitated today; Tony still doesn’t know why. 

“What kind of problem?” he asks, and he tries to give Peter a reassuring glance, but the kid’s just rocking and rocking, arms around his knees, mouthing words to himself. 

“A…” Pepper glances towards the kid, and then she carefully spells out the little Lang girl’s name aloud: C-A-S-S-I-E. “...problem. Maggie says she never got back from her scan—and the stepdad’s gone, too.”

Tony straightens suddenly—Peter flinches—and Tony turns to Pepper. “When’s the last time…”

“An hour ago,” she says.

“How—”

“JARVIS didn’t say anything,” she says, and her voice borders on panic, “and her nurse is gone, too—we only knew when she didn’t check in.” Pepper pulls something out of her bag then, Peter shifts—making a small whimpery sound at the motion—and it’s a laptop. Macbook. Happy’s laptop. “We downloaded him onto Happy’s old Mac—and we’ve been trying to track her down, we’ve locked down the elevator to anyone but top-levels—but we don’t have facial recognition going yet, it only works for people who were already in the system, and Cassie’s not one of them—”

“Who set him up?” he says, already tapping into the computer and opening up his old AI’s code.

“I did,” says Pepper. “We had to—it was the way we figured out where Peter was, how we got into the compound, but I didn’t know how—”

Tony’s already typing away, opening up code after code and adjusting, adjusting—and behind him Peter’s making these small, scared sounds. He’s moving too much—so he stills his upper body, trying to stay calm as he types. He’s learned this—if he’s calm, Peter’s calm. 

 But right now he’s gotta find that little girl.

“I’ve got it,” he says, tapping a few buttons, “Cassandra Paxton-Lang, sixty-fourth floor.” Security camera footage pops up on his screen, the picture grainy and attempting focus, entirely mute. But there’s a couple people with her—a dark-haired man and a woman in scrubs: her nurse, maybe, and the man is obviously her stepfather, kneeled down and speaking to her.

That moron.

That fucking moron. 

“She’s okay,” he says. “Paxton’s with her.”

Pepper nods, relief in her shoulders. “Probably trying to take her home—alright, everybody, let’s go—”

Then everyone’s running around, and Pepper’s rushing out of the room, and there’s a couple of Avengers and doctors flooding down the hallway—

—and when Tony turns around, Peter’s standing beside the hospital bed.

He’s standing up.

Pete’s still dressed in that hospital gown, and he’s blinking slowly at him like he’s trying to clear his eyes of debris. The teddy bear’s on the bed, forgotten, and Peter’s got one arm curled around his side like he’s guarding it. One tube threads from a white patch on his shoulder—his central line—attached to an array of tubes on wheeled poles, pulled near taut. His hair’s long and scraggly, swaying as he does.

Tony should wash his hair again. Why hasn’t he been washing his hair?

“Peter,” Tony says, holding his hand out, palm down, as though to calm him, his heart thumping, he’s standing, he’s standing, my kid’s standing up, “I’m coming back, I promise.”

But Peter doesn’t even respond, just staring emptily, and his eyes drift somewhere down to the floor and stop.

And that’s when Tony realizes. He’s not looking at him. He’s looking past him.

He glances down to where Peter’s gaze is going; behind him, footsteps and shouts. The kid has super-hearing, he remembers; he can probably find Cassie wherever she is in the building.

Peter’s thin and wary still, but he’s moving, the tubes growing taut as he tries, and he only seems to grow more frantic as he takes those small steps, squinting at his surroundings—he hasn’t left the bed in a long, long time. Suddenly, very sharply, his head jerks up to Tony and then back to the floor. “Cassie,” he says, and the kid’s voice is louder than normal. “Cassie?”

“She’s safe,” Tony assures him, and Peter just closes his eyes, taking a sharp breath through his nose, “we’re just gonna get her back, I promise.”

And then he’s turning back to the teddy bear laid sideways on the bed; things are coming to him slowly, but Peter’s still in there, eyes grazing around the room, confused, to the wall he and Cassie share, and then coming back to Tony and then to the floor. 

Tony realizes now that Peter must’ve been able to hear Cassie this entire time—their rooms were right next to each other, after all. Maybe that’s why he thought the bear was her. “Yeah,” Tony says. “She’s downstairs, we’re just gonna…”

Peter wants to come with.

