'Til the End of the Line
“I screwed up.”
Tony tossed aside the textbook in his hands, chucking it onto the bed with frustration that could’ve been felt all the way up in Asgard.
“This is on me. I should’ve known something was wrong.”
The vulnerability was straightforward, so plainly spoken that it earned a look from Steve, standing across the room. Even Thor would’ve questioned his chagrin, heedlessly exposed and worn openly on his sleeve.
It was incompatible with his poise; normally self-assured, drowning with pivotal certitude. Holding a room hostage the moment he entered, and lingering long after he was gone.
The ‘Computer Simulations for Integrated STEM’ textbook bounced a few times on the mattress before landing face down. Thick marker tarnished the back, a sharpie labeling across the hardcover.
“The signs were all there. The pieces fit. Everything was laid out, clear as day.” Tony rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, distantly hoping it would encourage his growing headache to subside. Preferably screw off and never make an appearance again. “I just chose not to see it.”
Not even on Tony’s worst day would he allow his emotions to show so openly. That always seemed to be saved for the bottom below rock bottom. For the occasions when things couldn’t get any worse, but somehow always managed to find a way.
Because in his life, things always somehow found a way.
Looking around the room, he gave an empty sigh. A mess wouldn’t have been a proper way to describe their rummaging. It would’ve looked cleaner had a merciless tornado swept through, leaving no corner untouched in the path of destruction created.
And they had nothing to show for it.
Tony was at his wits end.
“I should’ve —” He rubbed harder at his forehead, until the skin felt like it would tear. “Damn it!”
Scratch that. He met his wits end back at Midtown High; when America’s favorite boy scout looked him straight in the eye, and insisted a goddamn baseball cap would be enough to sneak into the facility undetected.
It was, of course. Alongside Tony neutralizing every single security feature in and around the school, and whatever resided within a ten mile radius.
But yeah, the Yankees hat really saved their asses.
Leaving the school with nothing to show was approaching his wits end. Clearing the Parker’s apartment without a trace of ink, sludge, goo, or gunk — that was the final straw.
It was official. Standing in the mess that was Peter's quarters in the compound, he had reached his breaking point.
Steve looked away from Tony and back to the object in his hands. Dirty brown eyebrows furrowed, caught between a thought and a focus that he couldn’t seem to shake off.
“There has to be something we’re missing,” Steve muttered. The gray Lego’s were neatly put together in a particular design, unlike the many other Lego’s that laid piled up in the corner of the room. Steve turned it over once more, finding his head cocking slightly to the side.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say it looked like a ship.
“Are you sure he doesn’t keep anything in your lab?” Steve asked, placing the Lego ship on the dresser near by. The drawers were all thrown open in their haste, the bottom drawer going so far as being nearly disassembled entirely. It stuck out in a way that was definitely a tripping hazard to anyone walking by.
Tony let his eyes wander the bedroom for the umpteenth time, though they never latched on anything in particular.
“FRIDAY already scanned the lab. Both of them, six times,” he mumbled, reaching forward and randomly grabbing the digital alarm clock on Peter’s nightstand. He turned it around in his hands before setting it back down. “Nothing but a pack of Twizzlers, chem notes, and a Hayden Planetarium pen. No abnormalities. No symbiote.”
A couple of discarded pillows laid tossed along on the floor, and Tony kicked them aside as he meandered the room. Sheets and blankets weren’t far behind; they had completely stripped apart the bed within seconds of entering.
He kicked them away, too.
Every step they traced had left them empty handed. They had tore apart May’s place, searched every inch of the high-school — all that was left was the compound.
Yet the Star Wars posters remained untouched. Lego’s remained scattered on the floor. Peter’s bed hadn’t even been made since the last time he slept over — Tony rubbed at his eyes, clearing away the exhaustion as he fought to recall the timeline of troubles that led them here.
How long was it that Peter had been at the compound?
Christ, it’d barely been a handful of days.
Less than a week since the incident with Natasha in the gym. Even less than that since he snatched Peter’s camera without him knowing.
Tony stopped in his tracks, looking to the ceiling with no care to what he saw. The fight in Queens felt like two lifetimes ago. The reality was, it had just been a couple of days.
He needed a nap. And a drink. Not in that particular order.
But first, he needed clues.
He needed clues yesterday.
“Maybe we’re combing the wrong spot,” Steve idly suggested. His eyes searched the room like they hadn’t been camped out digging through Peter’s belongings for the past god-knows-hour-long — Tony really didn’t want to check his watch to find out. “What about the gym? Let’s go back, let’s forage —”
“It’s a waste of time,” Tony stressed. His voice cracked at the edges, and there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t hate that. There just wasn’t any time to dwell on it. “We’ve double checked, we’ve tripled checked —”
Steve noticeably frowned. “Then we keep checking —”
“FRIDAY’s right behind us quadruple checking as we speak!” Tony wanted to yell, but the exhaustion running him ragged had decided that simply wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he ran a hand down the length of his face, kicking aside the pile of sheets for no reason other than he could. “You want a magnifying glass, you wanna examine every speck of dust the kid crossed paths with — go right ahead. The most you’re gunna come up with is a Metrocard subway pass and some forgotten Spanish homework. And unless you think Español En Vivo is going to lead us anywhere, this officially concludes our fine-tooth-comb search — the ride is over, watch your step getting out of the vehicle.”
Tony sighed, but stopped halfway through. Biting back a curse instead.
He had meant to put that homework aside for Peter.
Looking at the mess they’d created, there was no telling where hell he laid those papers. The room was in disarray. Nothing had been left untouched.
Not even the sock drawer.
“This is it, Cap.” Tony shook his head, looking anywhere but at Steve — the slow, crumbling break of perseverance in the soldier wasn’t something he cared to witness. “This is the end of the line.”
Clenching his jaw tight, Tony could feel every ounce of his stress bear down onto his teeth. He knew they needed to get back to Wakanda. The sun had set a while ago, and if he looked outside the bedroom window, he was sure they could see the evening moon starting to peak through the clouds.
Returning as soon as possible was a thought that had been on their minds since before they even left Africa. Long before the engine of the Quinjet had warmed up.
But showing up with empty pockets wasn’t a reality they could swallow.
It wasn't a reality that Tony could swallow.
Rock bottom was just around the corner, and he could quickly feel himself barreling down it.
Tony let out a long sigh, letting his fingers card aimlessly through his goatee. “If I had just done something sooner —”
“You didn’t know, Tony,” Steve argued, without a moment of hesitation. When Tony didn’t grace the assuagement with anything other than a side glare, he stepped forward. Purposefully walking around the blankets that laid askew on the ground. “None of us knew. We couldn’t have.”
Tony made a face of non concurrence.
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe not.”
A hard silence fell. Right along with Tony’s shoulders, practically dropping to the floor with the rest of Peter’s belongings.
“Maybe if I hadn’t been so busy projecting my own traumas on the kid...” his voice trailed off, replaced instead with each thud of his shoes as he made his way across the bedroom, crossing paths with Steve along the way. At the same time, his hands became more expressive; swatting into the air without any rhyme or reason. “I swore up and down I had seen this before. Peter’s behavior— the ticks, the attitude, the anxiety —”
Coming up to the bedroom dresser, Tony gave the bottom drawer a kick. Barely managing to shove it back in place from its near-disassembled state.
It rattled the furniture, shaking the chess board and overturning the few empty water bottles that laid on top. And knocking down the Lego ship that had been wedged in-between the middle of them all.
