First Impressions

First Impressions

Whumptober, Day 1 (Waking up restrained; shackled)

AO3 Link

“Hey, what are you--- wait, leave him alone---”

Peter was stirred into a thready consciousness by his spider sense flaring at the back of his neck seconds before the water was dumped over him: ice cold, shocking, and a hell of a wakeup call.

He jolted upright, skin freezing over, eyes snapping open, wrists pulling forward only to be stopped by a pair of thick cuffs that kept his arms up over his head. Peter jerked his head up, breathing raggedly as icy water dripped down his face, ran down his eyes and nose and lips. The frigid water that now drenched him from his head down had chased away any lasting drowsiness and now all there was was panic, tightening in his chest as he watched the man in front of him set down a wet metal bucket and then crouch down in front of him so they were nearly eye to eye.

“Sleep good?” the man asked gruffly, a sinister grin twisting on his face.

Peter got the feeling he didn’t actually care, so he pressed his lips together and glanced around, eyes immediately locking on a flash of motion on the other side of the room--- a boy chained to a radiator across the room, barely visible just beyond the man’s shoulder. Peter’s gaze shifted. He caught a short glimpse of the molding, decrepit basement he was in --- cracked concrete floors and walls, wooden rafters running across an unfinished ceiling, stone stairs to his left leading up to a plain door, a singular lightbulb dangling from the ceiling and casting muted light across the room --- before the man’s hand shot forward, gripping Peter’s chin and forcing their eyes to meet. His wicked grin had dropped into a scowl.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the man said curtly, squeezing Peter’s jaw one last time before letting it and grabbing something off the floor. He raised something and Peter tried to flinch back, pressing his back against the wall he was sitting up against. “Smile.”

Peter squinted against the water dripping into his eyes and the camera flash that popped against his vision, almost blinding him. The man lowered the camera and stood, heading for the stairs Peter had noticed earlier.

“What the hell do you want?” Peter asked, voice more gravelly than he intended. The man’s laughter followed him out the door, which he shut and locked behind him.

“What a dick.”

Peter turned his head, wincing when brilliant pain struck his skull like an ice pick being shoved through it. He squeezed his eyes shut and held his head still, waiting for the pain to stop before he opened them again. When he did, he followed the voice. With the man gone, Peter could clearly see the other captive: a teenage boy with sandy brown hair who was across the room with his hands chained to a radiator in front of him --- in front of him, not above his head like Peter’s hands were.

He looked Peter’s age and ordinary enough, but ordinary tended to stop applying to people who were kidnapped.

“What happened? Where are we?” The questions were out of his mouth as soon as he was done inspecting the room for answers. His gaze caught a small window the size of a textbook above the other boy’s head, but he dismissed it quickly. It wasn’t big enough to climb through --- for either of them to. A thought occurred to him and he paused. “Wait --- who are you?”

His head was starting to throb even worse. The boy pursed his lips, eyes narrowing in what might have been distrust before his face cleared of doubt. “Harley. And I don’t know where we are.”

A southern-sounding accent and Peter was suddenly left wondering if he was still in New York.

“What happened to me?” Peter repeated, swallowing in a poor effort to try to make his mouth less dry. He tentatively looked up, wincing again, and shook his cuffed arms, which were looped around another close-ended pipe jutting out the wall. “Or us, I guess.”

Harley tilted his head, eyebrows drawn together. It was when the light hit the side of his face that Peter noticed the darkening bruises around Harley’s eyes and over his cheek.

“They knocked you out. I thought they killed you,” Harley said, and he would have managed to look kind of calm if Peter didn’t see his hands shaking. “Do you remember?”

Peter licked his lips, the cold on his skin increasing --- and not just because of the dread swelling in his chest. He was sure he could break the cuffs above his head if he tried, but he wasn’t sure about Harley and whether or not he was trustworthy, even if they were sort of in this together. He also wasn’t sure why he was here in the first place --- or why an important chunk of his memories seemed to have been erased.

“You don’t remember that, do you?”

Harley was perceptive and when Peter glanced up at him, shifting to try and bring some feeling back into his shoulders, his face was dark.

“No,” Peter said quietly. “Uh, I remember I was leaving my house and, uh... “ Peter chewed his lip in thought before giving in. “Then nothing.”

He took a second to focus and listen for anything upstairs. It was almost silent, and the only heartbeats he could hear were his and Harley’s. The man who had been here before had left, and if Harley’s information was reliable --- which it probably was --- then so had whoever else had taken them. Peter heard Harley sigh and looked back up.

Harley leaned against the radiator he was chained to, looking tired. “They took us --- me first but eventually we stopped in front of a street and they dragged you in too.” He straightened a bit. “You’re Peter, right?”

Peter was too tired to figure out how he knew that. He nodded.

“Right,” Harley said, shifting and bumping his cuffs against the radiator hard enough that it made a small sound. “I almost thought you were going to get away but then one of them hit you with a crowbar or something and you dropped.”

“Huh,” Peter said, arms twitching as he tried to bring them down to gauge the injury on his head. He suddenly remembered why he had been out and about --- where he had been going. Stark Tower, to get his head stitched up by an actual medical professional instead of in his low-lighted bathroom by himself. The people who had assailed him weren’t the only criminals to get the drop on him that evening. “That explains the headache.”

Harley barked out a low laugh. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got more than a headache, Peter. I’m surprised you’re even awake right now.”

Peter hummed a quiet affirmation, swallowing again because his mouth was dry and he was thirsty. He was starting to wish he’d come to his senses earlier --- maybe then he could have tried to get some water out of their captors.

Well, he reminded himself bitterly as he started to shiver, they had given him water. Too much.

“So, Peter,” Harley spoke again as Peter gingerly tilted his head back and looked at the barren ceiling. “How do you know Tony Stark?”

Peter snapped his head down so quick he almost gave himself whiplash on top of the pain that lashed through his skull which he promptly ignored. “ What ?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Harley answered. “Ransom.”

Peter was still tripped up and felt himself start to stumble over his own words. “They want--- How do you know Tony Stark?”

“I asked you first.”

Peter mulled over that before deciding to go with the truth. If Peter was going to break them out of there --- and he still wasn’t sure if it was better to do that or wait for the cavalry --- they needed to trust each other. A small portion of the truth couldn’t hurt.

“I’m his intern,” Peter said truthfully, not pulling away from Harley’s scrutinous gaze.

He was telling the truth. Technically, Mr. Stark had made Peter his intern after the whole Vulture incident. It took a while, but they were there now.

“His intern?” Harley asked disbelievingly, and Peter squinted at him. “Not his kid or something?”

“Just his intern,” Peter said stiffly. “What about you then?”

Harley looked at him before the scrutiny dropped. He shrugged, a small motion, and rattled his cuffs again. “We’re connected.”

When Peter shot a dubious look his way, Harley cleared his throat and said, “I met him once. Threatened him with a potato gun too. But I think I made up for it by saving his life, so.” Peter raised an eyebrow as Harley leaned back against the wall. “I was actually on my way to meet him when this happened.” He raised his cuffs an inch as if Peter didn’t know what “this” meant --- not that Peter was focused. His mind was moving a mile a minute, trying to decipher what was going on.

He opened his mouth to say something and closed it --- head hurting again --- before finally saying, “You saved his--- wait." It clicked. "You are potato gun kid?”

“Potato Gun what?”

“Mr. Stark said---”

Peter cut off abruptly  when he heard a door slam somewhere above them, then footsteps thumping against carpet. His skin crawled and he shot a glance at Harley, who was instantly more awake.