It’s clear in his eyes, in his stance—everything about him screams I’m gonna save Cassie. Not that he’s in any shape to, but Peter’s never been one to listen to authority; he was always so stubborn; and this is the first time he’s seen something this Peter in a while, that spark of determination that used to light the kid’s face all the time. If Cho was here, she’d probably say that Peter shouldn’t be out of bed, but Tony doesn’t care—this is Peter, and if Peter wants to walk down the hallway, then Tony’s gonna help him.

But then Tony fucks it up.

Peter tries to move, his hand outstretching to find the wall, but he slips and falls down, and Tony’s too far to catch him, and the kid cowers as he moves, covering his head with his weak arms. But he can’t get up—he keeps trying and trying, even as Tony backs up, but he’s trembling so badly that any pressure he puts on his legs just forces him to collapse, and he chokes out, “Can’t—can’t, can’t—”

“Let me help you,” he says softly, inching towards the kid, “lemme help you up, come on, I’ll take you to her—”

Peter tries again, and again, but each time he collapses. Those muscle relaxants Cho has him on, the ones that keep him from injuring himself—these are the ones keeping him from following the sound of Cassie’s voice.

Tony tries, “Buddy, let me help you, please, just let me help you, can I touch you?”

And Peter gives him this horrible, horrible look, like he’s giving in.

Tony feels the weight of Pete's expression deep in his gut like a stone. “No, buddy, it’s just me,” he says, “it’s just Tony.”

“Tony,” the kid echoes, breathless. 

“Yeah,” he says, “it’s Tony, it’s Mr. Stark, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Peter just stares at him warily, his eyes following Tony’s hands. 

“You can hear her, right? 

He doesn’t respond. 

“Peter?”

“Hear her,” Peter whimpers, but he doesn’t move towards Tony, just curling in on himself against the wall, pressing his hands against his head. He’s trembling, and he keeps looking at Tony and the distance between them like he’s about to lunge at him.

“It’s just me,” he says, trying to reassure him once more, and he’s just kneeling on the ground beside his kid, “just Tony, just me…”

“Cassie,” the kid whispers.

“I know this is all confusing for you buddy,” he says, outreaching his hand, “I know, but I’ll take you to her, I promise I’ll take you to her.”

“Promise,” he whimpers.

“Yeah, Pete—I’ll take you to Cassie, I’ll take you to her.”

And Peter nods, and he’s still crying into his hands, so fucking frightened of whatever Tony’s gonna do that he’s barely even talking anymore, and when Tony reaches out one more time, grazing Peter’s arm, trying to coax him up, then Peter just—goes. It takes barely a second and then he’s gone, curled up on his side, sweat coming over him, his arms going limp like he’s been shot.

“Goddamn it,” he says, guilt churning in his belly. “I’ll bring her back to you, kiddo, I promise.

And he leaves Peter on the floor where he is, curled up on the tile, and Tony struggles into a standing position, using the wall to help him. He opens the door and Steve Rogers is in the doorway, blocking off Peter’s door as per usual. “Watch him,” he begs, “please, just watch him—I’ll be back soon.”

Steve Rogers nods, and moves past him, his broad shoulders taking up the doorway to Peter’s room. “I’ve got it, Tony. Go find that girl.”

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10 — 6:59 AM

It’s not hard to find Jim Paxton.

He’s kneeled on the floor near some kind of desk—under it, his stepdaughter hides, sobbing her eyes out, and there’s several scratches going bloody across his face. Cassie’s handiwork, Tony presumes.

As soon as they show up, a couple of doctors and several Avengers, the man stands up, waving his gun around, and shouts, “Get back! Get back!”

There’s a nurse there with him, too, and she looks particularly miffed at the whole situation.

“I won’t let you take her! I won’t let you put her back with that fucking guy!”

The two psychiatrists are at the forefront of at all—Cassie’s psychiatrist in the pink scrubs and Sarah Wilson in her white coat. Maggie Paxton is there, too, trying to get to her daughter, but with Jim waving that gun… “No one’s gonna take her,” says Dr. Alexis, her hands raised a little, and her eyes dart to the nurse. “We’re right here with you, Jim, we’re not gonna—”

“A gun?” says Rhodey aloud, “how did he get a gun?”

Alexis shoots a look back at the man. 

“That’s mine,” says Bucky Barnes, and he moves forward.