Steve reached out just in time to catch it.
Despite his quick save, Tony barely looked his way.
“I painted the picture before I even had a canvas to use,” he walked about the room without a care to if Steve listened or not. Steve was, listening — that is. But his attention had also fallen to the toy, once again in his hands. “I swore it was me after New York. I swore it was all just PTSD. Taking shape in a way not even karma would find amusing. And I was wrong. I made an assumption, and now its biting me in the ass.”
Steve’s forehead creased in a tight V as he watched the sharp edges of the Lego’s dig deep into the center of his palm. He held the item in both hands, gingerly, as if afraid to smash its form and the effort that went into creating it.
Something hard collided in his chest, right at the moment he came to recognize the assembly for what it was.
Not a ship. But a lifeboat.
“I should’ve done something sooner.” Tony couldn’t help the grimace that curled his lips. He shook his head, absently, both pissed off and bitter — and at no one other than himself. “Peter always did say if I had just listened...”
Gently, and slowly, Steve placed the lifeboat back onto the dresser.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Tony,” he distantly said, the words coming from his mouth but his voice sounding like his thoughts were lightyears away. “In some way or another, the bunker left a mark on us all.”
Steve’s eyes roamed the room, still searching, as if something might pop up that he failed to notice before. He looked to the dresser and the blocky-shaped boat that sat on-top, frowning, before tucking his chin low to his chest. Keeping the turmoil in his eyes hidden in the otherwise dim light of the bedroom.
Though Tony had let his walls down, if only for a brief moment, Steve knew the same permission didn’t apply to him. Not now.
Not when they needed a leader to keep them afloat.
Across the way, Tony’s footsteps came to a sudden stop. He turned on his heels, and while he shared the same distraught look that wore heavy on Steve’s face, the soldier failed to see it at first. His gaze was set elsewhere.
Tony’s eyes were locked right on him.
“You swore to me.”
Steve looked up, his brows furrowing tightly. He opened his mouth to speak.
“Back then. The bunker.” Tony beat him to it, and not a second too soon.
A look of desolation could’ve ripped Steve apart, his face dropping the very moment Tony spoke.
The moment realization struck him.
“I told you…” Tony’s voice shook as he marched forward, breaking the distance that separated them. “I made it explicitly clear. No matter what happens, no matter what decision needs to be made, the kid comes first.”
For a second time, something hard collided in Steve’s chest. This time it stayed there.
“Tony —”
“Every. Time.”
An unbridled hostility coated Tony’s tone, drawing out each word and soaking the air long after he spoke. Varnishing the rooms oxygen like spilt molasses, an anguished anger that had been held off and bottled up since Queens.
Since he stood powerless on the street, trapped in a dead suit of armor. Helpless as he listened to the commands Steve made, throwing out orders that were nothing short of taking lethal action.
It was a protectiveness that Steve had heard in his voice before. A protectiveness he had quickly learned not to treat lightly.
Steve looked away, turning his head like it took every ounce of strength in his body to just move his neck. When he spoke again, it sounded just the same. Like it took more strength to speak than it did to pull a helicopter down from the sky.
“It can’t be every time.” Steve’s voice was low, but resolute. Firm, but regretful.
A fist clenched at Tony’s side. It was impossible not to notice it.
“Like hell it can’t.”
Tony’s eyes burned, hot with a vexation that could be felt radiating back in Wakanda. Steve had to swallow past it. It wasn’t just indignance — no, he knew it was more than that. He knew the second he watched Tony carry Peter onto the Quinjet, with the only sign of the symbiote being the wake of destruction it had left behind.
He knew the moment they traveled back upstate, when Tony refused to so much as look him in the eye, let alone acknowledge his presence.
Steve knew that he made things personal. Creating a rift nowhere near the level of the Accords, but much more devastating all the same.
Steve shook his head, a deep exhale finally bringing him to look Tony head-on. “We can’t put hundreds of lives at risk for one person —”
Tony scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you —”
“I made the necessary call,” Steve cut in immediately, his voice growing hard. “If Peter had gotten into the city —”
Tony’s retort was instant. “If I hadn’t gotten to him first, you would’ve —!”
“He could’ve killed innocent people —”
“He wouldn’t have—!”
“You saw that thing, Tony!” Steve ploughed on, right over his clear disagreement. “You saw what it turned him into!”
Tony rounded on Steve with a fury he hadn’t touched since pummeling Dmitri to near-death in the underwater bunker.
“That’s not Peter,” he firmly insisted, in a roar too weak to match Steve’s volume. His fist shook, but he kept it at his side. A rage that was quiet, but intense. “You and I both know that Peter wouldn’t have hurt anyone.”
Tony’s nostrils flared as a shaky breath parted his lips.
Steve’s shoulders pulled back as a taut inhale expanded his lungs.
A pause struck them both.
“You’re right,” Steve agreed, after a moment too long.
A hard swallow preceded what he had to say next.
“But the symbiote would’ve.”
His voice was muted just enough that had his stance not been so unfaltering, Steve could’ve been taken for despaired. Broken, beaten, and overwhelmed by the burden of responsibility weighing him down.
Tony’s lack of immediate response was a response in and of itself.
Steve didn’t take enjoyment in that. His expression only grew more harrowed.
He looked to the side, clenching his jaw in a way that looked downright painful. Even for a man altered by a super soldier serum.
“We both know that if I see a situation headed south...I can’t ignore it.” When Steve turned back to Tony, he could tell the man wanted nothing more than to punch him. It was in his face, in the way his hand fidgeted, as it had so many other times before. Fingers clenched into a fist that spoke of their opposing sides. “We both know I had to be the one to make that call, Tony. If it wasn’t me...no one else would’ve.”
The anger in Steve’s tone wasn’t directed at Tony. Not that Tony bothered to notice the difference. It was an anger aimed at everything but Tony — at life, at the unfairness to it all. At the position he was thrown into the second they de-thawed him from the depths of the arctic.
Suddenly, Steve found his own hand folding into a fist. Every battle he’d been thrown into in for the last five years — without much of a say, without much care to what it did to him in the end — finally began to push him to the brink.
“And it’s a decision I’ll have to make again,” he preempted, a warble in his voice showcasing his inability to forge fortitude. “If it means protecting innocent people from whatever this thing may do.”
That was enough to snap what little composure Tony had been clinging onto. His gaze hardened, his eyes locking onto Steve’s with a collared fury that couldn’t be matched.
Tony marched towards Steve until there was barely an inch between them. “If you lay a finger on Peter —”
“I may have to,” Steve was quick to say. His chin tilted low, a pause deepening with every second that carried on, until the weight of it was almost unbearable. “Because I know you won’t.”
The honesty was raw. No further words were exchanged.
After all, intent never came with a sound.
Silence took the conversation away like a thief in the night. The sudden lack of either their voices suddenly felt oppressive, leaving a hollow space where the conversation begged to be finished.
What was said remained irremediable, burrowing in every crevasse of Tony’s soul.
A single look was all either of them needed. No words, no sounds. In the five years they had worked with each other — gotten to know one another, lead a team together, technically by all means live together — they had developed a unique connection of sorts.
Time, and many missions under their belt, had endued them with that form of communication.
Tony saw the unspoken in Steve’s eyes. The tight lines etched deep in his skin, normally looking so young and now bound by the stress of responsibility, told of the decision he had already made.
Long before the conversation ever took place.
