Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The universe hated Peter Parker. This was a fact of life.

Sometimes, though, he did get lucky. The best part about having Mr. Stark as a mentor wasn’t the tech, the flashy rides, or the incredibly cool lab full of things Peter wasn’t technically supposed to touch but totally did when Tony wasn’t looking.

It was the food.

The fridge was always full. Always. Like, magically. Peter had never seen it being stocked, but somehow there were always cold sodas, leftover pizza that wasn’t even crust-hardened yet, and those fancy fruit things that came in plastic cups and cost way more than they should’ve. It was a miracle. It was luxury. It was heaven.

That and access to literally the most advanced tech on Earth. But food definitely ranked high.

“Can you pass me the torque driver, kid?” Tony asked, bent over the table with a magnifying visor pushed halfway down his forehead. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, a smudge of grease on his cheekbone, and a coffee stain on his shirt. Peter reached out blindly to the tray of tools and handed it over without looking, his other hand still inside the casing of the gauntlet they’d been working on for the past two hours.

“Thanks. Your spider brain’s good for more than swinging around rooftops.”

Peter made a face. “Pretty sure you’re the one who taught me not to look away while soldering.”

“And yet here we are,” Tony muttered, but there was no bite in it.

The hum of the lab was comforting. FRIDAY had lowered the music to a soft ambient track, and the clink of metal and the faint hiss of electronics filled the room like white noise. Peter had his legs curled up under him on the rolling stool, back arched awkwardly to reach inside the open casing of the gauntlet, tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration. The new suit was going to be insane. He could already tell.

Peter was just starting to figure out how to re-route the charge to the repulser without overheating it when the lab doors hissed open behind him.

He didn’t think much of it. People walked in and out of the compound all the time - Rhodey, Pepper, random delivery guys who were immediately intercepted by security - but this time there was no familiar cadence of Tony greeting someone, no FRIDAY offering a name or clearance level.

There was just a beat of silence.

Then a voice, sharp, curious, and definitely not from New York.

“Who’re you?”

Peter startled so hard he nearly shorted the capacitor. He jerked his head up and whirled toward the entrance, legs scraping against the metal stool.

The guy standing in the doorway wasn’t anyone Peter had seen before. Blonde hair. Sharp jaw. Old T-shirt with grease smears, and jeans that looked like they’d been used for twenty years. He had the same kind of build as Peter, lean and wiry, but there was something completely different in how he held himself - brash, almost cocky. Southern. Definitely Southern, if the weird, enunciated drawl was anything to go by. And, apparently, not big on greetings.

Peter blinked. “Who’re you?” he blurted before he could remember to be polite.

The guy wrinkled his nose, unimpressed. “You first.”

“Shit,” Tony muttered from behind Peter. He stood and pushed up his visor with a grimace. “That’s not how you greet someone. And I forgot you were coming,” he added, stepping out from behind the workbench.

“You always forget,” the kid said, and this time there was a twitch of a grin on his face. It was sardonic and amused all at once.

“Did you bring everything this time? Clothes? Toothbrush?” Tony asked, stepping away from the bench. Peter blinked. 

“Yes,” the boy drawled, with heavy sarcasm. “I always do. It’s in my room. Now who’s this?”

Tony gestured between them, exasperated. “Harley, meet Peter. Peter, Harley.”

Oh.

Peter’s eyes widened a little. This was the Harley? The Harley Keener? The kid from Tennessee that Tony sometimes mentioned offhandedly with a weird mix of fondness and something else, like he couldn’t quite believe he still kept in contact with the kid. Peter had always figured Harley would be older, maybe more polished. Not so... rough around the edges.

Harley’s expression had shifted into something a little cautious, eyes flicking from Peter to the tools, then to the gauntlet laid out on the table.

Peter smiled - big, open, bright - because that was what he was good at. Making friends. Appearing harmless. He offered a wave and scrambled quickly to nudge the edge of the red and blue fabric under the table with his foot, concealing it beneath a stray towel.

Too late.

Harley’s eyes tracked the movement.

“You working on something?” he asked, voice casual, but his gaze was sharp.

Peter’s mouth worked for a second. “Yeah - uh. I help Mr. Stark with the tech sometimes. Just for the suit. The - uh. Spider-Man one.”

That earned a twitch of Harley’s brow. “Suit, huh? I’ve seen some of those videos. That guy’s crazy.”

Peter felt himself flush. “I mean, he’s trying his best.”

“You ever find him?” Harley asked, glancing toward Tony. “Last time I was here, you were looking for him.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. He looked to Tony, hoping for a redirect, a quip, a distraction - anything. Tony didn’t offer one. “Yeah,” he said dryly. “He’s sitting right next to you.”

Peter froze. Completely.

His lungs forgot how to work. He felt his hands go clammy, and his heart stuttered in his chest. Then Harley laughed. Barked it out, full and open, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Sure, Tony,” he said, mouth curling. “And I’m Captain America.”

Peter blinked. He kind of wanted to throw him. Just to be funny. Something hot and idiotic surged up inside him.

"...I could be Spider-Man," Peter said, because why the hell not? The words had barely left his mouth before he realized how serious they sounded. Too serious.

Harley turned to look at him, eyes running over him for a brief second, appraising; and then broke into laughter again - this time harder. He snorted as he leaned over slightly with a laugh, and Peter kind of wanted to suplex him just for the hell of it.

Tony snorted. “You asked for that, kid.”

Peter shot Tony a look, half-exasperated and half-confused. “Who is this guy? What’s he even doing here?”

Harley, finally managing to catch his breath, wiped at his eyes. "I stay here once or twice a year. Tony lets me crash when I need a break from... home. Or whenever I set something on fire and my ma gets mad. Just short stays to make sure I’m still on the inheritance documents."

Tony snorted, and Peter blinked. "Wait, what? You just... hang out here?"

“Yeah,” Harley said with a shrug, his grin barely fading. “It’s better than being at my place. Small town, not much to do. And I don’t get to blow stuff up like I do here.”

Tony, distracted by something on his tablet, didn’t seem to be paying much attention. He nodded vaguely. “You’re not blowing anything up without my approval this time.”

Peter’s jaw dropped. “He just gets to stay here? Are you like, his mentor, or something?”

“Not like that,” Tony said quickly, his voice tinged with a half-apologetic laugh. “I’m not a responsible person. I’m not playing house, the kid’s mom is fine with it as long as I return him in one piece.”

“Hey,” Harley chimed in, still smiling. “If you’re looking for a mentor, Peter, I don’t think Tony’s the guy for that. I’d be happy to fill the role.” His grin widened, and Peter raised an eyebrow at him, half-suspicious.

“I don’t need a mentor,” Peter said quickly as he flushed, his face heating up under Harley’s amused gaze. “I just want to eat his food.”

“Ah,” Harley said knowingly, leaning back with a sly smirk. “That’s why you’re here. Can’t say I blame you.”

Tony chuckled, looking between them with a glint in his eye. “Well, at least Peter’s got his priorities straight.”

Peter felt the heat in his cheeks spread, irritated at how Harley’s teasing made him feel all embarrassed. How does this guy get under my skin so easily? “Well, I wouldn’t say I only care about the food,” Peter muttered. “But free food is pretty high up on the list, I won’t lie.”

Harley raised his hands in mock surrender. “I respect that. Can’t argue with that logic.” He winked at Peter, and Peter’s face reddened even more. He was so glad Tony wasn’t paying full attention to this exchange, or he’d never hear the end of it. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Tony, who was focused on his tablet again, clearly tuning out the conversation as usual.  “Speaking of. Just got out of the longest car ride of my life, where’s my pizza?”

“Order it yourself.”

“You’re such a baby,” Harley snorted, and Peter blinked at him. It was weird, seeing someone his age act so… normal around Mr. Stark. “FRI, can you get me the usual? And, uh, whatever… Peter wants, too.”

Peter ducked his head in thanks and settled down in his bench. Harley just hummed like he belonged here.

—

Ned fidgeted with the LEGO Death Star piece in his hand, the plastic block clicking softly as he twisted it between his fingers. His face was pinched with worry, even as he flicked through the instruction manual. Peter flopped on the floor behind him.

“You sure it’s the Vulture?” Ned asked finally, voice low. “I mean… maybe it’s just a guy with wings. A different guy with wings.”

Peter shook his head. “No, it’s him. Same tech. Same pattern. I’ve been tracking the drop sites from Staten, then Queens, and now Brooklyn. It’s definitely him. And I think I’ve found the next one.”

Ned didn’t look convinced. “So… what did Mr. Stark say?”

Peter’s head rolled over to blink up at him. His hand squeezed the fabric of the mask a little tighter. “He said to stay local. ‘Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,’ remember? Just keep helping old ladies and chasing down bike thieves.”

“Well… that’s good stuff to do?”

“It is good stuff,” Peter admitted, sighing. “But this is bigger. I tried talking to him and told him I could help. But he doesn’t trust me. He won’t let me help.”

Ned looked up at him. “Maybe he’s just trying to keep you safe.”

“Yeah, and in the meantime, people aren’t safe. There’s alien weapons out there. Kids on the street getting hurt. Mr. Stark’s too focused on the big picture - he doesn’t get that the little stuff is the big stuff. I’m not gonna sit around while my neighborhood burns. I can’t be a friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man if there’s no neighbourhood.”

Ned opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Just…” Ned said softly, “be careful, okay?”

Peter offered him a crooked smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “When am I not careful?”  

Ned didn’t answer. He just held the LEGO piece in his hand a little tighter and watched his best friend disappear out the window.

—

Peter knew the second FRIDAY told him someone was at the elevator that it was Harley.

It’d been a couple months since he’d been back, and Peter missed him. Not too much. But enough that he’d been looking forward to texting him each day and had marked down his name on the calender.

He didn’t even pretend not to perk up, practically springing from the workbench and nearly smacking his head on the low-hanging light. His goggles were still on, one of his gloves half-unstrapped, and he tugged both off in a rush, tossing them on the table without much care for where they landed. He told himself it was because Harley was cool to hang out with. Easy. Familiar. Nothing to do with the way Harley sometimes leaned too close to read over his shoulder or the way he laughed like it slipped out sideways, unexpected and low and a little bit scratchy. Nothing to do with the way Peter’s stomach felt a little weird whenever Harley smirked at him, all sharp teeth and knowing eyes.

So, yeah. He was excited. Not that excited. Just… normal excited.

The elevator dinged and Peter bounced a little on his toes, brushing his hands on his jeans, which were already stained from solder work. The doors opened and-

Peter froze.

Harley looked like hell.

His hair was messier than usual, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. There was a split along his bottom lip, nearly healed but still red. His clothes were wrinkled and a little dirty - same hoodie as the last time he was here, but more threadbare now. And under his eyes, dark circles had settled like bruises.

Peter’s breath caught. “Hey.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Harley said with a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Peter blinked. “I - I’m not - shut up,” he muttered quickly, ducking his head to hide the warmth spreading up his neck. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

Harley stepped into the lab, dragging a duffel bag behind him. “Close. Bus from Tennessee. Then subway. Then I walked the last twelve blocks. Not a lot of trucks involved, but I appreciate the concern.”

“You - you bussed it from Tennessee?” Peter stared. “Why didn’t you - does Mr. Stark know you’re here, yet?”

“I told FRIDAY,” Harley said, then turned to the ceiling. “Didn’t I, babe?”

FRIDAY’s voice was politely amused. “Mr. Keener requested to be let up. Mr. Stark has been notified.”

“I’m gonna go talk to him in a minute,” Harley added, turning back to Peter. “You gonna tell me I look like shit again or are you gonna offer me some water or somethin’, damn.”

Peter flinched. “Right - yeah. Of course. I - hang on.” He turned, rushing to the mini fridge in the corner and pulling out a water bottle, and he offered one to Harley, who took it with a faint smile and a quiet thanks before slumping into a chair. “You okay?”  

Harley looked at him for a beat too long, like he was thinking about how to answer. Then he exhaled and said, “Yeah. Just tired.”

Peter didn’t buy it. Not really. But Harley was watching him with that look again, the one he used when he didn’t want someone to dig deeper. “Okay,” Peter said, even though it wasn’t. “You, um… you staying?”

“That’s the plan,” Harley muttered, cracking the cap off the bottle. “At least for a while. Gonna talk to Tony about it.”

Peter turned back to Harley. “Seriously. What happened?”

Harley shot him a look that was more fond than annoyed. “You always this nosy, sweetheart?”

“Only when someone I care about looks like they haven’t slept in a week,” Peter said before he could stop himself.

Harley blinked at him. Then grinned, slow and wide. “Well, damn. That almost sounded like a confession.”

Peter flushed instantly. “I didn’t mean - I was just-”

“Relax,” Harley drawled. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Peter said, but he was still pink to the ears and couldn’t quite meet Harley’s eyes.

Then the lab doors hissed open again. Tony stepped in, took one look at Harley, and paused. “You look like shit,” he said.

“Peter already said that,” Harley replied, lifting the bottle in a mock-toast.

Tony raised a brow. “Everything alright?”

Harley waved him off. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Peter caught the shift in Tony’s face. Worry, tempered with something else. A flicker of guilt, maybe. Or recognition. But Tony just nodded slowly and clapped Harley’s shoulder. “Alright. You want me to send someone for your stuff?”

Harley winced and shrugged. “Yeah. Yes, please. And, uh. If my ma calls, maybe don’t answer. Or do, unless you wanna get yelled at.”

“I’ll sic Pepper on her,” Tony said, voice a little gentler than usual. He squeezed Harley’s shoulder again. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it, and I’ll get some stuff set up in the meantime.”

Harley gave a crooked smile, and Peter’s heart did a wobbly thing.

Tony left, and with nothing better to do, they settled into the lab like they always did, familiar rhythm kicking in as Peter showed him what he was working on - web fluid modifications, a tracking system he’d been tinkering with. Harley leaned in close to inspect the prototype and Peter tried not to shiver when his shoulder brushed against Peter’s.

“You know, if you keep blushing every time I talk to you, I’m gonna think you’ve got a crush,” Harley said casually.

Peter spluttered. “I do not - I’m not-”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. You just like lookin’ at me. That’s cool.”

“Harley!”

Harley laughed, easy and warm, and Peter buried his face in his hands.

But when he peeked through his fingers, Harley was already looking at him again, softer now. Like something in his chest had unclenched just from being here.

And Peter, flustered and warm and still glowing faintly pink, didn’t say a word about how Harley hadn’t said where he’d come from. Didn’t ask why his hands were shaking or why he winced when he stretched. Didn’t ask why he wanted to stay. He just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and kept showing him his work like everything was normal. Like Harley had always belonged here.

Because he did.

—

Ned leaned forward across the lunch table, voice low and urgent. "Have you... heard anything? About... the bird problem?"

Peter, halfway through peeling the label off his juice bottle, froze. He glanced up quickly, then to the side. MJ sat across from them, scrolling on her phone, earbuds in but not really in - one of them dangled uselessly over her shoulder. Her fingers moved, but her eyes hadn’t shifted in five minutes.

Peter swallowed. "I’m not… uh, sure what you mean."

"You do know what I mean."

"No, I know," Peter mumbled, glancing at MJ again. Her thumb hovered for a second before scrolling again, just a little slower. "I just. It’s fine. It’s - handled."

"Handled how? Handled like, ‘he’s in prison now,’ or handled like, ‘he’s maybe definitely still flying around Queens with stolen tech?’" Peter didn’t answer. His fingers shredded the corner of the juice label and left the remains crumpled in his palm. "Okay. Cool. Totally comforting," Ned muttered. "Just saying. You can talk to me. Even if we have a... captive audience. "

MJ raised a middle finger without looking up.

Peter smiled nervously, but didn’t respond. The silence stretched for a moment, too long, too tense. He knew MJ was listening. Knew she could always tell when he was hiding something, even if she didn’t call him out for it. He was about to change the subject when a weight pressed against his side.

Peter startled slightly, then looked up just as Harley slid into the seat beside him, tray in hand, hip bumping his. Their shoulders brushed - close enough that Peter could feel the heat through both their shirts.

Peter blinked.

Harley didn’t say anything at first. He just leaned forward, grabbed a fry off Peter’s tray like it was nothing, and popped it in his mouth. Peter flushed. The crumpled juice label crushed tighter in his palm. "Hey," Harley said, like it was any other day. Like he hadn’t just disrupted a secret superhero code-conversation. "Y’all talking about the sad state of our love lives again?"

Ned groaned. "No, but now we are."

“Great. Because I’ve decided we’re all going to Homecoming alone and that’s depressing.” Then, Harley nudged his arm. “Unless you’re coming with me, Parker?”

Peter blinked again. The juice label cracked under his fingers. "Wait - what?"

Harley smirked. "It’s either that or I’m standing solo under the gym bleachers holding a punch cup and crying about how New York doesn’t appreciate Southern charm."

"I - what-"

"It’s a joke, Parker."

"I... don’t think I’d look good in a corsage."

Harley laughed, head tilting back for a second, eyes crinkling. Peter couldn’t look away. Could barely remember how to think, honestly. "That’s okay. I’ll get you a boutonniere."

"What if he says no?" MJ asked, without looking up.

Harley didn’t miss a beat. "He wouldn’t. Besides, Mr. Stark already rented a car and said he’d get someone to pick all of us up."

That got MJ’s attention. Her gaze flicked up - skeptical, unimpressed. "I can drive myself."

"Oh, I’m sure you can," Harley said, grinning. "But it’s free. And are you really gonna turn down free stuff from a billionaire?"

MJ opened her mouth. Closed it. Her lips twitched, just a little. "Nothing’s free."

"Yeah, but this feels like it might be."

Peter was still trying to figure out how to breathe. Ned kicked him under the table. He jumped. MJ’s lip quirked up like maybe she was looking forward to it too.

Maybe he was kind of...looking forward to it.

—

The ferry fell apart. 

He lost the suit.

—

Without the suit, it had first felt like the world was falling out from underneath him. He had no patrols to do. He had no bad guys to catch, no little ego boost every time someone waved him down for a photo, and no satisfied feeling every time he managed to stop a robbery-in-progress.

The truth was, Peter was miserable.

His grades were shot. His teachers had started pulling him aside, asking if everything was okay at home. He lied to them. Said he was tired. That he was distracted. That he’d get it together soon. He didn’t tell them he hadn’t slept a full night in weeks. The fact that he used to patrol until dawn most nights had shot his sleep schedule, and now he still couldn’t sleep. He’d lie awake, eyes wide open and twitchy and hyper-focused on every sound on the street outside. 

And it wasn’t just school. Everything felt off. He was constantly sore, constantly on edge. The suit was gone. Mr. Stark had taken it back after the ferry. And Peter had convinced himself he didn’t need it, that he could prove himself without it.

But lately, he wasn’t so sure.

He wasn’t sleeping. Wasn’t eating right. And the streets were getting worse, not better.  He was tired. Really tired.

But Homecoming? Homecoming sounded like something normal. Something he could hold onto. Something that meant he wasn’t completely falling apart.

And Harley was going to be there. Sitting beside him in the fancy limo Mr. Stark had rented - or bought, maybe - probably laughing and warm and a little bit smug. Peter didn’t let himself think too hard about why he was looking forward to that. He just let it be something good. Let it be easy. He needed that right now. Something easy. Something bright.

And maybe Homecoming could be that thing.

Peter stood in the doorway, and something in the air felt different. He felt different. Maybe it was just the nerves, or maybe it was the anticipation of finally making it to Homecoming, but there was a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t shake.

He glanced back at May, who was standing near the kitchen, humming to herself as she stacked dishes in the sink. She looked up at him with that smile - warm and soft when she blinked up at him.

“You look good, Peter,” she said with a playful wink. “Are you sure you’re not trying to impress some cute girl tonight?” She grinned. “Or boy?”

Peter flushed, suddenly self-conscious about the way his clothes hung on his frame. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt, not quite sure how to answer. “Uh... I don’t know about that. Just trying not to embarrass myself in front of a crowd.”

May let out a soft laugh, walking over to him and adjusting his tie. "You’re going to be fine," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Just remember to have fun."

“Thanks,” Peter said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. “I’ll try. I... I just want to make sure everything goes well.”

May chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. "I know you do. And I’m proud of you. No matter what happens tonight, you’re doing your best, and that’s all that matters."

Peter’s heart did a little flip in his chest before she stepped back, straightening up as if preparing to send him off into the world. "Alright, Mr. Parker. Go have a good time. Call me if you need a ride home, or if you need anything."

Peter nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I will. I promise.”

May’s smile softened. "I larb you. Now go enjoy your night."

“I love you too, May,” he said, and his phone buzzed. “Oh, shoot. They’re here. I’m gonna be late, I-”

“Go,” May waved him off. “Don’t keep them waiting. Have a good time! But not too good!"

“Ew,” he muttered, and she laughed as he clicked the apartment door shut.

As he walked down the stairs, he felt that small knot in his stomach loosen just a little. No matter what happened at homecoming, no matter how badly he was going to embarrass himself tonight in front of Harley, it’d be okay. He knew that when he came back, May would be there. Waiting for him. Ready to offer that same smile and bad cooking, and for now, that was enough.

—

Peter waited just outside the main doors of the gym, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The music inside thumped against the glass in waves - too loud, too eager. The sky behind them had darkened, dusk casting soft purple over the sidewalk. 

Strings of colored lights flickered through the windows like blinking stars, and he could smell popcorn from the snack table. Laughter from inside spilled out every time someone opened the doors. MJ was already halfway up the stairs, rolling her eyes at the decorations, and Ned was waiting just behind her. Peter lingered just outside the entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of his too-loose dress pants. His suit jacket felt weird against his skin, too stiff in the shoulders. He tugged at the sleeves, then glanced sideways.

Harley, for once, wasn’t trying to race ahead of the group. He hung back near Peter, thumbs fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt sleeves. He hadn’t brought a tie. His jacket looked borrowed. Maybe stolen, or sort of like one of those off-the-rack department store tuxes that somehow still managed to look good on him. The jacket was too big in the sleeves, his tie a little crooked, hair a tousled mess like he'd styled it with his fingers and then given up halfway through.  

Peter caught his arm. “Hey, uh - go on in, okay?” he said, glancing between Ned and MJ. “I’ll catch up.”

Ned gave him a look, like he knew exactly what Peter was about to do, but didn’t say anything. MJ shrugged and nudged Ned through the door. “Don’t be weird,” she called back over her shoulder.

Which - yeah. Too late.

Peter took a breath and shifted a little closer to Harley, nerves jangling in his fingertips. They stood there for a second longer than they needed to. The kind of silence that curled around Peter’s stomach and made his lungs forget how to do their job. The cold breeze ruffled Harley’s collar and Peter almost shivered. He turned to him.

“Hey,” he said again, quieter now that they were alone. “Thanks for coming. I - I wasn’t sure you’d want to.”

