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The live feed played on every working monitor in the workshop, an aerial view high in the skies of Queens, New York.

Clint watched it with narrowed eyes, his hands working absentmindedly to buckle the quiver alongside his back.

“You replaced me with a drone,” he muttered, clicking shut the strap to his archery bag.

Across the room, Sam pointed a stern finger his way. “Hey, don’t go dissing Redwing like that. She’s a one of a kind RPAS with combat and tactical data proficiency —”

“It’s a drone,” Tony dryly cut in, too busy at his workstation fiddling with the gauntlet of his Iron Man suit to bother giving either men his direct attention. “I would know. I created it.”

Sam’s shoulder’s dropped with a huff. “Man…”

Still staring at the monitors — one of many surrounding the walls — Clint gave a hard shake of his head, turning to face the others with a scowl.

“I don’t get it. You pulled me from the field so we could watch drone footage?” As he took hard steps forward, his combat boots squeaked against the marble flooring. “Recon 101, you don’t pull the agent who has the best eye and replace him with some shiny gadget that could short-circuit at any —”

"Don’t get your arrows in a bunch, Barton.” Tony’s remark earned a heated glare from Clint, still too preoccupied to look up from the workbench below him. This time, he snapped the gauntlet around his forearm, the machinery forming around him and latching onto the rest of his suit — decked out in red and gold from his shoes to his fingertips. The only thing missing was his helmet.

Clint was one second away from taking advantage of that opportunity, a closed fist making its way dangerously close to Tony’s head when Natasha stepped in his line of sight.

“It’s not personal,” she insisted, her voice hard yet sympathetic. Clint planted his feet firmly, holding back on moving any closer, though his lips pursed tighter and his glare grew hotter. “We needed you back here — in person — to start strategizing.”

"Besides,” Sam mentioned, waving a casual hand to the monitors while the other buckled the strap around his shoulders, holding his wing-jets onto his back. “Peter ain’t doing nothing besides swinging his spandex butt rooftop to rooftop. Whatever plan he’s got going on, it isn’t very Bonnie and Clyde.”

The familiar hum and whir of a mechanical suit echoed from the far side of the workshop, where Tony stood from his bench, his Mark 46 armor shining bright underneath the overhead lights.

“There is no plan,” Tony said, cut and dry. Eyes focused up on him, everyone’s attention strong and sharp. “He’s on patrol. Following the same route he takes every night, deviations excluded. It goes without saying — the kid wants to play Spider-Man tonight.”

Clint’s eyebrow shot high into his hairline.

“Uh, we’re all in agreeance that’s a terrible idea, right?” He looked to the group, his neck moving wildly. “What happens when he encounters a mugger, or robber, or some overzealous drunk? That black sentient slime’s gonna decide to try and help, and the next thing we know, more people will be in the hospital while he’s wanted on the midnight news.”

"Mhm.” Sam nodded. “Daily Bugle would love that. Might finally have some truth to that menace B.S they’re always spinning.”

“Peter’s not a menace,” Natasha insisted, tightly adjusting the thick, electrical bracelets around her wrists. A spark of blue flickered out from both, activating her window bites with a flare. “And it won’t get that far. We’re not going to let it.”

Clint eyed her up and down, a mix of concern and confusion glazing over his expression. His eyes flitted to Tony, busy making manual adjustments to his chest-plate, before he spared Sam a quick glance, suited up with wings and all.

Realization dawned on him.

“And how’s that happening?” He asked a question that he was pretty sure he knew the answer to.

A stern, bold voice came from behind.

"We’re bringing Peter back here,” Steve announced, all but stealing the room with his presence. Clint spun around, catching sight of the large, silver star center of the man’s stealth uniform. His hands pulled hard on the brown gloves he wore. “One way or the other.”

Surrounded by his team gearing up, suiting up — looking every bit as ready to go on a mission to kick Hydra ass or do whatever monthly task SHIELD sent them on — Clint felt his stomach drop to his knees. He furrowed his brows, watching closely as Steve walked past him.

“Whoa whoa whoa, hold up there, glory hound.” Though Steve kept walking, Tony did look up, screwdriver frozen in place as his eyebrow arched high. Clint continued, “You can’t seriously be telling me you guys plan to jump this kid and drag him back here against his will — I know this looks bad, but Jimmy Crickets, that’s going to make it worse!”

Natasha leveled him a look, her red hair falling slightly in her eyes. “Clint, you were brainwashed once before. You should know how this goes.”

A stammer left Clint’s mouth, followed by a scoff of air that heaved his chest forward.

“Yeah, that was — this is —”

“Different,” Tony finished. He wagged the screwdriver in Clint’s direction before tossing it carelessly to the side. “No one is brainwashed. No one is infested,” he sternly directed the words towards Sam, who innocently held both hands up. “A leech has latched onto him. We’re bringing him back here, we’re removing the damn thing, and everything will be peachy keen in no time.”

Giving one last hard yank at his gloves, Steve tilted his head low. “I hope you’re right about that, Tony.”

Tony snapped his head towards him, the mechanical hum from his suit practically deafening in the quiet that stole the conversation. The deepening, dark bags underneath his eyes and stress lines etched across his face said more than a response ever could.

The burden was heavy on his shoulders; Steve could tell — hell, they all could. He had overextended himself in the past couple of days, and things were only getting worse. This wasn’t a time for what if’s, for entertaining anything other than success and positivity.

Adjusting his posture, Steve gave an encouraging nod his way. They both knew that so long as they had each other’s backs, they could make anything happen. Time had proven that before, and it was up to them to trust that it’d happen again.

If it was worth anything — anything at all — the burden on Tony’s back seemed to lighten at the exchange.

“Okay, no ambush — that’s great, hooray,” Clint drawled out, sarcastically twirling a finger in the air. “So thrilled we’re all on the same page that talking before throwing fists is the best approach, but — and not to be Mr. Negativity over here — but what makes you guys think this will be any different?” He turned to Tony, gesturing his way. “You didn’t exactly reach him with your pep talk last night, ya know.”

“What the hell, man?" Sam’s huff of disbelief could be felt like a gust of wind blowing across the workshop. "You don’t want us to grab the kid and run, and you don’t want us to try and talk with him? What do you expect, we ain’t miracle workers, we can’t —”

“I’m not saying that,” Clint firmly butted in, twisting to face Sam. He held a hand up in the air. “I’m just...well, shit. I’m just asking what the plan is.”

The silence that fell over the room was thick and encompassing, and slowly, Clint’s hand came down back down to his hip, landing against the kevlar of his pants. He was the only one who seemed to be making any eye contact, the others finding themselves preoccupied staring down one of the many monitors laid out across the walls — not so much enticed by what they saw, but what could possibly happen.

“He’s not going to come willingly,” Natasha quietly spoke up. Darkness laced her tone, a kind that made no one comfortable. “Nothing we say is going to convince him. On any normal day, I’d have all the faith in the world that Peter would listen, but...for reasons we don’t understand, this symbiote seems to be affecting his better judgment. We can’t risk the off chance of talking some sense into him.”

The lack of rebuttal from anyone else made Clint’s eyes grow wider than saucers, his eyebrows dangerously close to disappearing into his hair.

“So we are doing a snatch and run?”

“Not if I can help it,” Tony objected. “We aren’t doing jack shit until I try again. And again, if I have to. I’ll make Peter listen to me, somehow...someway. The less messy this gets, the better.”

“The less messy —” Clint’s growing frustration had reached its peak. He scoffed, throwing both arms in the air. “What’s the messy part?”

“We tranq him,” Steve explained, his words coming out as a bold statement, far from a suggestion — lightyears away from being negotiable.

Clint barked out a laugh, though its sound wasn’t anything close to humorous. As he turned around and shook his head, Steve stepped forward, approaching him with unfaltering footsteps.

“Clint, it’s the only way to assure no one gets hurt,” he pressed. “It’s not Peter we’re worried about, it’s —”

“The black gunk inhibiting his body, yeah, yeah, I get it.” Clint rubbed at his forehead, his eyes falling to the ground for the first time. By the time he looked back up, more than a handful of beats had fallen in the room. No one dared to fill the quiet until he spoke again. “Alright, I’ll bite. How are we going to do that? You all know tranquilizers affect him as well as Skittles.”

As if on cue — painfully, ironically on a cue — the rough, yet nervous sound of someone clearing their throat came from the doorway.

“Tony?” Bruce announced, timidly adjusting the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “I, uh...I have that thing. That you asked for.”

Tony wasted no time, stomping forward with a pace not even the mechanical hum of his suit could keep up with. He didn’t pause on the way to the entrance of the workshop, not for a second; not even as on the way there, he yanked out a handful of arrows from the opening of Clint’s quiver.

"Hey!" Clint spun around, reaching for the arrows in vain. “What the —!”

“Gunna need these, Legolas.”

Before anyone could blink, the two men were side-by-side at the nearest workbench — Bruce’s messenger bag open and spilling out the contents from within. Almost immediately, Tony discarded eight of the twelve arrows he hijacked from Clint, lifting the remaining four in the air.

“Scratch that — gunna need more of these bad boy’s,” he said, not once looking Clint’s way — who was at risk of licking the ground if his jaw fell any lower. “Sell the rest at the Renaissance Fair, for all I care.”