If Tony was going to change his mind, it certainly wasn’t going to happen now. Both because he simply was not up for that, and also because — without even looking at his watch — he knew their time was running out.
“Keep looking,” he spitefully insisted, pushing right past Steve to cross the room. “We’re not leaving here until we find something.”
Steve let Tony knock into his shoulder, his feet briefly displacing from the floor as the man pushed on by. Though he had million different thoughts raging through his head, he settled instead on just a sigh.
With resignation, he placed a hand on his hip, turning to watch Tony scour the corners of the room they’d already combed over. Multiple times.
“You sure he doesn’t sleep anywhere else?” Steve wearily asked.
“Kid doesn’t sleep.”
It took Steve a second to realize it wasn’t Tony who answered his question.
It took Tony less than that to spin around, facing the doorway where the voice came from.
“Bucky?” Steve squinted his eyes, as if doubting what he saw. Yet the outline was unmistakable, the shadowy figure becoming more visible as his eyes adjusted. “What are you —?”
“Get out.” Tony charged right past him, both through his words and nearly straight through his body. Managing to leap eight steps forward in just two.
Steve shot out his arm to block Tony’s path.
It took everything Tony had not to break that arm in two.
In the doorway, Bucky looked to the ground, staring at his feet and where they were positioned. The steel toes of his boots scarcely touched the carpet of the bedroom.
He looked up at Tony with a shrug.
“I’m not in.”
The dryness in his voice could’ve given the desert a run for its money.
Tony failed to find the humor in it.
“Barnes, I swear to God,” his voice fell deep with a rising, threatening anger. Tearing out of his throat with sharp claws that laced each word with a vitriolic cadence. “I will rip off that other arm —”
Steve held up a placating hand, wisely stepping between the two as a barrier of sorts. For who’s protection, he wasn’t really sure.
“Hold up, Tony.” Steve looked from one man to the other, his eyes ultimately lingering on the doorway. It felt as if his brain was in delay with what his ears had heard. “What did you say, Buck?”
A drawn-out crunch sounded from where Bucky stood. He took a large bite of the apple in his hand, followed by slow, continuous chewing.
“Said the kid doesn’t sleep,” Bucky finally answered, swallowing a mouthful of the fruit at the same time he spoke; making his words somewhat garbled.
Tony was bordering the verge of total annihilation. And he had no intent to hide it.
“Yeah?” he asked, his voice a tight wire, ready to snap quick. “And how’d you come by that info, Splinter Cell?”
Bucky took another bite from his apple. Chewing loudly. This time picking off the stem still nestled on the top, throwing it to the side somewhere down the hallway where they couldn’t see.
“Can’t sleep either.”
Steve took notice in Tony’s rapidly escalating impatience. He brought his arm up a little higher, further barricading the distance between them.
This time, Tony did knock his arm aside.
“And how do these two things correlate, Barnes!?”
Peter’s bedroom was big enough that his shout echoed across all four walls, soaring back to the center like a belligerent boomerang. If Steve sighed, it wasn’t heard. Not over Tony’s outrage.
Certainly not over Bucky’s chewing.
Steve dropped his head but managed to look to the side, catching sight of the bright green colored fruit in Bucky’s hand. He wasn’t all too surprised; Granny Smith’s always were his favorite.
Bucky plopped against the door-frame with a noticeable thud.
“He stays up. Talks to me.” Bucky went to bring the apple back to his mouth, only to take a pause before his next bite. “Talks a lot.”
And with that, he crunched down.
Chewing.
Loudly.
Tony wasn’t sure what would send him over the edge first. Their lack of findings, the ticking clock that haunted him at every passing second, Rogers pretentious goody-two-shoes responsibility, or the fucking snack that Barnes chomped down on like it was a Wednesday afternoon and he needed a light pick-me-up.
If Tony had his repulsors, he’d have blasted the godforsaken thing across the compound.
Both Barnes, and the apple.
“Talks about what?” Steve asked, the curiosity in his voice perking up his stance, just narrowly.
Bucky tossed the apple in the air before nonchalantly catching it in his hand, rustling the over-the-shoulder shawl that covered his left side.
“Not my business to say.”
Steve let out a sigh, this time one that could be heard. Tony shot his head to the ceiling, forcing himself to count to ten but only getting to three before he decided violence was a much better alternative to things.
He kicked the bedroom dresser.
The digital alarm clock, chess board, and Lego boat toppled over. Crashing to the ground.
“What about a journal?” Steve’s question was almost drowned out by the shattering Lego’s, the assembly set breaking into individual pieces down at Tony’s feet. The billionaire stepped right over them, indifferent to the mess. Steve’s head followed him as he paced the bedroom. “Does Peter...write anything down? Maybe a diary could lead us somewhere — to something.”
“Kid doesn’t write,” Bucky chimed in, not even giving Tony a chance to think of what his answer would be. “Says his thoughts are too fast. So he talks.”
Bucky’s eyes grew wide, though they looked at nothing in particular.
“He talks a lot.”
The next chomp of his apple was the loudest yet.
“That’s it!” Tony charged forward at a speed that caught Steve by surprise. “If you don’t start talking right now —!”
“Tony!” Steve hastily grabbed his forearm, all but pulling Tony back. “Knock it off! You’re not gunna beat the answers out of him —”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Tony ground out, the hostility dripping from his words almost as hot as his glare.
It was a good thing Steve’s muscles were essentially concrete, and double good that Tony’s armor was packed away in the Quinjet. Because otherwise, the moment Steve grabbed his arm for the millionth time this hour, he would’ve knocked Let’s-Hide-In-A-Yankees-Cap all the way back to Africa.
No plane needed.
Steve let go of Tony’s arm, though not before giving Bucky a glare of his own. It wasn’t a look of indignance. Rather, desperation.
And when Steve wore desperation, he wore it well.
“Bucky, please,” he pleaded. The sincerity in his eyes seemed to deepen, flooding through every crevice along his face. “Whatever you think is going on…” he broke off, but only for a moment. “It’s far worse. Peter’s in trouble — a lot of trouble. We need answers...anything that could help him.”
Maybe it was the unfamiliar exhaustion that eroded through Steve’s distinctive confidence. Or maybe it was the death glare that Tony refused to let up.
But something seemed to finally register in Bucky’s head.
He chewed a few more times before swallowing. “Like what?”
Tony rolled his eyes so far back, it was a feat he didn’t see the inside of his own skull.
“You’re on a strict need to know basis right now, Barnes,” he said, his jaw clicking and popping as he clenched down on his teeth. “Be a good little boy scout junior and tell us — what does the kid say to you?”
Bucky adjusted his weight from one foot to the other.
“That you’re uptight,” he answered, tone dry and bland as a stale cracker. “And you need to chill.”
Tony was officially two point six seconds away from a stroke.
Shockingly, Steve didn’t seem too far behind.
“Buck,” Steve stressed. A warble in his voice caught them by surprise — it caught Steve by surprise, the man turning away for a single second that felt way longer than what it actually was.
He lowered his head to the ground, both hands resting firmly on his hips.
When he turned back around, Tony was surprised at how he seemed to have aged by ten years.
“I know things with us are...tense...right now.” Steve chose his words carefully, sounding as if he were walking along eggshells — Tony huffed, it was more like a minefield when it came to Barnes. Still, he ventured on. “But if we can’t figure this out, and fast, the next step for Peter might very well be a cryotank he could never come out of. I’m not asking for my sake...I’m asking for his.”
This time, Steve didn’t turn away when his voice faltered.