Harley raised a brow at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Peter shrugged, one shoulder jerking upward. “I don’t know. You just don’t really do dances. Or people. Or - like, social things.”

Harley grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well. Figured I’d make an exception. You asked.”

The way he said you made Peter’s heart hiccup in his chest. He swallowed.

They stood in silence for a moment. Harley’s hair was messy in that way Peter always noticed too much. He smelled like something cheap and familiar. Like motel shampoo and duct tape. His sleeves were a little too short. There were fresh scrapes on his knuckles.

Peter looked down at his own shoes.

“Look, I - I kind of wanted to tell you something,” he said, shifting his weight nervously. “It’s not, like… a huge deal or anything, I just…”

Harley tilted his head. “You okay?”

Peter’s breath stuttered. “Yeah. Yeah, totally. Just… Can I ask you something kind of dumb?”

Harley raised an eyebrow but didn’t seem surprised. “You always do.”

Peter tried to laugh. It came out strangled. He scratched at the back of his neck, eyes darting down to his shoes. “I just-” He inhaled sharply. “I thought maybe, if you’re not with anyone tonight, we could - y'know. Go together. Or, not go-go, I know we’re already here, obviously, but, like… like go together. As a thing. A date. Kind of.”

Harley blinked. “What?” The silence that followed was awful. Harley stared at him. Blinked once. Then recoiled like Peter had slapped him. “Wait - what? ”

Peter’s stomach dropped. His mouth went dry. Peter’s heart stuttered. “I mean, not if you don’t want to! Just. It’s cool if you don’t, obviously. I just… thought I’d ask. Because you - because of how you-”

“You mean like a date?” Harley asked, and his voice had an edge to it that Peter hadn’t heard before. Not mean, exactly. Just… caught off guard.

Peter’s hands curled in on themselves. “Yeah. I guess. Sorry.”

Harley’s face twisted, confusion and something surprised crawling across it. “You’re asking me out?” he said, almost a laugh, like it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. It still sounded strained as he glanced around. “Dude, no. I’m not a-” He cut himself off and stepped back. “I’m not gay, what the hell.”

Peter froze. “Oh.”

Harley laughed, short and nervous. “Jesus. No offense, but, like - God, no. That’s not - I’m not-”

Peter looked at him, eyes wide. His chest felt like it’d collapsed inward. Peter flinched. His ears were burning. “I - I didn’t - just, you call me sweetheart all the time, and you kind of-”

“That’s just a Southern thing,” Harley snapped, eyes wide and panicky. “It doesn’t mean I wanna kiss dudes, Jesus-”

Peter’s cheeks burned. He took a step back like he’d been hit. “Oh.” Peter’s voice was small. He nodded quickly, head ducked. “Yeah. No. Sorry. I - that was stupid. I didn’t mean to… I just thought…” he took a breath, ignoring the burning humiliation crawling up his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make things weird, or-”

Harley huffed. “Then maybe don’t hit on your friends at school dances.”

Peter flinched like he’d been slapped. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he didn’t say anything right away.

“I just thought,” he said after a second, voice too soft, “we were friends enough that it wouldn’t - wouldn’t ruin anything if you… weren’t. Which you’re not, obviously. I wasn’t trying to make it weird. I wasn’t even expecting a yes. I just - felt like I should be honest.”

“Yeah, well, don’t,” Harley said. It came out meaner than he probably meant it to - flat and defensive, almost desperate. His eyes wouldn’t meet Peter’s. “Just don’t say shit like that.”

Peter’s stomach twisted.

“You’re the one who flirts with me,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “You - you call me things and touch my arm and sit too close, and it’s fine, I like it, I liked it. But then I say something and you-” His voice cracked and he shook his head. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Harley exhaled sharply through his nose and looked away. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he muttered. “You just-” He stopped himself, jaw tight again. “Just don’t do that. Okay?”

Peter nodded once. His throat was tight and his chest ached in that raw, humiliated way that made it hard to breathe. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t.” He laughed, but it came out wrong. Shaky. His voice cracked and he hated that it cracked. “Just forget I said anything.”

He turned, fast, heat creeping up his throat. His eyes burned.

Harley opened his mouth like he wanted to say something - anything - but nothing came out. Peter didn’t wait. He turned before Harley could say anything else. His face was burning and his shoulders curled in on himself like he could disappear into his shirt collar. He pushed down the hot sting building behind his eyes.

He ducked his head, moved fast around the corner of the gym, tried not to feel anything. Just kept walking.

Of course Harley didn’t mean it like that. Of course he wasn’t-

God, Peter was so stupid.

He stepped out from in front of the gymnasium, blinking hard, trying to breathe around the lump in his throat. He stepped out into the side lot where the limos were pulling in, blinking against the glare of headlights. Voices drifted through the night air - some loud, some laughing. A car door slammed. Peter looked up instinctively.

That’s when he saw her.

Liz, climbing out of a car, her dress catching the streetlight. She smiled at someone inside the vehicle. Peter followed her gaze. The man behind the wheel was older. Sharp around the eyes. Familiar. Too familiar. From the ferry.

The breath caught in Peter’s lungs froze entirely.

The Vulture.  

—

The universe hated Peter Parker.

Spider-Man didn’t get to have a homecoming.

—

The heat clung to him in strips. Smoke curled off the wreckage behind him, lazy and indifferent now that the worst of the flames had died. Peter stumbled. His knees buckled, palms skidding across gravel that scraped at already raw skin. The hoodie - what was left of it - clung to his side like tar, melted into the curve of his ribs, and every breath dragged the pain deeper. He bit down on a sound, teeth gritted so tight it felt like they might crack.

He couldn’t stop. Not here.

The sky was still dark with smoke, but the stars were coming through. They blinked down like they didn’t care, cold and small. 

The plane was down. The fires were out or smouldering. He just wanted to get home. He just wanted this night to be over.

His phone rang, and his fingers fumbled for it, wrist trembling as he tried to dig into the pocket of pants that were more ash than fabric.

The screen lit up with a hairline crack webbing across it. He exhaled, half-shaking, and hit answer. Didn’t even think about it. Just tapped, knuckles smeared with blood, thumb too big for the screen.

"Peter?" Tony’s voice came sharp and startled through the speaker. "Jesus, kid - are you okay? What happened? I lost visual, FRIDAY said you-"

Peter laughed, except it came out wrong. Wet. Thin. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye. His arm ached from shoulder to fingertip. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, I’m good. I stopped him. I think.”

"Are you hurt?"

“Yeah,” Peter said, head tipping forward like it was too heavy. “But I’m… I’m not too hurt. Hoodie melted. Side’s all…” He made a vague motion that didn’t help. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

There was silence on the line, then Tony again. Softer. “Peter. You didn’t need to do that alone. That wasn’t the plan.”

Peter’s body jerked with a sudden flare of heat, and not the kind licking at his ribs. His chest cracked open with it. He gripped the phone harder, ignored the tremble in his hand. “You weren’t there,” he said, voice tight and too high. “You told me to stop. To wait. And what, let him get away? Let him kill someone else? I couldn’t just do nothing.”

"I was handling it, Peter. There were contingencies. You didn’t have to go in blind-"

“I’m not a kid!” The words tore out of him before he could catch them. He braced one hand on the ground, pulled himself forward another foot. Every inch scraped the edge of agony. “You didn’t think I was a kid when you dragged me to Germany!”

There was a sharp pause.

“I didn’t drag you-"

“You threatened to tell May! ” Peter exploded, the force of it cracking something open in his chest. Rage burned through the exhaustion, through the aching weight of each breath. “What was I supposed to say, no?! I was fourteen and scared out of my mind and you - you made it sound like it was no big deal. Like I’d just be tagging along.”

Tony’s voice went small. “I wouldn’t have actually-”

“I don’t care,” Peter snapped. His voice shook with it, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “You don’t get to say that now. You don’t get to say you didn’t mean it when I’m here, crawling home like roadkill. I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. You were right. I don’t think this is going to work out.”

His lips were cracked. He tasted blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and whispered, “You can keep the suit. I just… I think it’s better if I do this on my own.”

“Pete, come on. You’re - look, I’m sorry. There you go. World famous Stark apology. Now let’s just talk-"

“Don’t call me,” Peter said, quietly this time. The anger drained from him all at once, left him cold and buzzing. “Please don’t call me.”

He ended the call before Tony could say anything else. Let the phone drop into the dirt. It landed face-down, screen blinking weakly once before going black.

For a moment, Peter didn’t move. The pain came back in waves - his ribs, his thigh, the place just under his collarbone where something sharp had gone in and come back out. His body was heat and weight and hollow space.

Then he pushed himself up on shaking arms.

He just had to get home.

The fire from the crash still licked at his ribs, and every inch of Peter’s body screamed as he dragged himself through the streets, hoodie shredded and half-fused to skin in blistering welts. The phone call had drained what little he had left, left him shaking and soaked in cold sweat as he pulled himself along back alleys and shadowed sidewalks, one busted sneaker dragging behind the other. No one looked twice. It was late, and he was careful, sticking to the quiet edges where lamplight didn’t quite reach.  

Every movement cracked something open inside him. The ache in his side flared each time he breathed too hard, too deep, too much. His wrists trembled. His hands were raw. But he didn’t stop.

He was too empty to stop.

When he finally reached Queens, the sidewalk turned familiar beneath him in that hazy, distant way - like walking through a dream stitched together from memory. He blinked through sweat and smoke, palms scraping the bricks as he crawled up the fire escape, metal biting into his knees and fingers. One slow rung after another, he made it to his window. The one he always used when sneaking in past curfew. A safe point. A checkpoint. Just this one last thing, and he could fall into bed and maybe stay there for a week.

His fingers fumbled the window open, and he dragged himself inside in a silent heap as he collapsed onto his bed.

Dark. Still.

His breath caught. Too quiet.

No TV playing softly in the background. No faint snore from down the hall. No rustle of blankets from the couch where May sometimes fell asleep waiting for him.

Peter crept forward on aching limbs, careful, so careful. He didn’t want to wake her. Didn’t want her to see him like this, melted and bloodied and broken. His vision doubled, but he found the bathroom door by instinct. Just wanted to wash his hands. Get the soot and ash and blood off before she saw.

He pushed the door open. Then the world stopped.

There was a smell. He knew that smell. Sharp and hot, copper curling in the back of his throat. It shouldn’t be here. He blinked, breath caught in his chest. Blinked again. Time slowed down. The floor. The blood. The tub. The way her body was folded awkwardly over the edge, like she’d fallen. But it was too careful, like someone had placed her there. There was a gun, too.

Peter didn’t understand. They hadn’t owned a gun. Had May ever owned a gun?

His fingers went cold. His knees buckled silently under him and he leaned on the doorframe, mouth slightly parted, but no sound came out. He couldn't hear anything. Not his heart. Not his breath. Not the city outside the window. The world had gone quiet, like everything had been swallowed.

May.

No.

No, no, no, no, no-

“May?” It came out broken. Barely a whisper. “May-”

She didn’t move. The blood had dried. The note was taped to the mirror. He didn’t read it. His vision swam, hands trembling as he stared, something hollow ringing in his ears like someone had struck a bell deep in his skull.

Dead. She was dead. She was-

He couldn't breathe. His knees finally gave, and he slumped against the frame, staring. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. She was supposed to yell at him. Scold him. Hold his face in her hands and call him a dumbass for coming home with half his hoodie melted into his skin and freak out about him being Spider-Man. She was supposed to ask if he wanted tea. Or frozen peas for the swelling. Or ask if he’d eaten. Anything.

But she didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Would never move again.

His stomach heaved, but nothing came up. Just dry, gasping breaths that hurt more than anything the Vulture had done to him. He couldn’t feel the bruises anymore. Couldn’t feel his hands, or the scrapes torn open over his ribs. He felt the hole. The place where something soft and living had been carved out of him and left raw.

It echoed.

He dragged in a rattling breath, then another. The air burned his lungs. Too sharp. Too empty. It didn’t belong here, in this house that smelled like warm laundry and May’s favorite lavender lotion. A place where there should’ve been footsteps and music humming from the kitchen, and the whirr of the microwave heating leftovers.

He blinked hard, like maybe if he did it fast enough, the scene would blink away too. But May didn’t move. Her hand dangled over the side of the couch. Her eyes were open. He couldn’t look away, even when the stench of copper and blood made him gag.

Peter let out a sound - croaked and wet, barely human. He curled forward, burying his face in his knees, hands in his hair. Tugging. Clawing. Like if he pulled hard enough, he could wake himself up. Like if he scratched deep enough, he could change the channel in his brain.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to her. Not after everything. Not when he’d tried to do everything right. He’d fought the Vulture. He’d stopped the plane from crashing. He’d - he’d saved people.

He wasn’t supposed to come home to this.

He wasn’t supposed to lose her. She’d been all he had left. And now-

The walls were too quiet. No one was coming. No one could come. The police wouldn’t help. Tony wouldn’t answer. Not after he left the suit. Not after he told Peter to stand down. He should’ve stood down. If he had, maybe - maybe-

He blinked through the tears streaming down his face. Every time he breathed, they came harder. Faster. Like something vital had cracked, and now everything was spilling out. She was supposed to be safe.

He thought he’d won. He thought he’d done something good.

The note blurred in the corner of his vision. It was waiting. Mocking. Neatly placed. Peter stared at it. He didn’t want to know what it said. His head swam, body aching, bones sore in a way that no bruise could explain. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to be ready. He wanted this to not be real.

The hallway creaked quietly in the silence. He didn’t move, but his heart stopped. Not May. Not her. Something else.

A flicker in the corner of his vision. A blur in the hallway. His body went rigid before his brain caught up, before anything rational could click in and say you’re not alone.

Too late.

Pain exploded across the side of his head as something cracked against his skull. The bathroom floor rushed up to meet him. He didn’t have time to react, didn’t have the strength to twist, to dodge. Not this time. His limbs went numb, and his body hit tile with a sick thud.

Boots stepped into his blurred vision. Black. Clean. Unfamiliar. Then there was a voice, muffled and cold.

The last thing he saw before darkness took him was the toe of a boot nudging his side, and the blood on the tiles behind it.

—

Tony hadn't even changed out of the ruined suit when he stalked into the lab, still reeking of scorched jet fuel and disappointment. The tension in his shoulders refused to let go, and his fingers were still twitching from the crash landing, the smell of burning wreckage haunting the back of his throat.

“Happy,” he snapped into the phone, not even waiting for a response before launching in. “You said you were keeping an eye on the kid.”

“Tony-”

“No, don’t ‘Tony’ me right now, okay?” He grabbed a wrench off the nearest workbench, tossed it to the floor. It clattered, harmless but sharp, like it could puncture the pressure boiling in his chest. “You said, and I quote, ‘I got it handled.’ So forgive me for being a little confused about how exactly that turned into Peter single-handedly taking down Vulture on a crashing plane.”

“I didn’t know he was gonna go rogue, alright?” Happy shot back, his voice distorted slightly through the phone, like he was breaking up, which was stupid because he was on a Starkphone and the signal shouldn’t be breaking up right now. “You pulled him from the internship, Tony. He wasn’t supposed to be involved.”

“Yeah, and apparently the second I stop breathing down his neck, he’s throwing himself into explosions and near-death stunts like it’s a school play.” Tony laughed bitterly. “Christ. He could’ve died tonight. You know that? No suit. No backup. No - no goddamn reason to take that risk except some overinflated sense of duty I probably helped cultivate.”

Happy went quiet on the other end. Tony didn’t blame him.

He paced, boots grinding into the floor like maybe if he walked enough, he’d bleed off the guilt clinging to his spine. He hadn’t stopped shaking since the flight back. Since seeing the wreckage. Since seeing Peter in the footage he could scrape up - bloodied, bruised, burned, but alive, and refusing help.  

God. The kid had told him to stay away. Tony could still hear the words in his head, raw and sharp like glass to the gut. “I think it’s better if I do this on my own.” He hadn’t known what to say. Still didn’t. Whatever. He’d fix it, eventually.

He’d give the kid some space for now.

Chapter Text

Peter was pretty sure he was dead.

Everything ached. He couldn’t breathe properly, each sharp intake of air coming with the sensation of a weight sitting on his chest, pressing down. He jerked, head lolling on his shoulders as he cracked an eye open. 

God, his head.

He groaned, trying to bring his hands up to wipe at his face - it felt tacky with dried blood - but as soon as he shifted his wrist there was resistance. The clink of metal cuffs.

Peter’s eyes snapped open.

The plane crash. The Vulture and homecoming and oh God, May.

But he wasn’t sure how much of this was reality anymore. The memories of May’s face, the blood - those were real. But everything after that, everything that had happened when he crawled into the apartment, was blurry. He could hardly remember what happened when they ambushed him.

He could feel the burn in his skin, the sting from his wounds, and the tightening of his muscles as he tried to move. There was the sound of movement across from him somewhere, but he couldn’t drag his blurry gaze up from the floor. Everything was secondary to the gaping feeling in his chest, because May was dead. He’d seen her die. She’d just kissed him goodbye and said ‘I larb you,’ and the last thing he’d done was rush out to what, hang out with his friends?

She was probably still in the apartment. He wondered, a little morbidly, how long it would take for anyone to notice.

Pain tore through his chest and a sob wracked through his body as he writhed in whatever kind of restraints they’d put him in. The room was cold, and the smell of antiseptic and something metallic lingered in the air.  

He wanted to escape. To push everything aside and leave, but he didn’t even know where he was. He wanted May. The tears wouldn’t stop. The grief wouldn’t stop.

There was a sudden slap to his face, and Peter’s body jerked, the sharp sting of it cutting through the haze in his head. His vision blurred, but he snapped his head up, eyes blazing, teeth gritted in defiance.

“Feisty,” the voice said with a laugh. “I like that. You’ll do just fine.”

Peter couldn’t help the surge of anger that followed the sting of humiliation. He glared at the man in front of him, the words scraping past his burning throat. "Go to hell."

The man smiled, but it wasn’t a smile that reassured him. It was the kind of smile that made Peter want to recoil in disgust, the kind of smile that made his blood run cold. “Oh, this’ll be fun.”

Peter tried to focus. Tried to take notes on the man and his too-tight, too strong restraints and any clue about where he was. But his head still hurt, and his thoughts were still slow from the concussion and everything in him was thick with mourning.

May.

“My name is Rostov. You will address me as sir.” The man tilted his head, studying him with an unsettling intensity. “You’ve done well so far. You caught our interest during your little fight in Germany. Impressive. Even managed to catch the defector Asset’s arm.”

Peter’s nose wrinkled at the way they called a person ‘the asset.’ He couldn’t - he couldn’t - process it properly. The words made him sick. 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Peter muttered, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. His chest ached and his throat burned from crying.

The man leaned in closer, his grin widening. “No? Tell me, kid. Do you really think we didn’t notice? The Winter Soldier’s been running around for years, and now we’ve got you, Spider-Man. You’re stronger than you know, aren’t you? Just like him.”

Peter shifted against the chair, the too-tight restraints biting into his wrists and ankles as panic crawled up his spine. His heart rate spiked. He could feel it - the fear, the sweat gathering on the back of his neck.   “No,” Peter gasped, struggling against the restraints that felt tighter than before. “I - I’m not like him. I’m not-”

“That flash of fear on the Asset’s face…” The man’s grin only twisted further, dark with something gleeful and cruel. He leaned in, eyes glittering with amusement. "That flash of fear on the asset’s face was real. We remember. And now we get to see it on yours."

He stepped away slowly, but Peter still couldn't breathe despite the distance.

"You’re strong. We knew that. Watched you for months. The strength, the speed, the way you stick to walls like a little insect... and that healing factor? Phenomenal. You’re exactly what we’ve been looking for."

Peter writhed again, the cuffs biting in hard enough to draw blood now. His body strained against the restraints, but they didn’t give. His melted hoodie-suit was gone. He was in some sterile shirt and pants, barefoot, chilled to the bone. It felt like a lab. It smelled like a lab - metal, disinfectant, fear.

His voice cracked. "Mr. Stark’s not gonna be super happy with that," Peter choked out, the words scraping raw out of his throat. He didn’t know what else to say. Didn’t know what else he could say. Everything hurt, and the panic was rising too fast. "You can’t - you can’t just take me. You can’t-"

The man chuckled, cutting him off like a blade across skin. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t human.

"Oh, I wouldn’t worry about upsetting Stark," he said, voice dipped in venom. "You’re dead."

Peter froze. The air rushed out of him like a punch to the gut. His chest constricted, tight and aching. The words didn’t compute. They didn’t fit.

The man continued casually, like he was discussing the weather. "There was a fire. Casualties.” There was a pause, and Peter’s chest tightened. “They recovered your body. Peter Parker’s funeral is in a week. You are officially dead to the world."

Peter couldn’t breathe. His vision tilted. He wasn’t sure if he was suffocating or sobbing. His brain stuttered, trying to catch up to something that didn’t make sense. Dead?

"Wait," Peter managed, the word thin, fragile. He shook his head, jerking against the cuffs again, eyes wide and wet. "I’m not dead. I’m - I’m right here. I’m not - you can’t - I’m not-"

But the man was already grinning again. That same crooked smile. That same predatory glint. He stepped in close, too close, until Peter could smell his breath. It was cold. Foul.

"Peter Parker is dead," he repeated. "But you, though..."

He leaned closer, voice going soft like it was a secret meant just for Peter.

"You will do just fine, my little wolf spider."

His body jerked as if hit, his heart plummeting straight through the floor. He didn’t know what that meant, but he knew it was bad. Worse than bad. This wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t even a kidnapping.

It was a project.

And he was the experiment.

His breath hitched, and this time he couldn’t stop the tears that came, quiet and hot, slipping down his cheeks as the man turned to the tray of syringes waiting nearby.

"Let’s begin."

—

“Maybe I pushed him too hard,” Tony muttered to himself, dropping the phone onto the workbench. God, he couldn’t think straight. “Maybe - hell, maybe Cap was right. Maybe I really don’t know how to do the damn ‘mentor’ thing without screwing it all up.”

“Tony-”

“Not now, Happy.”

“But-”

“Sir,” FRIDAY interrupted for the first time. Her voice had that tight edge to it that made Tony’s stomach dip. She was never that formal unless something was off. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but-”

“I said not now,” Tony snapped, harsher than he meant. “Just - mute the line, FRI. Let me yell at Happy for a second longer before I deal with any more fires this week.”

“But sir-”

Tony rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I swear to god, if this is another Chitauri relic showing up in Queens, I’m going to launch it into the sun.”

“Sir,” FRIDAY insisted, firmer now. “It’s urgent.”

Something about her tone made his hand drop.

Tony stiffened.