“What? What is it?”

The other boy got up on his knees as much as his bindings allowed and looked up towards the staircase where Peter moved his gaze too.

“They’re back,” Peter said quietly, because he definitely heard two sets of footsteps. “I can hear them.”

Harley had gone quiet, not questioning Peter for a second, which made him relieved. Maybe he could leave this situation with his secret identity unscathed --- or maybe Mr. Stark would show up first, which would be exponentially better. Even if Harley did know Tony, Peter wasn’t sure how much trust he could or should put in a boy he’d just met.

“Okay,” Harley breathed. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said, because he didn’t. “Do what they want, I guess.”

It was a terrible idea but until Peter could think of something better, it was all they had --- and Harley wasn’t coming up with anything either, though his face was creased with thought.

“You know,” Harley began under his breath. They had both wordlessly gotten quieter. “This was my first week in New York. ‘S pretty shitty.”

Peter breathed out a soft laugh, even though nothing was really funny. “That sucks, man. If it makes you feel any better, Iron Man is almost certainly on his way right now.”

Harley’s eyes swung to his. “You think so?”

I know so, Peter wanted to say, but he had to face the fact that unless their captor had immediately sent the ransom demand --- which he sorely doubted --- Mr. Stark didn’t even know Peter had been on the way to the tower, so it was really up to how fast May noticed that Peter wasn’t checking in after patrol. He cursed himself for not telling her where he was going either.

“My shoulders are killing me,” Peter mumbled.

Harley glanced from Peter’s face up to his cuffed hands, which were surely bruised and raw around his wrists if the pain was anything to go by. It wasn’t like the rest of Peter was in better shape. Harley didn’t need to spell out that Peter had fought hard for Peter to feel exactly how hard he’d fought.

“Maybe they’ll let you loose,” Harley said quickly as Peter heard footsteps approaching the top of the stairs. “Ask them to go to the bathroom.”

Peter didn’t say anything, concentrating hard on the noises upstairs. He’d thought they were coming his way but they’d stopped. Peter almost jumped when they started yelling:

“What the hell are we supposed to do now, huh? I thought you said he was going to accept the damn ransom!”

“He was!” retorted someone, but they sounded unsure. Peter recognized his voice: the guy who had taken his picture. “And he will! Besides, it’s only been a few hours. We can make Stark stew --- just give it time.”

“Time? Really, Carter? How much more time? And who the hell are these kids anyway? Why would he care?”

“For one, he’s a superhero for crying out loud. He saves people. But I showed you the files. One of them’s his intern,” Carter replied. “But they’re both on his private server in encrypted folders. And the Parker kid’s been seen hanging around him more than a few times. They’re comfortable together. That’s way more than an internship, I’m telling you. I promise it’s the break we were looking for.”

The other man paused, probably mulling it over, and Carter pushed on, “Listen to me, James. This is it.” He let out a hysterical laugh. “We’re gonna be rich, man!”

James let out a hot breath. “Yeah, okay. I trust you.”

“You trust my hacking ---”

“Whatever,” James shot back. There was silence and Peter thought they were done before James continued, “What’s our next step, then?”

Carter didn’t hesitate. “Leave ‘em down there. We can take a video tomorrow and the worse they look the better. Stark will pay up.”

James laughed. “He better. That island is not going to buy itself.”

Peter tuned out after that, sagging against the wall again. They seemed like they were safe --- for now. He glanced back at Harley, who was watching him. Peter caught a short glimpse of his face: head tilted, eyes curious, before the lights went out. The darkness further confirmed that he wouldn’t be seeing James or Carter until the next day. Why else enclose them in shadow? He was glad for the window above Harley though, even if it wasn’t a means for escape. It let a small patch of moonlight onto the concrete floor, and let him tell the time, at least somewhat.

“I don’t think they’re going to bother us until tomorrow,” Peter said. Harley stared at him for a beat before settling down too. Peter felt a sort of kinship spark in his chest. At least now he knew they were surely in this together --- and Harley was Potato Gun Kid, so if push came to shove, he could lose his qualms about Harley knowing --- not that Mr. Stark didn’t have ways of making people forget.

“We should probably get some sleep,” Peter added tiredly, sitting up despite his dimming awareness. “I can wake you if something happens.”

“This isn’t like the movies, Peter,” Harley said, but he looked tired too. “You don’t have to stay up. If shit is going to happen, it’ll happen.”

“It could be like the movies,” Peter offered, trying to sound more in control than he was. “Besides, I don’t know if I’ll be able to fall asleep with my arms like this.”

Harley’s face dropped and he made a movement forward that was quickly aborted when his cuffs were pulled. Peter could tell he wanted to say something but there was nothing to say. Harley looked at him one last time before angling his body against the radiator and trying to get comfortable up against it.

“So much for going to the bathroom,” Harley mumbled, and when it went silent, Peter was acutely aware that he didn’t want Harley to stop talking.

The quiet felt too real, too unnerving. And Peter liked Harley’s voice, he realized. Maybe him and Harley could be friends, when they got out of the dingy basement and preferably to the luxurious Medbay in Stark Tower. Or to a restaurant --- either would be superb.

Peter listened quietly in the darkness. It was cold, in the basement, as if the lights going off had sucked out the miniscule amount of warmth there was. Or maybe that had been the water. Peter was still soaked, and now he was shivering as he waited for Harley to fall asleep. Eventually, he did: Peter heard his heartbeat steadily fall into a calmer, steadier rhythm and his breaths even out. Still, Peter waited until he was sure that the other boy was completely out before letting his walls drop. Then, he let out a hitched breath and hunched forward, trying to breathe through the inferno that was consuming his skull.

He could feel the differences in injuries. The blow from the crowbar was on a whole other plane from the half-healed cut below it --- something that felt like it had happened years ago. It was like his head had a heartbeat of its own, the way it pounded.

Peter was stuck. He didn’t want to stay in this basement any longer than he had to, but revealing himself to a kind of-stranger --- a circumstantial acquaintance --- plus two petty criminals seemed like too big of a risk to take, and not just for himself. What if Harley got hurt in the crossfire of whatever fight inevitably broke out?

Peter had to think. Mulling in the darkness was a start, but his mind was sloppy because of the cold and the head trauma. He needed to come up with a plan that would get them both out --- one that had zero chance of failure. He could imagine what would befall Harley or even himself if he messed up.

He groaned quietly and leaned back against the wall. He was still freezing, and shivers wracked his body. After a moment, he made one decision.

He needed to heal up before he did anything, at least a little bit. Maybe bring the pain in his head down from agonizing to bearable. Then he would figure out something to do. Maybe between now and morning, he’d know. Maybe between now and morning, Mr. Stark would have tracked him down.

For the next few hours, Peter dozed. It wasn’t quite sleep, but it allowed his healing factor to get a crack at the concussion. Sure enough, when Harley finally stirred in the earliest hours of the morning --- if the patch of gray-blue sky visible through the miniscule window was any indication --- his head felt somewhat better.

“Peter,” Harley whispered in the near darkness.

Peter’s eyes flitted up from his lap to Harley’s. “I’m awake.”

“Still?”

Peter shrugged --- barely visible. Harley shifted on the floor.

“My legs are numb.”

“Same.”

“Shouldn’t you try to sleep?”

“Maybe.”

Harley groaned softly across the room. “Are you always so cryptic?”

“No, just when I get kidnapped,” Peter deadpanned.

Harley cracked a smile. “You’re horrible.”

“Thanks.”