“You had your gun on you?” snaps Rhodey. “The hell?”

“I always have a gun on me,” Bucky snaps back.

Jim’s gun arm is shaking, pointing from Avenger to Avenger like he doesn’t know who to shoot first.

“Jim,” says Sarah Wilson, taking a cautious step forward. “Let’s just put the gun down, okay? We can talk about this—it’s not safe for Cassie to leave here—”

“It’s not safe for her here!” he shouts. “You’re trying to sic Parker on her—trying to—

The man’s words light a fire in Tony’s belly, and he shoves his way to the front. “He’s not an animal!” snarls Tony, “he’s a kid, too, and they went through this together—”

“You don’t know that!” shouts Jim, with a wave of his gun, and the man’s glaring wide-eyed at them like he thinks they’re blind. “You don’t know that, Stark, you don’t know the things I’ve seen! They found things in that bunker, signs—”

“Let’s try to stay calm,” says Sarah, appearing between them, and when she catches Tony’s eye she gives a look reading: Why the hell are you here? “I think we can all agree that some really horrible things happen in that bunker, but that doesn’t mean—

“Do you know what she said when we asked about her hair? Huh?” says Jim, waving his gun so wildly that even Sarah backs up. “She said Peter cut it. Peter! Peter Parker cut my little girl’s hair off—those cuts on her head—that was her, she showed me—”

Tony steps up to the man, and somewhere at the end of the hallway Cassie Lang is crying, and Tony declares, “He was probably just—trying to get rid of the lice, Paxton, you saw it when she got here, those things were everywhere, those things can make you sick and they didn’t have any med—”

“Then why didn’t he have them—“ snaps Jim, and Tony thinks then of Peter’s long hair, mostly intact, shaggy and tangled and worn. “Why does Peter get to keep his hair, huh? How is that fair? How is that fair?”

Tony thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks—oh— “He can’t get them—his mutation, bugs stay away from him, lice probably do too—“

“God, all these fucking excuses!” Jim shouts, and he points his gun at Tony, and then at the psychiatrist, and then back to Tony. “I know what he did—I know what happened in there—I read the reports—I know what he did to her!”

How the hell did Jim Paxton get his hands on the forensic reports?

Right. He’s a cop.

The child psychiatrist is there again in her pink scrubs, hair tied back, and she speaks in this firm voice, “Look at her, Jim. Look at her.”

And Jim looks. 

“There's only one person frightening your daughter right now. It’s not Tony Stark, it’s not Charlie Keene, and it’s certainly not Peter Parker.”

Jim glances back—there, under that desk still, the seven-year-old girl is curled up in a tight ball with her hands over her ears, crying with such force that her face is pink, her nails still bloody from scratching.

“Ah, Jesus—” he says, but his voice wavers.

“I'm a child psychiatrist,” continues Dr. Alexis, “and I’ve been doing this job for a while now—I've seen abusers who posed as caretakers, parents who took out their emotions on their children, even kids who abused their siblings.” She takes a step forward. “I know what it looks like—what you’re looking for—and Peter is not one of those cases.”

She adds, stepping forward again, “I understand what you think happened—I’ve seen the reports, too. But you’re not reading, Jim. You’re making up your own story. If you read the entire report, you’d know—Peter Parker would, and did—repeatedly lay down his life for your daughter. He’s the reason that your daughter can still speak, can still eat, can still hold a conversation, can still touch someone without having a mental breakdown. Peter Parker’s the reason your daughter doesn’t look like him. He’s the reason you got your daughter back in one piece.”

Jim Paxton is staring at her with teary eyes, his mouth pressing down, his gun arm shaking.

“The police and the Avengers might’ve broken her out of there,” says Dr. Alexis, and her brow slopes a little, sad, “but Peter Parker saved her.”

Jim’s crying into his hand, the guns going down, and Dr. Alexis takes a step forward. “You did everything you could,” she says, inching forward. “in a horrible situation. You have every right to be angry, but at the captors, Jim, not at Peter.”

“Oh, God,” the man says, and he’s pressing his hand into his eyes, gun dropped at his side. 

“You got your daughter back,” she says, and the man nods miserably, “Don’t take it out on her protector.”

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10 — 1:20 PM

It takes another couple hours of coaxing Cassie, and reassuring both parents, and placing several temporary cameras in Peter’s room so that they can see what’s going on—then finally, finally, Jim Paxton allows them to reunite Cassie with Peter.

