doomsday, pt 1
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 1:19 PM
Ned and MJ have been sitting outside of the courthouse for nearly two hours now.
There’s a bench across the street, and they’re sharing it as they wait. It seems callous to open their phones or do homework to pass the time, so neither of them do—both of them attempting conversation and failing as the minutes pass.
Ned keeps checking his watch—a plastic Spider-man watch, which seemed funny when he and Peter had bought it at the time, but now just seems like some kind of disconcerting reminder of what had happened these past few months.
“A court case is good,” blurts Ned, because MJ hasn’t said anything in a while. “Right? I mean, obviously it’s pretty bad, and there’s, like, federal stuff in there. Bad stuff. So… it’s bad for them, but it’s good for him, right?”
MJ shrugs; she’s dressed in a dark green hoodie and paint-spattered jeans. The hood’s pulled over her head, and she’s picking at her fingernails as Ned talks. She hasn’t said much since they got here.
“‘Cause that means they caught the guys who did it?” he adds, babbling on, anxiety gnawing at him, and Ned glances down at his backpack—it lies half-zipped next to him on the bench. “So it’s over—and when it’s over, he can come home… I mean, not home home, but like, at least his apartment building, there’s gotta be something open there—I’m sure Mr. Stark would help—”
Cutting him off, MJ laughs then, an odd sound, dry and devoid of any humor.
Ned swallows. “What?”
MJ picks at the edge of her nail along the peeling black polish; it chips, and a fleck of it falls onto her jeans. “Hasn’t been much help so far,” she says.
Ned feels hot in the face, defensiveness prickling at his cheeks. Across the street, a bright blue van pulls up and parks. A well-dressed woman climbs out of the front as a man with a camera sets up his equipment. “That wasn’t his fault,” he says. “Those guys—they—they held him hostage, they told him they’d—”
“He’s a superhero,” MJ interrupts, and Ned falls silent.
She’s right.
Tony Stark is a superhero—and he didn’t save Peter for five whole months. Five. Weeks and weeks of Peter’s life, so many days that his birthday passed, so many that junior year ended and senior year started, so many that a worried Betty Brant had come up to him and asked, “ So is he still sick or whatever?” and Ned had nothing but a shrug to give her. One hundred and forty days without his best friend, and someone was to blame. The bad guys for taking Peter. Tony Stark for forcing Ned to keep quiet. The Avengers, maybe, for failing to rescue him.
Ned doesn’t say anything in response, instead staring down at his scuffed-up sneakers. Maybe MJ’s right. Maybe… Maybe he shouldn’t have trusted Tony Stark from the start.
Without moving, MJ’s eyes flick to him and back to the courthouse doors. The wind picks up a bit, sweeping some of her brown hair over her face and onto her mouth, and she drags it away with her fingernail.
Soon enough the press truly starts to swarm, arriving in freshly-painted vans and dented cars, a couple on bikes or walking off the subway stop nearby. Some start to set up cameras and microphones; others crane their necks at the courthouse doors and thrust their cameras above the growing crowd for a desperate snapshot of the news’ latest target, waiting at the steps like a predator for prey, like sharks circling bloody water, like crows peering down at reeking carrion.
Because that’s what Peter Parker has become. A spectacle.
Ned’s Spider-man watch begins to feel a little too tight, the cheap plastic band sticking to his sweaty wrist. It’s so stupid, this Spider-Man kid’s watch. Would Peter laugh if he saw it now? Would Peter even laugh at all?
(Ned can’t stop thinking—they haven’t even seen a photo of their friend, let alone seen him in person. What could he look like now, after that photo in the mountains? Happy told Ned that Peter liked the Legos. That had to mean he was okay. It had to. Because Ned really, really doesn’t know what to do if Peter’s not okay.)
So, they wait. And they wait, and they wait.
“Do you think he’s… better?” Ned asks. “Like…” He can see the image in his head like a movie screen: Peter’s body hanging limp in Mr. Stark’s arms, pale and skeletal, red peeking from under black sleeves, his head tilted back and his hair so long that it trailed down. “Uh. You know.”
“Happy said he was,” MJ answers stiffly, after a beat.
Both of them look then to the courthouse, watching as the people move around. A series of sleek gray cars drop off a group of suited men with lanyards strung around their necks. They each wave their badges at the guards before slipping inside the massive double doors. The press quickly snaps pictures as the door props open, but without much excitement. The press don’t seem to care about a couple old men in suits—attorneys, probably. All these people milling about—they’re just waiting, really, waiting just like Ned and MJ are.
Waiting for Peter.
Ned wonders what car they’ll take—Mr. Hogan used to pick Peter up in a black SUV. A Mercedes, he thinks. Maybe that one.
At some point, a row of uniformed police officers pile out of their vehicles. Red and blue lights flash as they clear away the angry waves of the paparazzi, eliciting shrill shouts and noises of protest. There, amongst the huge crowd, a long-haired reporter grasps a microphone. Addressing the camera, her voice cuts through the commotion: “…with the Stark Seven case—unfortunately, the federal courthouse is closed to the public, but if we’re lucky, we can catch a glimpse of our defendants as they enter. The Stark Seven are being accused and arraigned separately of their charges, most of which were committed in the state of New Hampshire when they were found. The infamous Charlie Keene…”
But Ned still can’t stop thinking about what MJ said. The truth of it all. Tony Stark was a superhero. He was Iron Man. He should’ve saved Peter. Tony Stark had supersuits and billions of dollars and genius-level intellect and military-grade weapons—so why didn’t he just save him? What circumstances could’ve been so terrible that Tony Stark couldn’t succeed in saving one kid? Aliens? Monsters? Crazy super-villains with crazy super-tech? He’s imagined every possible scenario—all of them just make Ned think about his best friend, alone and frightened and bleeding, begging Iron Man for help.
A superhero should’ve been able to save Peter. A superhero should’ve been able to protect him from getting hurt. A superhero could have— should have—broken Peter out on the first day without a second thought.
Ned should hate him for failing—for leaving Peter there, for letting him get hurt, for making Ned bear all of these months alone.
But wasn’t Peter a superhero, too?
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 1:44 PM
They’re in the car.
It’s a heavy-duty Mercedes-Benz with bulletproof windows and dull black paint. One that Tony and Pepper used to ride in while escaping from paparazzi. One that used to peel around corners and scrape against signposts—back when a couple unwanted cameras were the worst danger they could face, back when his Iron Man suit could protect him from anything that dared take a swing at him.
Now, Tony knows worse.
Now, Tony knows much, much worse.
Happy is driving, and Sam Wilson is in the passenger seat beside him. He and Steve Rogers were selected as Peter’s security team, so they’re both dressed nicely in a black suit and tie. Peter’s sitting in the backseat with the seatbelt drawn right across his chest, Tony on one side and Sarah Wilson on the other.
There’s a matching car behind them—Foggy Nelson driving, and Murdock sitting in the seat beside him; Tony can see them chatting as they drive, both of Nelson’s hands tapping at the wheel as he speaks. Pepper is in the back, safe between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Some of the other Avengers are meeting them at the courthouse for support and more security. Bruce, Nat and Clint are all allowed to attend as witnesses.
A third car is a few minutes behind them. Rhodey’s driving, with the doctor’s son and Helen Cho. Everyone else is staying behind at the Tower; either too disturbed by the thought of attending or prohibited by federal procedure.
The GPS is running through Happy’s phone: a blue-line trail straight to the courthouse. The large man glances at it every few seconds as though reminding himself where he’s going.
As if he could forget.
Tony shakes his head dejectedly. As if any of them could forget.
Happy is larger than Tony remembers—bigger around the torso, heavier in his arms, with weight rounding his fingers and thickening his face. There’s a tangle of fast-food receipts in the center console, alongside oil-fingerprinted napkins, torn-up straw wrappers, crumpled brown bags, and unused ketchup packets.
Tony lost some weight during those five months in his lab. It was slow—he tried to eat, but he just kept forgetting , so wholly concentrated on building Charlie’s damn weapon that he couldn’t think of anything else. He had to think of Peter first. So instead of a sandwich—a mug of coffee. Instead of a protein bar—a handful of caffeine pills. He only ate if he had to. Besides that, the caffeine, like the stimulants, wore his appetite down to near-nothing. He barely even noticed the loss—only a couple pounds in the first week, and then a few more, and then a few more after, until around the second month his clothes began to slip around his legs and his shirt became noticeably loose.