Silence fell, besides their breathing. Peter knew James and Carter were still upstairs; he could hear them sleeping and hoped they wouldn’t wake up soon. He still needed time. Time to come up with a plan since Mr. Stark hadn’t found them. Peter had total faith that if Mr. Stark did know where he was, he’d have already been here.

They were on their own.

“Harley,” Peter said after a while, when the men upstairs started to stir. “When they come down here, I need you to stay quiet. Don’t draw attention to yourself. I have an idea.”

Harley straightened. “Care to share it with the class?”

“No,” Peter said, rolling his wrists in a poor attempt to restore some feeling to them. “Just trust me.”

“ Or you can trust me and we can figure out something together,” Harley shot back quietly. “Because I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself, but you look horrible.”

“I’m fine.”

Harley scoffed. “And I’m a city boy.”

Peter scrunched his face. “Where are you from again?”

Harley looked surprised by the sudden change of conversation but answered anyway. “Tennessee. I’m guessing you’re from New York, then?”

“Yeah. Queens.”

“Hm.”

Silence again, until Peter heard voices upstairs. He listened carefully, trying not to let anything play out on his face.

“Is the camera set up?”

“Ready to livestream once we bring ‘im up here.”

“Come on then.”

Footsteps, approaching the top of the staircase. Peter tuned out.

“Harley?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember what I said about being quiet?”

“Remember what I said about not caring?”

“I’m serious---”

“Peter, we’re in this together---”

“Harley, just--- listen to me, okay? They’re coming.”

Harley’s face grew grim, maybe a little confused on top of that, but Peter continued flexing his hands, rolling his wrists, stretching arms: trying to get into fighting shape. Well, he wasn’t going to fight just yet. Not until and unless he needed to.

The lock slid against the door, and if Harley wasn’t convinced that Peter was right, he was then. The door opened and Peter felt his blood rush --- warming him --- and his heartbeat jump --- revving up. He’d heard what the men had said before the lights had gone off a few hours ago: hopefully, they'd put more of their stakes in the “Parker kid,” which was Peter.

All he’d have to do was get them alone and take them out --- two quick punches which would be like cutting butter for Peter, even in his less-than-ideal condition. Harley wouldn’t have to know --- and he surely wouldn’t be in harm's way.

Peter recognized Carter first: the man who’d taken his picture. James must be the other guy, hanging back towards the staircase. Peter assessed their faces, burned them into his memory just in case he needed to pick them out of lineup later. Though for the way that Mr. Stark moved in these situations, he doubted he’d need to, but it was a necessary precaution.

Carter was clearly the one in control --- and he looked it too. He was imposing, tall and bulky, with a mean face like smashed in bulldog. Peter knew that somewhere behind the demeanor though was a functioning brain; you didn’t get into Tony Stark’s personal servers without one, even if he’d barely breached them. James was tall, too, but lanky, jittery. He hung back towards the stairs but not in a way to suggest he couldn’t wrestle down an average teenage boy.

Luckily, Peter wasn’t one. He’d faced bigger and badder and had spent too much time in the dirty basement thank you very much. He strained his wrists, barely moving. He didn’t want to break the cuffs until they were secluded, but it was a small relief to know that he could.

“Keener,” Carter said, a wicked smile on his face. “You’re up first.”

For a moment, Peter’s brain short-circuited at the startled look on Harley’s face. His eyes shot to Peter, panic lit up in them, and Peter finally realized what Carter had meant by “Keener.” Or rather, who.

“Wait,” Peter said, stumbling over a leaden tongue as Carter kicked Harley’s legs aside and grabbed the boy by his hair. “Get the hell off him.”

Carter’s flinty eyes flitted over to Peter, who was leaning forward as much as he could, dread scooping out his chest like pumpkin guts. James was already kneeling down Harley’s cuffs, preparing to drag him away, while Carter gripped Harley’s shoulder with one hand and Harley’s hair with the other, holding him in place.

“Shut it, Parker,” Carter snapped without turning, and Peter bit his tongue hard in anger. “Keener, up.”

Harley’s cuffs were undone and despite the way he thrashed and swore blue murder, the boy was dragged up onto his feet. Peter had two cards to play, so he blurted out the first thing that came to my mind, suddenly uncaring of the pain in his head or the sinister look that never really left Carter’s face or the way that Harley flashed him an angry, disbelieving look.

“He won’t get you anything!” Peter yelled. “Not like I will! Take me and I’ll get you whatever you want.”

Carter froze, James froze, everything froze. The petty irritation drawn on Carter’s face was washed away by greedy hunger. Harley’s eyes were wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Peter could almost hear him saying What are you doing? as Carter tilted to his head hungrily, casting a knowing glance at his partner.

It’s a good thing Harley didn’t actually ask him that; Peter couldn’t have answered. But now that he had their attention, it was too late to back out. He’d have to figure something else out.

“Care to elaborate?” Carter asked lowly, gripping Harley’s hair tighter and pulling his head back: an unspoken threat. Harley was seething, jaw clenched and posture stiff between the two men holding him up. Carter shoved Harley back into James’ arms, eyeing Peter darkly. “Speak, Parker.” Peter swallowed, eyes flicking between Carter and Harley.

“Put him down and I’ll talk.”

Carter’s jaw twitched, and he cast his partner a glance before nodding his chin curtly towards the radiator. Harley’s resistance to both James getting him back down by the radiator and Peter’s plan was evident, but futile. Carter was already moving and in seconds, Harley was cuffed again and staring at Peter hopelessly.

Peter ignored the way his neck prickled when Carter walked forward: slowly, like a tiger stalking up to its prey. He crouched down, even slower, before his hand shot out, gripping Peter’s chin --- pressing the rest of his hand against Peter’s neck hard --- and roughly jerking his face upward.

“I don’t think you realize how this works,” Carter said, taking time to drag out his words as if Peter wasn’t beyond caring. He had two things in mind: get himself out of the room, then get them both out of this place.

“I call the shots around here,” Carter said gruffly, holding Peter’s face and using his other hand to snake up Peter’s neck, into his hair. Peter only sat stiffly, unwilling to give in. “And you listen, understand?” When Peter remained stoic, Carter gripped his hair like he’d done Harley’s. “Last chance to answer me.”

Peter shot a glance over Carter’s shoulder, towards Harley. He flicked his gaze back to Carter in time to see a muscle under his eye jump. Then, in the space of a breath, and in a motion that Peter might not have been able to dodge even he wanted, Carter stood and slammed his knee directly into Peter’s face, pulling Peter’s head down by his hair in the process.

Harley’s shout was lost in the ringing of his ears that followed the sound of Peter’s nose snapping, sending blood down his face and onto his shirt.

Peter didn’t have a chance to really recover his bearings when his collar was getting seized and his bleary-eyed, bloody face was being pulled upwards. Carter twisted his bloody shirt in his fists. Peter stared up at him, breathing hard through his mouth.

“Now,” Carter said, lips twisting upwards. “Either you can finish what you were saying earlier, or we bring the other boy up to make a fun video for your boss. You pick.”

It wasn’t much of a choice in Peter’s eyes. He scowled.

“I’m the one you want,” he reiterated, breaths harsh. “Harley has been in New York for a few days. I’ve spent every weekend at the Avengers Compound for six months. Believe me, I have the bigger price tag.”

He was bluffing, because he had no idea how well Mr. Stark had kept in contact with Harley after the potato gun/Mandarin incident that he had told Peter the tiniest bit about, but Carter didn’t call him on it --- not that Peter gave him much of a chance.

He pressed on. “I’ll do whatever you want, say whatever you want. Let me prove it to you. Just leave him out of it.”