The sound of glass clanking against the workshop table could have very well matched the sound of fireworks going off. Sam gave the three men a side-eye, not daring to utter a single word. Natasha seemed to be following his lead, acknowledging Bruce’s presence with a nod but otherwise keeping her attention strictly on the monitors like Steve.

Clint, however, wasn’t playing coy. Stomping forward, he forcefully snatched his arrows back, leaving the ones Tony didn’t want and taking the ones he did.

It took no more than a quick glance to know exactly what type of arrow he was holding; he could tell by the feel alone, having trained himself meticulously to acknowledge each and every one of his weapons blindly. His fingertips could have been burnt to a crisp and he’d still know the make, model, and design of his firearm.

These were unique — a bunch he kept on hand, though often never used. The shaft was shorter, thinner, and the arrow was sharper, much skinnier than the others. He held it in his grip, light as could be yet the knowledge of what it would do made them feel heavier than a brick.

Clint’s face fell to the floor, and he bit back a curse.

It made sense.

But still.

Still.

“For the record,” Clint started, his tone every bit as annoyed as he felt. “I absolutely hate this.”

Despite his protest, he reached around into his quiver for more of the identical arrows. There were two left, and he slammed them down onto the table where Tony and Bruce worked. Not daring to look either man in the eye.

It earned a glance from Natasha before she turned back to the monitors.

“If it’s any consolation,” Bruce briefly looked up, remorse written across his face as he fiddled with the small glass jars that came rolling out from his bag. “I’m on that same page.”

Clint made a face; the scientist did seem reluctant, but it wasn’t stopping him from pulling syringes out from a tightly contained case and withdrawing the liquid from inside the little jars that littered the table.

“It’s the worst-case scenario,” Steve mentioned, his arms folded tightly across his chest as he watched the monitors intently. “If Tony believes he’ll get through to Peter, we won’t have to follow through with it. But we need a backup plan in case things go south. You of all people know that, Clint.”

“I don’t care,” Clint coldly objected. He purposefully looked away as Tony took the syringes from Bruce, neatly and carefully disposing of the medication inside the open shaft of the arrow. “I don’t like it. We need to have some trust in the kid.”

From across the room, Natasha arched an eyebrow high. “Didn’t your son sneak out of the house last weekend?”

Clint shot her a look. “Yeah, and I didn’t go sticking a NyQuil-filled-arrow up his ass because of it!”

“I do trust Peter.” Tony cut the tension between them, filling it with his own. With a twist of his wrist, he snapped the arrow back together, connecting the shaft back into one long piece. “Just not right now.”

The words, combined with the sight of a syringe plunging deep into the glass vials, was almost enough to make Clint roll his eyes.

“That’s the opposite of trust, Stark,” he bit back. Aggravated and at his wits end, he threw his arm out at nothing, gesturing to the table ahead. “What is that, even? An elephant tranquilizer? SHIELD’s latest enhanced friendly Ambien?”

“Just crossed into Myrtle Avenue,” Steve spoke up from his place at the monitors, his arms still tightly folded across his chest. He briefly locked eyes with Tony, who still held a long-needled syringe in one hand, vial full of medication in the other. “We can’t let him reach the city, Tony. If that many people catch wind of this —”

“Five minutes.” Another arrow snapped back into place. Tony harshly reached for the third, twisting the shaft apart to gain access inside the chamber. “Don’t get your star-spangled-flag all twisted up in a bunch. He’ll stay in Queens, we’ll contain it in Queens. Five minutes.”

Clint bobbed his head from left to right, wordlessly watching and listening to the exchange. When it seemed over — when Steve went back to staring a hole through the monitors, and Tony forcefully stuck another syringe through the top of a glass vial — Clint let himself turn his attention over to Bruce.

A simple open-palmed gesture at the table was all he needed for the unspoken to be heard.

“It’s, uh,” Bruce started, his finger wagging aimlessly at the mess below him. “It’s the specialized painkiller Helen Cho and Moira MacTaggert created when Peter was in recovery from the…uh...the...Russian...spy...incident.” Scratching his eyebrow, Bruce offered a weak shrug, unsure of how else to word the bizarre event from a few months ago. “It’s specially tailored to his DNA to —”

“Knock him out,” Clint finished with an unenthusiastic nod. “Yeah, I remember. Hard to forget.”

“It’s plan B.” Tony firmly held all six arrows in one hand, and without hesitation, he extended that arm out towards Clint. “Plan A first. I’ll talk to him. I’ll get through that thick teenage skull of his. I will bring him back here, without a fight.”

Eyeing him, Clint tilted his head to the side, his steps much slower as he went to retrieve his armory. He’d be lying if he said it felt good to have them back in his possession. The empty glass jars and used syringes scattered along the table left a sour taste in his mouth, the feel of the arrows much worse.

With a huff, he took them back from Tony.

“Pardon my lack of faith in your negotiating skills,” Clint dryly said, arm reaching over his back as he loaded each arrow into his quiver. “Have you ever thought about what happens when he doesn’t listen? Or if black goo from the lagoon decides to make an appearance before you can even say ‘hey Pete, how’s it hanging ?’ What then, Stark?”

Sam crossed paths with Steve, settling his hip coolly against the opposite side of the soldier. “That’s when you shoot him in the ass with an arrow.”

This time, Clint did roll his eyes.

“How?” He turned to face Sam, his expression torn between dumbfounded and pissed off. “The other week, I watched him catch a fruit fly with his fingers. Without looking. While mid-conversation about his science fair project, while stuffing his mouth full of Doritos.”

Natasha’s barely contained smirk from around the corner didn’t go unnoticed. Clint continued on regardless.

“Catching him by surprise is next to impossible,” he reinforced. “The kid’s freaky sixth sense will see my arrows coming five miles away — doesn’t matter what vantage point I have. He’ll know.”

“Leave that to me.” Bottles of medication and syringes discarded, Tony walked around the table, his footsteps heavy in his Iron Man armor. “If I’m not getting through to Pete — which I will — I’ll set off a distress signal directly from within his suit. It’ll send his senses haywire, give you enough time to shoot a tranq and put him down.”

Tony very well could have been talking about sending a nuke through New York City all over again. The tone, the look on his face, the dripping disdain that came with each force of each word — it was no different than that day five years ago.

It wasn’t any surprise. When it came to Peter, there were no if’s, no butt’s, no exclusions or substitutes. The man would put everything on the line to protect the kid; he had before, he’d do it again.

Clint had seen that first hand, he expected none the less this time around.

To be discussing the possibility of anything that might harm him...well, Tony would rather set off a nuke in New York City first.

“Okay...and if that doesn’t work?” Clint prompted with a sigh. He put both hands on his hips, twisting to face Tony as he walked away. “Plan C?”

From near the monitors, Steve opened his mouth to talk.

Tony beat him to it.

“Not on the agenda.”

The stony look of Tony’s that proceeded to ice over the room sent a chill up his spine. Clint turned to Steve, his eyebrows sliding up his forehead with his own unspoken response.

The only answer he got in return was a small shrug from the man, relenting compromise leaking through every ounce of his aura.

No words needed — enough said.

Clint pursed his lips and flicked a thumb over his nose, an internal debate doing more than just eating him up inside. The conflict between his morals and facts of the reality tore through him harder than his sharpest arrow could ever think to manage.

Callous fingers ran through his dirty blond hair — what a shit storm all this had become.

Regardless of his stance and his outspokenness, the others continued to prep. Bruce packed up his supplies, both Steve and Sam continued to intently watch the monitors ahead — and they both noticeably and purposefully ignored Tony as, with each handle of the medicinal jars, the billionaire gave Steve a side-eye that could kill from lightyears away.

No, Clint decided. A shit storm wasn’t strong enough to accurately describe this hot mess.

“You’re on board with this half-assed plan, Nat?” He turned to the only woman in the room, his voice somehow weakening and slipping with growing desperation for her to be on his side. “We had a better plan in Budapest, and you know how that went down.”

Calmly, Natasha looked his way.

“I’m the only one who thinks we should go directly for the tranq,” she admitted, earning a look of disappointment from the archer. “But Tony’s insistent on doing this his way first.”

Sam snapped his fingers, drawing attention to the monitors. “Making his way towards East Williamsburg, you guys.”

“Three minutes!” Tony tossed the messenger bag forcefully against Bruce as he stormed to the opposite side of the room. The scientist briefly startled back, fumbling for the bag that nearly dropped straight to the floor.

Clint frantically shook his head.

“There’s gotta be a better way.” He turned to Steve, taking on the real leader of the group — the one he knew had the final say despite whatever poorly tossed together plan Stark wanted to go through with. “What about Vision? It’ll take a millisecond, he’ll swoop the kid up before you can even say tranquilizer!”

“Absolutely not.” Steve shook his head hard enough to cause an earth-quake. “We have no idea what, or who, this symbiote can influence. Having Peter affected is bad enough, there’s no telling the damage that could occur if Vision, or Hulk, becomes infected. They stay out of this — that’s an order.”

Clint made a face, his eyebrows pinching so close together they became one. “You said Pete’s the only one whose gunna be able to bond with this leech-sucking-barnacle. The OsCorp docs went on about his spider DNA and all that bull-hockey. Why —”

“It’s an abundance of caution, Clint. A necessity,” Natasha chimed in. She turned to look at him, her arms folded tightly over the black leather of her Widow suit. “We need as few people involved in this as possible. This is out of our element, there’s no telling what could happen.”