They’re going to let Tony and Maggie Paxton into the room—both kids’ parents—in case anything goes immediately wrong, but it should work. “I think this’ll be good for both of them,” says Sarah, “I really do.”

They get Maggie a white labcoat to put on for Peter’s sake, and they get little Cassie washed up, giving her something to eat right before so that she’s a little calmer.

And then they stand outside the door, Maggie carrying Cassie and Tony itching for Peter. “You ready?” Maggie whispers to her daughter, but the girl’s already whispering to herself, “Peter, Peter, Peter…” like a mantra.

Tony just hopes this works. 

Tony pushes open the door slowly, carefully, and he hears Peter make that panicked sound like he usually does, and the little girl’s already breaking away from her mother and barreling straight for Peter—

(Tony would’ve thought that Peter would flinch. Or scream. Or cry. Or all of the above.)

—and the kid somehow knows exactly who it is because he drops the teddy bear he’s holding as Cassie climbs up on the bed, whispers her name like he’s saying a prayer, and wraps both his arms around her in a tight hug.

And he’s holding her. This is the calmest they’ve ever seen them both; the girl tips her face into Peter’s shoulder and loops her arms around his neck and just sit there in his arms, and Peter closes his eyes like a sigh. It’s not long before they’re whispering to each other, muttering slow, and Peter runs his hand up and down her back—the casted one, the wrist he broke fighting the restraints—and she keeps whispering and whispering as tears come down his face.

And then Tony hears some words, louder, ones they can actually understand, the kid choking out, “Cassie.” And it’s the clearest Tony has ever heard his voice since they got him out, like that day in the stairwell, like that day he broke his arm. “They…”

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10 — 1:25 PM

Cassie’s here.

She’s here, she’s real and she’s warm against him, warm and breathing and right here with him, safe. He whispers to her, “They… They…?” And he can’t get the words out—HE CAN’T GET THE WORDS OUT—but she knows the question, they’ve done this so many times now that she knows the question: Did they hurt you?

She shakes her head, and Peter’s chest deflates, a relieved exhale. He doesn’t even manage the next question, just this small sound: “An… And….” and he’s just holding her as tight as he can, but his arms feel so weak. Did they touch you?

The little girl nods her head into his chest, her face teary.

“Where,” he chokes out.

Cassie whispers then to him then, into his good ear, “Nowhere bad.”

And he just chokes out this wet sob, relief washing over him, and he holds her closer. “Oh, Cassie,” he whispers.

“Hi, Peter,” she whispers, and the pure relief in her voice. She’s okay. She’s okay. His kid’s okay and here and unharmed. 

“Hi,” he sobs. “Hi, hi…”

She’s the only thing that makes sense. She's the only thing in this entire universe that makes sense. 

“You look weird,” she says.

WEIRD, weird—he tries to whisper something back, but he’s spiraling, spiraling, and he’s dizzy with thought—YOU WANNA DIE, PARKER? HUH? IS THAT WHAT YOU SAID? GOD—YOUR FACE IS SO FUCKED UP, IF I LOOKED LIKE THAT I’D WANNA DIE, TOO—LOOK AT YOURSELF—SHOW HIM—SHOW HIM—LOOK, PARKER! I SAID FUCKING LOOK—

And he can see someone move at the door, and he screams. A man and a woman, a man and a woman, and they’re here for him—they always come to take him away—

“Peter.”

And Peter’s crying, he’s crying and he can’t help it, and Cassie’s holding him and she’s stronger than him, his brave kid, his brave, brave kid. And he just squeezes her arm so she knows he heard her. WHY ARE YOU CRYING PARKER? HUH? DID THAT HURT? YOU WANT A LITTLE MORE, DON’T YOU? He swears he can hear Charlie's maniacal laughter down the hallway, and he twists his neck, his heart pattering.

“They’re nice here,” she says, “Ava-nice. They took them away—the always-hurts, they took them…”

There’s a new person, a NEW PERSON—he doesn’t know her, he doesn’t know her, did they bring more people? More people—more people, more Beck, more people like Beck—NO—stop, stop it, you’re not there, Cassie said you weren’t there, stop it Peter you stupid freak you’re not there—you’re somewhere else—and you’re never going home—

“Did they hurt you?”