Bucky sniffed — obnoxiously loud, in Tony’s opinion — and he looked down to the fruit in his hand. No green skin remained of the Granny Smith, aside from what had been untouched on the top and bottom; and large chunks had been heavily devoured.
Still, not one raised to waste food, he managed to find a bit hanging around the core. A small bite barely made a sound this time around.
“He’s dealing with shit,” Bucky finally answered after a long pause, staring down at the apple in his hand. He chewed lightly a few times and swallowed, his throat bouncing from the exertion. “Nightmares. Can’t sleep.”
There was very little in existence that could confuse Tony. What he failed to understand, he quickly learned to decipher — discern and discover. That was genius 101, something he was pretty sure had been taught to him the same day he was potty trained. There was nothing in the world that didn’t have some sort of logical answer — it only required a bit of focus and thought.
Tony wanted to believe there just wasn’t enough focus to understand what he’d heard. But even he knew the crushing weight of the truth had his mind reeling in twenty different directions. He could barely see left to right, let alone see as Steve approached him.
“Did you know that?” Steve asked, softly — sympathetically? Tony shook his head, but he wasn’t all too sure he’d heard the man in the first place.
His pulse beat like a drum in his ears, his distress the only song that played for his entertainment.
“No.” So his vocal cords still worked after all. That was good. “No, Pete hasn’t...hasn’t mentioned anything like that.”
Suddenly, Tony’s brows released from a tightly knitted scowl to gut-wrenching realization. He turned to Bucky as quickly as the fog left his head.
“For how long?”
Bucky merely shrugged. “Ask him yourself.”
Tony’s face was caught between dumbstruck and infuriated. Throw in a mix of astounded-by-disbelief and he’d have a whole new expression that could be named after him. Stark bafflement, patent pending.
“Do you have selective hearing?” Tony’s hand moved a mile a minute. “Did you not hear your old buddy, old pal when he mentioned the possibility of throwing the kid into a cryotank? Or have you been in and out of that thing so much that now it’s just your idea of a relaxing spa day?”
For what it was worth, Bucky didn’t seem harried by Tony’s aggravation. If anything, he looked completely disengaged, pausing in thought as he stared off somewhere to the side.
“He still having those nose bleeds?” Bucky finally broke the silence, looking to Tony only once he finished speaking.
“Still having —?” Tony floundered for a moment, his eyes growing comically large before quickly narrowing into thin slits. “How much contact, exactly, have you had with him?” Tony ploughed over whatever response Bucky could’ve given. “Scratch that, why have you been hanging around him?”
Bucky made a face.
“I live here,” he defended. “Unfortunately.”
Tony could feel the heat radiating off his face. If his glare were any hotter, he was sure the paint on the walls would be peeling.
“I purposefully ensured your quarters were on the SHIELD side of this compound,” he bit back.
“Okay?” Bucky took a bite from his apple. “I’m allowed to use the kitchen. Aren’t I?”
Steve threw his hand in the air before Tony could utter a single word.
“Yes, Bucky,” Steve answered, slowly lowering his open palm. “You’re allowed anywhere in the compound.”
“No, he’s not,” Tony forced through gritted teeth. He wasn’t sure who to look at, his glare bouncing between both men. “I specifically told Peter to stay away from him —”
“He doesn’t listen well,” Bucky dryly tossed in.
Tony threw him a look. “No shit.”
Bucky looked down at his apple, turning it over a few times to find anything left that he could bite into. Ultimately, it was chewed down to the core. Stoically, he lowered it to his side with a hard sniff.
“Take it easy on the punk, will ya,” he all but mumbled, head so low he may as well have been talking to the ground. “Ain’t no ones going to come out of what he’s gone through with a straight head.”
With one single eyebrow climbing up his forehead, Bucky peered up slightly, casting his gaze over to Steve.
“You of all people would know that, Stevie.”
The friction between them was commanding, that much Tony had to acknowledge. He’d been made distantly aware of the problem between the duo — it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. There’d been a wall between the former soldiers, ever since Steve made the deal with SHIELD to house Bucky at the compound, all for forgiveness in their unwarranted bunker mission.
Still, almost a month had passed. And the friction from both their presence still managed to steal what little oxygen was left to breathe in a room already full of unease.
Yet despite the fact he’d been addressed, Steve managed to look anywhere and everywhere but at Bucky. He stared for a while, at nothing but the walls. Long lost in a head full of thoughts.
His eyes narrowed, squinting in a way that somehow made the ocean blues around his pupils all the more vivid.
There was a beat. Bucky shifted on his feet and Tony could have sworn he heard the sound of his boots chafing against the carpet. For a fleeting moment, the silence roared — or perhaps that was the blood rushing through his ears.
Suddenly, Steve turned to Tony.
“What time is it back in Wakanda?” he asked, an undercurrent of tremulous nerves riding through his tone.
Tony was noticeably confused. But he played along, only for the reason that Rogers never sounded that way.
“Six hours ahead,” he warily answered. “Midnight? One am?”
Steve didn’t give any further explanation. He just gave Tony a knowing look.
The kind of wordless communication only the two of them could understand.
It had Tony pondering for a second longer than he should’ve.
When realization hit him, it was like a sledgehammer to the chest.
“Son of a —”
Peter startled awake.
“Hello?”
The mattress dipped as he sat up, heavy puffs of air blowing through his mouth with a tremor that almost gave his arms a run for their money. At this point, he was pretty sure even his toes were shaking like a cold, wet rat in the sewers of New York.
A noise woke him up.
He looked around the room with only his eyes. Not daring to move a muscle, not even to turn his head.
It was quiet. Even the machines failed to make a sound.
Peter swore a noise woke him up.
“Okay…” he swallowed, hard, before sitting himself up higher on the bed. His hands clenched the wool blanket without him even knowing it. “Okay, it’s...it’s okay. It was...it was just a bad dream.”
Peter didn’t remember dreaming.
But he didn’t remember falling asleep, either.
It had still been daylight outside, that much he recalled. Shuri had left before sundown, not that either of them wanted her to go. Reality had crushed their trivial conversations — full of plentiful internet-references — like a falling boulder. And though she had arrived with a smile, it was hard to depart the same way.
With Mr. Stark gone, and the others assisting wherever they could, it left Peter all by himself.
One moment he closed his eyes, and then the next —
“Is anyone there?”
He swore he heard something.
It was dark. If it weren’t for the large window across the way, Peter wouldn’t be able to see much of anything. After all, the spider-bite didn’t exactly grant him night-vision. Despite how many times Ned badgered on and on and on that it could be a possibility.
It wasn’t, of course. But Ned still held on hope.
His only saving grace was the moon; a full moon, at that. Bright and shinning, and positioned directly at the Citadel tower. The night sky was clear, something he’d never got to see in the city. And the moon lit up the room with an irradiance that wouldn't compare to even the brightest LED.
It cast over every corner, wall, and the machinery that filled the medical bay. He was the only occupant.
And yet —
“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice wavered as he swung his legs over the bed, waiting a second before letting his bare feet touch the ground. “Anyone here?”
The cold, polished floor sent a jarring shiver up his shoulders. Peter grimaced as he slowly — painfully — lifted himself off the bed, grabbing the guard rail until his knuckles paled in a way that could’ve made the moon jealous.
It felt like he’d never used his legs a day in his life.
“Oh, come on!” Peter mumbled, painstakingly guiding himself along the side of bed with baby steps that put a baby to shame. “This hurts...my pride...so much.”