Tony’s used to seeing it in himself now: a physical remnant of what happened, like the trembling in his legs or the pacemaker in his chest. And now Tony can see it in Happy, too—the leftovers of April and May, the trailing horror of June and August.
But he supposes stress can do more than starve.
There’s a thousand things wrong with this situation—the way Peter stares down at his feet instead of out the window, the way he hasn’t balked at their close quarters, the way he just let them buckle him in without a fight, the way he hasn’t said a word since he got in the car.
They should’ve had more time.
“This is gonna be bad,” Tony says as he looks at the kid.
Peter’s not even dressed for a court hearing—they couldn’t even get close enough to brush his hair, let alone wrangle him into a suit. He's wearing one of Ned’s old hoodies over a thermal long-sleeve, and a pair of navy sweatpants to match. A couple pairs of socks stuffed into gray sneakers. Tony’s wearing a suit that used to fit him well but now hangs a little odd in the shoulders, slips enough on his legs that he had to cinch his belt two notches tighter.
Sarah doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Yes,” she says solemnly, “it is.”
Tony’s not sure how they’re gonna get him out of the damn car, let alone into a courtroom full of people and onto the stand for his portion of the arraignment.
“We just have to get him through today,” says Sarah. “And then…”
And then what? They have no idea what he’ll be like in there—or what he’ll be like when they bring him back.
Happy glances in the rearview mirror—a fleeting look to Peter, as though checking he hasn’t thrown himself out the side window—and then back to the road. It’s Manhattan, so of course the traffic is a nightmare, and by the time they approach the courthouse they’re only an hour early. They’d been aiming for earlier, but with Peter’s breakdown and struggling to get him in the car they barely had any time to spare. Is an hour enough to get Peter into that courtroom? Is it enough time to get him out of whatever corner of his head he’s trapped in?
And the entire time, Peter doesn’t say a word. He’s quiet; the whole drive he’s unusually quiet—gone away, like he’s being sent to an execution instead of a New York courthouse.
The federal courthouse is deep in Lower Manhattan near several other federal buildings and a small green park—a multi-story parking garage stands near it, so Happy pulls in there. They find a parking spot somewhere on the third floor of the lot where there aren’t many other cars, and when Happy’s door clicks open Peter doesn’t even flinch.
Does Peter even understand what’s happening? Does he understand what’s about to happen?
Sam Wilson gets out next, shutting his door behind him, and then Tony unbuckles the kid’s seatbelt—Jesus, Peter doesn’t even move when Tony’s hand grazes his chest, doesn’t notice when the belt slides over him, and doesn’t react when the buckle clanks against the door.
“Alright, buddy,” Tony says, gently, “you ready to go?”
Peter keeps staring at the floor; his mouth is closed and his eyes are half-open and God, Tony remembers that look—
— metal clattering on the ground, and Charlie says, “Shit—Mason, pick it up!”
The other man moves quickly, shuffling over the ground and scooping up the bloody knife, shoving it back into Charlie’s red-spattered hands. Peter’s in the chair, cuffed in, his jumpsuit unbuttoned and open—baring a scarred chest, and there are several gashes already weeping blood down his stomach. He’s breathing shallow from the pain, his chest moving in odd increments, quick and then out slow as the wounds trickle red down his visible ribs. Oddly, Peter’s staring at the camera, not at Charlie; nearly twenty minutes into the session now, the kid’s gone. Really gone, barely responsive, corpse-like as the other men move around him, as Charlie screeches his name.
Charlie smacks the knife against the side of the chair; his face reddens now with every shout. “...Parker! PARKER! You hear me?”
But Peter doesn’t move. His gaze is hollow, focused on the laptop—and he stays like that, watching the camera as Tony watches him. The cement floor is spotted in blood—some old, some new—and a woman in the corner scrapes some of it off the bottom of her shoe.
“Answer me, Parker!” Charlie snarls, spittle flying into his beard. Tony shakily presses his hand against the still-warm television. “YOU ANSWER ME WHEN I—TALK—TO YOU!” The man whips his hand across Peter’s face—the kid’s head jolts to one side and rolls back limply—a little crooked this time, eyes glazed and half-open.
His eyes are still on the camera.
His eyes are still on Tony.
“I’m right here,” Tony whispers, and his hands tremble as he touches the screen. “I’m right here, buddy, I’m—I’m right here.” But Peter can’t feel his fingers brushing the television—Peter can’t see the tears coming hot down his face—Peter can’t see how much his knees tremble, how his vision spots, how his heart beats and beats and shudders in the confines of his chest.
(But he thinks—he knows that even if he was there, Peter wouldn’t know it was him. The kid’s too far gone.)
Charlie stabs the knife at the chair a second time—a useless clang rings out and he drops it with another curse. The bearded man scrambles for a new weapon, dragging his hand sloppily over the tray of tools. His hand grasps one and he lifts it—something metal, something long. Tony can’t see it yet, but Charlie’s eyes light up; behind him somewhere, several of the goons are talking and laughing and talking more—paying no attention to Peter. The bearded man picks it up, the muscle of his shoulder shifting, his eyes brightening as it comes into view: a crowbar with a pronged tip, crooked with use and stained with old.
“GOT ONE!” Charlie shouts, and then he laughs to himself, the crowbar tilts in his grip. “A GOOD ONE, HUH, PARKER? THIS WHAT YOU WANT? IS IT?” He swings it then, and Tony’s vision goes hazy for a moment—bracing for bloody impact, but it clangs against the chair’s headrest, leaving only a crooked scratch in smooth vibranium where it hit. “FUCKING— ANSWER ME!”
The kid’s eyes are still on Tony—on the camera, like nothing has changed. The long shadow of the crowbar crosses over the kid’s face. There’s something in Peter’s gaze—between the blear of sedative and strain of inflicted pain, it’s there. Like a lifevest drifting in oil-dark water, like an eggshell drowning in yolk, like a goldfish bobbing at the top of its tank—
— a hand on his arm and a voice saying his name. Tony blinks a couple times, feeling the stuffy air on his face, the reek of car exhaust and cement. He clenches his left hand, and the world comes back to him. Sam Wilson’s hand is warm and firm on his upper arm, and it squeezes again.
“...man, you okay?”
His sister, Sarah, is kneeled by Peter and talking to him, but the kid’s still not responding, his gaze dull like someone’s just knocked him in the head.
Tony forces himself up, nodding. “Yeah, yeah—I’m fine, I’m good.”
Sarah’s trying some of her tricks—telling Peter to breathe, asking for his name, but the most she can get out of him is a couple echoed mumbles of whatever question she’s asking. And eventually Sarah stands up, dusts off her slacks, and grimaces at Tony.
He knows what she’s about to say—he can see the time blinking dully on his watch. It’s two o’clock now. The hearing’s started. Nelson’s on the phone, nervously fiddling with his tie—talking to the judge, by the sound of it. “...refusing to move, yes.”
Refusal? Tony’s not sure it’s so much refusal as it is confusion and shock.
There’s some talking on the other end, tinny through his phone. “No—no, Judge, like I told you, he’s suffering from some severe psychological…” More talking, a woman’s voice. “I know, I know, but you have to understand…” He stalks off between the rows of cars, phone still pressed to his ear.
“Maybe they’ll let him go,” says Tony, as they watch Nelson plead with the judge. “Maybe when they see him, that’ll be enough for them to understand…”
Sarah gives him a pained look.
“They’ll probably just say he’s faking,” she says, solemn, as Peter continues to sit in eerie silence.
Nelson returns after a few minutes. He pulls the phone away from his ear and covers it with his hand, turning to them and adding, “Judge says we’ve got twenty minutes—otherwise she’s gonna have security bring him in.”
“They won’t delay?” Murdock asks. There’s a flicker of frustration in his voice, as though he half-expected the refusal.
Nelson shakes his head, his face bordering on disappointment. “She’s pretty set on that.”
“And you told her…”
“Yeah. All of it.”
“Let me talk to her.”
Nelson hands Murdock the phone and he walks off with it, speaking urgently to the judge on the other end. Nelson glances at Peter who’s still sitting in the car, and he opens his mouth, falters, and then shuts it again as though searching for the right words. “You might want to…” the man says at last, brow drawn in, “…go a different—uh, route. With this.”
Sarah looks up at him. “What do you mean?”
Nelson grimaces, glancing at Peter. “I mean, we could try to claim duress, or, like…uncontrollable circumstances, but…” He runs a hand through his hair. “He’s enhanced. The court’s not gonna… Well, you know how the court feels about him. If he doesn’t show, the judge will put out a bench warrant—they’ll drag him in there in cuffs. So we need to figure something out, like, now .”