Clint craned his head over towards her. “You know Wanda is going to catch word of this any minute now.”

Something hard and loud slammed down on the workbench across the room. Clint shot his head over to the sound, watching as Tony threw open a toolbox and scrummage for the supplies he needed.

“All the more reason to work faster,” he insisted, his tone harsh and cold.

Clint stared for a moment, then lifted a finger that stayed sharply in the air.

“She could help us—”

“She’s an emotional liability,” Tony snapped back, his eyes locked straight on him. “Way too attached to Parker for this.” Grabbing a wrench, his wrist made sharp turns on the casing of his chest-plate, the Mark 46 armor not quite as advanced as his others to take on the progression of his recently invented nanotech.

That was a good thing, Clint figured. That meant Tony didn’t anticipate the need to break out the big boys — or tech — for a fight. There was simply no way Clint could imagine using any other arrow in his quiver, not on any of his team members, let alone Peter. He knew, deep down inside, if he felt that way...there was no telling how Tony felt about the same with his Iron Man armor.

Footsteps overtook the creaking sound of metal coming from Tony’s wrench. Steve stepped forward, adjusting his shield securely against his back.

“Unfortunately, he’s right.” A mixed sense of authority and empathy laced his tone. “This needs to be in, and out. Tony will have the four of us as backup, but additional parties will only increase the threat. What we need is to get Peter back here at the compound, where he can be examined — where we can hopefully extract this symbiote from him. We’ll have to do what it takes to make that happen.”

Clint’s mouth set in a grim line as he turned to look at the man, the silver star against his chest drawing the most of his attention. It wasn’t often he saw the leader in his stealth uniform.

It seemed lately, the missions that required it were the worst ones they went on.

As pissed as he was, Clint lifted his chin up to meet the ridiculously blue eyes with his own. It was only a little bit comforting to see the same amount of contrite written across his face. Conflict that deepened the look of exhaustion. The only difference was that the soldier held it further back, tucked deep where it couldn’t interfere.

Clint was always one who clearly wore his feelings on his sleeve. At least when it came to family.

“I’m sorry, Clint.” Steve clasped a hand against his shoulder and tilted his head low. “This is our best shot at helping him.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, the mindless sounds of Tony’s tools with a few muttered curses from the mechanic the only real sounds between them. The absolute certainty of the situation was heavy, and it could be felt. On some more than others.

Clint sighed, managing a small shake of his head.

“You know I hate it when you’re right.”

Steve bit back a sigh, patting the hand on Clint’s shoulder before letting go.

“Trust me...so do I.”

There wasn’t time left to dwell on the possibilities or any lingering guilt that may have been felt — that time had long since been spent prepping and arguing. Instead, no more than a hard second after Clint’s reluctant agreeance did Natasha swiftly pass by him, barely giving either men a passing glance on her way to the exit.

“Quinjet’s warmed up,” she mentioned, already walking out of the doorway. Her voice trailed off into the hallways. “Let’s go, boys.”

Sam shot up from against the wall, quickly jogging after her, giving a thankful nod to Bruce on his way out. Clint hung his head low but followed the way, noticeably giving Tony a questionable look before exiting the workshop.

To say Tony was too preoccupied to notice would’ve been an understatement.

Tony briefly lost sensation to his body. He slammed the lid to the toolbox, using more force than needed. It bounced up twice before closing shut.

“This isn’t a mission, FRI,” he harshly murmured. His voice sounded like stones had scraped against his larynx, and it drew Steve’s attention, turning to watch as Tony approached the exit doors. “And even if it were, there’s no time. Get Banner everything he needs for medical — we’ll be back in the hour.”

Before he even knew what he was doing, Steve found his hand shooting out without so much of a second thought. Fingers gripped firmly around the cold, hard metal of titanium alloy covering Tony’s bicep, and he almost could have sworn he was about to see an open palm forced into his face.

While the repulsor blast whirred to life, it stayed strictly at Tony’s hip.

Steve spared it a glance before locking eyes with the man.

“Tony…”

Quick and steady, Tony grabbed the hand that gripped his arm, tugging it away with a hot-red look in his eyes.

“It’s not happening, Rogers.”

Steve looked him over, the stone-cold sober expression that hardened Tony’s eyes masking the exhaustion that sank deep in his bones. Steve knew him long and well enough that he could tell when anger was concealing the real emotions buried within, the harder emotions to deal with. He didn’t take any of it personally — as the leader of the team, he couldn’t afford to.

Still, as he released a deep breath and pretended the shake he felt rattle in his chest was from something else entirely, Steve stayed firm on course.

“I want to believe that,” he said, moving his neck forward to follow Tony’s eyes as they looked away. “I also want to believe that the tranq will do what we need it to. But if it doesn’t —”

“Steve,” Tony shot back, his voice tight with something that the soldier couldn’t quite explain. The look on his face was paralyzing. The pause that followed was somehow worse.

“I will get through to him.” His jaw tightened, tense and ready to snap. “And if you so much as think about laying a single finger on the kid before I can...you’ll wish your prehistoric spangled blues were still frozen in a slab of ice somewhere in the Arctic. Capiche, Cap?”

If Steve had wanted to say anything — anything at all in response — the determination in Tony’s voice had stripped him of the ability to do so. He nodded his head, though it was no more than a twitch of his neck, the burden of responsibility seemingly weighing down his every muscle.

Yet somehow, the knot in Steve’s gut loosened — just a little. Just enough.

Enough that he could let himself take a step back, away from Tony and the away from the exit that laid just ahead.

If there was one thing he could always rely on, it was Stark getting things done.

They would need that more than ever tonight.

With his path cleared, Tony stormed out the doorway, armor and all.

Not letting more than a few seconds pass, Steve followed close behind, with the star of his shield glimmering bright underneath the workshop lights.

 

 

Queens was quiet for eleven o’clock at night.

Or maybe it was Peter who couldn’t hear the usual sounds that played through the sleepless city; a ceaseless hissing slithering through his eardrums, whispering a deafening harmony that wrapped around his skull and squeezed tightly.

It hurt. Not just an ache, not some pesky throb of a migraine that distracted his senses, stole his ability to concentrate — it was a scolding knife, slowly penetrating into the soft matter of his brain. Probes of needles set on fire thrust through his head, through the muscles of his eyes, making every inch and centimeter of his body cry with the persistent agony that only seemed to increase as time went on.

It took everything to ignore it. To push past the noise, pretend the voices were nothing more than a twisted figment of his imagination. Quickly though — quicker than what he could have ever anticipated — Peter was beginning to realize there wasn’t much left in him to expend. An already empty gas tank was running on fumes.

There hadn’t even been one crime or activity for him to stop, and yet he could barely stand on both two feet.

It had been less than a few hours since he left home. Already, and with a bone-chilling urge pushing him onward, he was regretting the decision.

Peter landed on the rooftop with a hard thud, his feet clad in his spider-suit stumbling as they hit against the cold concrete. Clumsily, and without looking, he grabbed hold of the roof-mounted HVAC unit to his left, gripping it alarmingly tight for support.

“Holy…” he panted, a ravenous need for air suddenly leaving him lightheaded and weak. His knees buckled and his hips swayed dangerously — there were five of everything in front of him, a dirty kaleidoscope of New York lights that only intensified the more he kept looking.

Desperate to make it stop, he clenched his eyes shut.

“Don’t throw up...dn’t ‘row up…”

This had been an utter nightmare of a day. The only thing that could possibly make it worse would be cleaning up puke from inside his mask.

Would not be cool.

Not cool at all.

“Karen, what’s the…” Peter stood up straight, heaving his chest back for as much air as he could possibly get. It felt like an elephant was sitting on top of his chest. A very obese, out of shape elephant. “What’s the...the crime look like...where can I...where should I go —oh, crap, dizzy. Very dizzy.”

Not waiting for the AI to respond, Peter tugged his mask off. His fingers slipped on the fabric, the sweat from his face soaking into the red material. There was no point in expecting a response from his suit; it wasn’t as if Karen had said anything tonight, anyway. She had been oddly quiet since the moment he donned the red and blues; no usual greeting, no perky questions per the norm.

Any other time and he’d be suspicious of her inactivity. Did Mr. Stark mess with her programming before returning his suit? Did he disable her entirely? Something about it didn’t feel right.

But as his lungs burned for air and his head swam through a wave of vertigo, Peter couldn’t find it in him to deliberate on the possibilities. Ripping off his mask and exposing his face to the night, he gasped for breath, his lungs feeling starved and incapable of anything more than a wheeze. A pathetic, high-pitched, animalistic wheeze.

“Okay, just...need a moment...just…” Every breath felt like a bullet, tearing through his chest with force that ripped through his rip-cage and shot out through the back. As his lungs dragged in what amount of air they could handle, Peter rubbed harshly at his eyes, two closed fists pressing against his face until he saw the stars that Queens skyline didn’t offer. “Just...a moment...then I’ll go...do...crime-stopping…”

Talking was only making it worse.

The others were right. He really did talk too much.

The crumpled mask in his hand somehow felt five times heavier. Laying it on top of the HVAC unit, Peter glanced it a look. Putting on the suit was supposed to make him feel better.

He absolutely, in no way, shape, or form, feel any sense of the word better.

Sweat rolled down his forehead into his eyelashes, and he rubbed at his face again until a rainbow of colors blinded him. It’d be okay — as soon as he’d stop a crime, or two, or three, he’d feel better. Maybe four. Five sounded better, actually.