DID THEY HURT HIM—his body aches but it feels almost good, his stomach is full—why is his stomach full?—“Can’t,” he whispers… “Can’t… can’t remember…”

“I saw you,” she whispers. “you were sleeping. You’re always sleeping.” 

Sleep—sleeping—he’s asleep, he’s always asleep, when he’s mind’s asleep he’s safe but his body’s always awake, alive, a dissected frog splayed out on a tray—ARE YOU SLEEPING—WAKE UP SPIDER-BABY, WAKE UP! WAKE THE FUCK UP!—he can’t die, he can never die—if he dies, they all die, they all die—he can never escape, he has to hold on—

“I saw him, too,” she says, and her face is turned behind her, at that bearded man. Familiar man. Tony. Tony with a beard.  “He sits next to you, Peter. He holds your hand.”

“And Mommy’s here,” she says, and that gets him. 

“What?” he whispers.

“Mommy's here,” she insists. “She’s here, she’s here.”

 He chokes out, “Where… Where…”

Cassie whispers very quietly into his ear, “Mommy says this is a good place.”

“Medbay,” he chokes out, and he tries to keep his thoughts afloat and it’s like trying to keep his head above water, like someone pushed him out to the deep end and his toes can’t find the scraped-up bottom of the pool. “Medbay.”

Peter scans the room then—white walls, white ceiling, posters—are those his posters? Iron Man, Captain America, Black Widow, Thor—and there’s Mr. Stark, there’s Tony and there’s too many people in the room—

—only two people in this room, by the door: Tony and a blonde woman. Cassie said that was her mom, is that her mom—why would her mom be…

And behind them the door is open, cracked behind them, and he fucking trembles—

—the fear that seeps into him is something alive, something with teeth, and it gnaws at him, scrapes all the way down his back—HE’S HERE HE’S HERE—THE DOOR IS CRACKED—HE COMES FOR YOU—AT NIGHT HE ALWAYS COMES FOR YOU—

“Close the door,” says Tony, “close the door, Maggie.”

That man with the black-and-gray beard. Tony. Tony, and there in his chest—a blue light. a circle.

Iron Man.

Iron Man.

It's Tony. It's Iron Man.

“Tony…?” Peter manages, and his voice comes out all warped.

“Yeah, Pete. I'm right here. I'm right here with you…”

“You…” 

He knows Tony's here. He does. But… The… The Medbay…

He’s in the doctor’s area—he must be— he knows he’s just dreaming, that the man in the beard is just the doc—BUT THE DOC IS DEAD, YOU KILLED HIM, YOU KILLED HIM, HIS HEAD WAS THERE AND THEN IT WAS BLOOD—UNCLE BEN—UNCLE BEN—

“Peter,” says that soft voice. “Come back to us, buddy. I'm right here. Cassie’s here, too.”

Peter jerks his head to Tony, and he's so clear, like a photo—he just be dreaming, this isn’t real, THIS ISN’T REAL—

“It’s real,” he says, “it’s real. We got you out.”

Then Peter feels tears come down his neck, bubbling over, and he whispers, “No, we—we’re never, never—“ He’s never getting out of here, he’s gonna die here, he has to, he knows it’s true—it’s so true he can feel it in his bones, in his chest, in every inch of his skin, he’s gonna die like this—YOU’RE GONNA DIE LIKE THIS, YOU’RE NEVER GOING HOME, YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY AGAIN! TELL ME PARKER, WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU RUN? WHAT HAPPENS? SAY IT! FUCKING SAY IT!

When you run you get punished, when you run you get punished, WHEN YOU RUN YOU GET PUNISHED—punished, punished, punished, he’s gonna—HES GONNA—HES GONNA—

“Peter, look at me.” He does and those are Tony Stark’s eyes, Tony Stark's face, Tony Stark's hair, and he’s older—he’s older and Peter's older, and his belly is pleasantly full. “Look at where you are.”

Cassie’s in his arms, whispering and Peter takes it in, he really takes it in, and he almost sobs when he sees his blanket on the bed, “That’s mine,” he sobs, and it comes out like a whimper. 

Tony's eyes are filled with water. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s yours. Where are you, buddy? Can you tell me where?”

The posters on the walls, the Stark tech lining every wall, the smell of antiseptic and warm cloth. “Medbay,” he whispers, and it doesn’t just sound like words. “The—the Medbay.”