Sarah smooths her hands over her face, pressing her fingers at her face, and then lets out a tight sigh. Nelson’s right. They both know he’s right. “We could…” Sarah says, and then she bites her lip.
“Could what?” Tony says, a little desperate.
Sarah looks at Peter, whose only sign of consciousness is the way his hair sways as he sits, rocking slightly. “Startle him,” she says, with a duck of her eyes.
She means scare him.
“No,” Tony says quickly, feeling the sudden need to stand in front of the kid, to force Sarah’s yielding gaze away from Peter. “No. Sarah, that’s—he’s not—we’re not doing that.”
Sarah sighs a bit, soft through her nose. “Tony… I’m not sure we have another option. Either we do it or they will.”
Tony swallows. If the judge really does put out a bench warrant for him—God, he can only imagine how traumatizing that’ll be for the kid. Dragging him in front of all those people? Cuffing him like the real criminals are? Tony hates that this is what it’s come to—shocking Peter into traumatized silence and dragging him out of his safe space in order to get his perpetrators locked up. But he has to get Peter inside.
There is a lot that Tony doesn’t remember from those five months. Some he’s blocked out, some he was too exhausted to retain.
But he remembers how they would get Peter to move.
“Peter,” Sarah says, kneeling again onto the asphalt, trying to catch his gaze, “Peter, you have to go in there, you understand me?”
Tony sees what she’s trying to do—put a little more urgency into her voice, activate that kind of mindless obedience that’s buried in Peter somewhere, that same obedience they’ve been trying to avoid for weeks.
“Come on, Pete,” he says gently, but the kid—he’s gone. He’s too far gone. Peter’s murmuring something to himself, soundless mouthing, lips barely moving.
“Don’t make me do this,” Tony begs.
But he doesn’t answer at all. He just keeps sitting there.
“Peter,” Sarah tries again. “Peter.”
“Peter,” Peter murmurs to himself, an echo, his mouth barely moving with the effort, but he doesn’t look at them. The kid’s gripping the car’s seat with alarming force, his lanky hands like claws against the leather.
He’s not going to go unless they force him.
Goddamn it.
Then Tony looks at Peter—remembering every day of those five months, remembering every time they yanked him out of the chair, remembering every time they slapped him and hit him and threw him to the ground—and then swallows, and says, “ Parker .”
Peter’s head snaps up to him, and it’s horrible how fast that worked, but it does, the change near-instant. Breathing in quickly, he’s just staring at Tony and squinting at Sarah—his body gone taut.
He’s afraid. Very, very afraid.
“Come with me, buddy.”
Tony grasps him by the wrist and pulls him lightly. The kid moves without fighting, clambering to his feet and out of the seat, nearly tripping in his effort to follow Sam. He moves fast like this—like he did in those first few days in the Medbay, like he does whenever he’s afraid. He staggers after Sam, shuffling with that horrible limp as Murdock points the way to go.
Sarah hurries after her brother and the kid, while Steve follows a small distance behind Tony as they stride away from the car.
And when Tony turns back—just before Happy shuts the car door—he spots them. There, where Peter was sitting, there are marks in the car's leather seat—where the kid’s fingers tore right through it.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 2:21 PM
The paparazzi spots him first. There’s a shout from someone perched on the top of a news van, and then a rush of sound: photographers messing with their cameras, news anchors shouting to their crews, clicks of flashing light.
MJ and Ned climb onto the bench to get a good look. Amongst the crowd, two suited men walk quickly, both guarding a smaller figure with a bad limp, moving with enough insistence that they vanish inside the courthouse before a news crew can get a word out of them.
And then it’s over before it’s even really begun. Ned tried to hold on to the glimpse he saw—navy blue sweatshirt, dark pants, hood drawn up—but the memory is already fading. Was that Ned’s sweatshirt? It looked like one of his—navy with a Star Wars logo printed across the back, zipped all the way up.
Ned remembers making that care package for Peter after he came home—filling a tote bag with old memories and tupperwares of food. Don’t forget me, he wanted to tell him. Please, please don’t forget me.
A couple of the paparazzi peel off from the group, but most stay, lingering in their vans or milling about on the sidewalk outside the courthouse until a security officer shouts at them to move.
“He’s okay,” says Ned as they both sit down. “He’s up and moving, right? So he’s okay.”
MJ draws her legs up onto the bench and up to her chest, and she then shrugs.
“But why didn’t he tell us he was okay?” Ned adds. “He would've said something, texted me, or—or you, he would’ve… I mean, why wouldn’t he?”
MJ squints out at the courthouse across the street. She stays quiet as she scuffs her boots against the pavement, shrugging again.
MJ won’t say it aloud, but both of them know. Peter rarely mentioned Spidey injuries until Ned pointed out the scars; he didn’t say a thing about Flash when the bullying got bad; he didn’t even say anything about Skip until years after it happened.
Peter is a bearer of silent burdens. He always has been.
And if what the news says is true, if those photos are real, if that boy who just limped into the courthouse was truly Peter—
—then maybe he didn’t want to see them.
They watch as the paparazzi try to barrel their way inside, shoved back by a few security guards dressed in black.
“Did you get a good look at him?” Ned asks, wincing as another woman with a camera clicks and clicks at the closing door. “I couldn’t see through the…”
MJ shakes her head. “He was with Mr. Stark, I think.” She pauses. “I think he was limping.”
“So he’s hurt,” Ned says. “Still? It’s been nearly a month. How is he still…”
MJ shrugs, going quiet for a moment, and her hand tightens on her knee. “If it was bad,” she says, forcing her voice still. “Right?”
He doesn’t know. He’s only seventeen—he’s never seen anything like this before.
He forgets sometimes, with the amount of responsibility his friend carries, but Peter’s seventeen, too.
“I guess,” Ned says, not knowing how else to respond.
He tries not to think about it too much. The way Peter looked in that photo—pale as a sheet, like he hadn’t seen the sun in months—rail-thin and entirely limp, like a corpse. Ned even thought it was a corpse before TMZ trashed the theory. At first glance, he’d thought his best friend in the whole world was a corpse.
Peter had looked dirty, too. But it wasn’t until they got a more high-definition version of the photo that he and MJ realized it wasn’t dirt. It was bruising—purplish and red, greenish and yellow. Ned had known that Peter’s mutation let him survive almost anything—Ned had seen him come home after getting shot by a mugger. Peter just climbed in through Ned’s window, and grinned at him, asking, Got anything I could use?
But Peter Parker always healed unusually quickly—so if he had bruises like that? Staying for that long? It meant someone had beaten him. No, tortured him. Someone had tortured Peter Parker.
And Ned hadn’t done a thing about it.
There was blood, too—coming down his slack wrists; at first Ned thought it might’ve been self-inflicted—he’s a teenager, so of course he thought that—he hadn’t realized that it might be… That someone had done that to him. Ned tries not to think about it.
Peter and Ned have known each other since they were ten—nearly forever. Six years and change: a lifetime for a teenager. They’d seen each other through awkward phases and strange crushes and Skip Wescott and band practice and decathlon and bad Star Wars movies and good Star Wars movies and Ned’s horrible obsession with hats. They’d stuck together through bad grades and AP classes and Spider-manning and Guy in the Chair-ing and even that one field trip to Europe with their history class.
They were supposed to survive senior year together . They were supposed to go to Comic-con together in October. But Ned probably won’t go this year; what’s the point of going without Peter? They were supposed to have some classes together, too. But now Ned’s in school and the only sign of Peter is the articles published in lying tabloids. A couple grainy photos on the Internet. The occasional phone call from Mr. Hogan.
From April onward, the entire summer he was supposed to spend with Peter: instead, it was just Ned working Peter’s old job, Ned visiting Peter’s aunt, Ned going to thrift stores and dumpsters to try to find Peter’s things that the landlady threw out. After a hundred and forty days of his best friend missing, Ned finally saw that picture on the Internet. And there it was, plastered across every major news site: Billionaire Recluse Tony Stark Spotted in New Hampshire Mountains Carrying Unknown Body.
And then he saw the body.
Ned knew immediately that it was Peter.
MJ nudges him suddenly, shoving the screen of her phone towards him. “Ned,” she says, her voice urgent and a little bedraggled. “Look.”
Ned peers down at her phone—at the bulky black case and cracked screen. It’s an article. CNN. There’s a black line of text at the top, in all caps: Update on the Stark Seven case: Victim heads into Manhattan courthouse for the first official hearing. It was posted only a couple minutes ago, and after a couple lines of summary text is a photo.