He had to make up for everything bad he was doing. He had to do something good, something right. Once he did that, he’d…

Peter bit his bottom lip, his shoulders dropping with a sigh heavier than his own body weight.

He was getting worse. Way worse. Whatever was going on, whatever was happening to him...

He opened his eyes, looking at the wadded up mask in his hand. Maybe he should figure out why Karen was so quiet. Maybe she could tell him what was wrong with him — at least then he’d know. That’d be something, right?

W̨͚͈̥̖̣͚͆e̡̪̰̥̩̹̩̬ḙ̡̨̢͚͔͛ͅḛ̝̝͓̣̥͜͢e͔̻̠̟̲̮̙̻e̢̖̲͚̮͇̪͎e̗̭̬̤̻̲̲͆e̡̦̗̞͙͇͆͆e͚̜̱̙͈͇̜͜ a̡͎͎̦̙̘͢͞r̢͙̥̗͓͎͜͢ȩ̫̝̜͙͆͜͢…

W̥̬̲̠͍͙͢͢e̢̩̯̰͓̘̱̲ę̢̺̟̪̟͙͆e̢̫̬̺͚̻͛͛ę͚̹̙̯͈̘̝e̢̨̙̫̪͢͜͜e̠̙̰̠̜̰̻͆ w̰̰̜̲̖͚̞̞i̡̗͕̮̯̰̻͛l͇͙̹͓̬̞̣͝l̢̠̺̩̬͛͆͢l̨̰̦̙̩̻̗͞ļ̖͚͈̙̙͚͛ļ̪̩̣̬̙̝̖…

h̨̻͚͕̩̠̜͞ȩ͓͈̭̜̣̜͜e̗̪̖̜̗̭̺̻e̱̟̮̜̱͇̝ͅe̢̞̜̟͙̭̜͛ḽ̨̭̘͚̦̘͛l̨̢̫̺͔͜ͅͅḻ̢̧̢̤̜̮͚p̫̜͕̞̗̙̰͞p̧̲͔̣̲͍̬͆p̭̮͎̗̞̱̣̙…

h̨̻͚͕̩̠̜͞ȩ͓͈̭̜̣̜͜e̗̪̖̜̗̭̺̻e̱̟̮̜̱͇̝ͅe̢̞̜̟͙̭̜͛ḽ̨̭̘͚̦̘͛l̨̢̫̺͔͜ͅͅḻ̢̧̢̤̜̮͚p̫̜͕̞̗̙̰͞p̧̲͔̣̲͍̬͆p̭̮͎̗̞̱̣̙

The scorching pain in his chest grew larger, and no matter how hard he worked to keep his body still, the ground shook and wobbled beneath him. It was as if led had replaced all the blood in his veins, ice having frozen over his insides. His muscles could barely swing him from rooftop to rooftop.

It wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t right.

Logically, he knew he should go back home. May wasn’t going to question him again. She was probably asleep by now. He could go to bed, go to sleep, finally get some rest.

Maybe he’d wake up feeling better.

Maybe not.

Maybe he could finally get some help.

Maybe —

W̡̠͓͕͍̥͎̠e̙̺̫̞̱̥̘͢e̡̡̖̗̜̠̜̗e̲̠̯̰̥͆͝ͅe̬̲̠͍͙̩͢͢e̢̯̰͓̘̱̲̺ w̨̢̟̪̟͙̫͆i̢̬̺͚̻͚͛͛l̨̢̹̙̯͈̘̝l̨̙̫̪̠͢͜͜ h̙̰̠̜̰̻̰͆ḛ̜̲̖͚̞̞̗e̡͕̮̯̰̻͇͛e͙̹͓̬̞̣͢͝l̢̨̠̺̩̬͛͆p̰̦̙̩̻̗̖͞p̧͚͈̙̙͚̪͛ y̧̩̣̬̙̝̖̻ǫ͚͕̩̠̜͓͞u̧͈̭̜̣̜̗͜u̪̖̜̗̭̺̻̱u̟̮̜̱͇̝̞ͅ …̢̜̟͙̭̜̭͛—̨̭̘͚̦̘͛ͅ

W̨͚͈̥̖̣͚͆e̡̪̰̥̩̹̩̬ḙ̡̨̢͚͔͛ͅḛ̝̝͓̣̥͜͢e͔̻̠̟̲̮̙̻e̢̖̲͚̮͇̪͎e̗̭̬̤̻̲̲͆e̡̦̗̞͙͇͆͆e͚̜̱̙͈͇̜͜ a̡͎͎̦̙̘͢͞r̢͙̥̗͓͎͜͢ȩ̫̝̜͙͆͜͢ h̤̮̯̩̻̜̺͢e̢̨͕̞̹͛͜͜e̡̢̜̥̥̻̖̺e̗̣͔͓̦̰̹͞r̢͈̞̩̘̩̗̗r̪̹̣̥͛͜͝ͅr̤̻̜̣͓̣̥̖e̻̥̟̹͚̦̻͆e̤̣͕͍̱͔̻͛e̢̜̹̝̺̟ͅͅe̡̲͓̖̙̜͆͞…

ḫ̤̖̮̹̩͛͛ḛ̢͍̭̮̠͛ͅe̡͓͕͍̥͎̠͢e̡̙̺̫̞̱̥̘r̡̖̗̜̠̜̗̲r̠̯̰̥͆͢͝ͅr̬̲̠͍͙̩̯͢r̢̨̰͓̘̱̲̺e̢̢̟̪̟͙̫͆e̬̺͚̻͚̹͛͛ę̢̙̯͈̘̝͢ę̙̫̪̠̙͜͜ḛ̠̜̰̻̰̰͆e̡̜̲̖͚̞̞̗

“No!” Peter bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood, the mask so tight in his grip that he worried the fabric would rip. Forcing himself to take a step forward, stumbling despite his best efforts, he pushed past the pain — past the voices. “I’m doing this. I’m...I’m making this right. I have to! I —”

For the first time all night, he heard something besides the persistent sounds from within his own head.

Peter shot his head up to the sky, his eyebrows knitting closely together. Roaring jets cut through the clouds, and with blurred vision, he watched as a figure of bright colors came nearing close to his position.

For a brief second, it almost looked like a meteor, or comet — until it dropped further down in the atmosphere, zig-zagging through the skyline of New York, most definitely proving to be anything but a shooting star.

Confusion hit Peter first.

Clarity came second.

Right about the time that Iron Man came lowering himself from above.

Peter blinked — and then again, keeping his eyes squeezed tight to get his vision straight. Had it not been for the gust of air blasting from the suit’s repulsors, blowing through his hair and drying out the sweat on his forehead, he would have easily believed he was seeing things.

“Well, well, well…” Each word became easier to hear as the source of the voice got closer, nearing the rooftop with graceful ease.

Peter opened his eyes, frantically hoping that the red and gold Iron Man floating above him was a mirage. A messed up, hell-bent on making him miserable, twisted sense of humor kind of mirage that the depths of his muddled mind thought to be funny.

The repulsors on his boots kept him floating high in the air as slowly, Tony began to lower himself from the sky. The city lights from nearby shined a sharp reflection on the polished metal of his armor.

“Would you look who it is.”

Nope. Very real.

Definitely, positively, absolutely real.

Peter’s urge to throw up got stronger.

“Mr. Stark?”

Crossing his arms across his chest, Tony looked around — left and right, as if checking his surroundings. He lowered himself close enough to the ground that the blasts from his repulsors blew leaves and dirt away from the rooftop, keeping him slightly elevated in the air.

“Hi, Spider-Man. What a small world.” Tony’s voice reverberated with the metallic timbre of his helmet. If it were at all possible, it made him sound even more intimidating than the norm. “Didn’t think I’d bump into you tonight.”

Peter swallowed, hard, pushing down the caustic taste of bile.

“What are you —” The hoarse crack in his words had Peter coughing. He cleared his throat before trying again. “What are you doing here?”

W̡̥̖̣͚̪̰͆e̡̥̩̹̩̬̭͛ę̢͚͔̰̝̝ͅe͓̣̥͔̻̠͜͢e̟̲̮̙̻̖̲͚e̢̮͇̪͎̗̭͆ a̡̬̤̻̲̲̦͆r̗̞͙͇͚̜̱͆e̡̙͈͇̜͎͜͢ h̢͎̦̙̘͙͜͞e̥̗͓͎̫͢͜͢ŗ̝̜͙̤̮̯͆e̩̻̜̺͕͛͢͜

W̢̨̞̹̜̥̥͜e̡̢̻̖̺̗̣͞e͔͓̦̰̹͈̞̩e̢̘̩̗̗̪͛͜e̹̣̥̤̻̜͝ͅẹ͓̣̥̖̻̥͆ w̟̹͚̦̻̤̣͛i̢͕͍̱͔̻̜ͅl̹̝̺̟̲͓̖ͅl̡̙̜̣̘͆͛͞ ḩ̢̮̦͎͙̗͝e̲̪̦͍̟̬͢͞l̡̝̻̩͈͔͆͝p̢̭̮̲̩̣̲͛

W̢͇̖̰͛͛͜͜ȩ̧̣͙̩̥̲͢e͓͙̖͓͙̰̭͆ę̥͈̟̥̠̘͢e̢̢͚̮̤̰͢͞e̡̜͕̥͇͙͞͞ę̥̲͓͈̲̲͛ c͈̺͇̠͎̞͢ͅo̮̲̞͈͎̤̭̮n̨͔͕͈̤̖̞͢t̗̤̥̫͕̝͛͢r̯̭̤͙̥̹͎͝o̖̹̱̦̭̮̝͆l̡̢͍̫̘͓̝͞

W̧̞͈͚̩̞̥̠e͍̦̲͇̹̱͜ͅ —͓͕̯͞͞ͅͅͅ

W̘̮͔̞̺̤͆͝ę̜͎̪̪̭͎͛ —̨̢̮̰͕̻̘̝

W̨̧̠͓̘͕̬̰e̦̗͎̝̤̺͝ͅ —̢̣̫͙̣͕̰͚

Three buildings over and far out of sight, hidden in the shadows of the what little darkness the city offered, Clint watched the two from his vantage point. His bow was held firmly in one hand and tightly against his side, with the other drawing back on the arrow. His finger was steady, a taut hold on the bowstring that contained one long, sharp arrow.

