1
Peter was used to Queens in June. It was hot, sometimes blisteringly so. New York’s own beautiful cityscape was also its summertime demise, skyscrapers and crunched-together brownstones often blocking vital breezes from entering the heart of town. The asphalt absorbed and radiated heat like nothing else, and recently-cleaned windows blinded residents on their daily commutes.
It was nothing new to him. Peter had learned to find the little bits of pleasure within summer in the city; fresh flower stands, ice cream carts, time off school. Frequent trips to Delmar’s for candy and sodas. Subway trips to his favorite smoothie place in Hell’s Kitchen if he really needed to waste some time.
Swimming wasn’t usually in the routine. His apartment building’s pool had been closed for years, whether because of lazy management or mechanical issues, he didn’t know. Public swimming pools in the city more or less didn’t exist, and finding someone with enough money to have an indoor one was a rarity. Even Mr. Stark had scoffed when Peter asked if he had one in the tower.
“This may be a nice building, kid, but I don’t need a glorified bathtub in my basement to make it so. If I wanna swim, I’ll fly somewhere.”
So, one could only imagine Peter’s surprise when he awoke to a bitter taste filling his mouth, and the realization that the brisk air he felt was indeed, not air, but water.
He definitely didn’t swim in any of the naturally occurring bodies of water around New York. He wasn’t sure that the fish living in that water wanted to be swimming in it.
Murky water was all around him, turning his movements lethargic. An unknown weight tugged heavily on his ankles, his folded and wrinkled pant legs allowing something sharp to scratch the exposed skin of his calves.
No. The space around him was tinted with shades of bright red and deep blue. Peter was in his suit, minus the mask.
Nothing within his line of sight was clear. Water clouded his vision and stung his open eyes, making finding the source of his entrapment that much harder.
Peter picked at his leg restraints, flinching when the tips of his fingers tore on solid stone. A few bubbles escaped from his mouth, and he quickly purses his lips before he lost any more necessary air. He could already feel the weight of his limited air supply pressing against his lungs, burning his esophagus.
A shake of his right ankle told him whatever was weighing him down wouldn’t be easy to remove. Each leg was trapped up to the middle of his calf, the extremities seemingly trapped within some sort of mold or solid structure.
Oh my god, seriously? Someone concrete-handcuffed me! Or, well, foot-cuffed, I guess.
Peter attempted to slide his fingers between the concrete and his leg with the intention of prying it off, but there was little-to-no wiggle room within for his fingers to maneuver. Even with his enhanced strength, his mobility was severely limited under water. He’d have to use another solid object to bust the concrete.
He scanned his surroundings, the vague shapes of nearby objects taking form as he focused. Beer bottles, a shoe (maybe; It also looked like a small dog, but Peter was really really hoping he was wrong about that one). The lining of his lungs stung as he searched for something, anything, that he could use to free himself. After several agonizing seconds he spotted a moderately sized river stone about a foot away from him.
Using his last reserves of air and energy, Peter bent forward as far as his restrained lower half would allow and curled his fingers around the stone. He didn’t hesitate before slamming it into the concrete around his right leg, sparks of joy erupting within him as chunks of it crumbled away and sunk to the riverbed.
Right leg freed, he immediately moved to his left.
Peter had no idea how long it took to completely free himself. Whoever had encased his feet in concrete really didn’t want him getting out, apparently, because it was several inches deep on all sides and came up high enough to just about touch his knees. It was as if someone had dropped his feet in buckets of quick-dry asphalt mix, let it dry, and tossed him into the river.
An entirely new kind of pain rattled Peter’s chest. Anguish flooded his veins. That’s probably exactly what happened. Someone was trying to get rid of me, mobster-style.
How long have I been out?
May must be so worried.
Peter shoved the remaining chunks of concrete aside and began kicking for the surface. The riverbed disappeared from view and he continued kicking, lungs threatening to collapse from pressure. For a horrifying moment he couldn’t tell if he was heading in the right direction, the murky water around him throwing off his internal compass and disguising which way was up or down.
Deep within his fear-addled brain, Peter took the time to catalogue his physical condition. His lungs were undoubtedly empty, his chest seemingly sizzling with the lack of air. The pain wasn’t getting any worse, though, despite the fact that he’d definitely been in the water longer than was safe for the average person.
