Chapter Text
It’s with a long sigh that Peter lands on the roof of an empty, half-renovated house—crossing his arms and quietly watching the two thieves across the street as he considers his options.
Part of him knows he shouldn’t bother. After all, they’re only trying—and failing, by the looks of it—to break into an ATM outside a closed gas station. Besides, May told him just weeks ago that he wasn’t allowed to break his curfew anymore for non-violent crimes after that frankly humiliating Bronx Zoo incident with the giant prickle of porcupines and a radicalized wannabe-PETA group. Peter and his aunt had both been up past dawn carefully tweezing quills out of his suit and skin, and May Parker laying down the law following an impromptu all-nighter of playing nurse is not someone you want to trifle with.
So yeah, he probably should go home. But it’s not like it’s out of his way, and webbing them up and having Karen call 311 to give the cops a heads up will take two minutes, tops, right?
“Piece of cake,” Peter murmurs to himself as he silently lands behind the two criminals, ignoring the reply in his head of famous last words that sounds suspiciously like a certain snarky, goateed billionaire he knows.
The thieves both have their backs to him, seemingly arguing between themselves about how to best get cash out of the ATM—one of them clumsily trying to rock it back and forth as if that will make it magically dispense money—and Peter can’t help but stand there for a few moments, watching bemusedly.
“Did you two do any research before coming out here?” he finally asks, causing the two dudes—both dressed head to toe in black—to jump and twist to face him. “This is honestly just kinda sad.”
Both of the guys have their black ski masks folded up over their foreheads—another tally mark in the category for really bad at this whole criminal thing, if you ask Peter—and the look of surprise on their faces couldn’t be more comical. On their identical faces, as it turns out.
“Oh wow, are you guys twins?” Peter asks, perking up. “Is this, like, the family business? No offense but you might want to find new careers”—he motions to the very-much-still-intact ATM—“’cause I don’t think either of you are cut out for this one.”
“Spider-Man,” the twin on the left sneers as both of them lunge for Peter. They don’t get very far however, as with another long sigh Peter lazily flings out a pair of net webs, pinning the two thieves to the pavement.
“Well, Tweedles, it’s been fun but I gotta jet, got an early day tomorrow,” he says to the two of them as they squirm, giving them a mock salute before turning around.
He aims an arm out, and is about to swing away when he feels a sudden heat at his back. Brow furrowing under his mask, he turns around just in time to see the twin on the left suddenly burst into flames, the intense heat melting Peter’s webs at the same time the twin on the right does the exact opposite—body turning pale blue as ice forms on the webbing over him, freezing it until it shatters into a million pieces.
“Gotta say, I didn’t see that one coming,” Peter admits, slightly impressed as the twins get back to their feet, still respectively flamey and blue. “Do you guys have like, a shared villain name? Because this display definitely calls for a shared villain name.”
Ice shoots out of Blue’s palms at the same time Flamey lets extra sparks fly. In unison they shout: “FREEZER BURN!”
“Freezer…. Burn….” Peter dumbly repeats, only to burst into sputtering laughter—leaning over and letting his hands rest on his knees as he guffaws for a few more moments before glancing back up at them. “I don’t even know what to say… you guys are a little confused, but you got the spirit, I guess?” He forces himself to sober up as he straightens. “But seriously, I really do need to get home soon. Do you mind just like, waiting for the cops here? Pretty please?”
He barely dodges the fireball aimed straight at his head. “Hey! That was totally uncalled for, man!”
It’s followed up by a volley of ice spears, Peter swinging up onto the large canopy over the gas station fueling area and just barely managing to avoid being skewered—feeling a searing heat on his side as another fireball rakes across his hip just before he disappears out of view.
“Okay Karen, you got any ideas on how to subdue these guys that’s not webbing them up?” he asks his AI as he dodges both the flames and ice that keeps shooting up and over the edge of the canopy.
“Perhaps try the taser web function you installed last week.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Peter whispers excitedly. He smiles as he creeps back over to the canopy edge. “You’re a genius, Kare!”
“What a nice compliment, Peter. Thank you.”