His eyes, covered with purple-tinted night vision glasses, never wavered from the target ahead.

Over on the rooftop, Tony hovered closer to Peter, staying just high enough in the air that the mask-less superhero had to crane his neck up to see him.

“What am I doing here? Oh, just grabbing a midnight snack,” Tony casually said, pointing a metal covered thumb over his shoulder. The golden face-plate hid any facial expression that may have been offered. “Queens has a great Chinese place, right off Edgemere Avenue — Szechuan Bean Curd to die for. Just ask Pepper, she’s always craving it.”

As Tony rambled on, his armor clad body began to float closer to the ground and closer to Peter, who deliberately took a few steps back with each inch the suit came towards him.

“But would you believe that they don’t deliver one hundred miles up state?” Not even the metallic echo from the Iron Man helmet was enough to disguise the overly nonchalance to Tony's words. “Poor business practice. Guarantee they’re losing thousands in revenue. Knew I should’ve kept a place in the city for that very reason.”

It was Monday night. Something close to midnight, the last Peter checked — or was it later than that? Earlier? He didn’t have Karen to ask, but judging by the city’s activity, he’d definitely say it was late.

And besides, Mr. Stark never, ever came in the Iron Man armor. Not unless there was trouble.

L̙̺̜̮̟̹̣̭a̖̹̥͚̘̠̱͎s̲̙̗̦̻̥͆ͅs͎̠̞͍̱̮͙͢ţ̞͇̣̹͆͜͢t͈̪̹͔͙̰͔͜t̯͙̜̱̠̪̲͝ṯ̜̪̩̣̪͛͜t̡̻̺̩̜̺̹͜ n̨̮͎͍͚͈̥͆i̡̖̣͚̪̰̥̩g̡̨̹̩̬̭͚͛h̢͔̰̝̝͓͜ͅṭ̥͔̻̠̟̲͢t̮̙̻̖̲͚̮͇t̢̪͎̗̭̬̤͆.̡̻̲̲̦̗̞͆

 

H͙͇͚̜̱̙͈͆e̡͇̜͎͎̦͜͢ d̢̙̘͙̥̗͜͞i͓͎̫̝̜͢͜͢ḑ͙̤̮̯̩̻͆ l̜̺͕̞͛͢͜͜a̢̨̹̜̥̥̻̖s̡̢̺̗̣͔͓͞ț̢̰̹͈̞̩̘t̩̗̗̪̹̣͛͜ n̥̤̻̜̣͓͝ͅị̥̖̻̥̟̹͆g͚̦̻̤̣͕͍͛ẖ̢͔̻̜̹̝ͅt̺̟̲͓̖̙͞ͅt̡̜̣̘͆͛ ț̢͎͙̗̲͝͞t̪̦͍̟̬̝̻͢ —̡̩͈͔̭̮͆͝

Peter rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, his web-shooters momentarily knocking against his nose. That was different.

Right? That was because he was worried.

The panic watch had been set off, that was all — Mr. Stark was just worried, that’s why he came in the suit —

But he never came in the suit. That was different.

He was being overprotective, right?

Distrusting?

He didn’t trust Peter to handle this on his own.

May didn’t trust him, either.

No one trusted him, not since he hurt Natasha, not since —

W͓̣̥͔̻̠̟͢e̲̮̙̻̖̲͚̮e̢͇̪͎̗̭̬͆e̡̤̻̲̲̦̗͆e̞͙͇͚̜̱̙͆e̡͈͇̜͎͎͜͢e̢̦̙̘͙̥͜͞ h̗͓͎̫̝͢͜͢ȩ̜͙̤̮̯̩͆l̻̜̺͕͛͢͜͜p̢̨̞̹̜̥̥̻ y̡̢̖̺̗̣͔͞o̢͓̦̰̹͈̞̩u̘̩̗̗̪̹͛͜ụ̥̤̻̜̣͝ͅu͓̣̥̖̻̥̟͆u̹͚̦̻̤̣͕͛u̢͍̱͔̻̜̹ͅ.̝̺̟̲͓̖͞ͅ

N̡̧̙̜̣̘͆͛o̢̮̦͎͙̗͝͞t̲̪̦͍̟̬̝͢t̡̻̩͈͔̭͆͝t̢̮̲̩̣̲͇͛t̢̖̰̣͛͛͜͜ţ̧͙̩̥͢Ͳ͓t͙̖͓͙̰̭̥͆ h̨̢͈̟̥̠̘͢i̢͚̮̤̰͢͞͞m̡̜͕̥͇͙͛͞.̨̥̲͓͈̲̲͈

W̺͇̠͎̞̮͢ͅe̲̞͈͎̤̭̮͔ę͕͈̤̖̞̗͢e̤̥̫͕̝̯͛͢ḙ̤͙̥̹͎͆͝e̖̹̱̦̭̮̝͞ —̡̢͍̫̘͓̝̞

W̺͇̠͎̞̮͢ͅe̲̞͈͎̤̭̮͔ę͕͈̤̖̞̗͢e̤̥̫͕̝̯͛͢ḙ̤͙̥̹͎͆͝e̖̹̱̦̭̮̝͞

W̺͇̠͎̞̮͢ͅe̲̞͈͎̤̭̮͔ę͕͈̤̖̞̗͢e̤̥̫͕̝̯͛͢ḙ̤͙̥̹͎͆͝e̖̹̱̦̭̮̝͞

“Did my aunt call you?”

Peter’s question was so sharp and fast, it took them both by surprise.

Tony paused, the quiescence between them stolen by the roaring of his jet boots and Peter’s racing heart hammering in his throat. Though the helmet covered his face, Peter was sure he could picture what kind of look the man was giving him — that angry, disappointed, frustrated, at-wits-end look he always had whenever Peter questioned him.

So what followed seemed off.

“I get a lot of phone calls, buckaroo,” Tony answered, a little too innocently. He rubbed the chin of his Iron Man helmet with an overly exaggerated amount of what seemed like theatrical inquisitiveness. “Hard to say, I don’t even remember what I ate for breakfast this morning.”

Peter’s face scrunched up until his eyes went out of focus and the colors around him were broken into little speckles of light.

That didn’t answer his question.

“Okay, but...did May call you?” he asked again, this time with a sting of indignance. “Because you’re here. Now.”

W̲̮̙̻̖̲͚̮e̢͇̪͎̗̭̬͆e̡̤̻̲̲̦̗͆e̞͙͇͚̜̱̙͆e̡͈͇̜͎͎͜͢ a̢̦̙̘͙̥͜͞r̗͓͎̫̝͢͜͢ȩ̜͙̤̮̯̩͆ h̻̜̺͕͛͢͜͜e̢̨̞̹̜̥̥̻r̡̢̖̺̗̣͔͞e̢͓̦̰̹͈̞̩

 

W̘̩̗̗̪̹͛͜ẹ̥̤̻̜̣͝ͅe͓̣̥̖̻̥̟͆e̹͚̦̻̤̣͕͛e̢͍̱͔̻̜̹ͅe̝̺̟̲͓̖͞ͅ a̡̧̙̜̣̘͆͛r̢̮̦͎͙̗͝͞e̲̪̦͍̟̬̝͢ i̡̻̩͈͔̭͆͝n̢̮̲̩̣̲͇͛ c̢̖̰̣͛͛͜͜o̧̧͙̩̥̲͓͢n͙̖͓͙̰̭̥͆t̨̢͈̟̥̠̘͢r̢͚̮̤̰͢͞͞o̡̜͕̥͇͙͛͞l̨̥̲͓͈̲̲͈

W̺͇̠͎̞̮͢ͅe̲̞͈͎̤̭̮͔ę͕͈̤̖̞̗͢e̤̥̫͕̝̯͛͢ḙ̤͙̥̹͎͆͝ —̖̹̱̦̭̮̝͞

The golden face plate of the Iron Man helmet separated from the rest of the armor, mechanically clicking and whirring as the metal disconnected and lifted upwards, reaching high above Tony’s forehead.

Exposed, he managed a lopsided smile, uncrossing his arms to gesture them out wide.

“In the flesh.”

And just like that, with the realization that it wasn’t just an empty suit closing the distance between them, Peter felt himself tumbling over a crumbling precipice.

With absolutely nothing in sight to stop his fall.

The anger took over.