Just the other night he was some sort of bad-ass running alongside the Queensboro bridge at record breaking speeds — or so he was told.
Now he couldn’t walk a couple of feet without gasping for breath.
Not cool.
Not cool at all.
The window was barely in reach by the time Peter all but collapsed against it. The side of his face pressed so heavily against the glass, he figured he might as well change his name to Window-Man and not Spider-Man.
“Don’t be stupid, Peter,” he mumbled, slapping an open palm against the window and using what strength he could to pull himself up. “What would Window-Man even do? Totally not a qualified superhero.”
In full view of the Wakanda landscape, Peter squinted his eyes, taking in what he could of the vast terrain. The Citadel tower wasn’t far from the jungles that laid ahead, seemingly positioned right on the edge of the city. If he looked hard enough, he swore he could see a breeze hit the many trees down below.
He craned his head around, the glow of the moon and stars reflecting the beads of sweat that dripped down his forehead.
It was late.
Mr. Stark was supposed to be back by now.
Right?
“Hello?” Peter’s hand nearly slipped off the glass as he twisted around, the sweat of his palm leaving a streak in its path. “Can...can anyone hear me?”
They had to be watching him.
Someone had to be watching him.
Peter gulped, his brows creasing at the harsh dryness of his throat. It felt like someone was watching him.
It was quiet.
But there had been a sound.
“Get out of your head, Parker,” he mumbled, the back of his hand rubbing harshly at his eyes. Roughly getting rid of the sleep that collected in the corners and around his eyelashes. “Don’t overthink this. It’s fine. Everything’s...everything’s fine.”
It didn’t feel fine.
His heart hammered like a wild beast in his chest, but Peter couldn’t tell if that was because of the whole ‘you got a sentient leech sucking your body dry’ othing, or the fact that something suddenly felt very, very wrong.
He learned a long time ago to trust his gut instincts. And despite the fact his spider-sense wasn’t alerting him of any danger, something else inside of him was.
Maybe it was common sense.
Peter looked around, his head swiveling in every direction it could. There was no one around, nothing that could be a threat. And though the door was closed, he knew without a doubt that there was a guard right outside.
He remembered Shuri saying goodbye to the man on her way out.
They gave each other a fist bump.
The guy even smiled and waved at him when he closed the door.
'Come on, dude…You and anxiety have been like...peanut butter and jelly. Two peas in a pods. Peanut butter and peas? Eck, I’m feeling sick again.'
Peter shook his head, right to the point where sweat began to fly onto the glass of the window.
He was working himself up, just like Mr. Stark told him not to. If it was as late as it looked outside, that meant most of everyone would be trying to catch a few hours of sleep. They deserved it.
Especially after everything he put them through.
He needed to do the same. There was no point in causing a scene when clearly, everything was fine.
“I should…” Peter’s knee nearly buckled as he let go of the support from the window, cautiously trying to stand on his own. “I should go back to sle—”
L͔̖̦e̫̙͘͟͠t̩̥ ̴̤̙͓̀u̸̮ͅͅş̧̯̣̜͓ ̸̸̫̣̫̣f̢̰͓r̛̮̼̪͟͞ȩ̢͖̫͈̖͍̹͓̟̀e̪̮̞
Suddenly, Peter’s legs gave out.
"Argh!”
He hit the ground, hard, his knees smacking onto the resin floors with a resounding thud. A second later and his hands did the same thing.
It wasn’t heard. His bones struck the floor but he couldn’t hear it, not over the sound of his guttural breathing; growing hysteric with each inhale that expanded his decaying lungs.
F̵̤̬͢͞r̪̤̦̤̤̠͟e̷̤̙̲è̢̦̺̮̰͈̹
u͚̮͕͚̬̭͈͢͟͡s̲̼̼͈̗̙͡s̡̭̠̹̥͠͝s̛̝͍͍͚̥͘s̫̥͙͍̳͙͢s͏̛̻̠̗̮̤ş̟͙̙̭͖̰͝ͅs҉̱̦ş̝s̢̬̣̻̘ͅs̸̠̙s̡̲̟͠
F̳̳͙̥͉̼r̜̖̩̖͇͢e̹̱̟e̬̠ ͇͎̦̤̞u͉͔̱̦͇̯̭s͉̯͕̕
“Sto— ack!” Peter balled his hands into tight fists, weakly hitting the ground in protest. “Stop!”
A burning, prickling feeling crept into his ear, slithering on the inside where he couldn’t reach it. A wetness that began to coat his eardrums.
Both open palms smacked against each side of his head, smothering down until he swore he’d crush his skull into pieces.
It did nothing to help. The sensation only grew; like his spider-sense, but twisted in its make. Crawling inside his ears with an oily, smoldering flame.
“You’re not real.” The words shook upon exiting his mouth. “You aren’t here. You — you aren’t real.”
P͈͔̗̱͉̥͟e͓̹̳̦̤e̸̙͚̩̹̺͔e͔̗͎̤̜̲̫͜e̡̯̱̜̣̣̲̝ṱ̗̀t͙͈̬̝̥t͓t̹̤̱e͉̜̜͕͉͓r҉̹͙͉r̸̙r͙̻̼͙r̠̣͕̞̘͘r̩͖͇̰r̨̖͔̣
F̵̤̬͢͞r̪̤̦̤̤̠͟e̷̤̙̲è̢̦̺̮̰͈̹ ̢̙̬̠͖ͅu͚̮͕͚̬̭͈͢͟͡s̲̼̼͈̗̙͡s̡̭̠̹̥͠͝s̛̝͍͍͚̥͘s̫̥͙͍̳͙͢s͏̛̻̠̗̮̤ş̟͙̙̭͖̰͝ͅs҉̱̦ş̝s̢̬̣̻̘ͅs̸̠̙s̡̲̟͠
F̶̫̗̤̬̰̞̩̞̯͞r̸̨̭̝͔͕̳̘ͅẹ̞̟̥̬̼̞͙͘͜e̵̢̘̭͓̮
F̶̫̗̤̬̰̞̩̞̯͞r̸̨̭̝͔͕̳̘ͅẹ̞̟̥̬̼̞͙͘͜e̵̢̘̭͓̮
F̶̫̗̤̬̰̞̩̞̯͞r̸̨̭̝͔͕̳̘ͅẹ̞̟̥̬̼̞͙͘͜e̵̢̘̭͓̮
F̶̫̗̤̬̰̞̩̞̯͞r̸̨̭̝͔͕̳̘ͅẹ̞̟̥̬̼̞͙͘͜e̵̢̘̭͓̮ u̸̮ͅͅş̧̯̣̜͓
It was delirium. It had to be. He was hallucinating — wrecked with a fever, delirious off his rocker.
None of this was real. The voices weren’t real.
They couldn’t be.
Peter slowly opened his eyes, gasping for air that barely made its way through a closing windpipe. His hands unclenched and spread across the floor, fingertips pressing against the polished marble and leaving streaks of sweat in its path.
He couldn’t see the frequency mesh. Not before, not now. It was invisible in its make, designed to never be seen.
“It’s still there,” Peter swore to himself. “It can’t come off.”
There was never any static discharge. It never flickered, never fritzed. But they promised him the frequency mesh was there. Even when he panicked, even when he swore there was nothing on him, they promised him it was there.
"It can’t come out.”
They had promised him that as well.