A photo of Peter.
The photo was taken with some high-definition camera and is much, much closer than whatever far-off glimpse they saw themselves. In the photo, there’s a man in a dark suit with a full beard and grayed black hair: Tony Stark. Stark’s arm is tucked around a thin figure in a large sweatshirt. The face of the figure is tilted towards the camera, a sliver of pale, scarred face, and a pair of grim dark eyes. Brows lowered, sweatshirt hood drawn up, with a strand of dark hair clinging to his cheek.
Those are Peter’s eyes.
“Oh my God,” he manages. MJ’s hand is gripping her phone so tightly he can see the imprints of sweat beneath her brown fingers. He takes the phone from her then, bringing it closer so he can see—because that can’t be him. How could that be Peter— “Is that…”
Ned feels suddenly nauseated, watching Peter like this, like he hasn’t been given permission. Like standing over someone as they sleep or watching a video of them naked. He shoves the phone back into MJ’s hands, and she turns it off, setting it beside her.
“MJ?” he says, feeling a little dizzy.
“Yeah?”
“What if he…” Ned swallows at the lump in his throat, nausea pressing at his stomach and rising up in his throat. “What if he doesn’t want to see us?”
MJ looks up at him for a moment, and then back down again. She scrapes again at her black-painted fingernails, and then picks roughly at it, splitting the white edge.
It’s Peter. He wants to see them. He has to. Even if he’s injured, even if he’s…
No. They’re his best friends. There’s no reason he wouldn’t want them around. There has to be a reason why he hasn’t contacted them yet.
Right?
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 2:28 PM
A couple security guards pat them down—first Murdock and Nelson, then the rest of them. Peter, too.
He blinks a couple of times as it happens, raising his arms as the guard instructs, letting them touch him as he stares dully at the wall. The guard apologizes repeatedly as he does it, patting quickly across Peter’s chest and down both legs.
“Sorry,” he says again to Peter again once he’s done, standing up straight. “Just protocol.”
A man greets them in the hallway past security—by the look of the lanyard strung around his neck, he’s a federal agent. The man has neatly combed black hair and a clean-shaven jaw. He’s dressed in a black suit with a spotted tie. He shakes Murdock’s hand first, then Nelson. “Glad you could make it,” the agent says tiredly, and then he grasps Happy’s hand for another shake.
The man has a pleasant demeanor—more pleasant than Tony’s used to seeing, usually—and gives them all a polite smile as he speaks. “I’m Jimmy Woo—I’m with the feds.” He looks awfully tired, this man, which comes of no surprise to Tony. “I’ll be directing you through the process. You get in okay?”
Then Woo reaches to Tony—another handshake—and for some reason Tony shifts backwards, his heart thumping in his chest as he stares at the man’s open hand.
They stare at each other.
Why the hell did he just do that?
After a beat, Pepper reaches out and grasps the man’s open hand, salvaging the moment, shaking harder as though to make up for Tony’s blunder.
“Traffic was rough,” she says, and Tony realizes he hasn’t had a conversation about something as mundane as traffic since April. He’s not sure he even remembers how. “But we made it.”
Still a little shaken, Woo shoots an odd glance at Tony before returning his gaze to Pepper; Tony promptly looks down, averting his gaze from the man.
“Well, uh, you know the hearing’s already begun, technically—but the judge is informed of our—well—our situation here, so…” He glances awkwardly at the kid, who's still quiet and looking somewhere down the hall. “Does he… Does he need anything before we start?”
Sarah Wilson nods, as does Dr. Cho, and both women introduce themselves; Woo explains to them both something about security badges and medical teams, and then directs them towards a couple of security personnel before they hurry off. “And, uh…” Woo pulls his phone from his pocket, taps a couple times, squints, and adds, “Barnes, Wilson—you’re the security team?”
Both Sam and Bucky have been relatively quiet the whole time, but both of them step forward a bit as they’re addressed. “That’s right,” says Sam. Behind him, Bucky Barnes merely nods, arms folded heavily over his chest.
The agent hands them both another set of security badges on corded lanyards. For Barnes, one reading Steve Rogers’ name; for Sam, one with Peter’s. She’s not exactly sure how Bucky Barnes managed to get himself on Steve’s security team, but she doesn’t question it.
Woo points them towards another couple of agents standing near a pair of double doors at the end of the hall. “Alright, Steve and the kid both need to be briefed. Head towards those doors, and they’ll take you in separately.”
Tony’s thoughts stall for a moment. Separately?
“We can’t go with him?” Pepper says, with a worried glance at the kid.
With a sympathetic look at Peter, the agent shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I know he’s… Look, it’s just procedure. Enhanced victims, federal crimes, law of—”
“Law of collateral,” Pepper finishes bitterly. “Right. Fine.”
“Wait,” Tony says, exchanging an anxious glance with Pepper, “he—he’s not… I’m not gonna just leave him… He’s… He’s…”
The black-haired man takes a short breath and exhales, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says. “He—”
“I’m Iron Man,” Tony blurts. “The law of collateral.” He thumps his hand against his chest, and his palm thunks against the metal pacemaker in his chest, spreading a cool ache of pain through him. “You can—you can take me, too. You have to.”
“You’re a vigilante,” Jimmy Woo says simply, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not—well, they don’t consider you a danger without a suit.”
And Peter is?
The kid has spent every second since he got home in a panic—terrified or dissociative or a confused daze of both. Sure, the kid’s an anxious wreck, but a danger? No. He’s just a kid. Peter had every bit of fight beaten out of him by Charlie Keene and his goons. He wasn’t a danger to anyone.
“…you’ll be briefed separately—there’s some security procedures the court has to—“
“What?” Tony tries, taking a shaky step towards Woo. “No—he needs… We have to…”
Tony hasn’t left Peter’s side since they got him back. Not for any more than a few minutes at a time.
“He won’t be gone for long,” the man reassures. “Just for a few minutes, and then you’ll meet him in the courtroom. I’m sorry, but there’s really no way around it. It’s just protocol.”
That’s what the security guard said too, as he pat Peter down, looking guilty the entire time. It’s just protocol.
A hand on his shoulder. Steve. “Tony,” the man says, his voice firm. He pats Tony’s shoulder for emphasis. “He’s safe with me—I promise. I’ll be with him the whole time.”
Tony shrugs off the hand on his shoulder, looking over to Peter; the kid’s still gone. So far gone. Will he even know that Tony’s left him?
Or will it be just like before? Peter thinking he’d abandoned him?
“Sir? If you would come with me?”
Happy and Tony head for another briefing room, and that leaves only two of them: Pepper and Agent Woo. He walks to the end of the hall, and both wait at a row of brass-doored elevators for a while before one pings and slides open, and both of them step inside. He presses a button and it lights up as the doors close.
A moment then, as the elevator begins to move. “You worked with Scott Lang,” says Pepper after a second, with a glance to the man, “right?”
The agent stares at her for a moment, scanning her face, and nods. “Uh, yeah. Back in California. Worked for the feds then—enhanced containment, mostly. Low-level villains, couple local vigilantes. One of the addicts, actually—one who died, she was on my watch back then. Ava, uh, Starr.” Just like Peter and Cassie, Jimmy Woo calls that woman by her first name. “Scott, too,” the man adds, “when we had him on house arrest.”
“You’re here for him, then?” Pepper asks, tilting her head at the man as the elevator continues to rise.
“Uh,” Woo says, and he rubs again at his eye. “No. My partner, she—she was the officer killed in the bunker. Julia.”
Julia de Paz. Charlie Keene’s sister. The police officer who spent the last five months of her life tracking down her addict brother only to be killed by him in a fit of rage when she tried to stop him. Pepper had gotten most of the story out of Steve Rogers, in bits in pieces. Months ago, that woman had come to Steve and Bucky for help—they’d spent weeks searching HYDRA bunkers just to help her find Charlie. To think she’d gone all this time to find her brother—just to die at his hands. Another pointless death for the sake of Keene’s maniacal plan.
“We’d only been working together a couple months,” he says. “Department of Defense, shifting people around… But she was a good one, you know? Hated cases like that—kid ones, ‘cause she had two of her own. But she took it anyway.” He jabs at the already-lit elevator button with his finger. “Put everything she had into finding that little girl.”
She forgot about that: Officer Julia de Paz was the lead officer on Cassie Paxton-Lang’s abduction case. What a horrible coincidence, really, that the officer found both her brother and that little girl in one go, only to die at the hands of her own flesh and blood.