“…What?” he asked finally. “This better be important. I’ve had a real shit night already, so-”

“It’s Peter,” FRIDAY said, sounding grim, and Tony didn’t know why he programmed her to sound like that, because if she freaked out then he freaked out and-

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

“…What about him?” he asked, voice low, tight. “He said he was going home. He said - he said he was fine.”

“Approximately ten minutes ago, a blaze broke out in the residential building registered to May Parker,” she reported grimly. “Local emergency services responded within five minutes. The fire has now reached four of the six floors. Current news outlets are reporting multiple casualties.”

Tony sat down hard in the nearest chair like his legs had stopped working. The air left his lungs all at once, like he’d been hit square in the chest.

“Casualties?” he echoed, dazed. “Not Peter, though. He’s okay, right? Kid’s fine, right?”

“I do not yet have confirmation,” FRIDAY said carefully. “However, a figure matching Peter’s age and stature was reported among the deceased. The body was severely burned and partially crushed in the collapse of the south-facing structure. Identification has not yet been made.”

The world spun.

Tony’s ears rang like someone had struck a bell against his skull. For a second, he forgot how to speak. Forgot how to think. “No,” he whispered. “No. That’s not - he just - he just yelled at me an hour ago. Said he didn’t need my help. He hung up on me!”

Happy’s voice broke in again, staticky and unsure. “Tony? Are you - what’s happening?”

“They found a body,” Tony said, not even sure if the words were making it out. “They found a kid. Could be him. Could be-”

His throat closed up. He forced himself to inhale. “I need visuals,” he barked, suddenly furious again. “I need cameras, street footage, drone access, anything. Check the building. Show me the fire. Show me - something.”

“Already compiling,” FRIDAY said quietly. “I have dispatched local surveillance drones under false registry. ETA forty seconds.”

Tony pushed back from the chair, stumbling to his feet and crossing to the interface at the wall. His hands hovered, shaking. His fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. “I should’ve gone after him,” he murmured. “I should’ve followed him.”

“Tony,” Happy said again, this time gentler. “You couldn’t have known-”

“Bullshit,” Tony snapped. “I did know. He was hurt. He crashed a plane, kid was probably walking on seven different broken bones and bleeding through the damn ribs and I let him walk away.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Tony pressed a hand to his mouth. His whole body was buzzing, the static in his veins too loud. The screen in front of him flickered to life, a live drone feed zooming in over the wreckage of a Queens apartment building. Flames still licked the upper floors, firefighters scrambling to contain the inferno.

“Zoom in,” he said. “Peter’s window faced the alley. Show me the alley.”

The feed adjusted.

And there, barely visible beneath the debris of the collapsed fire escape, was a flash of red and blue fabric, charred black in places.

Tony’s stomach turned to ice.

“Potential match,” FRIDAY said softly. “Size, proportions, location. One of the first confirmed casualties pulled from the wreckage. Authorities are not disclosing names until autopsies are complete, but… the neighbors have confirmed the unit belonged to May Parker. The woman is deceased. She was found in the bathroom with a-”

Tony didn’t hear the rest.

His legs folded underneath him, hitting the floor hard. His chest wouldn’t expand. His vision blurred at the edges, white noise building behind his ears.

Peter.

He hadn’t even apologized.

—

Peter could barely breathe. The cold metal of the table beneath him seemed to press into his skin with every shallow breath he took, and the straps holding him down were uncomfortably tight, cutting into his limbs. His muscles ached in a way that felt deep, raw. His throat was sore, a heavy, almost metallic taste lingering in his mouth from the gag they’d shoved in. He had no idea where he was, but he knew it was bad. And from the look of it, things weren’t going to get any better.

It’d be okay. Mr. Stark would get him out soon.

Hopefully.

He twisted his head toward the man standing at the side, the one who was in charge, his handler. Like he was an animal or something. His eyes were cold, as though he was looking at an experiment rather than a person - but his lip quirked up like he was amused, and it made Peter feel a little sick. The scientist had told him not to try anything funny. Too bad Peter couldn’t help himself.

“Come on,” Peter rasped, his voice muffled through the gag. “I’m not that much trouble, am I? You must have something better to do than poke around in my brain like this. I mean, you could at least buy me dinner first.”

The scientist didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance at him. Peter’s words bounced off the cold, sterile walls of the lab and disappeared into nothingness.

His pulse quickened as the first scientist stepped forward with something in his hand. A syringe. It glinted in the harsh fluorescent light of the lab, and Peter couldn’t help the flicker of panic that surged through him. He pulled against the restraints, testing them again, but it was pointless. The more he fought, the tighter they seemed to get. 

“Don’t - don’t you dare,” Peter gritted out, spitting against the gag. He could feel his chest tightening with a mix of frustration and fear, but he refused to let it show. Not yet. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart.

The scientist only clicked his tongue and adjusted his grip on the syringe. He moved toward Peter, and the panic surged higher. 

“Stop!” Peter shouted, muffled by the gag, but his words were sharp enough to catch the attention of the man holding the needle. “Mr. Stark’s gonna come for me, you don’t want to mess with-”

Before he could finish, there was a sharp crack, and the back of his head slammed into the cold table, stars exploding behind his eyes. Peter’s skull bounced once against metal, the sharp sting of it radiating backward into nausea. He blinked rapidly, pain and vertigo twisting the ceiling into streaks. His ears rang.

“Shut up and hold still,” barked the handler with his too-tight gloves and a permanent sneer. “Or I’ll make you still.”

Peter could feel the heat of anger burning in his chest, but he fought to control it. He wouldn’t give in. Not yet. He couldn’t.

Peter’s breath stuttered. His chest heaved. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and turned his head just enough to spit, not even caring where it landed. “Yeah, I tend to talk when people don’t want me to,” he slurred, blood coating the edge of his tongue, his lip split. “But the second you make a move on me, I’m gonna make you regret it.”

The scientist still didn’t react - just leaned in closer and drove the needle into his arm with mechanical force.

Peter couldn’t stop the full-body flinch that rippled through him. The needle buried itself deep, and a rush of something thick and cold hit his veins like icewater. His body rejected it immediately - he arched, trembled, tried to twist away, but the vibranium cuffs didn’t so much as rattle.

There was a horrible, dizzying rush that made him weak. His heart rate spiked as his vision started to swim again, and his heart rate shot through the roof. He could hear it pounding, thundering behind his eardrums. His limbs spasmed against the restraints as something jagged and wrong filtered through his bloodstream, bleeding into his bones. Every inch of his skin prickled with fire.

“Wh - what - what is-” he tried to ask, but his mouth barely moved. His tongue felt heavy. His teeth chattered from the cold. It was hard to focus.

The scientist leaned back, satisfied. “Phase one complete. Begin baseline sensitivity scan.”

The lights overhead seemed to flicker. Or maybe that was just him. Peter gasped, trying to hold onto his consciousness, but it was like holding water in his palms - slipping through faster than he could grab.

He didn’t pass out. Not completely. That was worse. He drifted in and out, caught somewhere between awareness and nightmare. That was when they brought the scalpel out.

“Subject regenerates at impressive rates. Let’s map pain response thresholds and track tissue recovery,” the scientist said to no one in particular, dictating into a recorder. “We’ll start with superficial injuries. Just skin, for now.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “No-” he choked out. “No - no, don’t-”

But the scalpel was already in the man’s hand, the edge gleaming.

The first cut was shallow, just a test along his forearm, but it was enough. Peter felt it all. It wasn’t the pain - he could take pain. It was knowing they were watching. Timing. Measuring. Writing him down in notebooks like he was an experiment.

Like he wasn’t a person.

“Faster healing than Subject B-73,” the scientist murmured. “Interesting. Moving on to nerve clusters.”

Peter couldn’t stop himself. He thrashed, jerking in the restraints, panic roaring louder than anything else. “Get away from me! Get away!”

“Apply the muzzle,” the handler ordered.

Peter didn’t even realize what they were doing until they came at him from the side with the thick leather strap and the steel mouthpiece. He fought harder, even as the cuffs bit into his wrists, even as his vision blurred from lack of oxygen, even as his voice broke into raw sound.

He managed to bite one of them. It didn’t do much. He was too weak. Too slow.

It only made it worse.

The handler snarled and jammed the muzzle into place, wrenching Peter’s head back hard enough to strain his neck. His face burned with humiliation. His mouth was forced closed in an unnatural too-tight pressure, his jaw locked. The inside of the steel tasted like antiseptic and blood.

“You lash out again, we move to full sedation and permanent nerve inhibitors,” the handler snapped, glaring down at him. “You wanna be good, or you wanna be drooling for the rest of your life?”

Peter couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even spit anymore.

He let out a muffled groan of frustration as they turned him over and exposed his spine, cool air meeting the sweat-slicked skin there.

Then came the chair.

At first, he didn’t understand what they meant. He heard something heavy roll across the floor. A scraping sound. Locks. Metal shifting. Then they lifted him - limp and twitching - and secured him upright into something that wasn’t a table. He was buckled in by the chest. Thighs. Ankles. Wrists again. A brace at his neck. The metal under him was too cold. Too shaped. Too much like a coffin that breathed.

The scientist adjusted dials near Peter’s knees, the click of calibration sending tremors through his bones.

And then he realized: the chair moved.

It tilted, adjusted, shifted him forward and back. It could twist him into place for access. The arms detached and refitted depending on the angle. Restraints were reinforced with vibranium pins. There were grooves in the metal for draining fluids.

He tried to scream, but the muzzle held his jaw tight. The worst part wasn’t the pain. Not yet. It was that they wanted to keep him alive . They weren’t just trying to break him. They were trying to study him. Strip him down molecule by molecule until there was nothing left but statistics.

“You will do just fine, my wolf spider.”

That was what he’d said. That was what they wanted to make him. Not a person. Not even a weapon. Just a replica. And Peter, strapped down and shivering, finally realized with a sinking guilt that this was a little more horrifying than he thought it was initially.  Because this was HYDRA, wasn’t it? He didn’t know much about them, other than the fact that they were generally Bad Guys who’d been the ones to mess up The Winter Soldier and were part of the reason he’d fought for the Accords in the first place. 

The chair tilted back until Peter was almost horizontal, chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. Sweat trickled down his neck, soaking into the collar of the restraints. His fingers flexed uselessly in the cuffs - his healing factor was already working on the bruises from where he’d pulled too hard against the metal. It didn't matter. He couldn’t get free.

They didn’t want him free.

“Commence secondary nerve mapping,” one of the scientists said in that same flat tone, like they were talking about something mechanical, not someone alive. “Apply local stim pads along the spinal column and the soles of the feet. No anesthetic.”

There was a scuff of boots on tile. A click. Then Peter felt it - cold pads slapped against his skin, precise and methodical. A few along the curve of his spine. One right below his ribs. His calves. Ankles. Toes. He twitched at every touch, like his nerves were already anticipating what was coming.

“Begin at one milliamp. Increment every thirty seconds until tremors or vocal response.”

Peter couldn’t speak through the muzzle. But they didn’t need words to hear what came out of him. The first jolt was low - barely a flicker - and still, his body reacted. A snap of sensation deep in his back, too fast and too wrong, like his muscles didn’t belong to him. He let out a muffled grunt, jerking involuntarily.

The second pulse was worse. It rolled through his calves and up his spine, an artificial, sickening wave of electricity that made him arch. His legs kicked against the restraints, uncontrolled. The straps at his chest cut in deeper, holding him in place as the machine ticked upward, precise and indifferent.

He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t brace himself. He didn’t even know how to brace for something like this - because it wasn’t pain with a point, not a punch or a knife or even a break. It was something that rewrote him as it ran through him, over and over, until his body stopped being his.

“Note: partial muscle resistance present at two milliamps. Subject attempting to override convulsion reflex,” the scientist said, like it meant something, like it mattered.

Peter’s chest heaved. His mouth ached in the muzzle. His eyes watered, and the edges of his vision blurred with static.

They kept going.

Every time the current was raised, Peter’s body bucked. Sometimes he couldn’t even tell which part of him was moving anymore - whether it was the chair shifting him or his muscles locking up. His limbs flailed uselessly. He screamed into the gag until it tore at his throat. He screamed because it was the only thing left he could do.

There was no countdown, no warning, no mercy. Just the pulse of electricity humming back to life again and again, crawling beneath his skin like live wires threading through muscle. Every time the current was raised, Peter's body convulsed. 

His back arched off the chair, and sometimes he couldn't even tell which part of him was moving anymore - if it was his own muscles locking up or if the restraints were the ones shifting him. His arms jerked wildly, legs kicked uselessly against the straps, heels scraping across metal. Nothing helped. Nothing changed. He screamed into the gag until his throat tore raw, until the sound that came out didn’t even resemble a human voice. He screamed because it was the only thing left he could do.

And then they started asking questions.

Not to him - never to him - but around him. Over him. Like he wasn’t in the room. Like he wasn’t anything more than a test subject sprawled across their table.

"How much damage can he take?" his handler asked, voice dry, clinical. "For future training, I mean. We’ll need baselines. Can we push harder next time?"

Peter couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t do more than twitch violently as another jolt rattled his spine, but he heard the answer clearly enough. The scientist didn’t even look up from his clipboard.

“More than the last one,” the man replied, tone flat. “His healing factor seems… extraordinary. If his neurological healing is consistent with his surface-level recovery, then yes, it may be a little more difficult to overwrite patterns. But no matter. We’ll program until the healing simply scars him.”

Peter thrashed against the chair. His body betrayed him again, spasming with exhausted effort as his heart lurched up into his throat. He didn’t want to know what that meant - until it scars him. He didn’t want to understand it.

But he did.

He couldn’t stop understanding.

“Third-degree burn recovery time? Time for broken bones to heal?” his handler asked casually, like he was ordering a sandwich, like Peter wasn’t sobbing under the restraints.

“More advanced than the previous asset,” the scientist confirmed. “I wouldn’t worry about being too gentle.”

Peter thrashed.

A sound escaped him before he could clamp down on it, before he could even register it was coming. A sob - wet and helpless - ripped out of his chest and filled the silence. He didn’t mean to. He tried to hold it in - tried to bite down on the whimper that shook out of his chest - but it slipped anyway, cracked and raw. He’d been doing so well, holding it in through every pulse, every insult, every violation. But this-

The humiliation stung worse than the voltage.

He wasn’t supposed to cry. He wasn’t supposed to let them have that. But the noise came anyway, cracked and shaking, and it shamed him. He could take pain. He had pain. Broken ribs. A knife through his side. Getting crushed under rubble and still clawing his way out. He could take pain.

But this wasn’t just pain.

This was tearing. Of his body. Of his mind. Of the fragile walls that made him him.

He wasn’t Spider-Man right now.

He was just Peter. Fourteen. Alone. Cuffed to a chair in a lab that smelled like bleach and blood. He was just a body on a table. A name stripped away. A number. A test subject. An asset. Something to poke and prod and program until it obeyed.

“Heart rate nearing max tolerances,” the handler noted, a little too amused. “Maybe we push just a little past the line. See what happens.”

He moved closer. Peter flinched, tears still streaming.

Something inside him snapped when the handler touched his face - an open-handed, almost gentle tap to his cheek, mock affection meant to soothe and humiliate at the same time. That broke him.

He screamed. Loud. Wordless. Muzzled and garbled, but violent. It tore out of him like a storm. Rage, fear, helplessness. Every inch of him shook from it. He didn’t care if it made them smile. He didn’t care if it hurt. He just needed it out.

The chair jolted to vertical. The restraints hissed and clicked tighter. He didn’t stop screaming. The scientist turned calmly, made a note in his file. “Mental stability declining. Cortisol at projected spike. Proceed to organ stimulation mapping.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. He choked on his own breath.

No.

They were going to cut him again. Maybe deeper this time. He remembered the scalpel. The way they’d slid it down his skin like peeling fruit. He remembered the way they watched it seal back together. They were going to do it again. This time slower. This time inside.

His body recoiled before they even touched him, muscles drawn so tight he could barely breathe.

“Don’t - please - don’t, don’t-” he gasped, but it came out as noise, broken and gagged.

A gloved hand pressed to his stomach, marking a spot near his side. Another readied a tool - some kind of injector. He didn’t know what was in it. He didn’t want to. He panicked. He thrashed, hard enough to bruise bone. He snarled, gagged, spit through the muzzle, twisted his wrist until it felt like it might break again - but it wasn’t enough. They didn’t even flinch.

The needle plunged in.

A second later, a scalpel followed.

Peter convulsed. Something hot seared through his lower side, like fire shot straight into his organs. He couldn’t tell what they were doing - only that it hurt, and kept hurting, and the world had narrowed to that pain. He was screaming again. Not brave. Not defiant.

Just screaming.

The lights above him spun. His body felt far away. His arms were heavy. His lungs burned. Then everything turned gray. He was still awake - barely - but not enough to hold on. Not enough to fight.

That scared him more than anything.

—

He didn’t remember when he stopped screaming.

It wasn’t like a choice he made. One moment, his voice was there - raw and ripped open, echoing in the sterile air - and the next, it was just... gone. Not muffled. Not restrained. Just absent. His mouth hung open in the muzzle, chest hitching with panicked, shallow breaths, but no sound came out.

Not even a whimper.

The pain was still there. Distant now. Like it had sunk into the deepest part of him and built a nest, curling around his spine and pulsing with every beat of his heart. But Peter couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t shake. Couldn’t cry. He wasn’t choosing stillness. He was stuck in it. His hands trembled. His knees twitched once, then fell slack again.

He just… floated.

And for the first time, the room went quiet too.

No commands. No prodding. No electrical whine. Just the hum of overhead lights, the low whir of a machine still ticking through its routine, and the sound of someone scribbling notes. The scientist leaned over his file and clicked his pen once.

“Subject has ceased all vocal response,” he said calmly. “External stim has reduced to passive resistance. Pupils remain reactive. Trance-like state possible.”

The handler chuckled. It was an ugly sound, mean and pleased with itself. “Look at that,” he said, moving closer, boots scuffing softly. “I knew he’d tire himself out eventually.”

He crouched beside the chair, close enough that Peter could feel the heat of him, the smug stink of sweat and metal. One gloved hand reached out, tapped Peter’s cheek with mock gentleness. Peter didn’t flinch. Couldn’t.

“Oh yeah,” the handler said, eyes narrowing with something predatory. “He’s down in it now.” A hand gripped Peter’s jaw and forced his head to turn. The muzzle stayed tight, biting into his skin. The handler tilted his face, examining him like an object, a tool gone still after too much strain. “Hey,” the man whispered, like it was a joke between them. “You in there, still?”

Peter blinked once. Slow. Then again.

The handler grinned. “Yeah, you’re still in there. You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

He didn’t say anything else. Just rose again, chuckling, and walked away. Peter didn’t track him. Couldn’t focus. His head stayed turned the way it had been pushed, eyes glazed and unfixed. Inside, his thoughts were slipping. Like something had cracked open under his ribs, and the rest of him was leaking out slow.

Stay awake-

He thought that, or something like it. Maybe just felt it. But it was hard to hold on. Hard to be. A buzzing started in his ears. Like static. Familiar. Not from the machines. Something old. Something safe.

A memory.

“…You cannot keep calling your taser ‘Bitey,’ kid. That’s not a real StarkTech protocol name.”

Peter blinked.

The lights were softer now. Warm. Yellow. There was a couch under him and a thick throw blanket curled around his legs. He was curled up sideways, knees tucked close, watching Tony pace in the workshop with his hands flying in exasperation.

“Why not?” Peter asked, voice still hoarse from last patrol. He shifted deeper into the blanket, cradling the little taser module in one palm. “It bites. You get zapped. That’s basically science.”

Tony groaned and pointed dramatically. “That is not science. That’s barely a sentence.”

“You let me name the last batch of drones,” Peter reminded him. “One of them’s named Greg.”

“That was a mistake I have to live with.”

Peter laughed. Tony smiled, despite himself.

It was late. Probably 2 or 3 a.m., judging by the clock on the wall. DUM-E was asleep in the corner with a power cord curled like a tail. Everything was quiet except for the hum of the coffee machine and the distant sound of FRIDAY running a simulation on one of the floating screens. Tony came closer, ruffled his hair without asking. Peter didn’t flinch. Didn’t even mind. “You’re doing okay,” Tony said, quieter now, serious. “You know that, right?”

Peter blinked up at him. “Yeah?”

Tony nodded. “Yeah.”

The memory flickered.

Something yanked him sideways. A different room. The smell of meatloaf.

“Peter?” May’s voice. Soft and close.

He was wrapped in a blanket again. Different texture. Thinner. He was on the floor this time, curled next to the couch like he’d slid off it in his sleep. He remembered crying - some nightmare that shook him so hard he couldn’t catch his breath.

May hadn’t even said anything at first. Just sat down next to him, hand on his back, letting him shake through it. Then she whispered, “You’re still here, honey. I got you.”

And he had cried harder. He remembered that part, too. The safety of it. The ache.

“You’re still here.”

The words echoed like a stone dropped into a well. Peter blinked again. The memory was gone. The light was gone. The blanket was gone. His body hurt. 

The table was cold.

And the handler was laughing again, somewhere behind him, probably talking about what they’d try next. Peter stared at the ceiling. He didn’t cry. He couldn’t move.

But the memory stuck there, just beneath the surface, buried under the drugs and shock and silence.

Still there.

—

Harley hated city schools. Too clean. Too bright. Too many damn windows and people with airpods shoved in their ears like they were allergic to actual conversation. The whole place smelled like hand sanitizer and microwaved pizza. Nothing about it was familiar - just waxed floors and kids with perfect sneakers who didn’t even flinch when a locker slammed shut too close to their ears.

He liked the workshop class. That was it. The rest of it could burn.

He’d barely been in Midtown a few months, but it felt longer. Or maybe it was just that everything before the move blurred now - Tennessee, the house, the fights, the cold nights on porches or bus benches, the ache of getting used to living and waiting for the next argument. He kept his head down, mostly. Made snide comments, fiddled with scraps of tech, traded halfhearted insults with MJ until she’d decided he was tolerable enough to share lunch tables with. Somehow, through all that noise, he’d started liking being around Peter. He’d liked it a little too much.

Of course he’d screw it up.

The rest of Homecoming was quiet. Ned had seemed disappointed Peter left so early. MJ hadn't said anything, but her lips had thinned into a line and Harley hadn't been too excited for the rest of the night. Even when he'd got home, Tony had just been hiding away in the lab for the rest of the weekend. It felt like cosmic karma.

He was at his locker, trying to dig a half-crushed granola bar out of the bottom of his bag, when he heard the familiar sound of shoes approaching. MJ didn’t stomp, didn’t clomp - she just manifested, like the threat of confrontation in human form.

“I know what happened,” she said, without preamble.

Harley sighed. “Great. What didn’t happen now?”