Carter shook his head amusedly and stepped back. “You really think you’re the hero, don’t you?” Peter didn’t dignify him with a response, because he’d gotten what he’d wanted --- both of them had. “James, help me bring up.”

Peter stayed still as James pulled a keyring out of his pocket. With both of them standing above him, he couldn’t see his arms or them unlocking them, but he immediately felt the tension dissipate when his bindings were pulled away.

Peter let out a choppy sigh of relief that was short-lived when he was tossed forward instead of hoisted upwards. His arm felt like it was filled with TV static --- he couldn’t catch himself, could only brace himself as he hit the ground on his stomach and was nudged by a booted foot onto his back.

“Change of plans,” Carter said from above, grinning down. “I think we need to roughen you up a bit first. Make sure you’re camera ready.”

Peter didn’t know what his reaction was, but it was swiftly replaced with one of pain and shock as a foot caught his ribcage, then the side of his face, then his stomach. Harley was yelling again, and Peter was losing the will to go along with it. But almost as quickly as the barrage of blows began it was over.

Peter was left gasping wildly on the floor while James grabbed his limp arms and cuffed them in front of him. His everything ached, and when they hoisted him up, he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something stupid.

They dragged him between them towards the stairs, and Peter rolled his head to the side in time to see Harley’s face before he was taken upstairs, the door slamming shut behind him.

Peter wasted no time --- the vigilante in him bucking to life. The second the door was shut, he snapped his cuffs like it was toilet paper around his wrists and not steel, then whipped around to deliver a knockout blow to James, who grunted out a choked gasp of surprise before his eyes slipped shut.

Carter managed to react quick enough to pull out something black and shiny that Peter realized was a handgun at the last second; the bullet sank into the wall above Peter’s shoulder and Peter kicked the offending weapon out of the guy’s hand. Carter was clearly outraged. He lunged forward like a maniac, managing to tackle Peter into something large and wooden --- a bookcase Peter was pretty sure; he couldn’t really see where he was --- both of them tripping over James, slumped on the floor. They hit the bookcase and rolled onto crusty carpe; Peter noticed it was an ugly shade of burnt orange that even Aunt May couldn’t find character in as he got to his feet, shaking out his arms. Peter spat blood out of his mouth and this time, Carter was the one beneath him, looking up as Peter grabbed the man’s black jacket collar and yanked him up directly into his fist: effectively knocking his lights out.

It was almost worth the wait.

Peter doubled over to catch his breath, more worn out than he’d been since he had to run a mile in gym with his asthma --- pre-bite. It was Harley’s screaming that drew him upright, faint behind the thick door. He must have heard the commotion and probably thought the worst.

Peter staggered over to the door, one hand clutching his ribs --- one of which was definitely broken --- and cracked it open, calling, “One second!”

Carter didn’t stir as Peter rolled him onto his side and rifled through his pockets until he was able to produce the same ring of keys and a phone: a burner at that. Peter shoved it in his pocket and limped back over to the door atop the staircase.

Harley watched him with wide, wild eyes as Peter made his way down the stairs and towards him, key ring in hand. Peter thought Harley would be attacking him with questions --- that’s what Peter would have done anyway --- but instead he watched unblinkingly as Peter unlocked the cuffs, watched them drop onto the floor with a metal clatter, and watched Peter kick them away.

“Sorry,” Peter breathed, extending a hand and pulling Harley to his feet. “I should have---”

Harley was colliding with Peter in an instant, and before Peter could blink he was wrapping his arms around him tightly in a panicked hug --- body shaking, even. Peter hesitated before returning it, leaning his head against the top of Harley’s shoulder as his adrenaline started to crash. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, and the plethora of injuries all rendering to his nerves at once certainly wasn’t helping.

Harley pulled away first, but his hands were still gripping Peter’s upper arms tightly. “I thought you were dead, Jesus. You’re crazy, you know that? You and Tony must get along swell.”

He stepped back and scrubbed a hand through his hair, glancing away. Peter cracked a tired grin and produced the burner phone from his pocket victoriously.

“Maybe you’re right,” Peter said as Harley pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes. “But at least I got this. Help will be here before we know it.”

Harley looked up and couldn’t resist grinning, tired as it may be. He flicked his eyes towards the staircase. “You, uh, took care of them right?” Peter nodded slowly and Harley managed to look a little pale despite his country tan. “Right, well, I am not going to ask. Not yet, at least,” he added with a pointed look at Peter, who looked down, stomach rolling at the idea of another person knowing who he was. Maybe he’d tell Harley, but the uncertainty was there, and he doubted the nerves would leave until he left the house. “You think they have food up there?”

“Probably.”

A trip up the staircase later, Harley cast a satisfied look at James' and Carter’s unmoving --- but definitely living --- forms as they entered the stomach of the house, which turned out to be a cabin. Peter managed to keep himself upright until they got to the living room. Even though the thought of food made their stomachs growl, the thought of staying there a second longer repulsed both of them, so they stumbled out onto the porch, inhaling deeply and casting shaky smiles each other’s way.

Peter ended up sitting on the front steps, carefully lowering himself down as to not further aggravate his injuries, while Harley all but collapsed onto the porch swing, which creaked obnoxiously in the gusty wind.

“Did ya call him?” Harley asked from behind him.

“I texted him,” Peter responded tiredly, before propping his arms onto his knees and laying his head on his arms. He was freezing but it wasn’t cold enough to make going back inside the cabin worth it. He wished he had a jacket --- or even a flannel. Harley had both but Peter wouldn’t take it from him anyways. The phone made a sound; Peter's eye skimmed over Tony's response. It felt like a balloon full of tension was popped in his chest. Peter relaxed, casting a hopeful glance at Harley.

“He’s coming.”

---

Tony wildly grabbed at his phone as it went off four times --- no seven --- times in a row. His heart dropped as he fumbled to unlock it, mind racing as he thought above what the hell it could be. Another ransom picture? Or worse, some sort of video like they’d threatened?

He opened the attachment first, brain short-circuiting at the sight of the blurry selfie of Peter --- Jesus was that blood? --- and Harley laying down on a porch swing in the background. If the picture didn’t mean that Tony was having some sort of stroke or mild heart attack, the six texts from Peter certainly confirmed that he was losing his mind (or maybe that was the lack of sleep and sustainable food):

Hey Mr. Stark it’s Peter can you come get us

It’s Peter here is the address:

Also please bring food we are okay but we're starving

Also Harley might have guessed I’m Spider-Man he looked suspicious

Thank you

:)

===

Thank you so much for reading my official debut into Whumptober (2020 or otherwise). Because of outside preoccupations, I will probably take more than a month to get this all done but I fully intend to do so. Hope to see you on the ride!

Happy FFWF!!! What’s your all time favorite fic that you’ve written? What about it make it your favorite?

Happy FFWF! My favorite fic that I’ve written has to be Hold Onto Me (I’m a Little Unsteady) and I think it’s my favorite because a) I love the “Peter comes back after Endgame and doubts himself trope” and because I genuinely had so much fun writing it.

But my fic for the PJO fandom “Out of Mind, Out of Control” has to be close second just because I wrote what I wanted to see and I find myself going back to read it again just because I can’t quite find one that checks all my boxes. Probably the only reason I didn’t put it first is because this is mainly an Irondad blog :)

To everyone who sent me the asks and for who tagged me in tag games, I will reply when I get back from camping. Happy Friday :D

Keep It Undercover

Whumptober, Day 3 (Manhandled, Held at Gunpoint, Forced to Their Knees)

AO3 Link

“Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Peter glanced up, careful not to move his head while Natasha brushed some sort of contouring powder on his nose. “I am. I have to be.”