Whatever. Irrelevant. Weird, yes, but he’d figure that out once he was no longer beneath the surface.
A few more hard kicks and his face broke through the water. To say he was relieved was an understatement, the sunlight on his face, however dim, a warm welcome.
Peter did his best to work with the current and was eventually swept to the side.
And then immediately collided with a brick wall.
He was too busy coughing up lungfuls of water to verbalize the curses running through his head, his attention solely focused on breathing and keeping his hold on each brick as he climbed.
Peter could have kissed the ground when he hit it, not caring one bit when the concrete left indentions in his cheek as he pressed his face to it.
His eyes were closed, but despite his water-laden ears, Peter could hear footsteps approaching. Rubber soles scuffed by, slowing as they approached him.
He carefully opened one eye, catching the disgusted face of the jogger passing by. She looked him up and down, wrinkled her nose like something stank, and kept running.
Peter definitely felt deserving of her nose-wrinkle. His hair was dripping down onto his forehead and cheeks, and his suit was sopping wet-
His suit.
He’d thrown himself onto a public walking path. He was in his suit, with no mask.
An uneasy energy surged through Peter’s limbs and he scuttled on the walkway, trying his best to control his gangly limbs. He must not have moved in a while; his muscles felt tense and foreign.
Once Peter gained enough composure to stand, he scanned his surroundings. The Hudson was spread out before him, the rising sun casting shadows on nearby buildings.
Just Peter’s luck. He crawled out of a river, and out of anywhere he could have landed, he’d ended up in Battery Park. Highly-populated area, buildings full of early-rising businessmen.
He needed to get out of the suit. His identity was at stake, not to mention the fact that he smelled like dead fish.
Peter sniffed his shoulder. Yea, that was definitely him.
But upon closer inspection, it wasn’t just him. The scent was heavy in the air, being carried on the wind. Peter turned back toward the river.
Spread out as far as he could see were hundreds, maybe thousands, of dead fish. Each one floated on the surface of the water, mouths agape and eyes unseeing.
I crawled out of that?
Go. He needed to go.
But where? He couldn’t exactly hop on the subway to Queens and roll into his apartment like this. May would be furious. She hated when the rugs got wet.
What was nearby? All of his (two) friends were in Queens.
Manhattan. Think, Peter.
The tower.
The tower was close by. Close enough to walk to, at least. If he could swing, even better.
Peter began jogging gently, then broke into a run as he became impatient with his own pace. He aimed a hand at a nearby building, calculated his shot, and pressed the palm release of his web shooter.
Nothing. They were dead, probably ruined from long-term water exposure.
How long had Peter really been in the river?
Running it was, then.
He did his best to stick to the shadows, climbing buildings and leaping from rooftop to rooftop when possible. He wanted to be quick, but not obvious. This city knew Spider-Man. He didn’t want to catch anyone’s attention when he didn’t have a mask and smelled like a seafood market.
Avengers Tower appeared in his sights, and Peter released a deep sigh of relief. The tight feeling in his chest from earlier had dissipated, but replaced itself with an odd numbness. He wasn’t feeling much of anything, really. Each expansion of his lungs brought no relief, no relaxation.
Like everything else he’d encountered this morning, he decided he’d think about it later. He’d have to cross one more street, then he could scale the tower and possibly get inside through Mr.Stark’s private balcony. Inconspicuous? No. But having people see him from a distance was better than making Mrs. Johnson, Stark Industries’ lobby receptionist, mad because he’d dripped river water inside the elevator.
The sun’s reflection off the tower was almost blinding, prompting Peter to climb most of the way with his eyes almost completely shut.
Tony’s balcony was at the penthouse level, so the climb took several minutes. Peter’s sore muscles were screaming once he arrived, and he immediately fell to his back once he was over the railing. He could distantly hear something that sounded sounded like alarms. Were they coming from inside the building? God, he hoped not. That would be loud. So loud. His head already hurt.