MJ leaned her shoulder against the locker beside his, arms crossed. “You turned Peter down.”

His stomach twisted. “He tell you that?”

Fuck. This was all Peter’s fault. Everything could have stayed normal, but Peter had made him-

What was he supposed to say, yes? Was he supposed to hold hands with him when they walked down the hallway and pretend like that was a normal thing out in the open? That was asking for trouble. Harley already hated school enough. That would just make everything worse.

“No. He didn’t tell me anything,” MJ said easily, cocking her head. “You did. By being an asshole.”

“I wasn’t-” He closed his locker with more force than necessary. “Nothing happened.”

MJ didn’t blink. “He asked you out.”

He let out a frustrated breath. “I said no.”

“You flirted with him for weeks, Keener.”

“That’s not - look, that’s just how I talk, okay?”

“Right,” MJ said flatly. “You call Ned ‘sweetheart’ too, or does he not get the special treatment?”

Harley bristled. “This isn’t - Jesus, what do you want from me?”

“I want you to admit you knew what you were doing.”

He shook his head, laughing humorlessly. “Look, he’s fine. Okay? That’s not - what did he expect me to say? He’ll bounce back.”

“If that’s true,” MJ said quietly, “why’s he been radio silent since Homecoming?”

The air thinned. Harley looked away, jaw tight. His fingers curled around the strap of his backpack. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

“You don’t know?” Her voice sharpened. 

“Nothing happened,” Harley snapped, louder now. “He just… left. He’ll be fine.”

“I know he’ll be fine,” MJ bit out. “No thanks to you.”

“That’s not-” He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, frustration prickling hot at the back of his neck. “Look, this isn’t my fault. He started talking like that somewhere people could hear, and I didn’t wanna - God, you don’t get it.”

“I get it,” she said. “You were scared. You didn’t want anyone knowing. So instead of saying that like a normal person, you embarrassed him.”

Guilt twisted deeper in his gut.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, but it sounded weak, even to him.

MJ’s gaze was knife-sharp. “Then why flirt with him? Why make him think he had a chance?”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“You absolutely were.”

He gritted his teeth. “That’s just… how I am. I do that with everyone.”

“You ever call me sweetheart?” He shut up. “Exactly,” MJ snapped. “So either you’ve been playing with him for fun, or-”

“Fine,” Harley hissed. “Okay? Maybe I am into him a little. You happy?” MJ didn’t move. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to happen. I sure as hell didn’t want to get outed in front of half the damn school. Forgive me if I’m a little cautious after getting beaten with a tire iron the last time someone found out.”

That silenced her.

The hallway buzzed faintly with fluorescent hum, the echo of distant chatter. The lockers were too tall. The light too sharp. Harley’s chest heaved slightly; not because he was angry anymore, but because the air had gone too thin again. Like it always did when he said too much.

MJ’s eyes softened a fraction, but only just. “That’s your business, and it’s your secret to keep. But it stops just being your business when you let him think he’s got a chance and embarrass him. That’s not fair. We haven’t seen him in days. He won’t text us back. He’s not answering calls. And you’re still saying he’s fine?”

“I don’t-” Harley’s voice broke and he clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt. “I don’t know.”

His guilt roiled sharp and bright now, pressing against his ribs. Peter’s face the last time they spoke kept flashing in the back of his mind; confused, hurt, blushing with humiliation and rejection. Harley had wanted to stop him. To take it back. But the words had come out all wrong.

He’d panicked. Just like always.

And now he couldn’t find him.

Harley stood in the empty hallway long after MJ disappeared around the corner. The buzz of fluorescent lights overhead sounded like a swarm in his skull. His mouth was dry, palms hot with sweat and guilt, because Peter had just looked so hurt, stammering, small. Not even angry. Just… disappointed. And then nothing. Not a word. Not a single message since Homecoming.

And Harley knew Peter wasn’t the type to sulk.

If he were angry, Harley could have worked with that. If he’d gotten yelled at, pushed, shoved - something - it would’ve been better than silence. But Peter had gone quiet. Slipped into whatever hole he’d been hiding away at. And Harley couldn’t shake the feeling that it was his fault.

He closed his locker slowly, the metal thudding shut too loudly in the quiet.

He’d gone too far. Not by saying no - he stood by that part. He wasn’t ready. Wasn’t even sure what he wanted half the time, let alone what it meant. But he hadn’t needed to say ew. Hadn’t needed to snap, or step back like Peter was contagious. He should’ve let him down softly. Like a human being. Not like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

Now Peter was gone. No texts. No calls. Not since Harley had told him that doesn’t mean I want to kiss dudes like some kind of backwater idiot.

And maybe he was.

He slung his backpack higher on his shoulder and started walking. Out the front of the school, down the steps, the spring chill nipping through his sleeves. Midtown’s gate clattered behind him and he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, walking fast and aimless toward the deli Peter liked - half on the off chance he was there, half because the city felt smaller when you walked the places he used to go.

The deli wasn’t it. Just two college kids and a man in a Knicks cap. Harley hovered by the counter for a second, then turned around.

He hit the next two bodegas on Peter’s rotation. Nothing. Checked the alley behind the one with the flickering sign. Checked the side of the school building where Peter sometimes took phone calls or needed a second to clear his head. Checked the steps outside the library.

The pit in his stomach just got worse.

He didn’t even know where Peter lived. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t paid attention when the limo had picked him up for Homecoming. They always met up at the Tower or school or the lab. Peter had never invited him over. Harley never thought to press, and now-

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his fists clenched tight in his pockets. Where the hell are you, Parker?

—

FRIDAY greeted him when he stepped into the elevator, but he barely heard her.

His head was a mess. Everything felt too loud and too quiet all at once - like there was a TV playing static in his chest and no one else could hear it. He stood there in the corner of the elevator, arms folded tight, staring down at the floor like the pattern in the metal could somehow make sense of the thoughts clawing at his brain.

He hadn’t told MJ everything. Not even close.

He hadn’t told her how Peter had looked at him that night, like he was something good. Like Harley was worth looking at like that. Worth trusting. Worth… liking. Not the way a friend liked a friend. Not the way classmates liked each other in the way that was safe and normal. But the kind of like that made Peter blush when Harley leaned in too close, the kind that made Peter’s voice go a little higher when Harley winked at him, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

And Harley hadn’t told her that the whole time Peter had been looking at him like that, his first instinct had been to kiss him. That it had scared him. That it had been too much and too fast and too real, and so instead of leaning in, he’d pulled away. Shut down. Put up the same smartass walls he always did when he didn’t know what the hell to feel.

He’d panicked. He’d been an ass.

And now Peter was gone.

The elevator doors slid open. Harley stepped out and nearly walked straight into a teetering stack of disassembled tech - spools of wire, cracked drones, a busted Iron Man gauntlet. Everything was a mess. Half-built, half-scrapped, scattered all over the tables like someone had been working without rest, or without purpose.

The lab was locked down. It had been for days now. FRIDAY wouldn’t say why. Harley had been too tired - and too wrung out with guilt - to press her for answers.

A voice rose from behind one of the cluttered tables. “Harley?”

He stopped short. “Tony?”

The man stood slowly, dark circles under his eyes. His hair was a mess. His shirt was rumpled. He looked awful - not in the usual I’ve-been-up-all-night-building kind of way, but in the raw, brittle, human kind of way that Harley had never really seen on him before.

“I just-” Harley took a step forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “I haven’t heard from Peter since Homecoming. I think I upset him. Like - really upset him. He’s not answering his phone, and I’ve called like four times, but he’s just - he’s not there, man. Has he said anything to you?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the air shifted. Tony’s eyes - tired and haunted - flicked away. His whole face crumpled like paper in slow motion. There was a clink of a bottle as he lowered his hand out of view, and he swayed a little on his feet.  

Harley’s stomach flipped. “What’s up with you?” he asked cautiously, voice too thin. “You’re looking, like… scarily vulnerable here, Tony. Which, no offense, I didn’t think you’d be caught dead doing, so… what’s going on?”

Tony took a slow breath. He didn’t meet Harley’s eyes.

“The last time I heard from the kid,” Tony said, voice low and thick, “we argued.”

Harley frowned. “Okay, but… that’s just you guys. You argue all the time.”

“No,” Tony said. “This was different. He was upset.”

Harley blinked. The words weren’t clicking.

Tony looked up. “There was a fire.”

Harley’s brain snagged on it. “Okay,” he said slowly. “So…?”

“It was at his apartment.”

Harley felt sick. “He's okay though, right?” Tony flinched. Harley felt something icy crawl down his spine. “Tony?”

Tony’s voice cracked. “His floor… it... Why didn’t I just-” Tony’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, turning away. The man was silent, throat working and posture too-tense in a way that made Harley way, way too uneasy. He had a bad feeling.

“Tony?” Harley asked, voice tentative.

Tony’s chest tightened, and he finally broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “Peter’s gone, kid.”

Harley looked up, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What? No. No, he’s not. That doesn’t… what are you talking about?” His eyes searched Tony’s face for an explanation, but there was no relief to be found in Tony’s expression. He could see the way Harley’s smile faltered, his disbelief turning into something more frantic, more desperate.

Tony tried to steady himself, but it was hard to breathe, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He could hardly bring himself to say it again, to admit what had happened. “There was a fire. The building collapsed. His floor... it caved in.”

Harley stared at him. “But he’s okay, right?” he said. “I mean - he’s fine. He’s always fine.” Tony’s silence said more than anything else could. “Tony?” Harley’s voice pitched. “He’s okay. Or he’s gonna be okay or whatever, right?”

“Harley,” Tony said softly, looking away. “He’s… dead.”

“No,” Harley snapped, stumbling back a step. “No, fuck you, he’s not.”

Tony reached for him instinctively, but Harley slapped his hand away.

“No! Don’t - don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that, like I’m supposed to - accept this or something, like it’s real - because it’s not. He’s not - he’s not-” His voice cracked. “He’s not dead. You would’ve told me.”

“I’m telling you now,” Tony whispered.

“When did this happen?” Harley demanded a little hysterically.

The man swallowed. “Friday night.”

Friday. Friday night. It had been days. Peter had been - he’d been dead for days, and Tony hadn’t told him, and-

Harley shoved both hands into his hair, pulling hard. The breath rattled in his chest like it didn’t want to come out. “You’re lying,” he said hoarsely. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Tony said, and his voice was too soft, too sure. “I’m sorry, Harley,” he whispered, his voice rough. “He’s not coming back.”

Harley’s knees gave out.

Tony caught him before he hit the ground, pulling him into a clumsy, desperate hug. Harley tried to push him away at first - shoving at his arms, twisting in his grip - but then he let out a pained, miserable noise like his chest was caving in on him. He crumpled into Tony’s chest, fists clenched in his shirt, shaking like he could rattle the truth into a different shape if he just cried hard enough.

He just clung to Tony, his sobs muffled against Tony’s shoulder, his body shaking with the force of his grief. “I’m sorry,” Tony whispered again, his voice cracked, broken. “I’m so sorry.”

Harley’s sobs turned into harsh gasps as he clung tighter, the grief overwhelming him, drowning him in a way that made Tony’s own chest ache, because Peter was gone and there wouldn’t be any more lab nights or arguments over pizza toppings or talking at the cafeteria table. Because Peter was gone and the last thing Harley had done was hurt him.

But Peter was gone.  

Tony just held him, eyes clenched shut, guilt wrapped around him like a second skin. Neither of them said anything else.

There was nothing left to say.

—

The cell was small.

There wasn’t much else to say about it. Just concrete and silence. No light except the weak flicker above his head that buzzed with a rhythm that had long since driven him half-mad. There was a drain in the corner. He didn’t want to know what it was for.

He sat curled in on himself, spine pressed to the wall, knees pulled tight to his chest. His skin stuck to the cold floor, too dry and too damp at the same time. His mouth was cracked from thirst. His stomach had stopped growling days ago - it only twisted now, curled in on itself like it had given up asking. The hunger was a dull roar in the background, like white noise that made his thoughts fray at the edges.

Peter stared at the wall.

Not because there was anything interesting there - just because it was all there was. A scratch in the concrete he didn’t remember making. A chip in the paint like an arrow pointing nowhere. His eyes stayed on it because looking at the door made his heart start hammering. Because when the door opened, things happened. Hands grabbed. Syringes came. Questions followed.

He tried getting out at first. That first day - was it a day? - he'd leapt at the door as soon as it opened, strength pulsing through him. He’d fought like hell. Kicked. Screamed. Bit. He’d cracked one of the guards across the face hard enough to break a nose. They hadn’t been prepared for him, not then.

Now, they were always ready.

The cuffs they slapped on his wrists were vibranium. His ankles too. They didn’t come off. The muzzle came after he’d bitten his handler (not his handler, not his, he wasn’t an animal, he didn’t need a handler) during sedation, teeth snapping as they shoved a needle into his neck. He hadn’t meant to - it was just instinct, heat and panic taking over - but they didn’t care about intent. Just obedience.

“Be good and we’ll feed you,” his handler said once, crouching low beside him like they were friends, like this was some fucked-up game. The man’s breath stank of antiseptic and authority. “Simple deal. You behave, you eat.”

Peter wrinkled his nose, turning his head to the side. “You first,” he gritted, voice raspy, chapped lips cracking around the words.

He’d tried to keep it up, at first. The jokes. The mouth. That was always his shield, his fallback. Smartass one-liners while they jabbed him with needles. Snarky barbs while they strapped electrodes to his chest.

“You guys really need to rethink your guest hospitality package,” he said once, smiling blood through his teeth. The handler had smiled back. Then nodded to the tech beside him. Peter didn’t remember much after that, except screaming and the smell of something burning.

They punished him every time he spoke out.

At first, it was just shocks. Then cold baths. Then food deprivation. Then longer in the chair. And always the drugs. Always, the drugs.

He wasn’t sure what they were pumping into him anymore - something that made his head float off his shoulders, something that made him swing violently from laughter to rage, from begging to screaming. Sometimes, he didn’t even know what he was saying. Sometimes he heard voices that weren’t there. And sometimes, he lashed out.

His body would move before he could stop it. Fists flying, legs kicking, head jerking hard enough to crack skulls.

And every time, they punished him for it.

They’d drag him back into the chair after every episode. It was always the chair. The worst part was the chair.

It looked like any other metal chair - simple, industrial. But the second he was shoved into it, he remembered everything. Then nothing. Then just pain and his handler’s voice and something in Russian he couldn’t understand.

The chair was cold. Too cold. Freezing enough that his skin ached when it touched the surface. His body, thin and starved and overworked, couldn’t fight the way it sucked the heat out of him like it was alive, like it was feeding off him.

And then the restraints snapped into place - wrists first, then ankles, then across his chest like a cage pulling tighter and tighter with every breath he took. He couldn’t move. The more he struggled, the more it felt like his skin was being stretched too far, muscles pinched, bones compressed. Like the chair was trying to fold him inside out. The more he fought, the tighter they got.

The worst part was how calm they were about it. The scientist would just stand there, clipboard in hand, observing like Peter was a rat twitching in a maze.

He’d been brave, once. Even now, there were flickers - faint embers of defiance that hadn’t burned out completely. But they were being smothered. Every hour, every punishment, every moment in the chair chipped away at them.

Peter didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to beg. But sometimes, he did both. And when he did, they just smiled. 

The pain started almost immediately. It wasn’t physical, at least not at first - it was worse than that. It was like the chair was inside him, pulling and scraping at his insides, unraveling him piece by piece. There was no escape, no way to get away from the feeling that was burrowing under his skin, settling deep inside his bones. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t even breathe without feeling like his chest would collapse under the weight of the pressure.

Peter gasped for air, trying to take in shallow, measured breaths, but the pain was unbearable. It was like fire spreading through him. Worse. Worse than that. It was as if every nerve in his body was being fried from the inside out. Like his mind was starting to fragment, and the world around him seemed to be closing in, distorting, spinning.

He could hear the scientists talking now, their voices distant and distorted. Their words were only half-formed in his ears, like they were speaking from another world, a place where he didn’t exist.

“Find something else,” one of them said. “This isn’t working. We need a new approach.”

Peter’s chest heaved as he struggled to hold onto awareness of his surroundings, still conscious enough to hear the dull clinking of tools and the muttered conversations as they tried to figure out what to do next. But none of it mattered. None of it.

“Please, stop… ” Peter choked out, his voice barely audible through the gag. He could feel the pressure building again, suffocating him. 

The pain surged again, and this time, he couldn’t hold back the scream. He thrashed in the chair, but it was futile. It only made it worse.

The next thing he knew, there was a sharp prick in his neck. The coldness seeped through his skin, deeper than the last injection. And then, everything went black.

—

He was waiting.

It was hard to tell how long - hours, maybe, or days. Time twisted in here, stretched thin across the cracks in the walls and the flickering buzz of old fluorescent lights. There was no natural light. No windows. No sky. Just metal and cold and the constant, gnawing hum of the facility, like it was alive and breathing beneath his skin.

Peter sat in the corner of the cell with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them, rocking gently - not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t stop. His muscles twitched on their own now. Sometimes from pain, sometimes from the residue of whatever they'd put in him. Sometimes from the weight of grief that had nowhere else to go.

He stared at the door.

Waited. For something. Someone. For Mr. Stark.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what they’d said - about the fire, about his body being “recovered,” about how “Peter Parker” was dead and gone and nothing but ashes - but still, something in him refused to believe it. Mr. Stark had to know. He had to be looking. This couldn’t be how it ended.

So Peter waited. And he didn’t break. Not yet.

Even when Rostov came.

The handler’s boots echoed like gunshots down the corridor. Heavy. Deliberate. He always walked like that, like he wanted Peter to hear him coming. Like he wanted to be the gun against Peter’s spine.

“Time for exercise,” Rostov said, coldly amused, unlocking the cell. “Be good. You might even enjoy this.”

Peter didn’t move. He was so hungry.

Rostov grabbed him by the arm and yanked. Peter hissed as the bruises on his bicep flared, but didn’t fight. Fighting would only make it worse.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t give them that satisfaction.

—

The funeral was small, intimate. Just a handful of people, all gathered in a space that felt too quiet, too empty for what it was supposed to represent. Peter’s friends, a few of the Avengers - Nat and Steve and the man who'd murdered Tony's parents standing way in the back, but he was too exhausted to start another fight, right now -  Harley, standing stiffly in a suit Tony had bought for him, his eyes red and swollen, but still trying to hold himself together. The kid didn’t deserve this. None of them did.

Tony didn’t give a speech. He stood at the back of the gathering, arms crossed tightly, eyes focused on the ground. He wasn’t sure what to say. How could he? What words could possibly capture the weight of this loss, the weight of Peter’s absence? There were no words that could fill the hollow ache in his chest.

The ceremony was brief. There were no grand gestures, no public mourning - Tony hadn’t released his identity. Not yet. He wasn’t sure if he ever would, because his friends might be targeted, still. Because people were crazy and despite the fact that just a quiet farewell that felt wrong, out of place, the last thing Tony wanted to do was make everything worse all over again. He’d hurt the kid enough.

The soft murmur of voices, the rustling of leaves in the wind, and then silence. That’s all it was. Nothing more.

—

They called it the pit.

Concrete walls. No exit. No rules. Just bloodstains on the floor and a crowd of men in HYDRA uniforms jeering from above, watching behind reinforced glass.

Across from him stood another prisoner - a man, older, maybe thirty, eyes wild and sunken, already marked with the same restraints Peter wore. Vibranium cuffs on his wrists. Shock collar tight at his throat. Both of them were stripped down to the basics - no shirt, no armor, no protection. Just skin and bones and muscle. Just pain.

“This isn’t a game,” Rostov’s voice crackled over the speaker. “You fight, or you die. Simple, isn’t it?”

Peter swallowed, chest heaving. His hands curled into fists.

“I’m not doing this,” he called up.

But the other man charged.

He was fast. Brutal. A blur of fists and elbows. Peter ducked under one swing, blocked another with his forearm, stumbled back with a grunt as a kick landed square in his ribs. Pain flared. Not healed yet. Not even close.

“Stop it!” Peter gasped, dodging a punch aimed at his temple. “I don’t want to fight you-”

The man tackled him to the ground. His hands wrapped around Peter’s throat.

Panic erupted like wildfire. Peter flailed, twisting, feet scrabbling for purchase on the concrete. He got a knee between them and shoved, barely managing to break the hold before his vision fully tunneled. Choked breath rattled in his throat as he scrambled to his feet.

This wasn’t sparring. This wasn’t training.

This guy was going to kill him.

Peter acted on instinct. A hard blow to the jaw, elbow to the temple, a punch to the ribs - quick, brutal strikes, with just enough strength to do some damage and send the man sprawling. He didn’t move. Peter panted, heart thundering, staring down at the man’s unconscious form. He hesitated. Then knelt. Checked for a pulse.

Alive.

Still breathing.

“I’m not killing him,” Peter said aloud, raising his voice to the ceiling. “Do you hear me?! I won. I’m not a murderer.”

Silence.

Then the voice of Rostov, oily with amusement. “Pity.”

—

The chair was worse the second time.

They didn’t ask him questions. Didn’t demand information. Didn’t say why. They just dragged him back into the lab, strapped him down, and turned the machine on. His body seized.

Electricity surged like knives under his skin. His limbs jerked and spasmed, his back arched so hard it nearly cracked. He tried to scream but the gag stopped the sound, muffled it to a pitiful, choked noise. Tears spilled from his eyes, not from weakness, he told himself, but from pain so intense he couldn’t hold them back.

He didn’t know how long it went on. Maybe hours. He lost time. Lost reality.

By the time they unstrapped him, his vision had tunneled. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His muscles trembled uncontrollably, and his mouth was dry, lips cracked and bitten through. Something inside him felt broken. Not physically. Not entirely.

Just… off. Like a part of himself had been peeled away and broke off before it floated away in the electric current, or left behind in the chair.

They dumped him back in his cell like garbage. He curled up on the cot, too numb to cry, too weak to sleep.

He closed his eyes and waited. For the sound of a suit landing. For a voice calling, “Hey, kid.”

For anything.

But the only thing he heard was the hum of the lights and the distant scream of another prisoner. And still, he waited. For Mr. Stark. For a rescue. For something. Because if he stopped waiting - if he let himself believe it, really believe it - then it meant the fire had taken everything. That May was dead. That he was alone.

That Peter Parker really was dead.

And he couldn’t.

He couldn’t let go of the waiting.

—

The second time they put him in the pit, Peter didn’t fight. Not at first. Not until he had to.

They shoved him forward, sore and stumbling, half-healed bruises aching under thin fabric. The lights above buzzed harsh and clinical, and his stomach churned the second he saw her. She couldn’t have been older than him. Maybe younger. Barefoot, filthy, skin like parchment stretched over too-sharp bones. Feral. Eyes bloodshot, unfocused, crazed from starvation or too many injections or both.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He barely had time to brace before she lunged.