Tony smiles at him through his tears. “Yeah, Pete. You’re in the Medbay.”

And the very concept itself seems horrible, like a dream that will be stolen by morning. “The Tower,” Peter says, and Tony nods again. He’s smiling, he’s smiling, and peters really struggling to tell the difference between him and charlie, because every time he blinks he sees Charlie’s eyes superimpose over Tony’s— “So we—we—“ He looks at the man because his stomach is twisting, and he holds Cassie tight,  “Did we—I don’t—Charlie—the phone—”

“Yeah,” he says, “we made it. You were gone for a little while, yeah, but you’re home now, buddy. You’re home.”

“Home,” echoes Peter. “Oh… oh…”

“Yeah,” says that wonderfully familiar man. “Home.”

“Mommy says,” whispers Cassie in her ear, “we’re not in our room anymore. No more Charlie. A new place now. With doctors.”

It doesn’t make sense, it just doesn’t make sense. 

But he remembers seeing the people floating through—all the white coats, all the blue scrubs, just like the doctor back at the bunker. And Cassie doesn’t lie to him—they have rules. Cassie never lies to him. So how…

“I'm scared,” he whimpers. YOU  SCARED, PARKER?—he sees that beard flash in front of him and he cringes away from Charlie, where are his hands where are his hands—GOD, YOU’RE SO PATHETIC—SUCH A FUCKING PATHETIC LITTLE FREAK—TELL STARK WHAT YOU ARE—TELL HIM, TELL HIM OR I’LL CARVE IT INTO YOU MYSELF—pathetic, pathetic, pathetic little freak, Parker the mutant freak, Parker the spider-bitch, not even human, he’s not even human…

“I know,” he says. “I know you are, but you’re safe now. We got you out.”

“We….” and the word drags on in front of him. YOU DESERVE THIS, DON'T YOU? SAY IT! SAY IT! SAY IT OR ILL CUT YOUR FUCKING TONGUE OUT—FINE! FINE! OPEN YOUR MOUTH—OPEN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH! “Please—please, I—please—I don’t—” He gasps shakily, a sob. “I don’t, don’t understand—what do you want?“

Tony stares at him for a moment then, and the look in his eyes hurts him, he can feel his eyes still on Peter’s fucked-up face, and the man says, “We don’t want anything,” he says gently, “no one’s gonna hurt you again, no one’s gonna…gonna take from you again.”

Peter shakes his head, and he shakes his head again. 

“You’re at the Tower, buddy. you got it right. You’re at the tower, and I'm right here with you. It’s not a dream, it’s not a trick, it’s me. It's Mr. Stark. I'm not gonna hurt you. I would never, ever hurt you.”

“You were there,” he whispers, “the phone—the phone—“

“Yeah,” he says, and the man sounds like he’s going to cry, “I'm so sorry, Pete, I'm so… I’m so fucking sorry.”

There it is again. Sorry. 

This is how Tony Stark sounds in his dreams. “Not a dream,” he whispers.

“Not a dream,” echoes Tony. “This is real, Peter. You’re safe here.”

There’s a flash of metal in tony’s hand—THE HAMMER, THE HAMMER, HE’S COMING AT YOU WITH THE HAMMER—STAY STILL, SPIDER-BITCH, OR I’LL MAKE YOUR OTHER LEG MATCH—but it’s just a watch, just a watch, shiny and metal and Iron Man colors. “How long?” Peter whispers.

“We got you out about three weeks ago,” he says. “You were at another hospital for a couple days, and now… you’ve been in the Medbay now for two and a half.”

Three weeks. Peter chokes on the thought. He doesn’t think he even knows time anymore, just the thought of his next meal, and it’s not time is it?—it’s not time—NOT TIME BUT WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME, MAYBE IT'S ALMOST TIME— “How—how long—before—before—”

Tony looks crestfallen. “They took you in April,” he says quietly, “it’s September now.”

“September tenth,” whispers Cassie where she’s lying sleepily against his chest.

He can’t do math—he can’t do anything—he’s a useless piece of shit—A USELESS FUCKING FREAK, I SHOULD CUT YOU OPEN ON THIS TABLE, HUH? MAKE THE INSIDES MATCH THE OUTSIDE, RIGHT, PARKER? RIGHT?