With a grunt, Peter stood and shuffled his way to the balcony doors. One knock, two knocks, three knocks, and he was too tired to stand any longer. Peter plopped down in front of the doors, chin resting on his hand, elbow propped on one of his bent knees. His eyes may have fluttered closed for a moment. He couldn’t remember. He knew he hadn’t fallen asleep, though, because he could smell Mr. Stark’s aftershave as he approached.
Hm. Mr. Stark. Yay.
The balcony doors whirred open. The unmistakable sound of Iron Man’s repulsors charging filled the air, and Peter opened his eyes at last.
One of those repulsors was about six inches from his face.
Mr. Stark stood in front of Peter, arm extended and face twisted into one of rage, maybe even fear, if Peter was interpreting that look in his eyes correctly.
The hair around his temples was greyer than Peter had seen it recently. More salt and pepper. It made the billionaire look distinguished.
“Get the fuck off my balcony. I won’t ask again.”
“M-Mr. Stark?”
Stark impossibly shoved the gauntlet farther toward Peter’s nose, the blue of the repulsors shining in his eyes.
“Stop. Go. Now.”
“Please, sir, it’s me. W-why are you doing this?”
“Peter’s not here.”
“But I am! I-I’m right here!”
“Last warning. After that, you’re charbroiled.”
“The Winter Soldier killed your parents.”
Tony flinched as if he’d been hit. His repulsor arm lowered slightly. “Excuse me?”
“Bucky Barnes!” Peter, now down on his arms and legs, tried to scuttle backward out of the line of fire. Tony simply followed him, never taking his aim off of the kid.
“He’s the one that killed your parents. I know that b-because you told me one night when we were working in your lab.” Peter swallowed, his throat unbearably dry. He really needed a drink. Something that wasn’t river water. “I was t-there because we w-were fixing the hole I ripped in my suit. You know, the one on the butt. I was sitting on a fire escape and jumped off and it snagged and-“
“Stop! My god, just stop! Give me a second!” There was a look on Tony’s face that Peter had never seen. Tony was typically the picture of calm, of cool composure. He wasn’t sure what this was; the wrinkled brow, the watery eyes.
“Y-you’re gone,” Tony whined. “You’re gone. You can’t be here right now.”
“What? Mr. Stark, please. I’m here. It’s me.”
Peter winced when Tony dropped to his knees, seemingly not feeling their impact with the concrete of the balcony as he lowered himself to be eye-level with his intern.
“It’s you? It’s really you? You’re not some alien impersonating Peter?”
“No.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“Favorite Star Wars movie?”
“All of them.”
“Opinion on that deli on 49th street I took you to once.”
“It was on 48th street. And I said the noodles in the chicken noodle soup looked too much like maggots.”
Peter once again found himself pinned in place, but this time it was between Tony’s arms.
“You’re here. You’re here. Oh my god. I’m so glad you’re home.”
Tony pushed Peter back by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length, frantic eyes searching for any sign of injury or immediate danger.
“Christ, Pete, what happened to you? Your suit is ruined.” He lifted Peter’s arms and observed the tears in the spandex on his arms, his torso, his legs. “Where the hell have you been? What happened? And when was the last time you showered? You smell like the Hudson.”
Tony allowed Peter a break in his interrogating for a shower.
“Feel free to stew in there for a little bit,” he’d said. “Maybe stir in some Epsom salts or something. Add some oils. Anything to help that smell, bud.”
After waking up underwater, the last thing Peter wanted to do was bathe in one of Tony’s ridiculously large jet-powered tubs.
Most of the guest bathrooms had those fancy rain-simulating shower heads, though, and you can bet that Peter took the time to enjoy it. The hot water was a welcome relief, the heat helping to soothe his tired muscles.
He stepped through the fog from his shower to see that a note had been slipped under the bathroom door. The words were in Mr. Stark’s sharp, tilted lettering.
“There’s some clothes outside the door. They’re mine, so they may be a little big. Sorry. -TS”
Peter cracked the bathroom door open, swung his arm out, and scooped the neatly folded clothes into his hand. The outfit consisted of a Black Sabbath t-shirt, along with a surprisingly average pair of grey sweatpants.
The mirror was still fogged over from his shower, so Peter left the bathroom without checking his appearance. He didn’t care much about how he looked at the moment, if he was being honest with himself. He was just happy to be clean and warm and no longer smelling like fish.