Her teeth sank into his shoulder. The scream punched out of him, raw and immediate. He staggered, slammed into the wall, trying to shake her off, but she clung, clawing at his ribs, fingers curled like talons.

“Stop-” he gasped, panic rising. “You don’t have to do this-”

She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. There was no mercy left in her. Only survival. So he fought. She hit harder than she looked. Fast. Vicious. Her hands went for his throat. His head cracked against the wall. He saw stars. Her knee slammed into his side. He folded, breath gone, vision swimming.

She’s going to kill you, something in him screamed. Get up, get up, get up-

He lashed out. Instinct. Desperation. A single, brutal blow to the neck. She choked. Gurgled. Collapsed. Peter scrambled back and stared. She didn’t move. He crawled toward her, blood in his mouth, shaking all over. His hands were already slick, already cradling her face. Her eyes were open, glassy.

“Nononono,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to - I didn’t want to - I didn’t want to-”

His body folded over hers, and he let out a choked noise that wasn’t quite a sob. He pressed his forehead to her collarbone, crying into the thin, filthy fabric. Her chest didn’t rise. She didn’t breathe.

He rocked there until boots thudded behind him.

“Enough,” Rostov snapped.

Peter didn’t move. Rough hands grabbed him by the arms, hauled him back. He didn’t resist. His body was jelly. Boneless. He rose with the man, because resistance meant pain and he didn’t want anymore pain. He didn’t want to feel anything else ever again.

By the time he came back to himself, he was back in his cell, on that little cot-bed thing set up in the corner. His handler was standing in front of him, and Peter’s vision was somewhere on the man’s sternum. He wasn’t really seeing, though. Just… there.

“She was a weapon,” Rostov said. “She failed. You did your job.”

Peter looked at him, eyes glassy and red. “I didn’t want to-”

A slap cut across his face. Peter’s head snapped sideways. His cheek blazed. Rostov’s voice dropped to a dark, quiet purr. “Assets don’t want. Assets obey.”

Peter stayed frozen. Blood on his lips. His pulse like thunder in his ears. Rostov stepped closer.

“You did well,” he said, and reached out - touched Peter’s face with a rough palm, cupping his cheek like something close to fond. “Good boy.”

Peter flinched.

He tried not to. Tried to hold still, just like they’d taught him. But the calloused skin against his face made something stutter in his chest. His breath picked up. His eyes squeezed shut.

The hand disappeared. Then came the backhand. Peter reeled.

“Assets don’t have feelings,” Rostov snapped. “Assets do not have thoughts or opinions. Only orders to follow.”

Peter wanted to pull back, but caught himself. Kept his balance.

“Your orders are to hold still. Your orders are to kill on command. Your orders are to complete the mission.” The handler stepped forward again. This time, the slap was harder. It cracked across Peter’s jaw and made his ears ring. “I don’t want my asset sobbing like a bitch over a failed weapon in a pit. Do you want to go back to the chair?”

Peter’s eyes squeezed shut. His breath hitched. He waited for Mr. Stark. Prayed for Mr. Stark to get here. All he was do was stuck in this space, this waiting, waiting, waiting-

The silence was long. Another hit. Harder.

“Answer.”

“No, sir,” Peter whispered, broken-glass voice.

“Good.”

A hand settled on his shoulder, right in the crook between his neck and collarbone. Squeezed. A gentle, deceptively calm gesture. Peter didn’t move. The hand slid, fingers brushing his neck, then cupping his jaw again, tilting his head just slightly. He stared at the handler’s chest, careful not to look up. Peter forced his expression to remain flat, carefully neutral. The hand slid to his neck, and gave another gentle squeeze. All he focused on was making sure his heart beating out of his chest didn’t show on his face. 

Don’t cry. Don’t flinch.

Don’t breathe too hard.

Don’t let him see.

“Show me how well trained you are,” Rostov murmured. “How obedient.”

The man shifted closer, and Peter’s panic rose as his gut turned to ice. A hand slid low, too low. Settled on his hip. Peter twitched. Couldn’t help it. That was all it took.

The prod hit his stomach, and white-hot lightning tore through his body. He screamed - or maybe he didn’t, maybe the sound stayed trapped in his throat - but he hit the ground like a rag doll, limbs shaking violently. His vision blacked at the edges. His body wouldn’t respond.

Rostov stepped over him.

“Kneel,” came the command.

Peter forced his shaking arms under him. His legs gave once, twice, but he got upright, knees thudding to the cold concrete, arms limp at his sides.

“Do you want the chair, asset?”

“No, sir,” Peter croaked. He kept his eyes forward. His mouth set in a flat line, and he tried not to think too hard.

A hand settled in his hair. Fingers combed through it slowly. Almost gently. Peter didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t think. “Show me,” Rostov said. “Show me how obedient you can be.”

Peter took a breath. He closed his eyes, and stopped thinking.

—

The lab was too quiet.

Tony sat hunched over his workbench, but he wasn’t really working. His hands were idle. A prototype gauntlet sat half-assembled in front of him, innards exposed like a dissected animal, but he hadn’t touched it in hours. A cup of cold coffee balanced near the edge, untouched since morning. He didn’t even remember pouring it.

The silence scraped at him. Too sharp, too loud. His mind kept filling the quiet with sound - Peter’s voice, rapid-fire and bright, asking questions, poking at his tech, talking too fast and too much and never giving Tony a second to breathe. He would’ve killed for it now. For the noise. For the mess.

He didn’t look up when Harley stepped in. He didn’t have to. He felt him. That heavy, restless shuffle, like his skin didn’t quite fit. Like he wanted to scream and didn’t know how.

“FRIDAY let you in,” Tony muttered.

“She always lets me in,” Harley said, a little hoarse.

Tony didn’t answer. Just stared at the gauntlet. Thought about throwing it. Thought about screaming. Didn’t. 

“You look like shit,” Harley said finally, sitting across from him.

“You look worse.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tony leaned back in the chair, shoulders tight. He hadn’t slept. Probably hadn’t eaten, either. Harley looked like he’d crawled out of the wreckage of a world that ended and didn’t quite know where to go next. “You’re miserable,” Harley said, voice cracking slightly. “You keep telling me to eat, to sleep, to go outside. You won’t even leave the lab.”

Tony looked at him, dry-eyed and tired. “Yeah, well. Maybe I deserve to hide away and rot for a little bit. I think I deserve to wallow in self-pity for a bit, forgive me for wanting a drink or two.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harley snapped. “That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Harley shot back, eyes wet. “You think Peter would want you like this? Sitting here in your workshop like you’re the one that died?” Tony’s lip curled. Subtle. Small.  Harley’s jaw worked. He looked away. “You’re always telling me to keep going. To get my shit together. Why don’t you follow your own advice?”

Tony was quiet for a long time.

Then he nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “Let’s do that.”

Harley blinked at him.

“Let’s get our shit together,” Tony repeated, voice rough but steady. “The kid wouldn’t want us to be miserable. He’d… I don’t know. He’d build something dumb. Make some terrible joke. Throw a wrench at my head.”

Harley huffed, lips twitching despite himself. “He’d throw one at me too.”

“A small one,” Tony breathed, scrubbing his face.

“Just to keep me on my toes,” Harley murmured. His voice was so small it almost didn’t reach across the bench. He looked down at his hands, fingers curling. “He used to call me grease-monkey. Said my hands always smelled like copper and oil.”

Tony swallowed. His throat was tight. “That tracks.”

Harley nodded. His lip trembled. “I miss him so bad.”

“I know, kid.”

There was a long pause. A weight they both sat under, too big to move, too present to ignore. “There's nothing we can do anymore, is there?” Harley whispered.

Tony shook his head. “No.”

It hurt. God, it hurt. But it was the truth. Harley wiped at his eyes and exhaled, shaky and uneven, and Tony hauled him into a half-hug. Peter wouldn’t want them to wallow. He’d want them to move on.

So Tony would.

Chapter Text

The cell was small. Claustrophobically so. He could stretch out across the floor if he lay diagonal, but not without his feet touching one wall and his fingers brushing the other. The walls were gray, plain. The kind of sterile blankness that made you forget what color really looked like.

He sat in the corner, knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them. Staring at the wall. Not thinking. Just breathing.

He didn’t remember the last time they’d fed him. Days ago? Maybe more. His stomach didn’t even growl anymore. It just sat there, empty and hollow, as if it had given up along with the rest of him. The sound of boots in the corridor jolted him upright. He tried not to react, but his body remembered things even when his mind tried to forget. His heart thudded dully. He shifted to his feet, swaying slightly. His legs trembled under his weight.

The door hissed open. Two guards stepped in, faces blank, eyes cold. One of them held restraints. The other didn’t need to. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to.

Peter didn’t fight this time.

They strapped him down again. The handler - Rostov, though the man never answered to anything but ‘sir’ -stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “If you behave,” Rostov said, voice clipped and smooth, “you’ll eat today. Perhaps even sleep without restraints.”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “What, no dessert menu? You’re slipping.”

The backhand came quick, but it didn’t shock him anymore. Nothing really did. He just turned his face with the blow and spat blood into the corner. He’d been brave at first. Made jokes. Laughed in their faces. Called them every name he could think of, screamed himself hoarse when they tried to break him.

But it wore down. The constant punishment. The starvation. The isolation. The injections that made his blood burn and his skin crawl and his mind come apart in shreds. Sometimes he woke up strapped to the chair, with no memory of how he got there. Sometimes he lashed out, too delirious with drugs to know where he was, who he was, who they were. They punished him for that. too.

And then the chair again.

Always the chair.

It looked normal enough. A metal thing bolted to the ground. No cushions. No kindness. But when they shoved him into it, the restraints locked so tight his wrists went numb in seconds. His ankles too. His spine went rigid. The pain was a slow-build, creeping thing. The scientists spoke in Russian, voices clinical. He didn’t understand the words. Not really. But he’d learned the rhythms. When the voice changed pitch. When the edge of command slipped in.

That was when the electricity came.

White-hot. Agonizing. Every nerve in his body lit up like they were trying to incinerate him from the inside out. His scream ripped from him before he could bite it back. He felt it tear something in his throat. He tried to sink into the numbness. It was easier, sometimes. If he didn’t fight it, didn’t resist, he could float. Not feel all of it. Not be there.

But then the voice would stop speaking Russian, and the electricity would ease, and everything came crashing back in. They kept injecting him. Some serum, they said. More advanced. One scientist spoke English, muttering that it wasn’t taking. He wanted to laugh. Or cry, maybe, but he couldn’t get the words out.

Eventually they dragged him back to the cell. Tossed him in like trash. He curled up in the corner of the cell. His head buzzed. His body burned. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw and smeared with whatever poison they kept pumping into him.

He thought, for a moment, he was going to die there. Alone.

And a part of him wanted to.

At least it would be over.

—

He couldn’t do it.

Peter stood there, breath heaving, chest fluttering like a bird trapped inside a ribcage that felt too tight. The blood smeared across his knuckles wasn’t his. It never was, lately. As soon as the man standing across from him had lunged, Peter had just… hidden. He’d been allowed out of his handcuffs, and he scaled the wall as soon as he could, hiding up in the corner and watching the man below swear and curse. Watch and wait. 

The pit had screamed for blood. And Peter hadn’t given it.

He just climbed, half-staggering, half-scrambling up the wall that circled the room like a gaping maw. His fingers slipped once, twice. His ribs screamed. But he made it. He found the corner of the room, and just held himself there, every inch of his body shaking. He didn’t even know how long he sat there. Hours? Minutes? It didn’t matter. The adrenaline buzz had long since died, leaving only nausea and the bitter bile of regret swirling in his gut.

He was so tired.

He was so done.

A crunch of gravel alerted him too late. Peter just squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle tightening in alarm as his spidey sense blared. Then came the whirr and a sharp crack - a sound he was learning too well - and the white-hot bite of a stun gun against his stomach. His entire body jerked, muscles locking, seizing, as electricity ripped through him. The air fled his lungs. He couldn’t even scream as he collapsed, crashing to the rooftop with a graceless, bone-jarring thud.

The voice that followed made his stomach turn.

Rostov.

“Tsk,” the man said above him, shaking his head. “You disappoint me again.”

Peter couldn’t move. Not yet. His limbs twitched with aftershocks. His jaw ached from clenching. His tongue tasted like copper. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to sink into the cracks between the stones and vanish into the earth, to become dust, to dissolve into the darkness and never be found again. But all he could do was groan, weak and guttural, as a hand fisted in the front of his torn shirt and dragged him up off the blood-slick floor.

Rostov didn’t say a word at first. Just grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward, and let him drop hard to his knees before curling his hand into Peter’s matted hair and forcing his head up. Peter’s fingers scrambled uselessly at the floor, nails skidding across the grit and dried blood as he wheezed for breath.

Across the pit, the man Peter had refused to kill was still groaning - barely. Still alive. Rostov must have tased him too, just to get close enough to Peter without having to worry. Then Rostov pulled the gun from his holster, aimed with dead-eyed precision, and put a bullet between the man’s eyes.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Rostov released Peter’s hair, letting his head drop forward. Then, crouching beside him, voice low and cold, “It’s inevitable. The only difference is whether you eat or not.”

Then he grabbed him again - this time by the arm, jerking Peter upright like a ragdoll and half-dragging, half-hauling him through the iron doors. The concrete floor scraped against his heels. His knees knocked together, and Peter tried to shove at him once - just once, a feeble attempt to push off his chest - but it was like trying to move a brick wall. Rostov jammed the cattle prod to the base of his spine, and Peter howled. 

He didn’t kick at him again.

They reached the cell. Rostov opened the door with his keycard, the lock clicking like a gun cocking as he shoved the door open with one hand, the other still twisted in Peter’s hair, fingers tight at the roots. Peter made a broken sound - half whimper, half breathless cry - as his knees scraped hard against the floor. The cell stank of sweat and metal and blood and everything else he couldn’t scrub from his skin. Everything else he’d learned not to flinch from.

Still, his body rebelled.

His fingers twitched against the floor, and his chest heaved with the bare effort of breathing. He shifted, again, and Rostov threw Peter inside like trash. He hit the cot shoulder-first, crumpling against the mattress, his face mashed into the thin, sour-smelling sheet. He tried to roll, to breathe, to turn and look - but then Rostov stepped in behind him.

Too close.

Peter’s senses screamed. His limbs flailed before he even knew what he was doing. He kicked out, legs jerking, boots striking the wall and then the man behind him. It didn’t matter that he was weak, that he could barely lift his head - his body jerked at the closeness, at the way Rostov loomed behind him, his breath hot and heavy.

“Don’t - get off-” Peter rasped, voice cracking, terror spiking white-hot through his veins. Rostov didn’t say a word. There was only the click. The hum. The whine of the cattle prod charging up again.

And then pain.

Lightning arced through him like a whip. It caught him full across the lower back, and Peter cried out, back arching violently before he collapsed, twitching, his limbs spasming in confused agony. The cot screeched as he slid off it, crumpling to the floor, the cold concrete against his cheek doing little to ground him. His ears rang. He couldn’t breathe right. His fingers scraped at the floor, trying to find something to hold onto.

The heavy clank of the cuffs came next. Rostov’s hands - still thick, still unrelenting - yanked Peter’s wrists behind his back with a sharp jerk that made his shoulders cry out. Metal bit into bone. Peter hissed.

Then silence.

Or at least, the worst kind of silence: the kind filled with the echo of what had just happened. The echo of the shot. The body crumpling. The blood. “You think you get to choose,” Rostov said finally, low and disgusted, standing above him. His boot nudged Peter’s thigh. Not hard. Just… enough to remind him he could be. “You don’t.”

Peter kept his face down.

“You fight,” Rostov continued, crouching down, voice coiling near Peter’s ear. “You kill. Or you starve. That’s it.”

Peter said nothing.

“You made a choice today,” the man said. “And someone still died.”

Peter flinched. Just barely. A muscle in his cheek spasmed.

“The only difference,” Rostov murmured, hand settling on the back of Peter’s neck again, fingers pressing down with a cruel, claiming weight, “is whether you eat. Is how badly you get punished.”

A hand slid up his thigh, just under the medical gown, and Peter jerked forward. Rostov shoved the stun baton into his neck; not activated, but there. Threatening. Peter squeezed his eyes shut. Rostov pressed closer, and Peter wanted to sob. There was the sound of a belt unbuckling and Peter did panic, then, kicking out and trying to pull away, but he was still cuffed to the frame. He managed to catch the man with a kick, and Rostov let out a furious shout.

Peter twisted, trying to look over his shoulder - trying to see what Rostov was doing, but he barely got the chance before rough hands caught the collar of his thin shirt and tore it straight down the middle. The fabric, worn and frayed, gave way too easily. The sudden cold from the open back made him gasp.

“Don’t,” Peter croaked, voice hoarse. “Please-”

“You think you can tell me no?” The man snapped, furious, and Peter shouted, bucking, and then there was the sound of the belt again and then pain.

“Please,” Peter tried again, but he didn’t get the rest out. The crack of something splitting the air hit his ears a second before the next lash of pain landed. His back arched without permission. The burn lit up his spine like fire, and he yelped, the sound torn from his throat. He tried to scramble away, instinct flaring, but the restraints at his wrists wouldn’t let him move far. 

“Hold still,” Rostov snapped above him, breath heavy, angry. “You fight, you make it worse.”

Peter’s arms shook from the strain. His whole body felt locked between fear and resistance, every muscle tightening before another strike hit. His vision swam. He sobbed, trying to arch away, but it made no difference. He stopped pleading after the fourth blow. Not because it didn’t hurt. It did. Every second flared through his nerves like white noise. 

By the eighth, Peter wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t moving at all.

His face was turned to the side, pressed against the edge of the cot. His skin burned. Each breath dragged over trembling lungs. His muscles clenched and unclenched, trying to protect what they couldn’t. Spidey-sense screamed every time the belt lifted behind him. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. The man was still snarling and grunting above him and there was another whip of bloody welts along his back but Peter didn’t care. He just lay there, facing the metal bedframe and tensing automatically each time his spidey sense shrieked when the man raised his hand again.

He just waited it out.

Eventually, the man’s fury ran out. The room quieted. Peter’s ears rang.

Rostov sat behind him on the cot, breathing hard. A hand trailed over Peter’s ruined back, fingers dragging lightly over broken skin and leaving trails of white hot agony along his spine. Peter flinched at the contact but didn’t have the strength to pull away. Then there was the sound of fabric shifting, the man settling in between his legs and pressing down and another, more horrible terrible burn and intrusion and pain, and-

He kept his face turned into the mattress, jaw clenched. Every instinct told him to recoil, to bite, to run - but his body had gone still. It felt safer not to move. Maybe if he stayed quiet long enough, this part would end too.

It did end, eventually. The man grunted, grabbing his hips harder and shoving forward and Peter let out a choked noise of pain, but didn’t flinch away. He just pressed his face into the mattress, fingers tightening around nothing as the man let out a breath. Then he retreated and everything still burned, and-

Over him, Rostov stood still, watching. Peter heard his belt buckle slide back into place.

Peter didn’t dare look up.

“Next time,” Rostov said, voice cold and razor-sharp, “you finish the job. You take what I give you and you don’t make it harder than it needs to be. You kill when I say kill. Or they die anyway.”

He wanted to say something - anything - but his voice had gone. It’d been burned out of him by the screaming, by the pain, by the crackling in his bones. He could only lie there, curled in, a twitching wreck of muscles and skin, face wet with something he refused to acknowledge as tears. He heard the door lock behind him with a hiss and a clang. The metal rattled in its frame. Then there was only the buzz of the overhead lights and Peter’s breathing - shaky, thin, gasping around the hollow space left in his chest. Footsteps retreating. Then silence.

And it was worse than the pain. Because Peter wasn’t numb anymore. He wasn’t conditioned or compliant or fierce or brave or anything. He was just shaking, bleeding, and scared. His hands were still bound. His back ached. His hips ached. Everything hurt and he wanted to cry, but for some reason, he just… couldn’t. His head throbbed with the static of everything he was trying not to feel.

He wanted May. He wanted someone to hold him and say it was okay, that he wasn’t a monster, that he wasn’t alone and cold and forgotten. He closed his eyes against the tears anyway. The pain didn’t stop. He was alone. Still.

Waiting.

—

The tears didn’t stop for a long time.

They slowed, eventually. Not because it hurt less, but because he didn’t have anything left in him to give. His body ran out of tears before it ran out of pain. That part lingered - low and heavy and awful in his chest, coiled like something alive. It throbbed behind his ribs with every shallow breath he took.

The silence in the cell pressed in on him. Even curled into the cot, even when he closed his eyes, it didn’t feel like rest. He didn’t sleep. He just waited.

He didn’t know how much time passed before the door opened again.

It was two guards this time. Bigger ones. Their faces gave nothing away. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Their presence alone was enough. Peter pushed himself up slowly. Everything hurt. His body didn’t feel like his anymore. He could feel dried blood under his nails. On his hands. In the seams of his skin. It flaked when he moved, cracked where the bruises and cuts were already healing too fast.

The guards hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the cell. He didn’t fight.

They took him through a different corridor this time. Deeper. Colder. The walls here were newer. Cleaner. The kind of clean that made him feel sick. The kind of clean you found in hospitals and labs. They brought him into a room filled with lights. Cold and bright. Blinding. He winced against the sharpness of it. The sterile glare stung his eyes.

There were people waiting. Doctors, maybe. Scientists. Men and women in lab coats, holding clipboards and speaking in hushed, sharp voices that he couldn’t quite catch. Everything echoed. Footsteps. Machines humming. Something metallic being wheeled behind him.

One of them spoke Russian. Another answered in English.

“…serum sequence shows incompatibility. Host DNA resists-”

“Too much regenerative activity in the subject. It fights the compound.”

“We’ll have to recalibrate again.”

The words washed over him like static. He only caught pieces.  

Object. That’s what they meant. Not person. Not even name. He kept expecting someone to call him Peter. But no one did. Not even once. When Rostov walked in, everything in the room went still. The man didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move fast. He didn’t have to. His presence filled the room like smoke, slow and suffocating.

“Asset,” Rostov said calmly, his eyes locked on Peter’s face. “On your knees.”

The words hit something cold inside Peter’s chest. He didn’t move. For a second, he couldn’t. The name wasn’t his. That wasn’t his name. That wasn’t him. But then one of the guards moved, stepping forward, and Peter’s knees hit the ground before the blow landed. His body obeyed before his mind did.

Rostov’s hand cupped the back of his head. Fingers gentle, guiding him down. Peter kept his eyes low. “You’re learning,” Rostov said. “You’ll make a good weapon.”

Peter didn’t answer.