W̫͚͜͟e̴̠̗͝ͅ ̥̭͕̪̮a̷̻̲̗r̭̙̭͙̥̱͟͢e̻̤̪̙̼̻̝̜̕ ̡͙̺̯̪o̰͔̝̥̟̜͓̕ͅn̛̜̝e͎͍͉͇͉̕,͈͔̜͢ ͏̼̱͎̖P̨͚͉͇͢e̶̛̛͇̟͔̱̣t̸̢̥̹͚̞͎̱̬͙ͅe̟̺r̮̳̫͚̟̰̪̕͞
F̷̢̧̧͇͙̜͇̈́̐̀r̸̤̲͗̅͊̈́͑e̴̮͉͔̫͔̰͝e̷̢͕̜͚̋̃̓̽̍̓͊͂̔ ̷̡̢̬̖̙͍͚̯͔̑͒͛̑̀̈̕͝ͅů̸̢̟̟͖̰̾̔́̄̀s̸̢̖̝̗̱͎̦͌̊̊
Peter looked up, craning his head behind him, his forehead wrinkling in a deep crease.
Why did he go to the window in the first place?
W̴̙̹̜̰̗̫͎̜͐͗e̷̘̮̣̤̦̝̭̼̔ ̴̘͆̀̏͑̾ą̶̛̘̻͇̩͉̞̳̊̋̂͌̈̉̽ȑ̷̯̜̲͚̯̦̺̂̓̒̈́͐̚ė̶̡̜̳̺̺͈̩̗̥͙͠ ̸̛̖̹̥͊̆̀̏̄̄̚̕͠ỳ̸̨̮̂͂̌̀̕͝o̶̗̻̱̦͍̯̜̅͂̏̒͘͝͝u̴͈̮͕͋̾
Ẃ̶͎̳̣͔̠̪̗͑̆͛̾̒́́̇e̴̞̱̖̟̅̿͋͂̇̎̄̒͘ ̸̢̨͔̥̗̤̜͍̇͒̏̈́͂̀͋͘̕͜͠c̸̢̝̻͉̩͈̬͚͚̄̀́̃̏͋̄̔̏ͅo̴̟̎̓͒̓͌͐n̷̬͝ẗ̸̬̮̩͙͎̯̠̈́͊̏̀̕ͅṙ̵̨̦͖̖̞̗̘͌̃́̓̏̂̚ö̴͉͓͔̣̩̪͂̎͆̕͜l̸̤̝̩͒ ̴͇̒͊̐ȳ̷͎̱̜͐̄͛̈̔͠o̸̪̝̻̲͓̦̳̰̍́̆͠ͅu̸̱̲͋̓̀͑̚̚
F̷̢̧̧͇͙̜͇̈́̐̀r̸̤̲͗̅͊̈́͑e̴̮͉͔̫͔̰͝e̷̢͕̜͚̋̃̓̽̍̓͊͂̔ ̷̡̢̬̖̙͍͚̯͔̑͒͛̑̀̈̕͝ͅů̸̢̟̟͖̰̾̔́̄̀s
L͔̖̦e̫̙͘͟͠t̩̥ ̴̤̙͓̀u̸̮ͅͅş̧̯̣̜͓ ̸̫̣f̢̰͓r̛̮̼̪͟͞ȩ̢͖̫͈̖͍̹͓̟̀e̪̮̞
W̡̧̟̯̣̣̮̮̤̖̮̹̩̒̀͗ͤ͛͛͛͜͜͞ͅe̡̡̳̭̮̠͓͕͍̥͎̠̙̺̫̞̱̥̘̖ͥ͐̓͢
“Gah-ackKK!”
W̡̧̟̯̣̣̮̮̤̖̮̹̩̒̀͗ͤ͛͛͛͜͜͞ͅe̡̡̳̭̮̠͓͕͍̥͎̠̙̺̫̞̱̥̘̖ͥ͐̓͢
W̡̧̟̯̣̣̮̮̤̖̮̹̩̒̀͗ͤ͛͛͛͜͜͞ͅe̡̡̳̭̮̠͓͕͍̥͎̠̙̺̫̞̱̥̘̖ͥ͐̓͢
L͖E̺̲̖̹̰̞T̶̗̱̥̥̥ͅ ̨͕̺̤͈̙̝U̢͉̝̳̞Ș̸͔̲ ̛̟̱O͔͎̟̹͙U̶͖̜̙̮̬T͍̳̮̞̲̭ͅ
The sound pierced through him, a grating, inharmonious noise that rattled his bones dry.
“My name is Peter Parker. I’m sixteen. I live in Queens. I'm Spider-Man. I'm in control.” Peter grabbed both sides of his head, his face scrunching up in agony. “My n-name is P-peter Parker. I-I'm s-sixte— gah-uhHH!”
The oily, smoldering flame spread from his ears, up through his temples and down along his spine. Scorching his insides with a fire that couldn’t be seen. One that couldn’t be tamed.
Peter grabbed his head tighter, and tighter, and tighter. Until his face went red, bordering on a dark purple that swelled his veins and discolored his skin.
“You don’t contro —!” He gasped, a wetness coating his vocal cords. Peter tried to gulp, only to choke; his throat closing up with a substance he couldn’t swallow past. “You don’t...contro —!”
His lips, once dry and cracked, began to gloss over with moisture. The moon highlighted the liquid that trickled out of his mouth, a dribble of discharge that painted his teeth black.
The flicker of static illuminated the rest.
The window shattered with an explosive scream, sending shards of glass flying through the air.
It was the last thing Peter remembered.
Tony pulled the phone away from his ear, shoving it deep into his back pocket.
“I can’t get ahold of Bruce,” he said, his lips growing painfully thin as he began to pace the bedroom.
He nearly knocked shoulders with Steve as they crossed paths. With a cell phone pressed firmly against his own ear, Steve barely acknowledged the encounter.
“Clint’s not answering either,” he stated, a deep furrow creasing the lines against his forehead.
Still in the doorway, Bucky looked between the two, his eyes bouncing like a ping pong ball as both men paced the bedroom.
“Why not call the punk yourself?” he asked.
Suddenly, Tony stopped in his tracks. His one hand flew to his back pocket, touching the spot where he’d just pocketed away his phone. Almost immediately, his other hand went for his jacket. His face fell flat, and he sighed when his hand grazed the inner pocket.
“I have his phone,” Tony admitted, and not sounding any bit happy about it.
Bucky cocked his head to the side. “Doesn’t sound like you trust him much.”
Tony’s jaw clenched down painfully tight, and he refused to look Bucky’s way as he muttered, “It’s not like that.”
Buck wasn’t fazed. “Then why take it from him in the first place?”
Steve’s eyes flickered to Tony. It was hard not to notice the exhaustion that lined his face; it was obviously starting to weight him down.
He took on the answer for him.
“SHIELD can’t know what’s going on with Peter,” Steve explained, albeit reluctant in his tone. He turned to Bucky, one hand firm on his hip as the other pocketed away his phone. He had called Clint enough times to make a point— hopefully him or Bruce would return their calls. “If they find out, they’ll take him from us. And there’s no telling if they’ll help him or not.”
Bucky’s eyes darted back and forth between Tony and Steve, face blank for a second too long. There was a clear lag as the information began to take form in his head.
He nodded. A single bounce of his head.
“Oh.” It was all he said.
For Tony, it was enough.
“So keep your trap shut, Barnes.” He spun on his heels, a finger so stern in his direction it could’ve been a weapon.
Bucky gave a small, tense shrug, slightly disturbing the shawl on his shoulder. “I don’t care about ‘em.”