Natasha clicked her tongue. “Hold still.”

Peter had moved without realizing it. He straightened his head, keeping it still while his eyes moved down to watch Natasha’s face wrinkle with concentration as she blended the makeup against his face. Peter had only worn makeup a few times, when MJ wanted to practice eyeshadow on him. Once as a dare, he’d let her do his whole face (not that it had taken much convincing; Ned liked to laugh about how malleable Peter could be when it came to MJ.)

“You know what you have to say?”

“Mhm.”

“Tell me again,” Natasha ordered, pulling her brush away and staring him down.

Peter resisted the urge to sigh --- knowing that with Tony’s life on the line, they couldn’t be too careful.

“I’m a buyer from Manhattan. Zach Angelo. Nineteen.”

The real Zach Angelo had been detained by Steve earlier. Peter would be going in his stead, and the makeup was to make him look older. With limited resources, Peter hoped it would be enough. Luckily, the underground alien-weapon industry tended to be more on the anonymous side.

“What do you have to do?”

“Meet with the handler,” Peter answered robotically. “He will take me inside, and I will plant the flash drive to disable the security on the outside.”

Not for the first time, Peter wished that Tony was there. Not only did he always have a wealth of tech that was perpetually useful, especially considering that Peter, Nat, Steve, and Sam had next to nothing helpful, but the thought of Tony being held captive in a shady weapon warehouse while being subjected to God-knows- what made Peter sick to his stomach. 

They’d targeted Tony on purpose. That was the worst part. They’d needed a genius, an expert weaponeer, a Merchant of Death, and they’d gotten it --- it hadn’t mattered that Tony had left his old weapons industry far, far behind him. The mission had turned into an ambush, and despite the panic that had clawed him up from the inside out, despite the surge of strength and adrenaline that had gotten Peter most of the way across the makeshift battlefield, Peter hadn’t gotten there in time. They’d taken Tony and Peter had been left behind with the others, helpless.

Peter still couldn’t look at Steve without feeling a flash of anger. Steve had been the one to tackle Peter down and drag him away --- kicking and flailing and screaming himself hoarse. And if Tony didn’t make it out of this…. Peter didn’t think he’d ever forgive Steve for that.

Peter blinked when Natasha prodded his side with the end of a makeup brush. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Natasha eyed him expectantly. He flushed.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Then what?” Natasha prompted.

“I keep them distracted. Keep the eyes on me while you guys slip in.” Natasha tilted her head and he amended himself. “Keep myself safe, while the eyes are on me.”

He took a deep breath before continuing, “Locate Tony if I can. Let you guys know through the comms.”

“Last step.”

“If things go to shit, get myself out.”

Natasha squinted at him. “I can hear the hesitancy in your voice.”

Peter’s eyes flicked between Sam and Natasha before he sighed, looking down at the threadbare couch in the apartment they’d “rented” and picking at the loose threads. “I don’t know how I can leave him there.”

Natasha stood up, wincing a little and hands twitching towards her ribcage. Peter could see the edge of a bandage peeking out from underneath her tank top --- evidence of the nasty hit she’d taken right before things had gone to complete crap. 

Despite the undertone of pain on her face, Natasha’s eyes were hard when she said, “Peter, you and both know that Tony would not want you in there with him.”

“I know---”

“And I’m making sure,” she said. “Walking into this, you are expendable, get that? Tony is the one they want alive. If you get caught, you’re done.”

Peter was opening his mouth before his danger sense could warn him bad idea ahead. “You don’t know that.”

Natasha’s eyes flashed. “If you aren’t going to listen, then we figure out another plan.” Peter would have thought she was being a little too harsh if she had not added, eyes determined. “I am not sending you into that facility to die. That is my one condition, understand?”

“I understand.”

Natasha’s eyes softened and her shoulders slumped. “Thank you.” She glanced at Sam, who straightened, then back to Peter, who was on his feet in an instant. “Go change. We leave in ten.”

-+-

Peter stuck his hands in the pockets of the leather jacket he’d had to borrow from Sam, fingers twisting around the flash drive stitched into the inside of his left pocket and the quarter-sized communications unit stitched into his right. His enhanced hearing meant he didn’t need the comms to be next to his ear, and he could still talk to Natasha and Sam and Steve if he figured something out, or if things got dicey.

The weapons facility was nothing more than a few warehouses bunched together and fenced in by barbed wire that wouldn’t stop any determined person with a bolt cutter or a disregard for their personal health. So no --- the barbed wire wouldn’t stop anyone. That was what the cameras rigged to lasers were for.

The facility was also on the docks of the harbor. Peter could hear waves rushing like the blood in his ears and particularly large ones smashing against rocks. The air was damp and salty. Peter got the vague feeling that he was in a bad movie. Except these guys were way more prepared than any villain Peter had ever seen in an action movie. Alien tech was a real piece of work.

When Peter was almost near the entrance, he slowed down. Kept his gait loose, and casual, if not a tiny bit tense to compensate for the fact that he was theoretically making a highly illegal weapons deal. 

Peter winced when he triggered the lights --- they were a blinding yellow that had Peter throwing his arm up to shield his eyes. Natasha had already made one thing clear: let the handlers come to him.

A few seconds later, two men did, emerging from behind large wooden crates stacked in front of the facility. Peter tracked their predatory movements towards him carefully. He worked with criminals enough on the daily to notice the almost imperceptible bumps in their dark clothes --- disguised weapons that Peter didn’t want to end up on the wrong end of.

With the lights in his eyes, Peter couldn’t see their faces, which was surely their intent. One stepped forward, a little taller, a little bigger than the other. He cocked his head.

“It’s a little late for people to be hanging around here,” the thug spoke carefully.

Peter straightened. “I think I took a wrong turn on Angel Street. Any way you can help me out?”

For a moment, Peter was worried that somehow, the passphrase he’d overheard when they’d staked out the building earlier that day was wrong. The thugs shared a look and Peter subtly braced himself, ready to run or fight if it came down to it.

But his hearing hadn’t failed him. The thugs relaxed. The one who’d spoken earlier stepped forward and patted Peter’s upper arm, keeping a grip on it that Peter thought was probably supposed to come off as casual but Peter knew to be threatening. 

“Zachariah,” the man breathed, both of them flanking him and leading him towards the gates. Peter spotted movement around them: men with glowing purple guns that had Peter’s spider sense flaring dully. “I’m Darrell. This is my buddy Jones. We’ll get you set up.”

Thank you, is what Peter would have said ordinarily. But there were different rules here --- rules that Peter was too afraid to break. “Let’s keep this quick.”

Darrell laughed harshly. “Fuentes pretty much operates on his own schedule, but we’ll see what we can do.”

Peter nodded stiffly, coming to a halt at the same time that Darrell and Jones did. Darrell dug into his pocket with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Peter’s bicep. Peter eyed him sideways, tensing a little, but Darrell only pulled out a small remote with a glowing teal core and aimed it at the gate in front of them.

Peter kept his surprise at bay as the edges of the fence lit up before swinging open. Darrell pocketed the remote and they kept going. Peter couldn’t resist eyeing him and saying, “Nice tech.”

Darrell shrugged. “This ain’t the half of it.”

Peter believed it, but before he could take another step forward, Jones’ arm shot out and hit his chest. Peter whipped his head around as Jones tilted his head dangerously.

“The bag,” Jones explained. “We’ll have to search it. And you.”