They brought him to the table next. Strapped him down again. Familiar, now. Leather cuffs at his wrists and ankles. One across his chest. Another around his neck. Something about the way they fastened the last one made his throat feel smaller. There were needles this time.

Long ones.

A gloved hand pressed to his forearm, pulling skin taut. Another hand adjusted the vial. “It may take. It may not,” someone murmured.

Peter turned his face away as the needle pierced his skin. The serum burned.

It wasn’t like the stuff from before. This was worse. This moved. He could feel it crawling through his veins, thick and hot, like acid trying to rewrite him from the inside. His back arched against the restraints as the heat bloomed outward, running along his arms, down into his fingertips. His jaw clenched. He tried to scream, but it caught in his throat - no sound, no breath.

The lights above blurred. Something wet slid from his nose. He didn’t know if it was blood or tears. Another injection. This one near his shoulder. Cold, then hot. The scientists murmured again, their voices low and clinical. Then came the pain.

Sharp. New. Focused on a single point on his upper back, just behind the shoulder blade.

At first, he thought it was a blade. A knife pressed against his skin. But it moved with too much precision. Hot. Burning. Controlled. It took him a second to understand - they were branding him. No - not branding. Tattooing.

He felt it as they etched the mark into his skin. The buzz of the tool. The sting of the needle breaking skin again and again, embedding ink in clean black lines. It wasn’t meant to be art. It wasn’t delicate or symbolic. It was practical. Identification.

A number.

They were giving him a number.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw clicked. He didn’t know how long it lasted. Minutes? Hours? The pain never let up, but it became a backdrop. Just another note in the symphony of wrongness that hummed through his entire body. Eventually, the straps were loosened. They didn’t unfasten him all the way - just enough to pull him to his feet.

He staggered. His legs gave out. Rostov caught him by the arm. “You are nearly ready,” the man said softly, not unkindly. “You’re becoming what you were always meant to be.”

Peter wanted to speak. To say something. Anything. But his mouth was too dry. His thoughts too splintered. He didn’t know what his name was anymore. He barely remembered what it was like to be Peter Parker.

They marched him back to the cell. He didn’t remember how many steps. His knees gave out twice. At one point he thought he heard someone laugh. Or maybe it was just the electricity in his head again. The static that never went away. The door slammed shut.

Peter collapsed onto the cot, face pressed into the thin mattress. His back throbbed with heat. His shoulderblade burned where the tattoo sat, raw and freshly scarred. He was marked now. Named by someone else. Wolf Spider.

He hated it.

But a small, terrifying part of him… didn’t. A part of him wanted to curl into the numbness of it. Let it erase everything else. Let it burn away the grief and the guilt and the awful, crawling shame that clung to his ribs and made it hard to breathe. If he wasn’t Peter anymore… maybe none of it had happened. Maybe May wasn’t dead. Maybe he didn’t feel anything at all.

But he did.

He felt everything.

He buried his face deeper into the cot, fists clenched under his chest. His shoulder throbbed. His blood still burned from whatever they’d put into him. He didn’t cry this time. He just lay there. Listening to the sound of his breath, ragged and slow, and the faint whisper of footsteps outside the cell.

Still waiting.

—

They came for him again the next day.

He didn’t know how he knew it was the next day. Time wasn’t real here. There were no clocks, no windows, no light changes to mark the hours. But his body told him in its own broken way. The ache in his bones had deepened. The rawness on his shoulder hadn’t finished scabbing. The starvation felt sharper again. His stomach had started cramping from emptiness, curling in on itself with a gnawing pain that made his hands shake.

So. Probably the next day.

The door opened without warning. Rostov entered first, and Peter didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes low, his spine straight as much as it could be. He sat at the edge of the cot and didn’t speak. Rostov smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Good boy,” he said, voice smooth. He gestured, and the guards entered behind him.

The routine was the same. Restraints. Marching. Corridor after corridor, until Peter lost count of the turns. The cold metal against his wrists. The feel of the collar snapping closed at his throat. Rostov’s hand, always firm on the back of his neck. They brought him back to the chair.

He hated the chair.

It wasn’t the restraints. Not just those. Not even the injections. It was what it did to him. What it made him forget. What it tried to burn out of him, thought by thought, second by second.

They locked him in - arms first, then legs, then the thick belt over his chest. And finally, the metal clamps that braced around his head. He hated those most. The way they boxed him in, forced him still. Left no room to move. No room to run. The lights overhead flickered to life. A harsh spotlight that made his eyes ache.

There were voices again. Russian. A man and a woman. Both wearing surgical white, not lab coats. The woman spoke more softly, the man more often. He recognized the rhythm now, even if he didn’t understand the words. It was a script. Something rehearsed. The cadence didn’t change. Only the volume did.

Sometimes low. Sometimes loud. Sometimes shouted.

Peter’s head jerked back with the first surge of electricity.

White heat screamed through his spine. His whole body arched, muscles locking down. His mouth opened but no sound came out. He couldn’t even breathe. It felt like every nerve ending had been scraped raw and then lit on fire. The voice kept speaking. Russian, smooth and rhythmic, like poetry poured over coals.

Then another jolt. It came in waves. Each one worse than the last. Each one building on top of the one before, stacking agony until it bled into something dizzying. Something detached.

Peter’s thoughts faded. He could hear his own breath wheezing in and out. Hear the echo of his pulse hammering against his skull. The metal clamps bit into his temples. His shoulder throbbed with the half-healed burn of the number tattoo. His lips were split again. He hadn’t even realized they’d bled.

The man was still speaking. Still saying something.

But Peter couldn’t understand it. He’d never learned Russian. He should’ve, a small, bitter voice in the back of his head whispered. But he’d had homework. He’d had patrol. He’d had May. God.

May.

Her name hit his ribs like a sledgehammer. He hadn’t thought about her in-

No, that wasn’t true.

He thought about her every time he closed his eyes. Every time he let himself feel anything. Her face was there, behind the pain. Waiting in the dark corners of his mind like a memory too bright to touch. He could hear her voice now. Not sharp. Not scared. Just… tired. That quiet way she used to call his name when she wanted him to stop running himself into the ground. When she wanted him to eat. To sleep.

“Peter.”

A hand against his cheek. A thumb brushing his brow.

“Peter, baby, please-”

Another jolt of electricity screamed through his spine, ripping him out of the memory. His body convulsed. Something cracked in his shoulder. He gasped, the taste of iron flooding his mouth. Blood. Again.

The fog rolled in after that.

Not like the first time. This one was deeper. Thicker. It didn’t just blur the edges - it stole them. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in the chair. Couldn’t remember what they were saying, or what they wanted from him. The only thing he understood was the pain. And even that was starting to lose meaning.

Eventually, even that dulled. He could feel his brain retreating. Not shutting down, just... slipping backward. Letting go. And honestly? That was worse. The pain he could fight. He could rage against it. He could bite and scream and twist away from it. But this? This creeping nothingness? It welcomed him. Pulled at him. Promised quiet. Promised a kind of peace, if he just stopped caring.

He didn’t want to care anymore. He didn’t want to remember his name. Didn’t want to remember her body on the tile floor. Didn’t want to remember the sound the sound the girl made when Peter broke her open in the pit.

He wanted to sink. To disappear. To go quiet.

But right when he started to let go-

The Russian stopped. And the electricity stopped, and the pain came rushing back. It came back in waves, like cold water dumped on an open wound. Suddenly everything hurt again. His back. His spine. His lungs. His skin. He screamed. He didn’t know he was screaming until his voice cracked. 

The silence that followed was worse.

They unstrapped him eventually. They always did. And he collapsed like a ragdoll into Rostov’s waiting arms. “Shh,” the man said, stubble brushing Peter’s forehead. “That’s it. Good boy. You’re doing so well.”

Peter hated the words. Hated how his body shivered at the praise. How a part of him wanted to lean into it. Wanted the warmth. The contact. The affection that hadn’t been given freely in so long, it didn’t even feel real anymore. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

Rostov carried him this time.

Lifted him like a child and cradled him against his chest, one arm under his knees, the other behind his shoulders. Peter didn’t even try to resist; he was too tired, too far gone. The man smelled like smoke and leather. His coat brushed against Peter’s bare arms. The edges of the number on his shoulderblade and the residual twitches of electricity still thrumming through him burned with every step. They passed through the halls again. Everything looked the same. Fluorescent lights. Tile floors. Cameras blinking red in the corners.

The cell door opened. Rostov laid him down gently. The cot felt like ash beneath him. Thin. Too narrow. But it was soft enough to sink into. The man crouched beside him. Pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. Not hard. Just enough to ground him.

“You’re doing well,” he said softly. “You are learning. You are surviving. You will be more.”

Peter didn’t answer.

His eyes were half-lidded. His mouth was dry. His thoughts felt slow, like syrup poured into the cracks of his skull. But he felt the weight of the hand on his chest. Felt the burn of the number inked into his back. Felt the scream still buried in his throat, too raw to release. When Rostov stood and left, the door shut with a mechanical click.

And Peter - what was left of him - closed his eyes.

He didn’t cry this time.

There was nothing left to cry with.

—

Peter woke up with the taste of metal in his mouth.

It was faint, like rust - like old blood sucked from the inside of a split lip - and it coated the back of his throat with every breath. His eyes burned as they cracked open, but he couldn’t see much. Just the ceiling. Blank concrete. No seams. No light source, but everything was white and buzzing, like a fluorescent hum pressed right into his skull.

His whole body hurt.

Not the sharp, immediate kind of pain. That was already fading. No, this was worse. This was the deep ache that lived in his bones. Like he’d been hollowed out and refilled with something cold and slow and heavy. Peter’s ribs pressed against his skin with every breath. Every step ached. His joints felt wrong, like they were grinding against each other without anything soft left in between. Hunger had long since stopped feeling like pain. Now it was more like emptiness - vast, aching hollowness that reached past his stomach and into the pit of his chest. He’d lost track of time again. The cell had no windows. The lights above blinked at odd intervals and made it impossible to tell what hour it was. 

Maybe they did it on purpose. Maybe they liked watching him lose count.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His lips had cracked days ago. When he swallowed, it was thick and dry, like forcing down glass shards. His hands shook, useless things now, and his thoughts came slower than usual - dragging themselves through molasses. But he couldn’t stop thinking, even if it hurt. Even if it was the only thing left that didn’t go numb.

May.

He thought about her voice first. Not her face. Just the sound of her yelling from the kitchen, scolding him for not taking the trash out again. He’d given her a smile and a tired, “Sorry, May,” and she’d just rolled her eyes and kissed the top of his head. His throat tightened. That had been the day before. The day before the fire. 

He didn’t even get to say goodbye.

He didn’t try to sit up.

He just lay there for a while, breathing through his teeth and staring at the ceiling. Letting the moments crawl past, one after the other. Waiting for something to change. Eventually, it did.

Bootsteps. Several pairs.  

He didn’t turn his head when the door opened. Just blinked slowly, lazily, as two guards entered. Rostov behind them. No words this time. Just the movement of bodies. They dragged him up - one hand under each arm - and pulled him to his feet. His legs buckled, but they didn’t wait for him to recover. He stumbled along between them, steps jerking out of rhythm, ribs grinding every time someone’s elbow brushed the fresh bruises across his side.

The hallway passed in a blur. He didn’t ask where they were going. He knew. 

The pit was worse when he was awake for it. At least when he was half-gone, he could pretend it wasn’t real. Could let the blood and the bodies feel like a dream he’d half-woken from. But now - now, he felt everything. The sting of sweat in his eyes. The coarse scrape of the collar on his neck. The hot, rancid smell of other people’s fear hanging low in the air like mist. Dim lights that made everything look yellow and sickly. And the pit. An open area of reinforced flooring, lined with marks he didn’t understand. Streaks of blood already stained the corners. Peter's knees buckled as they shoved him toward the middle.

The guards shoved him forward. The gate opened. And Peter stepped into hell.

He looked up through bleary eyes. Someone was standing across from him. Bigger. Muscles built like a soldier. Peter’s body tensed on instinct, but it wasn’t enough. There was only one other person standing across from him. A man - taller, broader. Shaved head. Dark eyes. He had a scar that ran from one ear to the corner of his mouth, like someone had tried to carve a smile into his face. The man cracked his knuckles. Peter’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to fight.

A voice crackled from above. Russian, again. The same command. Always the same command.

Begin.

The fight started fast. The man lunged.

Peter ducked the first punch, but he was slow - too slow - and the second one caught him in the gut. He went down to one knee. A boot caught his side. He rolled with it. Clumsily. His limbs felt like lead. He didn’t want to fight. Didn’t want to do this again.  

But when the man reached down to grab him, something inside Peter snapped.

He moved without thinking. His body reacted before his brain did - ducking low, dodging the first swing, snapping out a kick toward the man’s knee. It connected, but barely. The man grunted and surged forward again, tackling Peter to the ground. They rolled in the dirt. Peter clawed for breath, elbowed blindly at ribs, then felt a fist crash into the side of his head.

Crack.

White stars exploded behind his eyes. He tasted blood. His vision went sideways. For a second - just a second - he considered staying down. He was so tired. His body ached. His chest burned. His stomach had started eating itself days ago. And yet - something inside him snapped. Like a rubber band pulled too tight for too long.

He saw May’s face. Not dead. Not pale. Just disappointed.

And then he moved.

He twisted, slammed his forehead into the other man’s chin, rolled them both until he was on top. His fists came down - once, twice, again. The man fought back, but Peter had strength even now. And once he had the advantage-

He didn’t stop. The world blurred and his vision tunneled, narrowed to just the sound of fists on skin and the awful, wet crunch of something giving way beneath his knuckles. His hands kept moving, fists driving into skin and bone, over and over. Until the man beneath him stopped struggling. Until he stopped breathing. Until Peter was kneeling in blood. Panting. Shaking. Staring down at what he’d done. His fists were red. So was his face. His arms. His knees. There was blood in his mouth. He didn’t know if it was his.

When it ended, Peter was straddling the man’s chest. His hands were slick. Red. His arms shook violently, muscles locking up from strain and cold. The body beneath him didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He looked down at the man’s face, what was left of it, and something in his chest twisted. That wasn’t self-defense. That wasn’t survival. That was murder.

He’d killed him.

His breath hitched. A horrible shudder rolled through his spine. He scrambled back, nearly slipping in the blood pooling under his knees. His lungs burned. His mouth tasted like bile. The room tilted as he crawled away from the body and collapsed on all fours, choking on the stench of copper and sweat.

His whole body was shaking. The nausea crested in his throat. He’d killed someone. He’d killed someone on purpose. Not just fought. Not like on patrol. Not like stopping a mugger or tripping a guy with a gun. This wasn’t a clean takedown or a calculated hit. This was - he’d beaten someone to death. With his bare hands. With nothing but rage and survival left in his chest.

Peter’s stomach twisted violently and he scrambled off of the man as he tried to breathe through the tremors racking his frame.

He stayed there for a long time.

Knees in the dirt. Hands twitching at his sides. Breath heaving, body reeling. The world tilted slightly, like the floor couldn’t hold him right anymore. He didn’t cry. Not yet. He was too far past it. Numb. Hollowed out. The nausea came first. A deep churn in his gut that made his whole abdomen seize. He heaved, dry and hoarse. Nothing came up - he hadn’t eaten in days. His body was too empty to throw anything out.

The guards didn’t move.

Rostov watched from behind the gate.

After what felt like years, the door opened, and the man walked into the pit. He didn’t speak. Just walked forward, slow and even. He stopped beside Peter, crouched low, and a hand wrapped around the back of his neck, fingers tight against the skin. Like he was calming a dog. Like Peter was a dog. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. He didn’t even know how anymore.

“Good boy,” Rostov said, voice low. “You learn quickly.”

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t look at him. Just stared at the ground. His hands were still shaking. Rostov’s grip didn’t tighten. It was firm, but not harsh. Guiding, not punishing. And somehow, that was worse.

“Up,” Rostov ordered, voice flat.

Peter staggered to his feet. He didn’t remember standing. His vision had gone soft at the edges, white static bleeding into the corners of his sight. His legs barely worked. Rostov held him up like a dog on a leash, hand tight on his neck as he guided him through the halls and back to the cell.

He didn’t resist. He couldn’t. His hands were still red.

He let the man lead him out of the pit like an animal. Back through the corridors. Back into the dark. He couldn’t remember walking. Just… being in the cell again. Hands cuffed. Clothes damp with sweat and blood. Knees aching. Skin buzzing with adrenaline. He sat on the cot because he didn’t know what else to do. Rostov left for a moment. Peter barely noticed. He didn’t lift his head until the door opened again.

This time, there was food.

It wasn’t much. Just a tray - soup again. Thin, watery. But hot. With a spoon. The kind of meal that might’ve been comforting. Now, it felt like a test. Peter’s stomach twisted at the smell, but the hunger was sharper than the guilt. 

“You did well,” the man said quietly. Peter didn’t answer. Couldn’t. “Good boy.” Rostov’s voice was almost gentle, and Peter’s whole body went taut. He didn’t want kindness. He didn’t want this . But the tray was placed in front of him, and Peter’s head swam at the smell of broth. His eyes flicked up automatically.

“Eat.”

Peter’s hands twitched before he even realized what he was doing. They moved to the tray. The cuffs clinked. His fingers fumbled against the spoon. Soup. It was just soup. He lifted the spoon slowly, fumbling with it like he hadn’t held a utensil in years.

He glanced up.

Rostov was watching him. Not with cruelty. Not with anger. With expectation. The man nodded.

Peter took a sip. Warm salt stung his tongue. He blinked hard, trying not to shake. The heat burned down his throat like fire. But it was something. Something alive in the emptiness of his stomach. Rostov sat beside him. Peter kept eating, hand trembling. He didn’t want to. Didn’t deserve to. Not after what he’d done. But he kept swallowing, breath hitching with every spoonful.

Then the man’s hand reached out and settled - gently, horribly - on Peter’s head. Fingers threading through his matted hair. Soft. Reassuring. Peter’s throat closed. His eyes burned from the touch. From the wrongness of it. The warmth. The quietness. Like he hadn’t just killed a man. Like he hadn’t been electrocuted and strapped to a chair and fed like an animal.

Like this was normal. Like this was good.

Rostov stayed beside him until the bowl was empty.

Peter didn’t even realize he’d finished it. Then the man stood easily, picked up the tray, and left. The door locked behind him, and Peter was alone. He didn’t lie down right away. Just sat there for a while, hands limp in his lap, wrists cuffed. Staring at the wall like it might open up and give him something else to feel.

The cold pressed in around him. His heartbeat was still loud in his ears. And when he finally sank down onto the cot, curled in on himself, knees to his chest and shoulders shaking-

Then, finally, he cried.

Not small tears. Not the kind he’d forced back during the injections or when the restraints left welts on his wrists. These weren’t tears he could fight. They came like a flood, torn out of him in broken sobs that echoed off the walls. His chest shook. His breath hitched.

He pressed his face into the pillow and wept like a child.

He wanted May. He wanted her so badly it hurt. He wanted her arms around him, wanted to hear her scold him for tracking blood in the apartment again or getting home too late after patrol. He wanted her to look at him and tell him he was still good. That he wasn’t a monster. That this wasn’t who he really was. But May was gone.

There was just a silent flood of tears that wouldn’t stop, no matter how tightly he curled his fists or bit down on his own tongue. His body shook like a leaf. His chest hitched like he couldn’t breathe. And through all of it, one thought whispered over and over through the cracks in his mind:

Murderer.

Because he was a murderer now.

And nobody was coming to save him.

 —

The next time he killed, it was easier.

His opponent was smaller. Faster, but weaker. Peter’s body moved on instinct - strike, break, choke, silence. He didn’t scream. Didn’t snarl. Just breathed steady through his teeth and finished the job in under two minutes. Rostov was there, again. Hand on the back of his neck.

“Good boy.” 

Peter didn’t react. Not visibly. But somewhere inside, a part of him curled up and died.

 —

He was strapped down again.

Not to the chair this time - something colder. A table, metal and narrow, with a ridge at the center that pressed hard into his spine. The restraints were tighter than before. Ankles. Wrists. Thighs. Even his jaw had something fixed in place, forcing his teeth slightly apart. The metal bit clacked against his molars when he tried to close them. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. Could barely breathe.

He’d already been injected with something.

Not the usual. This one was heavier. It crawled through his bloodstream like oil. Sluggish and wrong. His thoughts felt like they were floating inches above his skull, never quite connecting. His limbs twitched without order. His tongue was thick and dry, and there was a horrible noise building in his ears, like a kettle boiling.

Rostov stood over him. No smile this time. No praise. No command words. Just gloves pulled tight and a scalpel already slick with antiseptic. A tray of long, silver instruments beside him. A second man adjusted a monitor that blinked green and blue against the far wall. There were soundwaves on the screen. Not words. Just pulses. Frequencies.

Peter’s heart started pounding.

He didn’t know why. Didn’t know what they were doing this time. But his body already knew it was going to be worse than the chair. The sedative didn’t dull the pain. Not this time.

The first cut felt like fire. Clean, precise, and deep. Right at the base of his neck, just under the edge of his hairline, down along the ridge of his spine. A surgical line that went taut as his muscles seized. He couldn’t move. He wanted to move. His whole body screamed to get away, but his limbs were pinned. The bit in his mouth stopped him from biting down, but it didn’t muffle the ragged, helpless sounds clawing out of his throat.

Then something was inserted.

Long. Cold. Mechanical. It slid between vertebrae like it had been designed to fit there. His whole spine arched. Not voluntarily - reflex. His nerves fired in every direction, blinding white agony shooting from the base of his skull down into his toes. He felt it snake between bones. Felt it digging, anchoring, lodging itself like a parasite.

He couldn’t breathe.

A high, keening sound rose from his throat. Choked. Wet. The edges of his vision went black. There was blood - he could smell it. The sharp, metallic tang of it filled his nose. It mixed with the sterile stench of antiseptic, and underneath all of it, the faint ozone sting of electricity.

“Too unstable,” someone muttered in English.

Rostov replied, voice firm in something he couldn’t understand. Not arguing. Just confirming. Peter couldn’t understand the words, but he understood the intent. This wasn’t punishment. It was insurance. The first kill-switch hadn’t worked. Not the shocks. Not the words. His body had fought them. Healed too quickly. Disobeyed the programming. He’d heard them arguing about it, weeks ago, when they thought he was too far under to understand.

They didn’t want to shock him so hard in the chair they permanently damaged him. They didn’t want him broken. They wanted him useful.

So they had changed tactics. Recalibrated. Not brute force - biology. They were using him against himself. The thing in his spine was a fallback. Something they could activate later, if they needed to for some godawful reason. Unlike shock damage, it wouldn’t heal. Not if they embedded it deep enough.  

Peter’s body trembled beneath the restraints.