Carefully Peter lifts just one hand over the side, aiming for Flamey. With a quiet snick the taser web shoots out, hitting the dude right in the chest. He shudders in place for a few moments before the electric shock shorts out, falling to the ground unconscious.
With a yell of rage his brother doubles his efforts, dozens of spears exiting out of his palms and shooting right towards Peter. He ducks just in time, quickly scuttling over to the other side of the canopy—hoping to surprise the dude before he can succeed in his efforts to shish-kabob him. But when he leaps down, he finds nobody there but the knocked-out fire twin.
“Huh?” he says to himself, just before his spidey sense goes absolutely insane —Peter starting to dodge to the right before he even has time to consciously decide to move. But it’s not fast enough, and something heavy and cold—a giant chunk of ice, Peter’s brain supplies—collides with the side of his head.
It feels like all his limbs suddenly weigh a ton, Peter hearing a harsh buzzing in his ears as he crashes to the pavement.
He almost immediately starts to scramble onto his knees and elbows—his spidey sense still telling him to get up and save yourself, you idiot! —but the canopy floodlights above him are starting to swirl along with the gas station and fill-up area, and he barely manages to raise himself up a few inches before collapsing in a heap again. With an oof he lands on his stomach, a cheek pressed to the ground as he focuses on simply breathing and trying to stay awake.
He thinks Karen might be saying something to him but her voice sounds like the adults in the Charlie Brown holiday specials, and Peter can’t make out a word. He blinks lazily, watching as six pairs of feet saunter over, vision slowly combining them into one pair just before a leg lashes out and kicks him in the side.
“Stupid insect.” A steel-toed boot connects with his temple.
Peter’s pretty sure he loses some time then, because the next thing he knows he's being dragged across pavement by one of his arms, sight barely clearing enough for him to see he's being taken away from the station, across the street. He hears two voices talking low—maybe even still taunting him—before his back and head hit something sharp and unyielding, Peter groaning with every thump of his body as he's heaved up a set of short stairs by his armpits and pulled through a doorway and across an unfinished wooden floor—the empty renovated house?
There's snickering then, someone trying to pull at his mask only for Peter to lash out instinctively—hearing the crack of bone just as his fist connects. There's a low moan before he's kicked hard in the ribs a few times, curling in on himself in response. The last kick hits him right in the temple for a second time, the drone of Karen’s voice going suddenly silent just as the HUD in his mask lenses short out, leaving Peter in darkness.
“Just for that I’m gonna pour it on you,” someone snarls, Peter hazily wondering what in the world they’re talking about as his head pounds, fighting the urge to give in to the impenetrable black that’s threatening to take over the aura flashing behind his eyelids.
His question is answered when he feels a trickle of something wet land on his stomach, opening his eyes to see either Blue or Flamey—their figure now too blob-like for him to discern which one—standing over him, a giant red container with a small spout in their arms.
Peter has only half a second to consider what they’re dousing him in when the pungent smell reaches his nose, invading his senses in a way the chemical hadn’t even come close to at the station.
Gasoline.
“No—don’t–,” he starts to say before the trickle-turned-onslaught reaches his neck and face, Peter immediately coughing as the liquid saturates his mask and dribbles into his mouth and nostrils. He can’t breathe, the chemicals feeling like they’re burning the delicate tissue of his throat as he struggles to pull in oxygen around the torrent of liquid.
Peter puts his arms up to guard his face in a weak attempt to stop the attack but it’s no use. The dizziness that he has just enough coherence to recognize is the result of a bad concussion quickly combines with the effects of the gasoline, all serving to render him unable to either fight back or get away.
In a last-ditch effort to save himself, he feebly twists his head from side to side to get out from under the poisonous flow, but it’s like it’s following his movements—his torturer deliberately aiming for his face to exert maximum pain and injury.
Everything starts to go hazy again, Peter feeling the pull of unconsciousness once more as he flops on the floor like a fish out of water. Nausea abruptly creeps into his body’s growing list of complaints, a distant but palpable terror surging through his mind at the thought that he could very well die choking on his own vomit if he passes out right now. But even that fear isn’t enough to keep him tethered to reality, and he’s just about to let go and release himself into the black when the onslaught turns back into a dribble and soon enough just a few drips, before disappearing entirely.