“Four and a half months,” Tony says to him, and he sounds very sad. “Twenty weeks. They took you… They took you out of your car.”

“Oh,” he says, and everything starts to come into place. He’s starting to remember bits and pieces, flashes of before, flashes of Tony Stark with his immaculate goatee, Aunt May holding a burnt walnut loaf…

And he remembers the car.

He remembers the car. 

They were going to eat something—somewhere new, out of Queens and into the Bronx. May was sitting in the driver’s seat, or maybe he was, because he only had a permit, never a license. She was talking and he was talking and then Peter felt fear like he’d never felt come up his back like a shriek of ice water, and he’d screamed, May, look out! 

And he’d fought but it didn’t matter because he deserved to get caught—he was always gonna end up in Charlie’s hands, always gonna end up strapped to that fucking chair, THE CHAIR THE CHAIR NOT THE CHAIR—and the last time he’d looked at May she was bleeding from her head and her eyes were closed, and he’d thought please don’t kill her please don’t kill her—and then everything had gone fuzzy and sideways.

And he’d woken up in the chair.

It seems like forever ago. It feels like forever ago, and for a second it’s difficult to imagine a time without Cassie at his side, without the cans and the Happy Meals, without the lingering threat of Charlie outside, or the shadow leaving the door cracked—and he sobs into Cassie and Cassie holds him back, whispering to him.

Cassie. She's here. and no one hurt her.

He forgot that it wasn’t always like this. Memories come to him: pencil-ridden desks, a bell ringing, a girl’s pinky finger brushing against his, mouthfuls of Thai food and May saying, I larb you! Mr. Stark’s lab, him tapping a wire against his shoulder against his shoulder, saying, Turn that Gen Z shit on one more time, and we’re gonna have a problem, my record player is for classics only, Peter Parker—and Peter complaining, But Taylor Swift’s, like, timeless! in a voice that sounds nothing like his own—

Was that him? Was that really him, once? That was so long ago, it just feels like a dream. 

Is he back?

Could he be back?

Peter tries to remember more, and there’s his best friend and he can’t remember his face—WHY CAN’T HE REMEMBER HIS FACE, and he scrapes his mind for memories and finds only terror, and he sobs again into Cassie and holds her. 

He hates that he can’t remember, he hates himself, he hates himself—HE HATES WHAT A FUCKING FREAK HE’S BECOME—he hates that he can’t remember anything, that he’s not the same that he was. He was something before, something better, and now he’s just a stupid freak, a mutilated fucking freak—he deserves it, he deserves every second of it—WHAT SHOULD I DO TO YOU TODAY, HUH? MAYBE I'LL LET YOU PICK, YOU WANNA PICK, STARK? WHICH EYE SHOULD I TAKE? MAYBE A FINGER? A TOE? AN ARM, MAYBE! PARKER DOESN'T NEED THOSE, HE DOESN’T NEED ANYTHING, DOES HE—HE’S DEAD ALREADY, LOOK AT HIM—HE’S DEAD, HE’S DEAD, HE’S GONNA DIE SOON—THINK HE CAN TAKE SOME MORE? MAYBE WE’LL TAKE THE LANG GIRL INSTEAD, STRAP HER IN—

And he doesn’t know why he’s saying it but he’s saying it and he’s crying, “Don’t touch her, don’t touch her, she didn’t—it’s me, it’s me, I’m a freak, I’m a—I’m a—I deserve it—”

And someone’s speaking to him and when he opens his eyes again through a blurry horde of tears, Tony's standing in front of him again with that pained look. “You’re not a freak,” he whispers. “and we’re not gonna touch her, buddy. You’re safe here, you really are.”

And the weight of what he’s saying is beginning to sink in, and cassie’s clutching at his neck, and he feels like that first day again with the doctor, so fucking confused, his leg numb and heavy, holding Cassie behind him, his head wild with pain, screaming, YOU STAY AWAY! YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME!— “Are you sure?” he whispers. “We’re—are we—are we—“

Tony nods, and Peter realizes the man is crying, his face shiny. “Yeah, bud. we got you out. No more Charlie, no more bunker, none of it.”

Peter holds Cassie close, and the little girl loops her thin arms around her neck, and he just keeps crying into her little shoulder. “Promise?” he whispers.

“I promise,” says Tony without a second of hesitation, and Peter just cries.