His fists clenched and unclenched, useless against the cuffs. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and dripped into his ears. He was sweating, shivering. The cold on his back was sticky now, mingled with blood, nerves frayed down to threads. 

And then - just like that - it was over. No explanation. No words.

They injected something into his neck. It was sharp and fast, a jolt of ice water that made his heart stutter. He didn’t lose consciousness, not fully - but the world tilted. The table swayed beneath him. The lights above blurred into streaks. His limbs went limp.

They undid the restraints. Lifted him like dead weight. He didn’t fight. Couldn’t. They carried him down the hall and dumped him in the cell again. He hit the cot wrong, half his body sliding off before he even registered the motion. His knees folded under him. His ribs bounced off the metal frame. His temple cracked against the wall with a dull thud.

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try. His back was on fire. Burning. Splitting. Something inside him was wrong. He could feel it there, pressing against nerves, vibrating. It wasn’t natural. It didn’t belong. Every time he twitched, pain bloomed across his spine like crushed glass grinding against bone.

He curled onto his side. But that made it worse. So he rolled onto his stomach, slow and dragging. His whole body trembled from the effort. His knees tucked up. His arms folded under his chest. His face was buried against the cot, cheek pressed to cold metal, breath hitching in soft, miserable gasps.

He thought he might be dying. Not because of blood loss. Not even from the implant. But because something inside him had given up. Something that had been holding on - just barely - had finally let go. And it hurt. 

God, it hurt.

Tears slipped down his nose. He didn’t sob. Not yet. But the pressure was building, hot behind his eyes. Swelling in his chest. His throat closed up. He bit the inside of his cheek, desperate to stop it - but it didn’t work. His back spasmed again. The ache in his back and his face and his arms over days had rose to some horrible, twisted degree; like the more stressed he was the more pain he was in. He arched, trying to find a more comfortable position, but he couldn’t.

He twitched, and then he felt it. 

The skin around the his back twitched. Something burned like he could feel it moving under his skin, alive and aware. Skin split open. He felt it. A wet ripping sensation, followed by a horrible slide. Like something had come loose. Like a seal had broken. And suddenly his back was wet and there was only a burning, white-hot agony. Not just damp.

Soaked.

He choked. Blood. It had to be blood.

He was bleeding out. He knew that kind of heat. That kind of warmth. It wasn’t sweat. It wasn’t phantom pain. It was real. Something real had ruptured. His arms collapsed under him. He hit the cot hard, jaw knocking into the frame.  His vision went white.

A second later, something flopped onto the floor beside him.

A soft, wet plop. Then another. Heavier. But he could have sobbed in relief at the fact that whatever was writhing under his skin was out. He didn’t look at what it was. He couldn’t. But he knew it wasn’t part of the implant. Something that had been inside. Something living. It had come out.

He sobbed.

Full-bodied, choking cries that shook his shoulders and twisted his spine and made the pain triple. He buried his face in his forearms and wept, loud and ugly and unrestrained. There was blood in his mouth and bile in his throat and his body wouldn’t stop twitching.

He wanted it to end.

He didn’t want to be Spider-Man. Didn’t want to be strong. Didn’t want to fight. He just wanted-

God.

He just wanted someone to hold him.

But there was no one. Just the blood. And the heat. And the awful, inhuman thing that had lived inside his spine for a week and already broken him open. He lay there for hours. Bleeding. Crying.

Waiting for Mr. Stark, and when he didn’t come, he waited for Rostov to come back and hold him.

—

He didn’t know when he passed out.

One moment he was sobbing, body convulsing in pain, blood pooling beneath his ribs - and the next, everything was slow and blank and drifting. Silence took him. Not the kind that echoed. Not like the cell with its humming lights and distant mechanical noise. No, this was quieter than that. Empty. Heavy. A silence that pressed against his eardrums like water. A silence so complete it almost felt kind.

Maybe he’d died.

He didn’t fight it. Didn’t cling. Didn’t reach. Just floated. For a while.

When sound came back, it was distant. A dull static, like rain behind glass. His breath was faint. Scratchy. Uneven. Each inhale made his ribs creak. His mouth tasted like rust. His cheek stuck to the metal floor. He was cold. But not shivering. He was too far past shivering.

The warmth from his back was gone. That scared him. It had been wet before. Hot, almost feverish. But now it was just damp. Sticky. And cold. Like the blood had already dried. Like his body had given up trying to repair itself.

He blinked.

Once.

He was too scared to roll over onto his back or turn his head to the side to see what had come out of him. He fixed his gaze on the metal bedpost, on the smear of red across the metal just in front of his face. His blood. Glossy, drying in uneven pools. It had seeped under his chest. His shirt was glued to his skin. He moved his fingers. They twitched. Good.

That meant he wasn’t paralyzed.

But when he tried to lift his arm, agony shot from his spine straight into his skull. His vision went black around the edges. His muscles spasmed and he gasped, low and pained. Not paralyzed. But broken. Somewhere between his shoulder blades, the world hurt.

A white-hot, pulsing core of wrongness lived there now. Not just pain. Absence. Like something had been carved out of him and replaced with void. He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t want to understand.

—

The next time he came back to himself, he was standing.

No memory of getting upright. No command given. Just there, upright and swaying, his hands limp at his sides, the floor tipping beneath his bare feet. Like waking up in the middle of a dream - already moving, already obeying. “Stand.”

The command had echoed a moment ago. Maybe longer.

He didn’t remember following it. But he must’ve. His knees buckled. The world blurred. Sound dulled. His body pitched sideways, and- Arms caught him. Not cruel. Not rushed. Rostov.

Peter felt the strength of the man’s arm around his ribs, stabilizing him gently. He could have sobbed at the contact if it wasn’t such a disgusting display of weakness. His stomach turned. “You did well,” Rostov murmured, like praise. “You stood. That’s good. That’s very good.”

His hand was warm on Peter’s neck - right where the wounds were still trying to heal, where skin had only just started knitting itself closed. Peter flinched. The hand slipped downward. White-hot pain burst down his spine like shrapnel, electric and jagged. His whole body spasmed.

“Set him on the cot,” the scientist behind him said briskly, somewhere to the left. “I don’t want to disturb his healing by moving him too quickly.”

As if that wasn’t already happening.

Rostov eased him forward with care that made Peter want to scream. His knees met the floor. His torso was folded down onto the cot. Chest and arms collapsed into the thin mattress, face pressing into the dent left from earlier. He didn’t have the strength to lift it. Didn’t want to. He was so tired.

The warmth of the cot was nearly enough to make him sleep again. Almost comforting. 

Snap.

The sound made his breath catch. Elastic gloves being pulled on, somewhere behind him. He froze. Everything in him coiled tight. There was a rustle. A breath. Then-

Touch.

A brush against his bare back. He hadn’t even realized his gown was undone until it was torn wide open, split down the spine. The cold hit his skin. Then pressure. Then-

“Extraordinary,” the man breathed.

A fingertip traced along something on his back - something raised. Something wrong. It twitched. So did Peter. His eyes shot open. He tried to move - tried to sit up, twist around, look - but pain cracked down his back like a whip and forced him still. He whimpered.

Not loud. Not enough to be punished. Just… enough.

“Retractable, are they?” the scientist muttered. “Curious. Too soon for nerve refinement, clearly.”

Peter didn’t understand. Not at first. Until another twitch rolled down his back. A shift of muscle that wasn’t his. A scrape. A weight settling onto him, not from outside, but from within. He felt it. He felt them. 

Four.

Four sharp, jointed limbs curled out from torn skin. Metal and bone and muscle. Not prosthetic. Not mechanical. His. Inside him. He gagged. One of them - sluggish, uncoordinated - drifted forward, clumsily collapsing beside his face on the cot. It hit the mattress with a dull thump.

Peter stared at it.

A leg. A spider-leg. Curved and sharp. Glinting faintly with blood and something darker.

His.

He watched it flex. Twitched a finger. It moved. His stomach churned. He couldn’t look away. Didn’t dare. Didn’t understand.  It dragged weakly across the fabric. It scratched the cotton, moved like it was trying to find a position. Like it was tired. Like he was.

He wanted to touch it.

Wanted to shove it away. Wanted to curl it up and hide it. Wanted to rip it from his back and scream. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His body was shaking. Mouth dry. Jaw locked tight. He wanted to cry. The scientist kept talking above him. Notes. Observations. Excitement in his voice, but not about Peter. About the results. The function. The mutation. The weapon. Not the boy.

Eventually, the scientist left.

Peter didn’t remember the door. Didn’t hear it. But the quiet that followed was worse. Rostov was still there. Still at his side. Still warm. Still gentle. He murmured something low and steady, a strange tenderness in his voice as he cleaned the blood and viscera from the wound on Peter’s back. Each touch was careful. Deliberate. The bandages around the flayed skin were soft. His hands were steady.

“You did good,” the man said, crouching beside the cot.

Peter wanted to melt into it. The touch was so soft he would have cried if it wouldn’t have gotten him cattle-prodded. He wanted to let go, but if he cried, he’d be punished. So he didn’t. He held it in. Held everything in. 

Until Rostov’s hands shifted. Slid lower. Peter went still.

There were fingers at his thighs. Cool. Intentional. The gown was lifted, and Rostov hiked the material up and bunched the fabric at his hips. He didn’t flinch, though. There were hands again. Too close. Too aware.

His fingers curled weakly into the sheets. His face pressed deeper into the mattress. There was invasion. And a burn that made his teeth clench. He bit into the fabric to stay silent. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. He breathed through it. Shook through it. Teeth clenched. Mind gone.

He wasn’t here. He wasn’t in his body. He was watching, floating, somewhere behind his own eyes. "Good," Rostov whispered, against his ear, before grunting as he mounted him. Peter squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “So good. Perfect. You’re going to be perfect.”

Words like ash. Another sound. A weight. Peter tightened his fingers on the fabric. He arched, body tensing like a bowstring pulled taut, and pressed his face deeper into the bed as the spider limbs went tight - still weak and new and uncoordinated, scraping against the mattress, clawing the floor. Rostov gripped his hips, one hand firm. The other sliding up the uninjured parts of Peter’s spine before running a finger reverently along the base of the new limbs.

It didn’t last long, but it lasted longer than it should have. Rostov grabbed him tighter, shoved, then grunted.

When it was over, the gown fell back down. The fabric was cold against his skin. Rostov’s hand moved to his hair, fingers dragging through the strands with a mockery of affection. “You’ll eat later,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

The hand withdrew. The door shut.

Peter stayed like that - face down, knees tucked under, gown bunched awkwardly around his hips. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He lay there, face turned into the warmth of the mattress, legs folded beneath him, arms limp. One of the spider limbs still lay beside his head, twitching faintly.

He didn’t look at it. Didn’t look at anything. Peter didn’t move from the position for a long, long time.

—

Time slipped sideways after that.

It could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. Maybe longer. Peter didn’t track it - couldn’t, really. He stayed exactly where he was left, body limp over the cot, cheek flattened against the still-warm fabric, one knee crooked awkwardly on the floor while the other was tucked half beneath him. His breath came slow and shallow through his nose, like even the act of drawing air felt too loud, too risky, too much.

His eyes stayed open for a while. Not seeing, just… open.

The light overhead buzzed. It flickered sometimes, the way old fluorescents did, and each blink of darkness made his pulse skip. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. The moment he thought about shifting - about curling up, about pulling the gown back down properly, about hiding the trembling metal limb still lying next to his face - his whole body spasmed with pain. Not sharp. Not fresh. Just deep. Radiating. Like the trauma had sunk down into the marrow of him and wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

His back felt like it was on fire.

Raw skin, torn muscle, the faint stickiness of blood cooling where it had soaked through the bandages. Everything hurt. Not in that clean, post-patrol, I’ll-heal-by-morning kind of way, but in a wrong way. In a way that whispered that something fundamental had been broken. That no amount of sleep or serum or time would put it right again.

He didn’t cry. He wanted to. God, he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

Not just because of the threat of punishment, but because there was nothing left in him. No tears. No voice. Just the hollow ache of a body stretched too far and a mind too tired to catch up. He hadn’t even known he was capable of something like this. Four spider limbs. Four twitching, blood-slick, bone-and-gored appendages, half-grown from his own flesh. HYDRA hadn’t given him a choice. Hadn’t warned him. They’d just taken him apart and put him back together again without permission, without care, without pause.

He was a weapon now. That was the goal. Not a person. Not Peter. Just something useful.

An Asset.

His stomach twisted. He wanted to roll over, to hide his face, to bury himself in the mattress and disappear, but every nerve in his body screamed when he tried. So he stayed still. Pressed his mouth into the edge of the blanket. Let himself go blank. That helped, a little. Not thinking. Not remembering.

Just… floating.

He could hear things happening in the distance. Movement. Footsteps. The squeal of a metal trolley, the hiss of something being sprayed down. The lab never slept, and neither did they. It was always lit. Always cold. Always waiting for the next test, the next experiment, the next round of conditioning.

His fingers twitched against the fabric. A small motion. Weak. But his.

He focused on it. Focused hard. That twitch was something he had done. Not them. Not the serum. Not the programming. Peter. Just… Peter.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

Eventually, the limb beside his face shifted again. Slower this time. A tremble. The kind of movement a newborn might make; uncertain, untrained, too heavy for itself. Peter watched it wobble there, casting a faint shadow across the cot, slick with blood and viscera. It flexed once, then curled slightly, like it wanted to tuck in beside him. Like it was part of him.

He almost retched.

It was part of him.

Bile rose in his throat, sharp and sour. He swallowed it back down. Pressed his forehead harder against the mattress until black dots danced behind his eyes. It shouldn’t be possible. This wasn’t what his powers were. This wasn’t what spider DNA meant. He’d had enhanced reflexes, strength, healing. He hadn’t - God, he hadn’t had limbs.

But it made sense now. The pain in his back. The tearing. The burning. The strange, twitching aches he hadn’t been able to name. They’d been growing. And HYDRA had helped it along. Encouraged it. Modified it. He was mutating. Being rewritten. Turned into something… else.

Something useful.

A sound escaped him. Not quite a sob. Not quite a breath. Just a broken, thin exhale. He didn’t know what it meant. It felt like grief, like mourning. But there wasn’t time for that here. No space. No safety. 

So he buried it.

He lay there until the room went quiet again. Until the click of the door signaled Rostov’s return. Heavy boots. A bag slung over one shoulder. Peter didn’t lift his head. “Still,” Rostov said softly, his voice a warm hum. “Good boy. Still right where I left you.”

Peter didn’t answer.

Didn’t flinch, even when hands reached out to straighten his gown. To adjust his legs. To wipe something away from the back of his thigh with a thumb. The movements were calm. Measured. Gentle, even. It made Peter’s skin crawl.

But he didn’t resist. There was no point.

Rostov murmured something else - something about progress, about compliance, about being perfect. Peter let it wash over him like static. It meant nothing. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t even himself anymore. He was just a body.

Just a spider.

And somewhere, deep in the marrow of his spine, the new limbs shifted restlessly - like they agreed.

—

He stopped dreaming in full color. That was the first thing he noticed.

The dreams still came, thick and curling like smoke in his skull, but they were faded now - blurred around the edges like someone had taken a wet rag to the inside of his mind. Faces melted together. Voices echoed but didn’t land. Everything was too bright or too gray.

He tried to hold onto the good ones - memories of May making tea in the kitchen, of Ned waving a lightsaber at him, of MJ’s dry smirk as she handed him a stack of overdue homework - but they dissolved the moment he woke up. Slipped away like water through his fingers.

And Peter - the name, the boy it belonged to - wasn’t in them anymore. Not really. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a shadow in a mirror, someone who looked like him but wasn’t. Sometimes he heard someone shouting in English through a memory, but it was distant and underwater and irrelevant.

“Wolf Spider,” they called him.

He came when summoned. He didn’t flinch anymore when they said it. Didn’t look away. Didn’t even hesitate. The number on his shoulderblade had scabbed over. He still hadn’t seen it - no mirrors, no reflections, no shirt to take off - but he could feel it when he rolled over on the cot. Raised skin. Rough edges. Inked ownership.

Some days he forgot it was there. Some days he forgot he was there.

The pit came often. Fights came harder. Training got worse. The injections changed. His veins burned. His skin itched and pulsed and sweated poison. One of the scientists muttered that his physiology wasn’t adapting fast enough, but they’d continue trials anyway. Rostov just smiled and told him to breathe through the pain.

So he did. He breathed. He obeyed. He fought. And he stopped thinking about the boy who’d worn a mask to save people. That was someone else. That was a story. That was fiction.

Until the dream returned. The real one. Vivid and violent.

He was lying on a couch. It smelled like lavender and old fabric softener. A lamp was on in the corner. Muted yellow glow. And May was there. She sat on the edge of the cushion, one hand carding through his curls, the other pressing a cold washcloth to his temple.

“You’re running a fever again,” she whispered, voice full of worry and exhaustion and love.

Peter blinked up at her, groggy. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “Just… tired.”

“You always say that.”

He smiled faintly. “Because it’s always true.”

She huffed, but it was fond. She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Sleep, baby.”

Her lips were warm. Safe. And then the room tilted. Flickered. Warped. He blinked again and she was gone. The light was out. The couch dissolved into hard concrete beneath him. And he was back in the cell. He didn’t move. Didn’t sit up. Didn’t breathe. His hands curled slowly against the cot. His stomach rolled. He didn’t cry.

He screamed.

The sound ripped out of him without warning, high and hoarse and full of grief that had nowhere left to go. It tore through his throat, bounced off the walls, echoed back at him like a weapon. He screamed again. Louder. The cell stayed shut. No one came.

His voice cracked, but he kept going. Kept howling, like something wild trapped inside a body too small to hold it. The noise split his ears, clawed at his chest.

May.

May.

It hurt. Everything hurt. The grief had waited for him - curled like a snake at the base of his spine, waiting for a moment of silence to strike - and now it unspooled in full force. He clutched his head, digging his fingers into his scalp, dragging at his hair like he could tear the pain out from the roots.

He couldn’t. 

The sobs came after. Quiet and shuddering. Wet and gasping. He curled into a ball, face pressed to the thin mattress, knees tucked to his chest, trying to shrink down to nothing. He remembered the way she’d touched his cheek when he came home from patrol. The way she always made sure he ate, even when he insisted he wasn’t hungry. The stupid knit blanket she insisted he keep on his bed. The way she said my boy.

My good boy.

But he wasn’t good anymore. He was a killer. He was Wolf Spider. Subject B-318. And he was so tired.

He cried until he couldn’t breathe. Until his body stopped trying. Until the pain folded back into numbness and the numbness swallowed everything else. Then he slept.

He didn’t dream after that.

—

The next morning - if it was morning - he didn’t speak.

He didn’t move when they came for him. He walked where they told him. Sat when they ordered. Ate what they gave. He didn’t taste it. Didn’t feel it. Didn’t exist. He didn’t even know he was gone. Not until he heard someone say his name. Not Wolf Spider. Not subject B-318.

Peter.

He was in the pit. Two guards, armed. One scientist with a clipboard. A new opponent across the floor. Younger. Twitchy. Scared. And from somewhere behind the bars above, someone watching whispered: “Peter Parker.”

He froze. Everything inside him went still. He turned his head slowly toward the sound. But it was gone. Swallowed by silence. A trick, probably. A slip. A mistake.

Peter.

Peter.

The name felt like a blade under his ribs.

He looked down at his hands. At the bruises on his knuckles. At the old blood staining his pants. At the scars on his forearms. The ghost of May’s voice floated through him, fragile and dying. And then the bell rang. The fight began.

And Wolf Spider - the Asset - moved forward.

—

Peter wasn’t given a warning before training began. 

He never was, really. One moment, he was lying on the cot in the cell, half-asleep, still sore from the last time. The next, the door hissed open, and the implant in his neck buzzed. It didn’t shock him this time - not quite. Just enough of a jolt to remind him: move. Obey.

So he did.

His limbs felt heavy. Too heavy. Like he was dragging someone else’s body with his. The metal arms attached to his spine twitched faintly, and he didn’t even realize they’d moved until one of them bumped the doorframe as he stepped out. A sharp sting bolted through his back, white-hot and immediate, like a wire had been yanked the wrong way.

He didn’t make a sound. Just hissed through his teeth and kept walking.

They took him to one of the lower labs. Not a sterile one - not anymore. This one was scarred. The walls bore scrapes and deep gouges, claw marks and broken tiles, remnants of whatever had happened here last. Peter didn’t want to know. Rostov stood by the control panel. There was no smile today. Just a clipboard in one hand and a set of restraints hanging idle off the wall.

“Stand in the circle,” he said, nodding toward the painted target on the ground.

Peter obeyed. His bare feet slapped quietly on the cold tile.

“Don’t retract the limbs.”

He hadn’t even meant to. But his body had. Somewhere in the frayed knot of nerves at the base of his spine, the spider-limbs flinched at the attention. They wanted to hide. To pull back inside. His back ached just thinking about it.

“Lesson one,” said a voice from the speaker above. A new man. Not Rostov. Clinical. Dry. “Voluntary extension and control. Subject B-318 , activate dorsal limbs.”

Peter clenched his jaw. His hands curled into fists. He didn’t know how. He hadn’t asked for them. Hadn’t grown them on purpose. They just were now. Foreign. Unfamiliar. Ached like bones that didn’t belong.

“You will extend them now,” the voice repeated. “Or we will assist you.”

Peter didn’t know what “assistance” meant, but he didn’t want to find out. He took a breath. Focused. He thought about his spine. About that itch just beneath the skin, that constant weight, that pull. Then he imagined reaching.

One leg jerked out. Wobbled. The pain lanced through his lower back and made his knees buckle. He caught himself on instinct, arms flailing - and another limb twitched out and slammed into the ground beside him. Panting. Shaking. But two were out.

“Good,” the voice said. “Now stabilize.”

The floor shifted. The room’s panels moved suddenly, unfolding from the walls and extending small platforms at different heights, angles, and distances. Obstacles. A course.

“Traverse it,” came the order.

Peter blinked. “With what?”

A shock lanced through the implant. Not enough to drop him, but close. The metal limbs flinched again. Peter stumbled back a step, pain ricocheting down his spine.

“Traverse it.”

He gritted his teeth.

Fine.

He moved. Slowly. Clumsily. The limbs didn’t follow his commands; not at first. They jerked, spasmed, over-corrected. One knocked a crate over. Another slammed into the floor when he tried to lift himself. The burn of overused muscle screamed through his shoulders, neck, lower back.

He collapsed twice. Once hard enough to split his lip on the ground. But he kept going. And eventually he managed to lift. Two legs braced on the floor. One hooked around a pipe. The last reached, blindly, found a perch. And then he was off the ground. Not high. Not stable. But suspended. Sweat poured down his face.

He shook.

“Excellent,” said the voice. “Repeat the movement. Adjust.”