It’s so strange—how tangled up these cases are. How a police officer was set up to find her own brother, who was already caught up in a web of addiction—to drugs, violence… and power. How, in an eerie twist of fate, she spearheaded the very investigation into the abduction of the child her brother had kidnapped. It seemed almost preplanned—orchestrated by some deranged conductor waving around their baton, the control bar being puppeteered by some sort of crazed marionettist.
Not only that, but Agent Woo, a former SHIELD operative with past ties to the Avengers, unwittingly became involved in this quickly unfolding case. What began as the apparent abduction of a seven-year-old Cassie Paxton-Lang, soon unfurled into a harrowing web entangling not only two, but three other Avengers.
With every twist, these tangled threads of a bewildering case only drew victims and perpetrators closer together. Each person found themselves more inextricably connected than the last, caught in a relentless cycle with no discernable origin point—Ant-man, The Winter Soldier, Iron-Man, Cassie Paxton-Lang, Peter Parker, and repeat.
Except it wasn’t Cassie Paxton-Lang, not to them . It was the daughter of Ant-man. It was a tool. It was blackmail. It was an advantage.
And it was never Spider-man. Not to them. It never mattered who Peter Parker was either. He was simply a means to an end. Just like Cassie, he was leverage. They were both just leverage.
“I’m sorry,” says Pepper fixedly, trying not to think about it too much. “I didn’t know.”
Another polite smile from the man, and an awkward shrug. “I’m here now, you know? Doing what I can for her.”
The elevator doors open then, and Woo lets her exit first before following. “Still,” Pepper says, as they step out into the hallway, “I’m sorry about what happened.”
Woo closes his mouth, pressing his lips together as they walk. His eyes drop momentarily to her pregnant belly—she’s six months along now. “Me, too.”
Pepper and the agent greet a couple more people along the way—the federal attorney, a blonde woman named Lockhart, her set of young paralegals carrying briefcases full of files, and several security personnel in bulky kevlar vests—before finally filing into the courtroom through a set of oaken double doors.
It’s a massive room, almost churchlike with rows of hardwood oak pews and a pine-green patterned carpet. At the front of it all, two large tables sat a few yards apart, lined with black leather chairs: the left one for the defense, where Osborn and his team are already sitting down, and the right one for the prosecution, where Murdock and Nelson are waiting, chatting quietly. Beyond those is the sprawling judge’s bench, made of the same stained wood, to the side is the court reporter’s desk and the witness stand. Soft yellow lights line the ceiling, casting a strange glow over the room.
Pepper finds a seat on one of the benches; that boy Harley Keener is sitting at the end of a right pew, earbuds plugged in to both ears, eyes shut and nodding his head to music she can’t hear. She scoots down the row and sits beside him; she doesn’t think someone so young should be alone in a room like this.
Sitting is becoming increasingly uncomfortable with how big her belly is, and she shifts several times before finding a comfortable position.
It’s not long before the double doors open once more, and people arrive in pairs—Murdock and Nelson, Happy and Tony, Steve and Bucky. And then after all the rest, Sam Wilson had a hand on Peter’s back, urging him forward every few steps with a slight nudge. All eight of them head for the prosecution’s table and sit down—Peter, too, after some prompting.
For a third time, the double doors swing open: this time, the entrant is a man in a loose orange jumpsuit, both his hands cuffed tightly behind his back. Two officers dressed in black uniforms follow him, walking closely on either side, and the man shuffles quickly. He is young—short, too, with dark scruff and guilt written all over his face. As he and the officers approach the table, the guy’s eyes quickly search the area, scouring the tables until he spots where Tony and Peter sit. The guy stops walking for a second, frozen until an officer pushes him forward. Finally sat down at the defendant’s table, he has a short conversation with his attorney, Osborn.
Soon, a woman enters the room, flanked by a couple security guards, dressed in a long black robe with a sharp white collar peeking out. She has her hair cut cleanly at the shoulder, and she seems young for a judge—younger than Pepper herself—with dark lashes and darker hair. Forty, maybe, or slightly less. There’s a deputy beside her—a young man in a navy suit and a blue tie—who announces to the room.
“All rise,” he says, as the judge climbs into her seat, and then the whole room stands. The deputy rattles off a string of numbers and letters—talking fast, like a middle schooler presenting in front of a class. He tugs at his blue tie, clears his throat, and then adds, “United States of America versus Charles A. Keene…”
He then proceeds to list all six of the other defendants. Riri. Renee. Haroun. Jon. Zhiyuan. Quentin Beck. Pepper’s heard all of these names before, murmured by Tony when he’s half-asleep or by little Cassie when she’s confused.
He makes a last announcement to the room. “The Honorable Judge Sonya Pearce presiding.”
The judge tells everyone to sit, and they do—in front, Pepper can see Murdock lean over, put a hand on Tony’s back, and whisper something to him.
“Good afternoon,” The judge says. “A bit of a late start, but if everything runs smoothly, I think we should be on time.” She shuffled through some papers on her desk, unhooking them from a binder clip. “We are here today for the arraignment of all seven defendants, although as the charges differ for each, we will be arraigning each defendant separately.”
“I know this case has been very much in the public eye—but I would like to remind everyone of the Court’s broadcasting rules—no photos, no videos, no recordings, nothing. There are minors present in court today, and if I find out that anything leaves this courtroom—you will face severe legal consequences.”
Pepper wonders how many minors there truly are here—she spots Peter, who is squeezing his eyes open and shut, and beside her young Harley still has his earbuds in, clenching his hand around his phone’s glowing screen, knee bouncing up and down to the rhythm.
(That’s something Peter would do, Pepper thinks, if he were still himself—listening to music during a moment like this.)
“Is the prosecution present?” asks Judge Pearce, clearing her throat.
Murdock stands, bracing his hands on the desk. “Yes, your Honor. All enhanced victims are present as well.”
“And the defense?”
Norman Osborn stands from his seat and raises his hand. He’s dressed in a dark green suit with a light green shirt underneath, collar cinched with a bright purple tie. The attorney then asks to approach. With approval, he walks briskly to the lectern and returns after a brief hushed conversation with the judge.
“Counsel—state your appearances, then, for the record.”
The federal attorney—the only woman on the defense’s side, rises. She’s wearing a light gray pantsuit and matching shoes, a gold necklace and small hoops, and her hair tied back in a twisted bun. “Camilla Lockhart for the United States,” the woman says, and then she nods smoothly to Murdock who sits beside her in a darker gray suit, dark red glasses, and a long tie to match. “Matthew Murdock for the enhanced victims.”
Osborn speaks for a bit then, each of his legal team announcing themselves as well. The judge nods to them and asks a couple questions, to which they answer in kind.
Pepper has never been in a criminal court before—only business court and the occasional civil suit—but she expected the judge to be a bit more sympathetic. Instead, she seems to flip back and forth through the packet on her desk before making remarks to whoever she’s addressing. “Mr. Murdock, I see here you’ve tried for another motion for extension.” The judge flips back through the packet, reading quickly through her glasses. “Is that right?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Four of which I did grant—due to the extenuating circumstances of your client.”
“Yes, Your Honor—but my client is still suffering from severe psychological distress…”
Pepper’s not an attorney—but she understands well what is happening here. This is Murdock’s last resort at keeping Peter from that podium—keeping him from having to speak to Charlie, to look at Beck, to talk in front of a roomful of people.
The judge shakes her head, taking a quick glance at Peter before frowning and looking away. “Unfortunately, Mr. Murdock, I believe our defense has waited long enough for a proper arraignment. Your motion is denied.”
The lawyer grimaces but nods, and he sits back down beside Nelson, who pats him lightly on the back. The judge speaks for a while after that, and then to Osborn again when he approaches her at the podium.
“No,” she says suddenly, interrupting the attorney. “Under no circumstances, Mr. Osborn. Please sit down.”
“Your Honor,” says the man, “my client has no violent priors, and he is a functioning member of society. Home confinement would allow him to…”
The judge blinks at Osborn in utter disbelief. “Mr. Osborn,” says the woman again, louder. “Due to the violent nature of the charges brought against your client, it would be unprecedented for the court to allow Mr. Beck back into the realm of normal society. Your plea has been denied.”
“Your Honor, if I may—”
“You may not. Step down from the podium, Mr. Osborn, and as I said, sit down. ”
The man bristles but ultimately obeys, walking back to the defendant’s table with his hands clasped behind his back.
“All right,” says the judge. “Now… I know a lot of us have been waiting a long time for an update in this case. I will do my best to make it as quick as possible.”