Right. The backpack Peter had also borrowed from Sam. He shrugged it off into Jones’ hands, watching with what he hoped was a neutral or even bored expression. Jones eyed him suspiciously.

“Want to tell me what’s in here first? Feels kinda heavy.”

Peter smiled coolly. “See for yourself.”

Jones narrowed his eyes but unzipped it, reached in, and went slack jawed at the contents: bundles upon bundles of cash, neatly labeled. So much of it that even Peter had not seen so much physical money until Natasha had presented it to him. He couldn’t exactly pose as a weapons buyer if he didn’t have any cash. Luckily, it was all fake --- but really, really good fakes. At least good enough to last while he was inside.

Darrell whistled appreciatively. “Somebody’s come prepared.”

“I’ve been looking forward to this deal,” Peter responded with an uncomfortably mean glint in his eye. “Now if I could see that until later…?”

Jones reluctantly handed it back to him and continued the search --- Peter could tell it was a lot less strict. Money talks, as Mr. Stark sometimes said. When they were satisfied, they resumed their walk inside.

They passed more men who eyed them curiously as Darrell and Jones led Peter to the biggest warehouse. 

Peter didn’t know what he was expecting when he walked inside, but it wasn’t this: a massive room with shelved walls --- as high as the ceiling --- packed full of tech. Large tables and engineering equipment filled most of the space --- Peter could see people in protective masks hunched over the tables, sparks flying around them as they welded together pieces of steel and chunks of salvaged Chitauri parts. Peter was startled to see that at least of the workers were barely older than he was. Peter wondered how the hell they'd gotten themselves wrapped up in this.

“This way,” Jones muttered for the first time, grabbing Peter’s elbow and pulling him past rows of tables that he had to force himself to look away from. “Boss is dealing with a new… employee if you will.”

Him and Darrell laughed harshly, as Peter’s mind raced, linking the possibility that they might have been talking about Tony, who had to be somewhere past the winding hallways up ahead.

Peter wished he could crane his head around the hallways and check. Or better yet, get somewhere quiet and listen. 

“ Peter, ” he heard Natasha hiss from the comms in his pocket. “ Don’t do anything stupid. Stick with the plan. ”

But his mouth was already opening as he whipped his head around to face Darrell. “Do you guys have a bathroom anywhere?”

Darrell’s face went slack. He glanced at Jones, who tightened his grip on Peter’s arm. Peter forced a nonchalant smile.

“If you don’t that’s fine,” he said quickly, heart pounding. “It’s just been a long drive down here, you know?”

Darrell squinted and Peter thought his heart might explode at that point. “I guess we can take you to the bathroom before you see ‘im. Lucky you asked us, though. Fuentes is not as patient, especially with new clients. I guess you know that, though, since he’s your cousin.”

Peter almost choked and for the first time, he was struck with real panic that he desperately snuffed out before it could play on his face. Inside, his mind was reeling. He hadn’t overheard that they were cousins --- he was screwed. Fuentes was going to call him out as soon as he saw him, and most likely, he’d kill him if Peter couldn’t think up a good reason for being there. But now, he was insanely glad that he’d asked for a detour. He furiously hoped he could come up with a new plan, maybe even sneak away and break Tony out himself, but Jones and Darrell were watching him and he couldn’t afford to gain any of their suspicion before he met the actual boss guy.

Maybe if he was lucky, he and Fuentes --- the head of operations, apparently --- were really, really estranged cousins.

Even Peter wasn’t naive enough to think that his Parker Luck would let that happen.

They veered left, down a hallway that had been partially obscured by shelves the same height as the ceiling --- which was at least forty feet tall. Peter almost winced when he saw the poster of Spider-Man halfway down the hallway: pinned to a dartboard and full of puncture holes.

“Not a fan?” Peter asked lightly before he could stop himself. 

Darrell glanced where Peter had been looking without slowing down and scoffed. “You could say that.”

Jones cast a dark look Peter’s way. “I’d kill him if I ever got the chance.”

Fun, Peter thought to himself as they finally reached a set of doors.

“Same,” he managed weakly.

Darrell laughed. “You’re a funny guy, Angelo.”

Nothing about this is funny. 

Peter was pretty sure he was well and truly screwed when they finally rounded the corner and were met with a wider hallway with labeled bathrooms. He almost cried when he saw that it wasn’t just Darrell and Jones in the hallway. A decent amount of people were lingering in this hallway, which smelled like cigarette smoke.

Jones gestured to the bathroom up ahead. “We’ll wait for you out here.”

Peter slipped the backpack off his shoulders and leaned it besides the door --- a peace offering, or maybe some fake insurance so that Darrell and Jones wouldn’t suspect him of doing anything fishy (which, to be fair, he was about to try to do.)

“Thanks, man,” Peter said with a tight smile, fingers brushing against the silver knob.

Think. Figure something out.

Peter’s mind remained tantalizing blank of ideas. How was he supposed to slip away when he was surrounded by people? He never had a chance to open the door. Right as his fingers were curling around the handle, shouts broke out a few yards away. Peter turned his head in sync with Jones and Darrell, just in time to see the fight break out.

“Holy shit,” Peter said without thinking as two guys basically mauled each other. 

Darrell and Jones weren’t making a move to intervene --- until one of the guys pulled out a silver gun, clearly of alien descendancy, and fired it.

Screams went up then from the small crowd gathered around. Purple light blasted everywhere, and the lights went out in the room, bathing them in pitch darkness. Peter watched as glow in the dark, neon purple acid crawled across the floor, dissolving it.

He glanced at Darrell, whose face he couldn’t see enough to read but was stanley rigider than before. “Is that normal?”

“No,” they both breathed, and when the fight continued --- blasts of purple lights creating a headache-inducing strobe light (and distracting ) display, and Darrell and Jones both ran towards it with a thrown back, “Stay here,” Peter made his move.

He wouldn’t have done it if the lights weren’t down but they were and this was his only chance --- Peter sprinted down a hallway, narrating what he was doing in quiet breaths to Natasha and the others.

Peter didn’t know where he was going, but he followed the sound of what he was pretty sure was computer fans and monitors whirring and didn’t stop until he was in front of a door labelled SECURITY.

Peter didn’t waste one second, he threw it open and was immensely grateful he didn’t have to knock anyone out. The room was empty of life, was basically wallpapered in screens and tech, but Peter’s eyes spotted a small warning screen that read: Restoring lights. 45 seconds… 44 seconds…

He fumbled for the flash drive in his pocket, ripping the false pocket seam open, and shoving the thing into the first drive slot he saw on the main monitor. He waited five seconds before Nat yelled through the comms, “ We’re in! Get the hell out of there. ”

Peter spun around on his heel and booked it for the room he was in before, heart pounding at this point. He tried to keep a mental countdown in his head and started to panic when he realized that he might not make it back to where he was --- that everything might be ruined then and there --- but he made it. Barely.

When the lights came back on, and the two guys were ripped away from each other with exhausted curses from the other bystanders, Darrell and Jones were just then loping up towards Peter, who was standing in front of the bathroom door with the backpack thrown over his shoulder and a pained smile on his face.

“All done,” Peter said. “Where to next?”

“Here should be fine,” Jones answered, walking Peter back towards the crowd, which was rapidly dispersing. “Boss is already on his way over. He doesn’t tolerate workers using his tech to fight.”

Peter blanched. “Understandable. And where---”

“Jones,” a commanding voice said from in front of them, a man emerging through the remainder of the crowd that wordlessly parted before him, then stopped to observe the interaction that Peter was rapidly starting to be afraid of. “Darrell. Mickey said you were with my cousin.”