W̲̮̙̻̖̲͚̮e̢͇̪͎̗̭̬͆e̡̤̻̲̲̦̗͆e̞͙͇͚̜̱̙͆e̡͈͇̜͎͎͜͢ a̢̦̙̘͙̥͜͞r̗͓͎̫̝͢͜͢ȩ̜͙̤̮̯̩͆ h̻̜̺͕͛͢͜͜e̢̨̞̹̜̥̥̻r̡̢̖̺̗̣͔͞e̢͓̦̰̹͈̞̩

 

W̘̩̗̗̪̹͛͜ẹ̥̤̻̜̣͝ͅe͓̣̥̖̻̥̟͆e̹͚̦̻̤̣͕͛e̢͍̱͔̻̜̹ͅe̝̺̟̲͓̖͞ͅ a̡̧̙̜̣̘͆͛r̢̮̦͎͙̗͝͞e̲̪̦͍̟̬̝͢ i̡̻̩͈͔̭͆͝n̢̮̲̩̣̲͇͛ c̢̖̰̣͛͛͜͜o̧̧͙̩̥̲͓͢n͙̖͓͙̰̭̥͆t̨̢͈̟̥̠̘͢r̢͚̮̤̰͢͞͞o̡̜͕̥͇͙͛͞l̨̥̲͓͈̲̲͈

 

D̡̙̺̫̞̱̥̘o̡̖̗̜̠̜̗̲n̠̯̰̥͆͢͝ͅ’̬̲̠͍͙̩̯͢t̢̨̰͓̘̱̲̺ t̢̢̟̪̟͙̫͆r̬̺͚̻͚̹͛͛ų̢̙̯͈̘̝͢s̨̙̫̪̠̙͜͜t̰̠̜̰̻̰̰͆… ̡̡̡̡̜̲̖͚̞̞̗̜̲̖͚̞̞̗̜̲̖͚̞̞̗̜̲̖͚̞̞̗

 

W̲̮̙̻̖̲͚̮e̢͇̪͎̗̭̬͆e̡̤̻̲̲̦̗͆e̞͙͇͚̜̱̙͆e̡͈͇̜͎͎͜͢ a̢̦̙̘͙̥͜͞r̗͓͎̫̝͢͜͢ȩ̜͙̤̮̯̩͆ h̻̜̺͕͛͢͜͜e̢̨̞̹̜̥̥̻r̡̢̖̺̗̣͔͞e̢͓̦̰̹͈̞̩

Down on the streets of Queens, tucked quietly away in a dark alley, Steve listened to the conversation intently through the communication device in his ear. He straddled the seat of his motorcycle, engine off but ready to go at any second. His shield stayed heavy on his back, and the magnetic strips on his elbow and forearm flickered to life, anticipating the need of use.

Directly above him, and on the rooftop to the building of the wall he leaned against, Natasha crouched low on her knees. The same communication device was nestled tightly in her ear, and next to her was a sleek, black metal box with the top open, and the drones inside prepped for use.

A small, high-tech pair of binoculars were tightly gripped in her hands, and she watched from a rooftop over as the encounter played out.

“You wouldn’t be here unless someone told you to be here,” Peter started, spinning around so his back faced Tony while his hand uselessly waved his mask in the air. “That’s just...great! She went and told you everything. Again! I can’t believe —!”

“I’m here on my own accord, Pete,” Tony sternly interrupted him. “This has nothing to do with your still overly attractive aunt, so let’s coat check the attitude before you go pointing fingers in the wrong direction.”

The repulsors to his boots shut off, and Tony landed on the ground with a hard, metallic echo. It shook the ground beneath them, the HVAC unit nearby rattling at impact.

The noise hit hard, too much force, too much discord— Peter grabbed his forehead, the pain of the sound ripping through him like a rocket blast to the face.

It hurt.

It hurt a lot.

“Why are you here, then?” he managed through clenched teeth, his cheeks growing hot with a wave of irritation. By the time he found the strength to turn around, Tony had a

Already closed the gap between them. “Are you spying on me?”

 

D̡̙̺̫̞̱̥̘o̡̖̗̜̠̜̗̲n̠̯̰̥͆͢͝ͅ’̬̲̠͍͙̩̯͢t̢̨̰͓̘̱̲̺ t̢̢̟̪̟͙̫͆r̬̺͚̻͚̹͛͛ų̢̙̯͈̘̝͢s̨̙̫̪̠̙͜͜t̰̠̜̰̻̰̰͆… ̡̜̲̖͚̞̞̗

 

T͕̮̯̰̻͇͙͛r̹͓̬̞̣͛͢͝u̢̨̠̺̩̬̰͆ș̙̩̻̗̖͚͞ţ͈̙̙͚̪̩͛ ụ̧̬̙̝̖̻͚s̨͕̩̠̜͓͈͞… ̧̭̜̣̜̗̪͜

 

W̖̜̗̭̺̻̱ͅe̟̮̜̱͇̝̞̜ w̢̟͙̭̜̭͛͛į̭̘͚̦̘͜ͅl̨̢̢̧̫̺͔ͅḻ̢̤̜̮͚̫̜ ḩ͕̞̗̙̰̲͞e͔̣̲͍̬̭̮͆l̢͎̗̞̱̣̙͙p̨̪̣̹̞̺͚͔… ̞̱̱̘̪̰͛͝

 

Furthest away from the group, Sam stood tall on the rooftop of the Eagles Loft apartments, surveying the scene from the highest vantage point. The red goggles strapped tightly around his face were maxed out in zoom, closely monitoring the two individuals from miles and miles away.

Gritting his teeth, he tapped once on his ear piece.

"Am I the only one who thinks this isn’t off to a great start?"

Tony ignored the voice that came through the device, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he shrugged at Peter, titanium alloy whirring with a buzz.

“What?” He took a step forward, gesturing a hand out. “I can’t pay a visit to my favorite young adult?”

Peter’s suspicion was clear as day, even in the dimness of night they stood in. He shook his head, moving past Tony and nearly stumbling into the Iron Man armor on his way.

“Yeah, okay, sure,” he mumbled, lifting both hands to place his mask back over his head. “Nice to see you, Mr. Stark, but...I have things to do.”

Tony turned around, watching as Peter fumbled with his mask, his eyes clenching open and shut as if he was drunker than the bums on the street below them. Twice he tried to put the mask on, failing spectacularly before giving up. Still, he kept his back towards Tony — a back that heaved air like a fish out of water.

Taking a deep breath in himself, Tony willed what little patience he had.

“Been a hot second since I’ve seen you in the suit.” Tony tried to sound casual, but the tightness in his voice was showing. Whatever the kid was sick with, it was was getting worse.

Worse than the night before, worse than he’d ever seen him look before.

That was an overwhelmingly concerning thought, considering he’d once witnessed Peter seconds away from the brink of death.

“Looks like you’ve lost a couple pounds.”

Still, no response from Peter.

“So, Chinese, then?” Tony clapped his hands together, faux enthusiasm tasting weird on his tongue. “You can hitch a ride with me. I’ll even let you call dibs on the fortune cookies. Sound good?”

Peter shook his head, tinkering mindlessly with his web-shooters. “Mr. Stark —”

“Yeah, enough beating around the bush.” The words tumbled out of his mouth faster than Tony recognized what he was saying. “I know what happened at school today, kid.”

As fast as Tony’s patience had snapped, Peter spun on his heels, blood-shot eyes wide and frighteningly vivid against the white stark paleness of his face.

“How?” His jaw was tight and clenched, any sense of calmness far out of reach.

Tony pursed his lips, carefully choosing his next answer.

“I just do.”

Choosing words was never his strong suit.

And as if to prove that fact, Peter stomped forward, each step thundering against the rooftop concrete.

“No, how?” He asked again, his voice stronger, dripping with irate. There was a hard beat. “So you did talk to May! Or have you been spying on me again? Cause —!”

“It kinda made the news,” Tony cut him off, his growing annoyance slipping through his tone. “How’s that for an answer?”

Static crackled through his earpiece as the comms fizzled to life.

"Watch it, Tony. You’re getting argumentative," Natasha’s voice came through, hushed yet firm.

Tony bit his tongue, the tempting comeback almost too hard to resist. He pulled his eyes away from Peter, letting them settle somewhere off in the distance where he knew the two-timing spy was watching them. It was too dark to see her, but that wasn’t the point — his eyes narrowed and a hard expression covered his face, saying what his mouth couldn’t.

Unaware of Tony’s distraction. Peter stormed even closer, throwing his hands up with fists that still clenched the fabric of his mask.

“So that’s why you’re here?” His growing anger seemed to gain Tony’s attention, the metal suit humming as he shot his head back over to the teen. “You don’t trust me either. You wanna question me too? Make me out to be the bad guy? ‘Cause I’m not, I’m just trying to do good, I’m just —!”

“Whoa, whoa — slow your roll there, kiddo,” Tony cut off Peter’s wild tangent, holding out a placating palm that likely would’ve done more good had a repulsor not been attached to it. “Let’s not get your underoo’s in a bunch, okay?”

"This is your way of getting through to him, Stark?" Tony didn’t need to be miles away to see the eye-roll that accompanied Sam’s voice.

"Stand down, Wilson. Let him try his plan first," Steve immediately followed, every bit commander-in-chief that he loved to sound during missions — which, all things considered, wasn’t much different than his usual day-to-day voice.

But Tony was growing impatiently irritated with the situation at hand, and the comms weren’t making his task any easier.