She talks for a while, mostly legal jargon, and then she calls up the first defendant to the podium—the short black-haired man. Like before, he shuffles forth with his hands cuffed, both officers following close behind. He walks up to the stand without issue, his head bowed in what seems to be shame. He’s sworn in by that young deputy in the blue tie, and sits down as soon as he is told.
“State your name for the record, please. First and last.”
The man leans into the microphone, eyes lowered, and says, “Haroun ibn Sallah al-Rashid.”
“And how old are you, Mr. al-Rashid?”
“Twenty-one,” he says, and the guy’s eyes flick again to Peter.
The judge nods. “Did you receive a copy of the indictment?”
Again, the guy looks at Peter, swallows, and then looks back to the right—to the judge. “Yeah, I got one.”
“And did you read it?”
Haroun nods, before he realizes the judge is waiting for a formal answer, and then says, “Yeah.”
“Good—well, as this is your formal arraignment, I will read the indictment, and you will respond with guilty or not guilty, as you and your attorney have discussed.” The man nods, and she peers down at her packet, flipping one page forward. “Count one, section one-eleven, impeding an officer in the line of duty…”
There are dozens of charges. Kidnapping and homicide, ransom possession and dealing in firearms, drug transport and development of chemical weapons, enticement and racketeering… Enough that it’s difficult to keep track of it all. And after each charge is read, Judge Pearce asks him, “How do you plead?”
Each time, he responds with, “Guilty.”
She gets to a charge of hostage taking, reading, “...forceful compelling of a hostage to perform illicit acts of computer hacking—”
“Your Honor?” Osborn says, standing up. “May I approach?”
The judge agrees, and the man in the green has a short conversation with the judge. She shuffles through some papers and mutters back to him, and then she announces into the microphone, “My apologies. It seems the victim of the hostage-taking, Mr. Scott Lang, was a vigilante?”
Osborn nods to her.
“Then unfortunately, that charge does fall under the law of collateral damage—Mr. Murdock, will you be pressing that charge?”
Murdock stands up and straightens his tie. “No, Your Honor,” he says, with a slight wince.
“Then the charges are dropped—let us proceed. County thirty-nine, chapter fifty-five, section twelve-oh-three, forceful compelling of a vigilante hostage to perform acts of violence against a non-enhanced victim…”
Pepper’s head shoots up. The judge is talking about her. That—that’s what happened back in April, only a couple days after Peter went missing.
Two days, she thinks. Two days and they’d already broken Tony. Pepper went back to the lab after he refused to leave, and she’d brought him some iced coffee. Decaf, venti, with hazelnut syrup and skim milk. Just the way he likes it. Liked it. It’s not like he can drink it anymore, not after taking all of those stimulant pills.
“You have to stop,” he said first. His voice was scratchy, so dry that it cracked on the second word. To her surprise, he didn’t even glance at the coffee. “Please.”
Tony was so quiet then, his gaze still, his sentences all stilted and wrong. And then he hit her. And she hadn’t looked back, hadn’t given any of it a second glance.
How could what they forced Tony to do to her be officially charged as a federal crime, but not what they did to Scott? This law of collateral is such bullshit. Ross just needed a way to keep enhanced people in check, and after the whole Leipzig fiasco, he had the perfect excuse—the perfect foothold to put it into action
“Count forty-five, section nineteen-fifty-nine, violent crime in aid of racketeering activity, how do you plead?”
“...and count fifty-two, section fifteen-ninety-one, federal charge of sex trafficking of an enhanced minor, how do you plead?”
The guy’s been keeping pretty quiet the whole time, only answering when he’s meant to, but this time he doesn’t. Instead, he takes in a clipped breath. There’s a short pause, and the man is looking up again—directly at Peter. Sitting next to Tony, the kid isn’t moving, as though rooted in his spot by Haroun’s stare. The man’s heavier now then was—less of that drug-whipped thin—and his bare arms are covered in spotty scars—from needles, probably. He looks sober, too, his eyes alert, a tang of horror in his gaze. They must all be sober now, right? Prison must’ve forced them to be.
“Mr. al-Rashid?”
The man tears his gaze away from the kid, takes in another shaky breath, and then looks back at Peter. “I’m so sorry,” he blurts out. “I—we were—we were high for so much of it—I, I didn’t realize—Jesus, Parker, what did we do to you…”
The judge clanks her gavel against her desk, a loud thunk that makes both Peter and the defendant jump. The man goes quiet.
“Mr. Al-Rashid, I’m going to advise you right now that when you open your mouth, anything you say can be used against you. Now, if you would—how do you plead?”
The man looks back at Peter one more time, and this time he opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He half-closes it again with one more glance at the judge, and then the guy spills out, “Peter, listen to me, I never should’ve let him—”
The judge smacks her gavel down again, and this time the guy’s head whips toward her. “Mr. Al-Rashid, do not make me say it again. You will not speak to the victim. You will not address the victim. Your only responsibility in this courtroom right now is to answer my questions, or I will find you in contempt of court. Do you understand?”
The man swallows and dips his head down, shame coming over his face. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah.”
“So I’ll ask you for the last time—how do you plead?”
It’s like he can’t help it—Haroun’s eyes go once more to Peter, up and down, grazing over the whole of him—his washed hair, his warm clothes, the tube trailing up his nose.
He looks down one last time, and for a moment his face screws up in what looks like guilt.
“Mr. al-Rashid.”
A stretch of silence comes over the room like a blanket, and at last Haroun’s expression goes sour. “Guilty,” he says at last.
“All right,” says the judge. “Thank you, Mr. Al-Rashid. A plea of guilty is entered as to all counts of the indictment. Mr. Osborn, may we move on to the next defendant?”
Osborn agrees, and the man leaves, ducking his head down the entire time. He was fast enough that as he shuffled away from the podium, the guards didn't have to push him, returning to his seat next to the defense attorney.
The second man is quiet. White and blond, large and muscled, with a gait similar to Steve’s. He jerks against the guards as they drag him in, scowling, and Pepper sees Peter actively tense in his seat. The kid’s been remarkably calm for most of the hearing, tuning out what’s going on, but now? He’s gripping the side of his chair like someone’s about to haul him out of it.
The judge asks for his name like she did the first.
“Jonathan Walker,” he spits in reply. He’s dressed in the same orange jumpsuit as the other man, although his is much larger and buttoned all the way up the front.
“And your age, Mr. Walker?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“And have you received a copy of your indictment—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and this time he tries to rip his arm away from the guards, and one has to grab his shoulder to hold him still. They talk about the charges again, Judge Pearce listing them and taking sips of water whenever her voice gets too dry. Jonathan Walker has more charges than his buddy—more violent crimes.
“...section fifteen-eighty-one, holding an enhanced person to a state of peonage—resulting from kidnapping and including aggravated sexual abuse…”
She continues, and at some point it devolves into argument, going back and forth on a technicality on one of the charges, until finally the judge snaps, “Mr. Walker, please. Your attorney has already spoken to you about this—now, how do you plead—”
“Fine! Guilty!” he shouts, jerking his arms against the guards’ grip, and he and then he shoots a look at Peter, a furious scowl, and shouts out, “Guilty, guilty, fucking guilty!”
“Mr. Walker,” the Judge says, a warning.
From where she’s sitting, Pepper can only see Peter’s back—and Tony’s hand on the back of his chair. She can’t see the kid’s face, but she can imagine it now—apathy in the face of such horrible words.
“That freak’s fucking guilty, too! You did this to me, Parker! You did this to us! You’re a fucking —”
One of the security guards grasps his orange jumpsuit at the collar and drags him away from the microphone, so roughly he stops mid sentence—staggering sideways before catching himself and attempting to lunge at Peter. He struggles at the cuffs binding his hands behind his back, yelling, “You did this!” The guard yanks him backwards again, and the other one runs forward to help, both hauling him by the arms as he shouts, “Man, fuck you, Parker! Why couldn’t you just fucking die!”
Security is already dragging him down the middle aisle when the judge announces for them to take him away, and as they do, Walker’s still twisting his blond head and roaring, “…dead, you hear me? Fucking dead! Charlie shoulda blown your fucking brains out!”
The courtroom is silent for a moment after the doors close behind him. The seat at the prosecution’s table meant for Jonathan Walker remains empty. The echo of his words ring through the courtroom as they hear him shouting all the way down the hall—only muffled by the thick walls.
The lawyers whispered hushed words to each other. After clearing her throat several times, Judge Pearce announced for everyone to take a short break.