Tony was sitting in the communal living room of the guest floor in a surprisingly not-relaxed position, back straight against the couch and eyes not really seeing whatever show he’d put on the screen. As soon as Peter walked in, he hopped to his feet.
“Good, you’re out. I’ve called your aunt.”
May. He missed May.
“Awesome. Thank you.”
“I don’t think that woman has ever listened to me harder than she did during that phone call. I’ve just always gotten this feeling she wasn’t a huge fan of me- Peter, Jesus Christ. What happened to you?”
“What? What do you mean?”
He didn’t think anything was wrong with him at the moment: He’s showered until his skin was raw, so there’s no way he still stank, and his clothes were Tony’s. What was the issue?
Tony approached, wide eyed, and gently raised his hand toward Peter’s neck. His fingers made delicate trails across the skin there, never pressing or scratching. Just touching, as if he were connecting a network of dots.
“Who did this to you, Peter?” Mr. Stark’s voice was dangerously soft. It set Peter on edge.
“I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How do you not...Nevermind. Just come here.”
Stark led him to a decorative mirror down the hall, a large, sleek one with a silver frame that Peter had always liked. He remembered seeing it the first time he was allowed to stay in the Tower’s guest quarters, flabbergasted by its clarity and sheer size.
“Your neck, kid.”
Peter stepped forward until his toes touched the wall and gazed at his own reflection. Messy hair. Baggy band t-shirt. He looked a little pale, maybe, but nothing drastic enough to warrant concern.
But once he saw his neck, he understood why Stark had looked so concerned.
Circling his neck from front to back was a butterfly pattern of deep, black-purple bruises.
It looked as if...Well, it looked as if someone had choked him. Someone with big, meaty hands who had no qualms about holding back their true strength.
“I don’t-“ He turned to Tony, heart fluttering in his chest, “I don’t know how this happened.”
Peter’s healing factor could repair a moderate bone fracture in a week or two at most. Bruises usually faded overnight, sometimes within hours, if he’d eaten enough that day and his metabolism was really active. Why hadn’t these disappeared?
There was suddenly a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder. Mr. Stark looked at him in the mirror. “Kid. I’m so, so happy you’re back. You don’t get it, I’d thought...You were gone so long. Where did you go? Do you remember anything?”
“Gone? I never left.”
Tony turned Peter around to face him. “Peter. You’re kidding, right?”
He shook his head.
“Ah, um. Okay. Okay, follow me.”
Tony turned and began briskly walking down the hallway, Peter close on his heels. Stark stopped abruptly in front of a doorway and Peter’s forehead slammed into his back.
It was just one of several empty guest bedrooms on this floor, typically occupied by assorted Avengers when they were in town.
“Do you recognize this room, Peter?”
The wall of windows, the sleek, dark wooden furniture. The navy blue bedspread. The closet in the corner, it’s doors now open to display a rack full of empty hangers.
The poster-sized blueprint of the Death Star hanging above the bed.
“Yea, you made this my room for when I visit and help in the lab. It looks emptier, though. Didn’t I have some clothes in the closet?” Peter looked down at his baggy shirt, his too long sweatpants, and chuckled dryly. “I was surprised when you didn’t just give me some of my own clothes.”
Tony nodded. “Yeah. You had a few shirts, maybe some sweatpants here and there.” His nostrils flared as he breathed. He seemed to be composing himself for whatever was coming next. “I decided to empty the room after six months. After you’d been gone for six months, I mean, so I just gave you some of my own-“
Peter’s heart stilled in his chest.
“I what?”
“May and I decided emptying the room and putting the stuff in storage was best, but I couldn’t bear to take the Star Wars poster down. I knew how much you loved it.”
“Mr. Stark, what is this?”
“It was all too hard. I couldn’t just act like you’d never been here, I had to leave some remnant of you-“
“Mr. Stark! What happened? What do you mean, after I’d been gone for six months?”
The distress, the sadness, the pain in Tony’s eyes. That new grey in his once all-dark hair. It all hinted at a disturbing revelation that Peter wasn’t sure he could handle.
Peter’s heart began beating furiously in anticipation of Stark’s next words.
“Kid, no one has seen you in over a year.”