He was a second away from switching off the earpiece when Peter brushed by him, this time knocking clumsily into the hard metal casing of his suit. Whether it was purpose or not couldn’t be judged.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Mr. Stark,” he mumbled, heaving in a gust of air like he didn’t have enough oxygen to keep talking. “Just leave me alone.”

Tony shot his arm out before Peter could go any further, his hand landing directly on the kid’s shoulder. Though his grip was nonexistent, the heavy metal of his gauntlet sunk low into the already submerging crevasse of his collarbones.

Jesus, the kid's muscle mass was disappearing by the second. It only tightened the knot in his chest.

“Mmmm…” Tony shook his head, hard, and turned to face Peter. “Can’t do that.”

Peter flashed his eyes towards him, uncharacteristically sharp and scathing in a way Tony was sure he’d never seen before.

“Why not?”

It almost hurt Tony to keep his eyes locked on Peter — and his look wasn’t light, either. It wasn’t a glance, nor was it hidden behind high-tech glasses or the face-plate of his helmet. Tony’s eyes fastened tight and stayed there, taking in every inch of the mask-less superhero.

Only then, once his eyes grew hard and tired, something deep and gut-churning growing behind his irises, did he tighten his grip on Peter’s shoulder.

“Cause I think it’s best that you come with me.”

Despite looking fragile enough that a newborn kitten could knock him into last Sunday, Peter managed to brush away Tony’s grip, all but slapping the hand off his shoulder with disgust.

“I’m busy tonight,” he sneered, the whiplash of his tone throwing Tony for a second, or two, or three — Christ, he knew teenagers were stubborn, but —

"Target locked," Clint’s voice floated through his ear. "Awaiting signal."

Shit.

Why wasn’t anything ever easy in his life?

Desperately, Tony snatched Peter’s wrist right as the kid turned to leave. “Queens will be fine for —”

“I haven’t been on patrol in days!” Peter snapped, tearing off his grip with unexpected force. Tony purposefully took a step back, if only to give the rage room to breathe. “I haven’t saved anyone! I haven’t done any good, I haven’t…!"

Tony stared ahead stonily. The hollow feeling in his chest deepened with the silence.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Peter got there first.

“I’m busy, okay?” A wetness coated his voice, and he cleared his throat to work past it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I have other plans.”

Tony couldn’t put a finger on it, but he could have sworn something was distracting Peter — to the point that he looked around at the surrounding buildings, double checking to ensure every shadow of his team, on a rooftop or the streets below, had remained incognito to an innocent bystander eyes.

They couldn’t be seen, not even with Tony knowing the precise location of each individual.

So why did the kid look like five million voices were running through his head, leading him astray?

If he really wanted to leave, what was keeping him here?

Whatever it was, Tony hoped he could use it to his advantage.

“You’re gunna have to cancel them, Pete.” He walked after Peter, each step cautious. “If you just listen to me —”

“Why?” Peter asked, dragging the word out. “Because you say so? It's not like you ever listen to me.”

Tony furrowed his brows, a growing sense of confusion turning into something closer to apprehension. Concern. He almost felt unsettled, though it took everything to actively avoid that thought.

The temper in Peter’s outburst was nothing close to normal. This wasn’t agitation, it wasn’t teenage grief or angst.

Tony stepped forward, necessarily reluctant. Peter didn’t get angry like this. Not without something else taking the turns at the steering wheel.

“Buddy...listen to yourself,” he tried, reaching out to Peter only for the him to step further away. “This isn’t like you.”

Peter shook his head vehemently. The further he moved back, the more his face became clouded in the shadows of darkness, hidden from the city lights nearby.

“You don’t get to tell me what I’m like.”

Tony paused. He didn’t care for the tightness that grabbed hold of his chest.

“Peter —”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

“Locked and loaded over here,” Clint prompted through the comms, calm with firm urgency. “Give me the signal and it’ll be a go.”

Tony grimaced. It was like having a ticking time bomb in his ear — one he wanted to fly into space where it couldn’t be bothersome to him anymore.

“Yeah, okay, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Not questioning you or that smart brain I know you got up there.” He jokingly pointed a finger to his forehead, a half-lipped smirk barely masking the rising panic and frustration that his team was starting to induce. “But hey, I think it’s best that you come with me. Not saying you have to. You’re a free Spider-kid, after all. No webs tying you down.”

His overly faux chuckle dissipated into something more serious. Tony lowered his head, sincerity highlighting his every feature.

“You aren’t looking so hot, Pete.” His attempt at casualness failed remarkably. “Let’s get you to a doctor. Remember Cho? The nice lady who literally saved your life this year? Why don’t you two catch up over a cocktail of antibiotics. Sounds a great time to me. What do you say?”

Tony forced himself to take a few steps closer to Peter, the silence that fell between them making each movement of his legs within the armor no different than atomic bombs exploding in the sky. He pushed through, the arc reactor on his chest shining light where there was otherwise shadows.

The blue light of the circular device highlighted the paleness of Peter’s face. A vacant stare tore into him, his brown eyes appearing frighteningly void of life.

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter murmured, his voice as derelict as he looked.

Tony arched an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “She’ll give you a lollipop if you’re a good patient.”

Peter swallowed hard, shaking his head even harder.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Not even if I say pretty please?”

Static fizzled before Sam’s voice crackled to life. “Put a lid on it, Stark.”

Tony bit the inside of his cheek. For once, he had to agree with the damn annoyance in his ear. This was taking way longer than he planned — than what they had time for. Desperately, he cut through the space between the two of them, now merely an arm’s length apart.

“Peter, you can deny this tooth and nail, but something is wrong.” Tony wanted nothing more than to spit a million swear words when Peter continued to back away from him. Any further and he was going to tumble right off the rooftop. “We know what’s going on, we’re going to —”

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark!” Peter shouted, his words ragged, as if he’d been gurgling shards of glass that sliced through the muscles of his vocal cords.

Tony looked at him, his expression grave.

“No. You’re not.” It wasn’t an argument anymore. It was facts. “The security footage I pulled from your school —”

“So you are spying on me!” Peter’s yell was shrill and sharp, unlike anything Tony had heard before. He tossed both hands up before throwing one in Tony’s direction. “I knew it! You don’t trust me, you’re still treating me like a kid! You act like I can’t take care of myself when I can, I can do just fine without —!”

The little air that was left in Tony’s lungs fled, right along with his patience.

“You are a kid!” He was matching Peter’s volume now, his shout echoing along the rooftop. “You’re unequivocally, without any question, by all legal terms a child!”

“I’m sixteen now,” Peter smugly bit back, gripping his mask tight. “Sixteen and a half, actually.”

Tony scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Equally adorable how you think stating your age in fractions helps your case.”

"Tony," Natasha was an odd combination of calm and annoyed. "If you have any chance of taking Peter in without restraint, both of you need to calm down."

Tony’s fingers curled and uncurled convulsively. Easier said miles away than done face-to-face with a kid who, in no terms possibly stated, would listen to reason.

A shallow breath lifted the chest-plate of his armor.

“We have a lot to talk about, Peter,” Tony tried — damn it, he was trying. “You have a lot you need to hear. But let’s not do it now, let’s take you somewhere —”

“You’re not taking me anywhere!” Tony didn’t think it was possible for Peter’s face to grow any paler than the sheer whiteness that practically made his skin translucent. As his arc reactor shined directly on the kid, he was proven wrong. “You don’t control me!”

Tony’s mouth went dry. Reason was going out the window, and fast. He could practically hear the tautness to the string of Clint’s bow.

“You don’t have a horse in this race, kiddo.” Tony reached forward, his arm gestured out with an open palm that he desperately wanted Peter to grab onto. “I came here to ask you to come back with me. For the love of God, please, just...for once, do what I say.”

Peter inhaled sharply, looking unsteady on his own two feet, even as he unraveled his mask and lifted it towards his head.

“No. I’m not going anywhere with you.” The mask slid over his head, smothering down his greasy brown locks and covering his face entirely. Even the mechanical spider-eyes seemed to move sluggish once adjusted to his facial features. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”

“I’m losing my window, Stark,” Clint announced tensely. “Call it now or lose it.”

Tony’s breath lodged in his throat as he watched Peter turn to leave, still unsteady on his feet, but determined to get away.

“I don’t want to do this the hard way, Peter!”

Masked and all, he barely craned his head around to look at Tony. “Then I’ll make it easy for you!”

At the edge of the rooftop, Peter shot a web straight ahead, the TWIP of fluid landing directly on the high-rise building across from them.

“Guys, kid’s about to make a run for it,” Sam’s voice pitched with unnerving panic. “What are we waiting for?”

“Tony,” Steve pressed, finally speaking up. “You need to make a call.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order, loud and clear from the Captain himself.

Tony tensed his jaw, unable to tear his eyes away from Peter and what felt like a moment that slowed down in time. The kid’s hand gripped around the stiff end of the web-fluid, his knees locked in place, ready to take off.

At the same time, Tony froze, the mere act of taking in a shallow breath suddenly too difficult as he spoke the words he had been dreading all night.

“Fri...go ahead.”

Clint’s voice overlapped hers."Two…"

Tony rooted his feet firmly in place, a hard swallow accompanying the syncing sound from within his communication device.

"...one —”

The arrow came whizzing through the sky, piercing through the air with a sharp whistle that ended only once it came in contact with Peter.