It was probably the first honest thing Tony could believe from Barnes. He knew as well as Steve that Bucky had no stake in his involvement with SHIELD, or his forced housing at the compound. Though Tony hadn’t wanted a single thing to do with the man since his arrival — hell, he didn’t even approve his arrival, and he made that very well known to this day — it was obvious that his discontentment for the government agency wasn’t something he planned to hide.
Tony got the reports of the compound activity. ‘Extreme displeasure to work with’ was just one of the many things SHIELD was saying about Bucky.
At the very most, it was a happy medium they could find footing on. Barnes wouldn’t rat them out for taking Peter away from the compound, because Barnes didn’t give two shits about SHIELD and whatever red tape they had wrapped around their throats.
Tony didn’t expect to find relief in that. But he took relief where he could find it.
With enough exhaustion that made him look like a kid falling into a bank of snow, Tony collapsed onto the stripped bed, right when Bucky spoke again.
“How long ago did you say this started?” he asked, sounding a tad bit more curious than before.
Steve arched an eyebrow his way, whereas Tony barely graced him a side-glance.
“Two weeks,” Tony dryly answered, running both hands down the length of his face. He was tempted to grab a pillow and smother his face with it, but when he reached to the head of the bed, he remembered they were all scattered along the floor.
Go figure.
“What is it, Buck?” Steve’s question had Tony looking to the doorway, half his face smothered in the mattress while the other stared Barnes down. “He say something to you?”
Bucky made another face as he scratched at the back of his head, tangles of his shoulder-length hair getting wrapped around his fingers.
“He says a lot,” he repeated, somehow managing to sound a bit overwhelmed with just a few words.
Tony understood.
“I know,” he begrudgingly agreed, sighing. It was a heavy sigh, telling in more ways than one. “You gotta learn to filter his voice, pick and choose what information you obtain. There’s no space for all of it. Hell, not even the kid remembers half of what he says.”
Tony closed his eyes and frowned. What he wouldn’t give to go back in time, when his biggest problem was trying to get Peter to slow down in the midst of his sixth enthusiastic ramble about multimodal biometric systems.
The kid didn’t deserve this. Not any of this. His curiosity may have been the thing that lead him into the predicament, but that didn’t make it his fault.
Tony swore the moment he could get his hands on Osborn's sleezy, dirty neck, he wouldn’t let go until the scum of a billionaire choked on his last breath.
A shuffled noise came from the doorway as Bucky tossed the core of his apple into the nearest waste bin, the fruit hitting the rim before falling inside. The trashcan was empty; the contents once inside had been dumped out onto the floor
“It was something about school,” Bucky mentioned, the lines on his face tightening in thought. “The girl who lives here — the redhead, that young one. Sorta got an accent. She had just brought him back.”
Just like that, Tony shot up from the bed.
“Back from where?” he asked, planting both feet on the ground and nearly skyrocketing upright.
Bucky shrugged. Tony was getting real tired of seeing him shrug.
“Studying, from the sounds of it,” Bucky guessed. “Had books with him. Talked about his grades a lot. That sorta stuff.”
Steve was at Tony’s side in an instant.
“You don’t think —”
“No, couldn’t be,” Tony seemed to be on the same wavelength, so infallible with his answer that it nearly struck Steve off his feet. “That was a Monday. Peter’s only been here on the weekends.”
Steve cocked his head to the side. “Are you sure?”
Tony looked over at him, stone-cold sober with exhaustion that sank deep in his bones.
“The day he went into OsCorp was the day he removed his panic watch. It sent off an alarm with a date and a time and vital signs that are still stored in my data banks.” There was an emphasis in Tony’s voice, striking each word crystal clear against any doubt that may have lingered. “That was a Monday.”
“This was a Saturday,” Bucky mentioned, completely obviously to whatever the two squabbled on about. He nodded his head far too casually for the mood. “I ‘member, cause he kept talking about needing a new backpack in time for school. Apparently you buy those for him.”
Bucky’s face morphed into one of confusion as he turned to look at Tony, eyeing the man up and down like there was something he didn’t quite understand about him.
“But you’re not his pops — told him that didn’t make sense.”
Tony opted out of a menacing glower, instead rolling his eyes in an efficient way that Barnes could notice.
“Cause I’m not,” he stressed.
Bucky rolled his eyes right back at him. “Coulda fooled me.”
Steve stepped between them — not as a mediator, rather out of growing curiosity.
“Did he tell you where he was coming from?” Steve asked.
Tony shook his head, already moving past Steve and half way out the door.
“We’ll ask Wanda —”
Steve stopped him with a firm grip to his forearm. “We can know now.”
Tony grimaced, staring Steve down and looking every bit like he wanted to argue. Though he shook off Steve’s grip, his feet remained planted to the ground.
Eventually, he turned to Bucky. They both did.
There was a moment of silence. Thick and encompassing, and making every beat of Tony’s heart all the harder in his chest.
Finally, Bucky shrugged. And seemed sorry about it.
“Don’t remember the guys name,” he admitted. “Just know it was some rich persons place and he used to be friends with the kid helping him study.”
Tony wasn’t given the chance to feel his heart explode underneath his rib-cage.
The vibration of his cell phone came first.
His hands flew to his back pocket, ripping out the cell phone at a speed that almost didn’t seem possible.
“Banner!” Tony was almost positive he was speaking before he’d even answered the call. “Where are —”
“Tony, hold on! We have a problem!”
The voice came through loudly from the other end, immediately interrupting Tony’s hysteria with its own.
Steve took a few steps forward, listening intently even as the call came through on speaker.
Bucky stayed parked in the doorway, though his ears noticeably paid attention to what he heard. The line between his eyebrows deepened in a way that expressed more than just casual interest.
“Yeah, we sure do,” Tony was quick to throw back, an exaggerated hand gesture speaking to his frustration. “Someone find Peter, now. No, actually, make it yesterday —”
“Tony, listen —!”
“And for the love of all that’s holy, turn up your damn cell volume so that when I’m calling, you answer. This isn’t some ‘what do you want me to pick up while I’m in town’ kinda call, this is —!”
“Tony! Stop—!”
“News flash, Big Green,” he was on a roll. Scratch that, he was a boulder rolling down a steep hill with no end in sight. “Turns out the kid’s a walking time bomb at night. Full blown bedtime terror. If someone doesn’t get to him soon —”
“Tony! That’s...that’s — that’s the thing — listen to me!”
Bruce’s exasperation was palpable, louder than the background noise Tony had only now noticed coming from the speaker of his cell.
It sounded far too close to chaos for his liking.
“We kinda…”
Bruce cleared his throat. And again. And the chaos in the background got louder.
“We, uh…we…lost Peter.”
Tony’s brows skyrocketed into his hairline.
“As in —?”
“He’s not, uh… here. Anymore.”
Bruce admitted, each word he spoke sounding as if it pulled teeth straight from his mouth. He went quiet, his voice almost inaudible.
“He’s gone. Escaped.”
Tony paused; unable to formulate a response even as the silence took over.
For a fleeting moment, he swore his hearing went out. If he didn’t know better, his ear drums had failed him completely.
Through the phone, Bruce had followed suit. Neither spoke. What noise hadn’t been swallowed up in current of chaos from Bruce’s end had certainly been taken victim to the amplifying rage that blinded Tony with a searing red.
Only, the shake in his hands had betrayed him.
It was too soft for anger. Too uncontrollable for frustration.
It was fear.