Fuentes not only managed to be physically imposing, but everything about him took up space, even in the wide, airy hallway intersection. Maybe it had something to do with his Armani suit, like something Tony would wear if he shopped at Italian Mobster21. His flinty eyes glided right over Peter, not stopping --- like he didn’t recognize him. Peter bit his tongue hard. He didn’t know what to do.

Fuentes’s eyes drifted back to Peter, head tilting dangerously. The man glanced at his lackeys, nodding his head towards Peter between them. “Who is that?”

“Peter, can you get out of there?” Natasha was wasting her breath --- Peter was stuck.

Bile climbed up Peter’s throat as Darrell shot Peter, then his boss, a confused look. 

“This is Zach Angelo, sir.”

Fuentes laughed --- cold and dangerous as his fingers drifted towards his waistband. “Is that who he said he was?”

Peter blinked and there was a gun aimed at his face. He swallowed, brain short-circuiting. Fuentes’s finger twitched towards the trigger.

“I’ll ask you this one time,” Fuentes said slowly. “And I want the truth before I blast your head open. Who the hell are you?”

Peter’s heart dropped.

-+-

Tony had to admit: a makeshift cell in a cheesy warehouse was not where he had planned to spend his evening. It was stuffy and rank and barren and borderline hypothermia-inducing, but unfortunately, Tony had seen worse, and the weapons dealers who had taken him probably knew that. 

The demands he’d been given were clear, the threats even more so, so Tony had done a good job of looking busy outwardly while inside his mind spun, ranging from thoughts of rescue to how the hell do I keep stalling ?

At least he knew that rescue was coming. He may not be so confident if it had just been the others, but Tony knew damn well that with Peter involved, it was only a matter of time. He only hoped that it was soon.

Three sharp raps sounded against the six inch thick steel door. Tony looked up and groaned, dropping his pencil sloppily on the table pushed sloppily against the left side of the room. He had to say that the fake sketches he was coming up with, and the equations he’d scribbled around them, were pretty impressive --- but he didn’t want to test their patience anymore than he needed to (they’d already shown him what they were capable of after he had pushed them too far in the first few hours, and Tony now had a mosaic of bruises on his chest and arms that proved it.)

“I’m going,” Tony droned, glaring at the door. “It’s not my fault you gave me a shitty inventory to---”

He straightened and stopped when he heard the sound of the lock scraping as it was pulled back. The door cracked open, and a guard entered, gun brandished and aimed at Tony’s chest: Tony who quickly put his hands up and stepped back.

“What’s the problem?” he asked quickly, glancing between the black barrel and the plethora of sketches scattered on the table to his left.

“Back against the wall,” the guard ordered, and the mean expression and twitchy trigger finger didn’t give Tony much room to do anything but comply. He moved to the center of the room and backed up until his back was against the wall.

Tony had thought that he’d come to check in on how the sketches were doing, but instead of seizing the blueprints Tony had drawn up, the guard simply kept his gun aimed at Tony, expression cool. 

“Is this some sort of fear tactic?” Tony drawled, unimpressed. “Because if I am being honest---”

“Quiet, Stark,” the guard snapped, glancing between Tony and the door, still ajar. Tony would be a liar if he said he wasn't considering making a run for it. Eyes still on Tony, the guard reached one hand up towards his ear piece and spoke into the activated mic. “Stark is contained. Bring him in.”

Tony’s eyebrows drew together in confusion, but before he could even make an attempt at figuring out what the guy was talking about, the answer was dragged into the room between two guards.

Tony’s heart stopped. 

No no no no no. Not the kid --- anybody but the kid. How the hell did they get him?

The two guards that dragged Peter into the room had him by his hair and his arms, which were cuffed behind his back. Peter was weakly trying to pull free of their grip, face white with fear and dark with fresh, darkening bruises, and Tony couldn’t tell whether or not Peter was meaning to hold back.

For a split second as Peter was manhandled through the doorway, their eyes met. Peter’s eyes were wide and panicked, and a thrill of fear went down Tony’s spine. Clearly, Peter had not intended to end up with Tony. As it was, Tony stood stock still as Peter was shoved down onto his knees. There were two men holding him, and as Tony watched, one of them grabbed Peter’s hair, twisted his hand to get a painful-looking grip on Peter’s curls, and forced his head to stay down. Peter glared at the floor, breathing hard. If Tony had been in his suit, there was no doubt that he would have lit the two men up right then and there.

But he wasn’t in his suit; he didn’t have any of his tech. He was in a cell in the middle of a high tech, fully equipped weapons facility and now Peter was there. Peter who he couldn’t protect --- not really.

He’d have to play things differently.

Tony tore his eyes away from Peter as Fuentes strolled in --- his suit still a disgrace and his mobster haircut looking more gelled up than the last time Tony had seen the man  --- a cold smile twitching on his lips.

Tony eyed Fuentes coolly --- it was all he could do to pretend that his chest was not collapsing in on itself. “What’s going?” He eyed Peter with a carefully constructed air of disinterest. “Who is this?”

Peter tried to look up, but his head was shoved down again. He heard Peter let out a harsh breath.

Fuentes raised an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely towards Peter with a black handgun. “You don’t know?”

Tony squinted at Peter like he was thinking before glancing back at Fuentes. “I can’t say that I do.”

Fuentes cocked his head. “That’s funny. Because he said he knows you, Stark.”

A muscle in Tony’s jaw twitched. “Maybe he’s a fan.”

“Very funny, Stark,” Fuentes said. When Tony didn’t say anything, Fuentes sighed. “Well, if that’s the case, the boy has no use to me anymore, does he?” 

Before Tony could process what that meant, Fuentes crossed behind Peter and leveled his handgun to the back of Peter’s head.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, bottom lip trembling, and Tony’s breath hitched.

“Wait.”

Fuentes raised an eyebrow. “Got something to say, Stark?”

“You got me,” Tony said raggedly. “I lied, okay? Of course I know the kid. He’s my intern, so--- so don’t shoot him. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Fuentes’ eyes sparkled and he finally lowered his gun. “Now that’s what I like to hear.” He glanced at Peter, who was breathing shallowly and not daring to look up and then back to Tony, eyes hard. “I want those blueprints, Stark. And I imagine you don’t want me to see me put a bullet into the kid’s head.”

“Obviously not,” Tony grit out, clenching his fists so hard he thought he might break a knuckle.

“Then I suppose we’d better come to a compromise, shouldn’t we?”

Tony didn’t say anything --- he didn’t need to. Of course he would --- he would do anything for Peter, and that was probably why Peter was in front of him, alive and definitely hurt if the fresh bruises on his face were any indication, instead of dead for being caught sneaking into the weapons facility --- however the hell the kid had done it.

“I’m going to need a response, Stark,” Fuentes droned boredly. 

When Tony hesitated, Fuentes’ eyes flashed. Tony flinched at the gunshot that followed --- he hadn’t even see Fuentes move his gun --- and Tony’s heart almost ripped free of his ribcage at the bullet that embedded itself in the wall five inches above Peter’s head.

“Jesus fuck , okay!” Tony yelled, eyes wide with horror. Peter was squirming even more now. “I’ll do it, I already said that.” 

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Fuentes said with a smirk. He glanced at Peter who, as soon as he caught Fuentes’ gaze, glared at him. “Release him, but keep the cuffs.”

Tony eyed Fuentes narrowly, but Fuentes only shrugged. The other men obliged, stepping back with their hands dropping to their sides. When Peter took too long to stand up, Fuentes grabbed his hair, hauled him up, and basically tossed him towards Tony, who grit his teeth and gripped Peter’s arm to stabilize him.