A gloved hand snatched it firmly, his fist gripping it with such strength that the middle chamber cracked underneath the pressure.

Peter shot his head around, the whites of his mechanical eyes wider than the streetlights from above.

“What the..." Tony balked, momentarily needing to search for his voice. "...hell..?”

The silence that met his shock was crushing. About as crushing as the arrow in Peter’s grip, finally split in two, the liquid from inside dripping down the black webbing of his suit.

The white spider-eyes stayed locked on Tony, easily as startled as he was.

Tony was the first to recover. Though he didn’t dare direct his attention to Peter.

“Friday,” he sternly, and ferociously, began to speak. “Explain. Now.”

Straight ahead, Peter looked down at the broken arrow, before his head snapped back up at Tony. His expression was readable, even with the mask covering his face. Tony’s posture grew tense.

Foreign element — Tony gaped, his pulse thumping erratically under his skin.

That was unexpected.

“Kid…” Tony watched with forced calmness as Peter threw half of the broken arrow on the rooftop concrete, clinging onto the other with shaking anger. “I can explain.”

“You were going to shoot me!?” Peter lifted the sharp end of the arrow, all but waving it around resentfully.

“No. No, I was not going to shoot you,” Tony defended, letting a beat pass by. “Clint was going to try and shoot you.”

"Nice save, asswipe," Clint retorted, the comms picking up the noise of his quiver spinning another arrow into its chamber. The string pulled back tightly, and this time, Tony heard it. "Rogers, command is yours."

Shit, wait —

“Hold up!” Tony shouted.

“No!” Peter yelled right back, tossing the arrow aside and stomping forward with large, outraged steps. “No, you don’t get to tell me —!”

“I wasn’t talking to you!” Tony bit his tongue, briefly clenching his eyes shut. “Shit! I mean — just wait a damn second, Parker, let me explain —”

“You’ve been telling me what to do for months now!” Peter steamrolled over him, the white spider-eyes as wide as they could get, the fabric of the mask pulling substantially as his jaw worked relentlessly with each word he spewed. “Every day, everything I do, you’re somehow there! You’re always involved! Even when you’re not, you are! Nothing is private, nothing is my own, I can’t even fail a history test without you finding out! I don’t want you breathing down my neck all the time! I want to do this on my own, I want be my own person — not...not...Stark’s intern, or the baby Avenger — I was Spider-Man before you, and I can do it without you!”

Tony shook his head, raising his hand in a placating gesture. “Now hold up, Pete, I can explain —”

“When will you understand that you don’t get to make everything okay!?” Peter stormed forward, whacking Tony’s hand away at the expense of the man’s unadulterated shock. “No one asked for Iron Man tonight! I don’t need you to save me all the time! I can handle this, I’m fine! Go away and leave me be!”

Tony swallowed thickly, still frazzled by the hand that smacked him, noticeably still staring at his arm as if it had been dipped in acid and melted to liquid.

By the time he looked up again, Peter was walking away.

Tony instinctively leaped forward. “Peter, you’re infec—!”

Peter spun on his heels, and screamed.

“Will you just leave me ALONE!”

Tony saw it before he felt it — the briefest, most abrupt moment becoming a sight that seared into his brain, cauterizing behind his pupils.

Thick coils of sludge shot forward from the spider emblem centered on Peter’s suit; black limbs bleeding with ooze, sentient tree-branches shrill and screeching as they propelled ahead.

The air was knocked straight out of Tony’s lungs, an attack hitting dead-center on his chest, breaking through the arc reactor of his armor.

Blue light flickered to its death, quickly submerged underneath the suffocating pressure.

The next thing he knew, he was soaring backward through the sky, without any repulsors guiding his way.

"Holy shit—!”

"Did that just—?”

 

THUD!

 

Tony’s back collided hard against the wall of a nearby building. His armor broke through the red bricks, shattering them upon impact, the pieces and dust raining below him before his body fell right alongside them.

Judging by how long the free-fall took, he had been thrown pretty damn high into the air.

“— heading east, I repeat, he’s heading—”

“Tony, do you copy?”

The team’s voices shouting in his ear muddled into a cacophony of who-said-what, unrecognizable as they all spoke at once.

And then he hit the ground.

 

CRASH!

 

“Jesus…!”

An ear-splitting, high-pitched car alarm was the first sound Tony came around to. As quickly as he could manage — slower than what he cared to admit — he laid both hands firmly on the surface below him, struggling to lift himself upwards.

Glass crunched beneath his gauntlets.

“— east bound, moving fast —”

“That’s our symbiote,” Natasha’s dry voice cut in. “Alive and in the flesh.”

“Stark, do you copy?” Steve’s voice rang through. “Tony, copy!”

Tony shook the glass off his shoulders, swaying momentarily as he gingerly lifted himself up from the smashed car he landed face-first on top of.

Because of course it was a car; destruction of personal property was exactly what he wanted to deal with tonight.

“Firing another shot in three, two, one—”

Quickly, Tony rolled off the crushed Civic, stumbling to his feet to regain balance. The suit was heavier — his arc reactor had lost life, and as he used his hand to force the face-plate of his helmet downwards, he could see that the HUD was fritzing out.

Frantically, Tony ripped open the panel to his forearm, the sparks of broken wires simmering against metal.

Shit.

Shit shit shit!

"Goddammit!" A frustrated cry from Clint all but screamed into his ear. Tony recoiled at the volume; both because he stuffed his fingers into the wiring of his armor, and because the back of his skull had just gotten personal with a brick wall."I told you guys I wouldn’t get a shot in with his damn spider-sense!"

"Kid is on the move,"Sam urged."I repeat, kid is on the move!"

Frustrated, Tony craned his neck to the sky. “Barton, fire another damn —!”

"Already down two, Stark! He’s caught them both. Down two, four left — we can’t let him into the city!"

"Well… looks like he might be heading that way," Natasha’s all-too-calm voice pitched in.

The realization caused Tony’s blood to rush cold.

“Just...fuck!” Wires twisted around the armor of his fingers and Tony yanked at them desperately, searching for the backup panel in his suit. It was there — he knew it was, he just had to gain access. The sparks of electricity were bright enough to blind him, yet he pressed forward, desperately. “Just give me a damn second! My systems are down — FRIDAY!”

Static flooded in his ear, past the noise of the team speaking relentlessly through the comms, gridlocked and rigid. He winced as the Irish accent of his AI barely came through, broken and choppy.

"S-s-sytems b-b-breached, b-boss! P-power s-soruce d-d-d-d-depleted, s-system failure, s-system fail-fail-failure, s-s-s-s-s-system fail"

The HUD display flickered to darkness, the LED of his Iron Man eyes fading right alongside with it.

Tony could quite literally feel the weight of his own armor weighing him down, possibly more than the sickening gravity of the situation at hand.

“I got eyes in the sky.”

Natasha’s voice was enough to cause a distraction, as brief as it may have been. Looking above him, Tony watched as four bird-sized drones began to fly to life, drifting gracefully from the rooftop he knew she was positioned at.

The drones swooped down below, passing by him and quickly heading in the opposite direction.

Tony spun on his heels, just in time to watch Hawkeye shoot a grappling hook arrow a good five-buildings-over, swinging down stealthily, and wordlessly.

“Make that four with an eagle’s landing,” Sam chimed in.

“Widow? Falcon?” The sound of an engine revved to life, and this time, it wasn’t from the comms. Tony turned around, able to see the headlights of Steve’s motorcycle beaming him down. “What do you see?”

“Rogers, do not—!” Tony tore off his face-plate, ripping it right off the hinges and gripping it hysterically in his hand.

Using the wires hanging from his forearm, he connected the ones he knew he needed directly inside the mainframe, desperate to gain a connection to his AI. Light flickered on for a second, less than half of that if he were realistic. No sooner did it return to darkness.

Still, he tried.

“FRIDAY, send another suit here, ASAP!”

Silence met his request.

Tony’s fingers fiddled with the wiring, moving and adjusting and frantically trying to make the impossible happen. That’s what he was known for, right? This wasn’t the time for failure — wires crossed into each other and sparks left burn marks on his armor.

“I need it yesterday, FRI! Don’t do this to me, goddammit, don’t —!”

“He’s heading west side, nearing Manhattan,”Clint stoically announced.

“Just swung by Eagle’s Loft.” Sam’s wing-jet roared to life, and the rush of air that accompanied his flight sizzled in Tony’s ear.“Kid’s moving fast. Too fast.”

On top of the building above nearby, Natasha made a leap that defined gravity, landing directly on the wire to Clint’s grappling hook. With an agility that didn't seem real, she ran along the tightrope easily, her feet never faltering along the way.

“What’s the plan now, Cap?” she asked, meeting the archer five buildings over.

Tony tore his eyes away from them, looking back to the inside of his face-plate, the light that beamed to life barely enough to give his AI the power it needed. “C’mon, where’s that suit!?”

A rush of wind nearly knocked him onto his side. Tony shot his head up, just as Cap’s motorcycle came zooming by at a speed that put every other bike to shame. The streetlamps highlighted the shield secured on his back, and had it not been for the comms, Tony would’ve never heard what he said next.

“Engage Plan C.”

Tony’s heart did more than just skip a beat.

“Rogers, don’t you dare —!”

It stopped entirely.

“Take Spider-Man down,” Steve instructed.“At all costs.”