Tony didn’t grace Bruce with a goodbye. He immediately ended the phone call.
Not a second later, he looked to Steve. A wordless expression — asking for approval.
Even with their differences, even with the load of burdens on their back, they both could manage to remain speechless and understand one another.
Time, and many missions under their belt, had endued them with that form of communication.
Steve nodded his head, quick to catch onto the unspoken. “How many —?”
“Everyone,” Tony hastily answered, looking him head-on. “I’ll contact Rhodey, you grab Sam and Natasha. We need to leave here with all the arms we can get.”
In the doorway, Bucky’s eyes drifted between the two. He remained otherwise quiet.
Steve furrowed his brows. “Vision?”
Tony curtly shook his head. “Can’t risk it. We’ve seen what it does to technology. Peter’s suit, my suit, the Quinjet — Visions too much of an enigma.”
“So is the symbiote,” Steve countered.
Tony’s jaw tensed. “There’s no telling if it’ll affect him or not. Or how. He stays out, period.”
A second that dragged on seemed to splinter Steve’s composure. He looked away, hands firm on his hips and a crease digging deep between his brows.
“Shuri warned us that the next emergence will build its strength. There’s no telling how strong the symbiote will be this time.” A sigh nearly broke through his mouth. The frown plastered across his face kept it restrained. Steve somberly looked to Tony. “We’re gunna need all hands on deck.”
A pin could have dropped, and it would have sounded like a bomb. The type Tony remembered all too fondly exploding in his face, with his own name attached to the metal soon to be embedded into his heart.
The only thing worse than a dozen pieces of shrapnel lodging into his chest was the next thought that crossed his mind.
He very, very, very much didn’t care for the next thought that crossed his mind.
“Goddamn—” Tony bit back the curse, briefly looking to the ceiling and willing whatever God that may exist to stop it.
Just...stop.
When a minute passed and his problems hadn’t magically gone away, he found himself looking to the doorway — as reluctantly as he possibly could.
“You heard the man, Barnes.”
If Steve had whipped his head around any faster, it would’ve flown right off his shoulders. Any other day, Tony would’ve found the look comical.
Unfortunately for him, he was preoccupied wondering just how much further his rock bottom could get.
“Tony, what —?” Steve stepped closer, but didn’t get far.
“Where’s your arm?” Tony was hard on ignoring Steve, opting instead to arch an eyebrow as he looked Bucky up and down. Noticeably lingering on on one spot in particular.
From where he stood, Bucky frowned, giving a half-shrug that was noticeably on the side of his body not vacant of a limb.
“Right here.” If he could’ve pointed to his arm, he would’ve. Instead, he let the sarcasm do the job for him.
Tony tossed him an unimpressed glare, and left it at that.
“Tony,” Steve’s eyes widened as he realized exactly what implications were taking place. “You can’t be serious —”
Tony clapped his hands together, interrupting Steve and thankfully his own derailing thoughts at the same time.
“No rest for the wicked, old geezer,” Tony’s answer was instant. And firm. Yet he hesitated, as if ready to go back on his decision at any second.
He looked to his wrist — the briefest glance he could give the device — and his lips went thin. There wasn’t time to dwell.
“Meet us at the Quinjet in fifteen.” Tony made long, quick strides out of the bedroom. Passing Bucky on his way. He stopped short only to eye the empty space covered by a shawl. “And don’t forget your other half.”
By the time Tony hurried out, Steve was still standing speechless. He wanted to say something — it was obvious in the way he looked, a struggle to get the words in his head past his lips.
Bucky didn’t wait around for him.
Steve wasn’t too sure what he would’ve said, anyway.
Letting out a deep sigh, one that heaved his entire back upwards, Steve gave one last look around. He was the last to leave the bedroom, and too distracted to notice his boots stepping onto the multiple Lego pieces as he made his way out.
Cold dew covered the grass, wetting Peter’s bare feet with each step he took. His legs moved vacuously, each step pounding against the ground, smothering the spaces between his toes with the soil of the land.
The further he went, the more trees that enveloped him. The jungle’s entrance almost too dark to see, barely taking light from the city that now stood far off in the distance.
Still, he kept moving.
Ẃ̶͎̳̣͔̠̪̗͑̆͛̾̒́́̇e̴̞̱̖̟̅̿͋͂̇̎̄̒͘ ̸̢̨͔̥̗̤̜͍̇͒̏̈́͂̀͋͘̕͜͠c̸̢̝̻͉̩͈̬͚͚̄̀́̃̏͋̄̔̏ͅo̴̟̎̓͒̓͌͐n̷̬͝ẗ̸̬̮̩͙͎̯̠̈́͊̏̀̕ͅṙ̵̨̦͖̖̞̗̘͌̃́̓̏̂̚ö̴͉͓͔̣̩̪͂̎͆̕͜l̸̤̝̩͒ ̴͇̒͊̐ȳ̷͎̱̜͐̄͛̈̔͠o̸̪̝̻̲͓̦̳̰̍́̆͠ͅu
Ẃ̶͎̳̣͔̠̪̗͑̆͛̾̒́́̇e̴̞̱̖̟̅̿͋͂̇̎̄̒͘ ̸̢̨͔̥̗̤̜͍̇͒̏̈́͂̀͋͘̕͜͠A͉̰̭͈̲͞R̵E͖̣̪̗͚
̴͇̒͊̐ȳ̷͎̱̜͐̄͛̈̔͠o̸̪̝̻̲͓̦̳̰̍́̆͠ͅu
W̬̞Ḙ̯̗̮̣̞̥ ̤̘͠A̶R̝̤̙̫͈̮ͅE̬̥̟̳ ̖̯͖O͚̯̬͕͔͉͎N̟̣̜̤̤̮E̳̙̣
The feel of the night wind was like a breath on his body, brushing against his skin in gusts that almost matched his breathing. Heavy, but controlled.
Steady, but labored.
Peter gasped, just as his hand shot out to the nearest thing in reach. The jagged feel of tree bark pressed into his palm as he leaned against the trunk for support. The rough edges of timber could’ve sliced his skin open, and he wouldn’t have known any different.
He was to move.
And keep moving.
That’s all he knew mattered.
It was too dark to see the insects that scattered away at his presence. Bugs of all kind dispersed in a panic, clearing away in a hurry.
Even had Peter been percipient of his surroundings, he still wouldn’t have caught the sight. The moon was hidden by the jungles thick wilderness, hiding even the sludge that bled continuously from his eyes. Leaking like tears from pupils too large to be human.
But it was too dark to see even that.
His hand grabbed the tree, chipping away bark as his fingernails splintered the wood in half.
A sharp inhale pulled his shoulders back, containing as much dew as the ground below him. Peter’s mouth dropped open, fighting for air that wouldn’t fill his lungs. Not even the strong Wakanda wind could break through the grease that drowned inside of him.
As Peter fought to breathe, a creature began to slither down towards him. The oil across its exotic skin glinted not much different than the grease slipping down Peter’s face. It moved in gliding motions, dancing across the tree as it made its descent.
The snake stopped short of touching Peter’s neck, its head noticeably reaching out further than its body. Fangs emerged with a hiss that followed. A hunger it vocalized, and a wrath it wasn’t afraid to show.
It lunged forward for a bite.
Tendrils of black got there first.
The snake barely had time to release a cry, its final sound of death severed into silence as the symbiote consumed it whole.
Peter remained unaware. With what strength his body could manage, he pushed himself away from the tree, and kept moving.
Further into the jungle.