He hears the sound of the now-empty plastic gas container hit a far wall, before one of the twins whispers menacingly in his ear. “Time to really heat things up.”
More snickers, a sharp high-five and the thumps of sneakers against wood, before those too fade out.
With the twins now gone Peter relaxes enough to attempt a giant breath, and while the pull of it sears his lungs like acid, it manages to rouse him just enough to fumble at the bottom of his mask, pulling it up just over his mouth and taking another big gulp.
But instead of clean air like he’d hoped, there’s something new in the air, Peter coughing again only for his spidey sense to flare up. Without thinking he turns back on his side and pulls his dead mask all the way off.
His vision is blurry and distorted but still Peter realizes the haziness in the room is from more than the concussion and subsequent poisoning, tendrils of thick smoke wafting in his sight line as he sees flames dance along the wall across from him.
He has just enough awareness to realize Flamey must have started the fire with the intent to burn him alive when another hacking fit overtakes him. By the time it’s over Peter is laid out on his back again, feeling exhausted beyond belief. But the pain in his throat and lungs has dulled, Peter feeling mildly grateful for it even as he knows it’s likely because he still isn’t able to breathe properly.
Peter nearly gives in as he lays there helplessly, chuckling manically at the thought that he’ll definitely miss curfew now only for the memory of May to enter his mind.
May. She’s probably still up and wondering where he is, if he’s okay—a lump that tastes distinctly like guilt welling up in his raw throat at the idea of what losing him would do to her.
He can’t die here. It would kill May, and he would rather die—or live, in this instance—before hurting her. No, Peter has to fight.
With a new surge of adrenaline Peter rolls once more onto his side, blinking slowly as he tries to get a hold on his surroundings. The flames that had been against the far wall are now stretched across three and steadily climbing up the ceiling of the room, but the lone wall still untouched is—miraculously, Peter thinks—the one with the doorway. With a groan Peter gets onto his hands and knees and begins to crawl towards it, not trusting himself not to collapse if he tries to get to his feet.
It’s slow-going, and Peter can’t help having to stop to spit out drool and probably some bile or even, God, sloughs of burned throat skin as he makes his way across the room. His vision has narrowed to a pinpoint—whether because of the growing smoke, puffy eyelid skin from the gasoline, concussion or all the above, he’s not sure—and eventually Peter closes his eyes, focusing only on putting one hand and knee in front of the other even as the oxygen in the room continues to thin out as the fire grows, threatening to steal him away before he’s reached safety.
Finally Peter collapses through the door and takes the deepest breath he can only for more smoke to flood his swollen throat—opening his eyes just enough to realize that he still has one more room to cross to get to the front door and safety.
There’s a searing heat along the back of his thighs and shins which tells Peter in no uncertain terms that if he doesn’t get out in the next thirty seconds or less, he’s toast. But despite the last leg of his journey being all of ten feet, it might as well be ten thousand miles for all the energy Peter has left—crawling a few more inches only for his trembling legs and elbows to finally give out on him.
Morbidly he finds himself hoping that he passes out for good before the flames reach him.
Everything feels weighed down, the pain of his injuries going numb, Peter’s thoughts begin to wander to old and happy memories even as he slowly twists his head to look out the door. He can feel a waft of cool air flow in and brush against his brow, soothing him to the point he nearly forgets the pain in his lungs and now along the soles of his feet—the flames slowly but steadily catching up to him, just like that one fable he can’t recall the name of. Peter knows if they reach him something bad will happen, but for the life of him he can’t remember anymore what that is, nor why it matters.
Perhaps if he just rests a bit, it’ll come to him. Peter lets his eyes finally close again, head drooping until with a soft sigh his cheek rests against the hot floor. For a moment he thinks he hears someone screaming his name but it’s soon lost amongst the sharp crackling of wood, the roaring of flames, and the all-encompassing haze in his mind.
He’s about to sink into the darkness when a searing heat suddenly ripples over his body, his vision whiting out from the pain.
With one final croaked breath, Peter is consumed.