“I think it’s best,” she says, “...if the court takes a brief recess. Twenty minutes, everyone, and then we’ll reconvene.”
Her gavel hits the wooden bench, and people begin to stand—by the time Pepper stands up, Sam is already ushering Peter away.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 3:16 PM
When Tony makes it out of the courtroom, Sam is standing outside the family bathroom with his arms folded, guarding the door. “He’s inside,” he says. “Figured I should get him away before the vultures come.”
And they already are—other attendees of the court hearing—craning their necks and trying to see the famous boy who the Avengers rescued. A couple of them try to approach, but Bucky blocks them before they can get close, and they all scatter after a few cold stares.
“He’s alone?” Tony says, glancing at the bathroom door.
Sam shakes his head. “Cho’s with him. Checking up on that leg.”
He kind of wishes Pepper were here with him—she’s still in the courtroom, he thinks, sitting beside that doctor’s kid. Instead, Nelson comes up to him as they wait outside the bathroom, nodding to Tony with his hand in his pockets. “You doing okay?” he asks. “I know this is…”
He doesn’t finish.
Tony shrugs without answering. “Where’s your partner?”
Nelson nods his head toward the end of the hallway, where his partner is talking rather angrily with one of the defense attorneys, gripping his cane with one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other.
“There’s not much left, right?” Tony asks after a second. “It’ll be over soon?” He needs this to be over. He wants to take Peter home—get him something good for dinner, something he’ll eat. Build stupid Lego sets with him until he forgets all about this.
“Well,” says Nelson, “they’ve still got to arraign the others. Renee Delaide, Zhiyuan Chang, Veronica Williams.”
Veronica Demetrius Williams. Riri. He didn’t know she was going to be here, too. He thought they got rid of those charges—something about crimes of necessity, or the fact that she was fifteen.
“Riri?” he says. “But I thought she…”
Nelson shakes his head. “They’ve still got her on some of it. Racketeering, it looks like, accessory to kidnapping. She’ll do some time, maybe, but because she’s so young… She’ll probably get probation for most of it. With the way they found her…” He shakes his head a second time. “...no judge’s gonna put her in prison for it.”
Pepper arrives a few minutes after that, placing a hand on his back as she speaks. “How’s he doing?” Pepper asks. “Hard to tell from back there.”
Tony grimaces. “Still hasn’t said a word,” he says. “Not one, Pep. I don’t know how they expect him to go up there and say something.”
“He has to speak?” she asks.
Nelson nods in response. “Beck and Keene have got the most charges, so they’ll go last. After that, they’ll have Tony and the other enhanced victims officially declare their cases against the defense. That includes Peter.”
A few more minutes pass, and at last Cho emerges from the bathroom. “Nothing new,” she says, peeling her blue-rubber gloves off. “He’s alright for now.”
“But is he…” Tony tries. “You know.”
Responsive? Lucid? In any way prepared to stand in front of a courtroom of people?
Cho looks a little disappointed at that. “A little better,” she says. “He’s coming to.”
Right. He only ever goes out like this for a few hours at a time—how long has it been since they got an actual response out of him? An hour? Two? Three? It won’t be long before Peter’s back to himself.
“Can I…” Tony says,
Cho shifts to the side and gestures to the door as though to say be my guest.
The bathroom is small—a toilet on one side with a railing and a sink at the other; Peter’s by the toilet, sitting in the gap between it and the wall. His knees are drawn up to his chest, and he doesn’t move as Tony enters.
The door shuts behind him.
“Hey, Pete,” he says, moving towards him, but the kid doesn’t respond. Using the sink for support, he struggles to get onto the ground beside him, careful not to get too close, and manages a half-kneeling position. “You with me, buddy?”
Peter blinks—he looks up at Tony.
And then, slowly, he nods.
“Oh, thank God,” Tony says. “I lost you for a while there, bud. You, uh…”
Peter averts his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, after a beat.
“It’s gonna be over soon,” he says. “I promise.”
Peter nods—absentmindedly agreeing just because. It’s not like he has any other choice.
“But you gotta try to stay with me, okay?”
“Okay,” the kid mumbles back.
Who knows if that’s a real answer or just an echo of what Tony said?
Does it even matter?
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 3:40 PM
Judge Pearce announces for the next defendant to enter.
The third of the Seven is a woman. She has long red hair and a strange expression, like a coyote at the sight oft roadkill. Her hair is unbrushed, and she keeps pushing it out of her face with her shoulder, unable to move it out of her face with her hands cuffed behind her back. Her jumpsuit is khaki instead of orange, cinched around the waist, and she’s wearing a white long-sleeve beneath it, sleeves she’s drawn up to her elbows.
Her arraignment goes quickly and without much trouble—and although she pulls a face at Peter, it doesn’t seem to bother the kid much at all. He barely moves. Like the two before her, Renee Deladier pleads guilty to every charge, and when she is done, she sits with the prosecution.
The one after her, a black-haired man named Zhiyuan, does the same.
“Guilty,” he says each time the judge asks. The man’s covered in tattoos, head to toe; ink crawling up his neck and down both hands. There’s one on the back of his forearm, too, a familiar symbol: a skull with an open mouth, six curled tentacles spreading from it.
He’s a quiet one, though, and doesn’t look at Peter once the entire time, instead staring emptily at the courtroom doors until all of the charges are read. The judge has to prompt him several times to answer her, to which he mumbles out another “guilty.”
When he’s done, the guards have to tug him away from the podium before he blinks dazedly, shakes his head, and walks slowly to his seat at the defense’s table.
“Bring out the next defendant,” says Judge Pearce. “Veronica Williams?”
Several of the security guards filter out into the hallway, and when they return, there’s a girl between them—dark-skinned, with her curls pulled back away from her face. Instead of a jumpsuit, she’s got on a white shirt with a number printed across the back, and a pair of navy-blue pants. There’s no cuffs, just a female security guard who walks behind her, following her the whole way up to the podium.
She’s not there for very long; the judge lists a couple charges and talks to her momentarily about duress and then she’s gone as quickly as she came, led out through the courtroom doors.
“Why isn’t she sitting with them?” Harley asks, startling Pepper.
Pepper can still hear the music playing tinnily through his earbuds. Classic rock—something Tony might’ve liked. “I don’t know,” she confesses.
And at last—a bearded man. Charles Keene. Charlie.
Pepper has never seen him in real life—only in pictures. His mugshot on a news site. TMZ got one of him, hospital-ridden and waving his stumped arm around, thrashing and screaming.
(She tried not to think about how similar they looked in that moment—Charlie Keene and Peter Parker, cuffed to a bed, hospital-gowned, injured yet still fighting to break free.)
But Charlie Keene… He’s the man who trapped her fiancé in his lab, the man who killed several people including his own sister, the man who drove Scott Lang to suicide, the man who brutalized Peter Parker to the point he became unrecognizable—but this man looks remarkably… normal. Bushy eyebrows and brown eyes, a small nose and a mouth obscured by a thick beard. Frown lines carved around his mouth. A broad forehead, the side of his face spotted with reddish pink sores from drugs, teeth pockmarked with tiny spots of decay. His cheeks full, his belly protruding out into his jumpsuit. His hair is shaggy, cut off somewhere near the jaw—his eyes flick around the room. His beard is untamed, too—wild and thick, matted in places like an old rug.
(Like Peter’s hair, she thinks without trying, remembering what he looked like in those first days at the hospital. Like it looks still after so many months of neglect.)
Pepper doesn’t know what she expected—some kind of monster, maybe, some kind of sign of evil in his dark eyes. Mutilated skin, claws for fingernails or pointed teeth. There was always something, wasn’t there?
But Charlie Keene looks normal. Why the hell does he look so normal?
They push the man up to the stand—and he hasn’t said a word yet—allowing the men to haul him up and into the chair. Unlike the others, he has a chain locked around his waist, and his good arm cuffed to it; his legs are cuffed, too, by a chain that leaves him with barely a foot of room to move. When he walks, he moves with a shuffle—his other arm is amputated at the wrist, wrapped up in white bandages and uncuffed.
Beside Tony, Peter has stiffened—freezing where he is in his chair, gripping the arms. Charlie moves slowly down the center aisle, glancing all around, and before he can even get to the podium, Nelson is standing and asking to approach the bench.
As they wrangle Charlie Keene up to the lectern, Nelson is speaking with the judge. “...filed a petition for our client to receive extra breaks,” he’s saying, “especially—before seeing Mr. Keene, who, as you know—”
“I’m well aware of Mr. Keene’s crimes,” the judge says coolly. “But as we’ve already had a recess, I’m going to need a good reason to have another one.”