“I’d advise you not to waste any more of my time,” Fuentes said as his guards filed out before him. “You have four hours. If you’re not done, the kid dies.”

Tony nodded curtly. Fuentes grinned before slamming the door shut behind him. The lock slid back into place from the outside.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter panted, voice shaky. “Are you okay?”

Tony swung around, heart jumping as Peter clutched his side, wobbling on his feet. “Peter. Kid. Talk to me, what’s going on?”

In reply, Peter weakly peeled back one side of his jacket, and Tony swore at the sight of the large dark wet spot staining his side. Blood. He hadn’t seen it against the black of the leather jacket but now he did and his heart palpitated. Peter was shivering, and Tony was quick to do what he could.

“Come on,” Tony said, voice strained, offering his arm out. “Let’s have you sit down.”

Peter nodded gratefully as Tony led him to the only other piece of furniture in the cell besides the table: a gray, threadbare twin mattress shoved in the corner. Tony helped Peter sit with his back against the wall before inspecting the wound.

“What happened?”

Peter grimaced. “Fuentes shot me. It’s just a graze, and it’s already healing it just--- ah --- hurts.”

Tony squeezed his hand but they both knew there was nothing they could do. Peter looked like he was telling the truth for once. “Where are the others?”

Peter cracked a grin. “On their way in, hopefully. Nat sent me in to plant a flash drive---” Tony’s heartbeat and his eyebrows rocketed upwards but Peter saw the look on his face and explained, “It was the only way. After you, uh, after you were taken, we had to go back to this dingy apartment and figure something out. We staked out the building and overheard someone talking about a buyer around my age that would be showing up tonight, so I pretended to be him so they would let me in---”

“Kid, hold on,” Tony said, eyes flicking up towards the ceiling where he had spotted the almost imperceptible cameras within five minutes of being tossed into his cell.

Peter followed his gaze sharply. “The cameras are down, Mr. Stark. I did plant the flash drive. We can talk.”

Tony’s mind was whirling. He could barely comprehend the idea that Peter --- his, his kid, basically --- had willingly entered this hellish facility to save him. Tony never would have allowed it, considering that Peter getting hurt was up there with his top five most frequent nightmares, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t a little proud, even if Peter had gotten hurt in the process.

“How’d you run into Fuentes?” Tony found himself asking.

Peter winced. “Yeah, so apparently the guy I was masquerading as was Fuentes’ cousin.” At the look on Mr. Stark’s face, Peter barked out a rough laugh. “Yeah, not my best moment. But I got the drive in and I’m with you, so…”

Tony’s eyes flicked down to Peter’s side. Peter noticed and bit his lip, shifting a little. “The guy’s a maniac, Mr. Stark, you had to have seen it in him. They were beating me up a little---” Peter glanced at Tony’s face and hurried on, “Fuentes pulled a gun out and kind of shot me---” Tony felt sick again at that thought but Peter somehow managed to ramble even faster. “--- Which you don’t even have to worry about because it’s fine even though it hurts like a um, a chic ---”

“I know you swear, Peter, I’ve heard you on the phone with Ted---”

“Only the good bad words, Mr. Stark,” Peter interjected quickly. “And it’s Ned. Anyways, I figured I could either, a) reveal my identity and get out---”

“I almost rather you would have done that,” Tony muttered under his breath.

Peter shook his head. “Uh, no you wouldn’t. They had a dartboard with Spider-Man’s face on it, Mr. Stark. I’m pretty sure I would have actually died if they figured me out.”

Tony vaguely wondered if Peter was aware that he had just set the record for how many mini heart attacks he could give Tony in five minutes. He didn’t seem aware.

“Or b),” Peter finished. “Offer myself up as leverage and see if they’d take me to you.” Peter looked up and managed a tired grin. “And here I am.”

And here you are.

Tony nodded thoughtfully, glancing towards the door and then at the table. His fake blueprints were rolled up on the steel surface. Tony would make sure that they couldn’t even hope to salvage those when he was done with the warehouse.

“There’s a lot of young people here, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, digging into his jacket pocket. Tony heard a faint ripping sound and tilted his head. “They were just building the weapons, I don’t--- they weren’t--- weren’t like Toomes.”

Tony didn’t know if he believed Peter completely, considering the kid always managed to see the best he could in people, but as long as Fuentes and the specific thugs who had hurt Peter were among the ones who were either imprisoned or slightly maimed, then Tony would make sure that they achieved some sort of reform or better option.

“ETA on rescue?” Tony asked, after the silence between them had grown comfortable and long. 

Peter pulled from his pocket a small black object the size of a quarter and held it up. “Nat says in thirty minutes.” Peter squinted and tilted his head like he was listening to something before glancing back at Tony. “Uh, actually maybe closer to an hour.”

Tony scrunched up his face. “An hour? We working with amateurs here?”

Peter laughed and passed Tony the comms. “I’m pretty sure she’s getting S.H.I.E.L.D or the FBI down here, Mr. Stark. It’s a big facility. But you can talk to her.”

Tony faux-begrudgingly took the tiny device and placed it in his ear. “Agent Romanoff.”

“ It’s nice to hear your voice, Tony,” Natasha said. “ How’re you hanging in there?”

“Poorly,” Tony said deadpan, glancing at Peter and watching him slip off his jacket. Tony scrunched his face and mouthed, What are you doing ?

Peter held up his jacket, balled it up, layed down, and used the thing for a makeshift pillow. “‘m taking a nap, Mr. Stark. It’s been a long day.”

Tony blinked, watching Peter genuinely get himself comfy stretched across the gross mattress. He had to admit that the kid made a pretty peaceful sleeper, and at least if he was sleeping, that was less gray hairs he’d be giving Tony in the next hour.

“ Is he seriously sleeping ?”

Tony shrugged, leaning against the wall by Peter’s legs and finally relaxing. He trusted Natasha to work things out from her side and he was glad to finally have something to do besides look busy. 

“What can I say? He’s had a long day.”

Happy FFWF! What's a snippet of your writing you're proud of and why? (Link the fic it's from if you'd like!)

Happy FFWF! A snippet of my writing that I am proud of is from Hold Onto Me (I’m a Little Unsteady) and it is as follows:

There was a beat of silence, and unexpected anger was rising in both of them. Tony because he was tired of seeing Peter deteriorate, and Peter because… well Peter didn’t really know. But he didn’t want to breach this right now. He didn’t want Tony to push him into saying something he shouldn’t. He felt like he was standing at a precipice high above an abyss, and he could either step back and give in to what Tony wanted by telling him everything that was going on --- everything that Peter was feeling --- or he could stay in place and let the ledge crumble beneath him.

It isn’t super deep or mind-blowing but whenever I go back and read that fic, it just sort of reminds me how much better my writing has become --- not to mention that I am a sucker for metaphors (even my own.) Thank you for the ask!

Happy FFWF! Do you share your writing online? (if so, share the link to it!) Do you have projects you’ve kept just for yourself?

Yes I do share my writing online! Here is my archive: ... and if you’re seeing this you’re on my Tumblr! And a lot of my writing, like 80% of the writing I do probably, I keep to myself. Either because it’s just an unfinished drabble or I just like reading a certain HC or maybe it’s just a fic that I want to develop into a multi-chapter someday when I have free time, I have loads of notes in my notes app on my phone and some tangible notebooks tucked away. Thanks for the ask sorry it’s late (camping.) I’ll be sure to send you at least one this Friday :D