Nelson glances back at Peter, and then back to the judge. “Your Honor—he’s… He’s just a kid. He’s never even been in a courtroom before. If we could just have a twenty-minute recess, even fifteen, before we continue—”
“Recess?” echoes the green-suited man from across the room, and he’s now standing as well. “Your Honor—I’m sorry, we can’t stop the hearing every time the kid gets a little upset—this is infringing upon my client’s right to a speedy trial—”
“As you remember, Mr. Osborn,” says the judge, “your client waived that right.”
“Yes,” the defense attorney says, with a cutting edge to his voice, “but we’ve waited nearly a month to get their formal charges read—and this hearing should’ve finished a half-hour ago. When’s the last time you held an arraignment for this long? It’s un precedented. Nelson and Murdock are trying to make the kid look worse than he is—and he’s not even in proper dress!”
Judge Pearce ignores Osborn and turns back to Nelson. “Mr. Nelson, is there medical necessity for a recess?”
“Well,” he tries, “my client hasn’t been out of the hospital before coming here, so if the doctor could just check him over before we continue…”
Osborn scoffs. “How long are you going to drag this on, Nelson? You can’t keep Parker off the witness stand—he’ll go whether you like it or not—”
Nelson glares at him. “I don’t know why you’re so proud of that, Osborn. Harassing this kid after everything he’s been through, forcing him up there—it’s no wonder they call you the Green Goblin—”
Osborn’s chest is still moving, shoulders up—he looks larger than he did a few minutes ago, his teeth bared. “I am good at what I do, Nelson,” the man snaps. “My clients pay well for good service—that’s more than I can say for yours and Murdock’s little sideshow circus—”
Nelson takes a step towards him. “One more word, Osborn—”
“Gentleman, please,” Judge Pearce snaps. “I am not your referee—any more of this conduct and I’ll have you both removed. That’s enough from both of you.”
“I’m willing to bet that limp isn’t even real—”
Judge Pearce smacks her gavel down, hard. “Mr. Osborn! That is enough!”
The man quiets.
“Now,” she continues, “Mr. Osborn. I am fully aware of Peter Parker’s condition. I have his medical records here in front of me. You are neither qualified nor informed enough to educate me on the details of his injuries.” Then she turns to Nelson, who’s still pink in the face, smoothing his hair back in some vague attempt to calm himself, and tells them both to sit down.
The judge takes a breath at last, collecting herself, and glances over to the prosecution’s table—where Tony and Peter are sitting. “Now, Mr. Parker,” she says, “come up to the podium, please.”
From behind, Pepper sees the kid’s head whip up so fast that the hood of his sweatshirt nearly slips off.
“Mr. Parker?” she tries again, and Tony’s hand is on the kid’s arm, standing up with him—
“No, not you, Mr. Stark. Just Peter, please.”
Peter takes a couple limping steps toward the podium, looking everywhere at once, burying his fists in his sleeves. He still walks like someone who is about to be struck at any moment, his body taut, head ducked. The stairs are difficult—the kid grasping the railing one-handed each time, pulling himself up to the next step, and forcing himself forward. On the last one his leg shifts a little underneath and he breathes in hard through his nose, mouth shut, crushing a pained shout in his chest.
“Mr. Parker,” she says, concerned, and her voice sounds less hard than it did a minute ago. “Do you need some help to—does he need help?”
From the prosecution’s table, Murdock shakes his head. “He’s got it, your Honor. Just give him a second.”
It takes Peter another minute to get up to the podium; he stops at some point, twisting his head around at some noise, and pauses as though recognizing the crowd of people for the very first time.
“Right up here, Mr. Parker,” says the judge, gesturing with her hand. “Yes—yep, the podium there.”
“Good,” she says as soon as he’s seated, taking a darting look at Peter’s choice of clothing. The sweatshirt and sweatpants, socks layered over one another, hands buried in his sleeves, hood drawn up. “Thank you. Next time, if you need some help, we can get you some kind of accommodation—I don’t want you to reinjure yourself, does that make sense?”
The kid nods slowly, like he’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to. His hand is on the podium edge, gripping hard so as to steady himself, and he looks a couple seconds from falling over.
“You can sit,” the judge says, gesturing at the chair. “Are you comfortable sitting? With your…”
The kid sits.
Peter grasps the arms of the chair, tighter and tighter, flattening his spine against the back of the chair, putting his feet down flat against the carpet, tipping his head back a little as though expecting a headrest.
Peter didn’t used to sit like that—he used to sit cross-legged in armed chairs, used to crook his legs under the chair and tip it back on its back two legs until Tony got fed up and yelled at him to stop.
The judge says, “State your name for the record, please.”
“Peter,” he says, and his voice is quiet but the court reporter seems to catch it because she still types.
“Your full name, Peter,” she prompts.
“Peter. Benjamin.” Another breath. “Parker.”
The judge nods. “Thank you, Mr. Parker. I know this must be very difficult. ”
The kid flinches, his head ducking down, and his hair sways—his eyes dark and wary as he looks at her.
“Your attorney says this is your first time in court. Is that true, Mr. Parker?”
His gaze jumps up to Judge Pearce’s podium, and then he barely shifts his shoulder into a shrug. “Yes,” he says quietly.
“I’ll have you know, Mr. Parker,” she says, scanning him. “It’s not generally appropriate to wear something like this to a courtroom.”
Pepper knew that, as did the lawyers, who had attempted repeatedly to provide Peter with a proper suit before they left. Pepper had one brought up—one of Peter’s old ones from his closet upstate. Peter had taken one long look at it and then stared up at Tony like he was asking him to cut off his own foot.
Do I have to? he’d asked, in a strange whisper, and then Tony had grabbed the freshly-ironed suit and balled it up in his hands.
The judge is still speaking to Peter. “I don’t want to see it again, do you understand? Mr. Osborn was right. This courtroom, as any other, requires proper dress.”
“Yes,” the kid says quickly, a hiss of a word mumbled through his teeth. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry…”
“There’s no need to apologize,” the judge says. “Any suit will do, alright? But no sweats, no hoodies, nothing like this. So the hood needs to come off.”
So Peter pulls his hood down, still mumbling to himself with shaking hands, and then he sits there like someone’s about to scold him or strike him, blinking out at the crowd.
There is a long silence—longer than any they’ve had thus far in the trial. With his hood gone, the judge can see everything—the plastic tubing pulling across his face, his burnt mess of an ear, the slashes of scars marring his face and neck. His ruined eyebrow. His crooked nose. His uneven lip. The only thing the same, maybe, are his eyes—as intelligent as they were before, watching the room as the judge watched him.
For the first time since the hearing began, the woman is rendered speechless.
Judge Pearce’s hard gaze softens on the kid, and she leans forward a bit as she speaks. “Well,” she says, “I know that you’ve been through a lot in these past few months. Your lawyer tells me you’ve been struggling with everything that happened, is that right?”
The kid squints up at her. Something about it, maybe the way she’s speaking to him, with some semblance of comfort, seems to ground him for a moment, and he manages, “Yes.”
The judge nods. “You’ve been through a lot,” she adds. “More than most people have their entire lives, Mr. Parker.”
The kid doesn’t say anything to that, instead staring over at the defense’s table—they’re all there: Haroun, Zhiyuan and Jon, Renee and Charlie.
“Do you need a break, Mr. Parker?” she says. “It’s alright if you do.”
The kid doesn’t respond, instead, grasping tightly at both arms of the chair, mumbling to himself. A moment passes, and another, as they watch the kid squeeze his eyes closed.
“Alright,” says the judge at last, nodding her head. “You may sit down, Peter.” This time, Sam walks with him, catching the kid by the elbow when he trips, and helping him back to his chair. “Where is—is Dr. Cho still here?”
From a couple rows ahead, Helen stands—she’s not dressed in scrubs, but a blue sweater and light gray slacks. “Here, Your Honor.”
“Can you manage thirty minutes? Or do you need more?”
“Thirty is good, Your Honor.”
“And you, Mr. Osborn? You can manage a short break.”
The attorney clicks his tongue, a sharp sound of displeasure. “Of course, Your Honor.”
“Then we’ll take a brief recess. I want everyone back here in thirty. Mr. Murdock, Mr. Osborn—my chambers, please.”
The woman picks up the gavel again, cracks it against the table with a sharp crack.
Nobody misses the way Peter jolts in his chair when she does.