Pain flared again. The limbs spasmed. He dropped. The cycle continued for what felt like hours. There was no rest. Only movement, shock, fall. Again and again. 

By the end, Peter couldn’t stand. The limbs folded limply behind him, trembling just as much as his hands. His back was soaked with blood again. Not as bad as before, but worse than it had been that morning. He wanted to curl up. To sleep. To vanish. But instead, they dragged him back to his cell.

No words. No praise.

Just the cold silence of steel doors shutting tight. He lay on the cot. The limbs twitched faintly against the mattress, and this time, he didn’t recoil. He hated them. But they were his now.

And if he wanted to survive, he had to learn how to use them.

—

When Rostov returned, he sat on the edge of the cot, one boot planted firmly on the floor. With slow, practiced hands, he guided Peter down beside him - gentle, always gentle, as if that somehow made it better.

Peter slid bonelessly to the ground, body yielding to gravity with a soft thud. His head came to rest against Rostov’s thigh, the coarse fabric of the man’s pants rough against his cheek. He didn’t fight it. He didn’t have the strength. His spider limbs unfolded behind him in a jagged sprawl, their unnatural angles jutting out across the floor. He kept his eyes shut. He couldn’t look at them. Not right now. Not when they still felt so foreign, so wrong - when they still moved without asking him first.

A hand moved through his hair, slow, rhythmic. It was the only thing keeping him awake, conscious and aware of his surroundings. That and Rostov’s voice - low, murmured praise, soft nonsense. Peter didn’t need to listen to the words. He just needed the sound.

"You’re doing well," the man said, not for the first time. "Stronger today. You’re adapting. My perfect little wolf spider. You’re doing so, so well."

Peter didn’t answer. His mouth was dry and his stomach twisted with every breath. His back ached deep into the bone. He wanted to disappear.

But Rostov pressed a piece of bread to his lips.

"Small bites," he coaxed, and Peter opened his mouth because it was easier than refusing. A bit of bread, then a crumble of cheese. Bland, dry. Heavy on his tongue. He chewed slowly, swallowing around the nausea. His hands - his real hands - shook as he reached for the next piece. Rostov let him take it, watched him fumble with it like a child. He managed to get it into his mouth, barely.

The spider limbs twitched.

A sudden jolt, like a nerve misfiring. One limb scraped against the floor, then another curled toward his spine, trying to fold in on itself. Trying to go away . Peter flinched, a breath catching sharp in his throat as the pain flared - hot and immediate, deep in the muscles along his back.

"Easy," Rostov murmured, his fingers still stroking gently through Peter’s hair. "Don’t fight them. You’ll only make it worse."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. He was so tired. Tired of hurting, of being looked at like something worth salvaging, worth shaping. He didn’t want to adapt. He didn’t want to be a weapon.

He just wanted to stop existing for a while. Just long enough to forget where he was.

So he stayed still. Curled beside Rostov like something broken that had been put down and forgotten. Let the hand in his hair lull him into stillness, let the food be fed to him in pieces, and tried not to think about the limbs twitching beside him like they belonged.

—

Peter didn’t remember the first time they put him in the field. Not fully. There were flashes: sharp like glass, some so vivid they left his heart racing when he came back to himself. The scent of blood. The crunch of bone. The heat of his own breath behind a mask that didn’t belong to him. A face he didn’t recognize in the mirrored wall of the observation room.

The mission had been simple. In and out. Minimize interference. Eliminate the target. He had done all of that - except one thing.

He hadn’t killed the woman.

She’d just been there, crying in the hallway. Unarmed. Uninvolved. Peter had frozen, something clawing its way up from the hollow place inside him where the orders usually lived. He’d turned his head, ignored her, and finished the job with the rest of the team.

He came back alive. He always came back alive. But that wasn’t enough. The chair was waiting for him. The straps bit into his limbs. The metal dug into his spine. There was always silence before it started - long enough for dread to root deep. Then the voltage came.

By the time they unstrapped him, he couldn’t stand.

Rostov dragged him, one arm around his torso, the other clenched in his hair, hauling him down the corridor, and Peter didn’t fight. Not until they reached the cell. Then something inside him snapped - too late, too little. The moment he flinched, Rostov slammed him face-down onto the bed. The mattress didn’t cushion the blow. Hands tangled in his curls, yanked his head back until his neck screamed.

Peter kicked, flailed, caught nothing.

The hit came fast and hard - across his cheek, exploding white behind his eyes. The room spun. His thoughts scattered like glass underfoot. Then Rostov was too close, and Peter clenched his jaw. Tried not to breathe. Let his mind drift far away - where there were no beds, no hands, no orders, no missions.

When it was over, he was nothing but limp weight, pushed to the floor like a used cloth. The cold bit through him.

He didn’t twitch. He didn’t blink.

Rostov buckled his pants back up, looming above him. His voice came as smooth as always - like this was just another lesson. “You’re not eating today.”

Peter didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the dark shadow beneath the cot. Safe. Quiet. Untouched.

“That was your chance,” Rostov went on. “And you clearly weren’t hungry.” He paced, slow and deliberate. The echo of his boots filled the cell. “Only successful assets get fed. Only successful assets get maintenance. If you are not a successful, worthy asset for our cause…” A pause, then the scrape of the door opening. “I’ll put you in the pit. You can serve as target practice for your replacement.”

The door slammed shut. Peter didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He stared at the space beneath the cot like it was a doorway. Like he could crawl into it and vanish.

—

Peter didn’t remember the kill.

He remembered the hunger. The mark. Then, not just the ache of an empty stomach, but something deeper - cell-deep, marrow-deep. Something engineered. Twisted until it felt like instinct. He remembered the smell. Warm flesh. Copper. Salt. The crack of cartilage. The taste, somehow familiar in the worst possible way.

Then he remembered waking up on his knees, hands soaked, his mouth full of something thick and wet, and a body - what was left of it - slumped at an impossible angle beside him. He hadn’t used the blade. Hadn’t needed to.  

Everything after blurred.

He returned to base running on autopilot. The world dimmed at the edges. Blood crusted under his nails and clung to his jaw, tacky and half-dried. He kept his head down, eyes dull, limbs moving with practiced rhythm. The door hissed open. Rostov stood waiting. Peter didn’t speak. Rostov’s eyes swept over him, unreadable. Then he smiled - softly. Approvingly. "You did good."

Peter swayed on his feet, legs unsteady. He hadn’t even noticed he was shaking.

Rostov stepped forward, lifting a hand. A damp cloth touched Peter’s face. Warm. Rough. He wiped the blood from Peter’s mouth, down his chin, along the curve of his jaw. None of it felt real. “There we go,” Rostov murmured. “You made a bit of a mess, didn’t you?”

Peter didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat felt torn, his jaw ached like he’d been gnawing through stone. His stomach was calmer now - sated, in the most horrifying way. The cloth moved aside, replaced by gauze. Rostov dabbed at the skin near Peter’s cheekbone where fingernail marks had broken through, small half-moon wounds, raw and red. His own, maybe. Or someone else's. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

“You’re learning,” Rostov said, as he bandaged the wound. “You’re adapting.”

Peter stood there, hollowed out. He wanted to throw up, but there was nothing left inside him. Just a dull, twisted fullness. And silence. The cell door sealed behind him with a dull, mechanical hiss. Peter stood there for a moment, just inside the threshold. He didn’t know why. His body was still in motion, still running on that leftover momentum. Like if he stopped moving entirely, he’d fall apart.

His hands were clean now - wiped down, scrubbed raw - but he could still feel the blood on them. Under his nails. In the webbing of his fingers. His jaw ached with phantom pressure. Every swallow tasted like metal. He stumbled to the cot and sat down. Not quite lying, not quite upright. Just folded in half, elbows on knees, head hanging low like it might fall off if he moved too quickly.

He thought he might throw up. But he didn’t.

The memory came in flashes. Not full scenes. Just shards. Teeth tearing. The heat of skin. A noise - his noise? - low and animal. He pressed his palms to his eyes until stars bloomed behind them. They’d made him this. They’d built this into him. Engineered his instincts, rewired his hunger, turned something that used to be human into something else.

And worse - it had worked.

Rostov had smiled at him.

“You did good today.”

Peter shuddered. His limbs curled in tight, knees drawn to his chest, like he could hold himself together through sheer force. One of the spider limbs twitched behind him, reacting to the tension in his spine. It scraped against the floor and Peter flinched away from it like it wasn’t part of him at all.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered into the dark.  

He didn’t cry. Couldn’t. That had been taken from him weeks ago - burned out of him with shocks and silence and hunger. But something cracked. It was small. Barely audible even to himself. A thought he shouldn’t have. Not even a full sentence. Just a pulse of something raw and primal.

I don’t want to be this.

His breath hitched.

Not I don’t want to be here.

Not I want to go back.

Because there was no back. Not anymore.

Just: I don’t want to be this.

He clung to it, trembling.

And for the first time in weeks, Peter closed his eyes and hoped - not for kindness, or freedom, but just to feel like himself again, if only for a second.

—

When he next woke up, staring at the ceiling of his cell, he decided that he didn’t want to think anymore. It was easier not to. It was easier just to listen to his handler and follow orders and focus on the hand in his hair and the murmured good boy afterwards.

—

The Asset had fangs now.

They weren’t always out - not unless he was angry, not unless he was hungry, not unless the conditioning snapped something loose inside him and he was on his knees, panting, fingers curled into the floor with his back hunched and spider limbs twitching from the base of his spine. Four of them, extending in jerky movements, one clumsy from when it had been cut off and regrown. That one was always slower. Sluggish. The scientist who joked about it had died two weeks later during a test.

The Asset had stared at the body, mouth wet with something that tasted good. The nausea hadn’t come until later, when he was alone again, curled up on the floor of his cell with blood in his teeth and the bitter chemical aftertaste of tased nerves lingering in the back of his throat. He didn’t remember the kill. He rarely remembered them anymore.

They didn’t put him on ice.

Too young, Rostov had said, voice low in that way that made the Asset shiver, once, when he’d first heard about it. His body still needed to finish developing. The serum had warped things, enhanced things too fast, left the Asset with this hungry, endless burn in his stomach and a metabolism too fast for the slop they fed him. He couldn’t stomach most of it anymore. His body rejected it. Threw it up. Couldn’t hold it down. They starved him.

He wasn’t sure if it was on purpose.

The pit became a regular punishment. It didn’t even have a name. Just a door that opened, a shove in the dark, and a choice. The first time, the Asset had refused to eat, despite the fact that he was half-starved. He had begged, even. Rostov hadn’t been angry. Not then. He’d only said, "We’ll see."

Then the door locked behind him, and someone else was there. Bigger. Stronger. Equally afraid.

The Asset didn’t remember the fight. But he remembered waking up, mouth sticky. Fingers damp. The air metallic and rich with copper. His chest full. The hunger gone for the first time in weeks.

And that made him sick.

The next time they put him in the pit, he didn’t hesitate. He lasted longer - a full minute of trying to talk, to reason, before the new instincts took over and he moved without thinking. It was easier when he didn’t look. It was easier if he closed his eyes. Afterwards, Rostov praised him. The Asset barely heard it. He was focused on the way the spider limb twitched involuntarily beside him, dragging lines in the blood-soaked floor. Something inside him was unraveling. Fraying. The part of him that had once whispered don’t had quieted.

It was starve or survive.

He killed the marks. Came back covered in blood.

Bit down his screams when they strapped him back into the chair and let the current run through his bones, reinforcing the trigger phrases. The words that made his body obey, even if his brain didn’t want to. There was no instant shutdown for him. His healing factor rejected neural scarring too fast. The pain was the only thing that lasted.

And when he broke, when he lashed out, when one of the spider limbs shot through a guard’s chest in a burst of red and cartilage and rage - they cut it off.

Just like that.

The Asset had screamed. Not words. Just raw, animal agony. They didn’t even drug him.

They joked about it in the lab. Something about testing his healing factor, about measuring regrowth rates. One of them patted him on the cheek afterward, blood still soaking his side. He tried to bite the man. Missed. Got tased again. When he woke up, he was staring at the ceiling. Blank. Cool gray. His head was too heavy to lift. His arm ached where the limb had been. His back was wet with clotting blood. But worse than the physical pain was the thought settling in his mind like a dull fog: he didn’t want to think anymore.

Thinking hurt. Remembering hurt. It was easier to lie still. Easier to breathe in shallow, uneven breaths and keep his eyes open, just enough to see the door when Rostov stepped through it. Easier to follow orders. To focus on the hand in his hair. To listen to the soft murmur of good boy.

And not think at all.

—

They don’t celebrate anniversaries in the compound. Not unless they were marked with blood or pain. But the Asset knew it had been two years. Two years since what, he didn’t know. Two years since his beginning. His purpose.

He didn’t remember the date, but he knew the ache in his bones. The ghost of the weak, shaking thing he used to be still scratched sometimes, desperate under the surface. He didn’t scratch back anymore. It hurt less that way. They didn’t call him names that didn’t make sense; everything that was useless and weak and human had been burned out of him long ago, stripped away syllable by syllable, name by name. Here, he was a designation. A label. A thing. Wolf Spider, B-318, then the Asset,  they call him now - like the creature: solitary, lethal, quiet. Too dangerous to cage without consequence. Too valuable to be discarded. One of the scientists once said it with reverence, as if they’d caught a god in their hands and broken it open just to see what spilled out.

Two years. His body was different now. Not just stronger. Not just faster. Everything was… more.

His spine arched differently when he moved. There was an awareness in the way he walked - like something crawled just under his skin, like his limbs were waiting to spring before he’d even decided where to go. The spider arms that tore their way from his back still ache sometimes when they retract. They twitch in his sleep. His fangs click against the back of his teeth when he’s thinking too hard, and his mouth fills with the taste of copper when he was hungry. And he was always hungry.

They barely fed him anymore. Starvation sharpened instinct, it gave him purpose and rewards for accomplishing his marks. His missions. That was what they told him. It was a part of the training, the conditioning. Everything they’d done was conditioning. The chair. The injections. The repetition of words until they no longer sound like language, just keys in a lock turning something deeper inside him.

They used pain sparingly now. They didn’t need it as much; pain was reserved for punishment - failure, disobedience, a refusal to comply. His handler had more effective tools these days; a soft voice. A hand through his hair. Fingers on his throat. A body pressed too close. Rewards that made his skin crawl and his stomach turn, but his mouth still said yes when prompted.

Because it was easier than saying no . Because punishment was worse. Because surviving meant surrendering, a little more each time.

He still dreamed, sometimes. Faces. Voices. Names that surface without meaning. Just sounds. He wakes up from those dreams with tears on his cheeks and blood in his mouth, and he doesn’t know why.

He was sent on more field tests now. Smaller missions. Eliminate the mark. Extract the target. Get fed. Return clean. He didn’t speak on the missions. Didn’t flinch. They said he was perfect.

They said he was ready.

—

They didn't give him a chair.

He stood, still and waiting, shoulders back and spine straight in the cold briefing room. The lights hummed above, casting everything in dim yellow. The lights were lower. The air was still. The scent of sterilization and metal still clung to everything, but there was something beneath it - something like anticipation. The mission director was there, next to his handler: the man standing with his arms folded behind his back, eyes bright with pride. Like a father watching a son graduate. Like a butcher admiring the knife he’d honed to a razor’s edge.

“Asset,” Rostov said, and the Asset straightened. He stood taller now, broader, expressionless. No resistance. No voice. Just silence and obedience. “My little wolf spider. You’ve done well.”

The words meant nothing. He didn’t blink.

“This is your first high-priority mission.”

Something in his stomach turned, but his face didn't move. The projector buzzed faintly, and the screen on the far wall flickered to life, displaying a single black-and-white photograph. A man. Dark hair. Square jaw. Broad shoulders beneath a heavy tactical coat. His expression was unsmiling, almost severe, but his eyes… his eyes were soft in a way that unsettled something in the Asset’s chest. 

Weakness. 

“This,” the mission director began, striding slowly in a circle around him, “is James Buchanan Barnes.”

The name was familiar. Not from dreams. From repetition. From drills. From the whispered curses between handlers when the words Winter Soldier were spat like poison. The Asset has heard the name before. Not like this, though. Not so close to his own breath.

The director paced around him, slow and deliberate. She wore HYDRA’s uniform differently - no insignia, no showmanship. Just clean black fabric and gloves that gleam in the overhead light. “Asset One,” she said, tapping the photograph. “The original Winter Soldier. HYDRA’s prototype. A century of combat knowledge. An incredible tool.”

The Asset stared, unmoving.

“He was one of ours,” she continued, voice turning cold, “until he wasn’t.”

A new image appears - Barnes again, but older now, scruffier, his face marked by exhaustion. Civilian clothes. A hood pulled low. There was someone with him in this picture too, mostly turned away, a blur of another figure beside him. HYDRA’s file stamp crosses the corner in red: KNOWN DEFECTOR. PRIORITY LEVEL: BLACK.

“He went rogue. Defected to the other side. He’s a weapon we made, and one who knows everything.” She walked behind him now, and he felt the pressure of her presence at his back like a vice. “He knows how our assets are made. How we think. How we move. He knows the trigger programming. The failsafes. The reset protocols. He’s one of the few left alive who could unravel everything. That makes him a threat.”

A file folder was passed to him from her gloved hand. He didn’t take it - he received it, like an order.

“Inside is your assignment. Memorize it. Then burn it.”

The Asset opened it with care, flipping past the first few pages. Images. Schematics. Mission details. A compound in the Alps - once a HYDRA holding facility, now gutted and half-frozen, long since scrubbed from records. The date and time are circled in ink.

March 3rd. 0200 hours.

Two bodies expected. One primary, one secondary. Minimal resistance anticipated. “Reconnaissance retrieval,” the dossier calls it. A lie wrapped in neat language.

They want him to ambush Barnes under the guise of a scouting mission. Catch him isolated, when he’s unarmed or unprepared. Disable. Kill. Dispose.

The director’s voice cut into his focus again.

“You’ll find him here.” She tapped the compound blueprint. “He and one other - likely a SHIELD associate - are looking for remnants. We’ll feed them a rumor, something convincing. They’ll bite.” Peter’s grip tightened  faintly on the file. The paper crinkled beneath his fingers. “You will wait until the target confirms presence inside the control wing. Then engage. No mercy. No retrieval. Leave no witnesses.”

The words settled like concrete.

A trap. A lure. Something cold in his gut tells him it will be easy. Too easy. Barnes wouldn’t see it coming.

“Understood?” the woman asked. Peter didn’t speak. Just nodded, slow and mechanical, tucking the file under his arm. “Good.” Her voice softened - only slightly. “You’ve done well, Asset. One final test. Show us you’ve learned.”

A pause. A gloved hand rises and rests lightly at the nape of his neck. Familiar pressure. Ownership wrapped in reassurance.

“We’re proud of you.” The praise tasted like bile, but he swallowed it without reaction. “Burn the file. Clean your gear. Deployment in twenty-four hours. You leave at nightfall.”

The Asset nodded again, silent. As the room emptied and the door hissed shut behind them, he stared down at the grainy image of James Barnes - eyes distant, face weathered, arm gleaming silver in the frost-light. He didn’t know why his pulse was stuttering. There was a beat where nothing happened. Just silence. The words settled into the room like dust, and the Asset breathed them in.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The name stuck something. Distant. Faint. But present. Familiar in a way that ached. A face flashed behind his eyes - a man with tired eyes and a metal arm, someone who looked at him once like he was a person. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe too fast. Didn’t speak.

But his handler saw something. A flicker. A tremor in his fingers. His handler smiled. Pleased. He reached out and rested a hand on the back of the Asset’s neck, and his fingers pressed into the scarred, ruined skin where something once embedded still pulses low and metallic. “You’ll do just fine,” his handler said, almost tender. “You’re ready.”

The Asset closed his eyes.

And waited for the door to open.

Chapter Text

Tony was already having a rough morning, and it was barely nine.

He hadn’t even gotten through half a cup of coffee before Fury had called and Steve had practically dragged him out of the lab with a curt, “We’ve got something,” and a file that read like a barely redacted horror story. HYDRA compound, alleged weapon. Intel pointing to a setup, and of course, Fury wanted them to walk straight into it like sacrificial lambs.

Tony had called it a dumb plan. Repeatedly. Loudly. And that was before he even got in the Quinjet.

Now, wedged in the backseat between Clint’s twitchy elbow and Bucky’s silent brooding, Tony was considering committing actual violence over the playlist. Clint had an ancient iPod he’d refused to update since 2011 and was currently subjecting them all to his idea of “ambush warmup music” - which, apparently, involved a lot of Nickelback.

“Turn that off before I turn you off,” Tony snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Clint flipped him the bird over his shoulder. “You don’t get to complain, you didn’t drive.”

“You’re not driving either, and I’m paying for this thing,” Tony shot back. “I deserve full veto power on all auxiliary inputs. I could be enjoying myself with my own music, and instead I’m here listening to this shit. You’re ruining my day already.”

“You’ve got nowhere else to be,” Natasha said flatly, eyes glued to the sky from her place in the cockpit as she tried to ignore them both. “Lab’s not going anywhere.”

“Exactly,” Steve muttered from the passenger seat. “You’ll survive five hours without fondling your AI.”

Tony opened his mouth to retort - something scathing and probably deeply inappropriate - but Bucky leaned back just slightly, giving him a long, unimpressed look.

He shut up. For now.

By the time they reached the compound, the banter had thinned into a thick, bristling silence. The snow-dusted shell of the building loomed ahead, grey and skeletal against the mountainside, a relic of HYDRA’s old-world presence. Half-collapsed, mostly stripped. The intel claimed it was gutted - but that something, someone, would be there.

One person. That’s all they were here for. One lone hostile, reportedly dangerous enough that Fury wanted backup for the backup.

Tony didn’t like the vagueness. He didn’t like the idea of HYDRA ‘intel’ coming through semi-legitimate channels. And he really didn’t like how relaxed Fury seemed when telling them it was “probably nothing serious.”

“This is a dumb plan,” he repeated as they split into their teams, again, for the third time in five minutes.

“Thanks,” Steve replied, not looking at him.

Tony rolled his eyes behind his visor, already walking toward the east wing of the compound. “Just saying. If we all die, I want it on the record that I knew it was stupid before it was cool.”

He left Steve and Bucky to the central corridor, Sam hanging back while Nat and Clint slipping up to overwatch through the snowy second-story scaffolding, and ducked into the old control wing by himself. His HUD lit up with a wireframe scan of the compound, showing intermittent blips of heat signatures from rats, birds, and some squirrel currently having a rave in one of the ventilation shafts.

No human life signs. Not yet.

The mission was supposed to be simple. Isolate. Apprehend. Extract. Tony had a gut feeling it was going to be anything but. Still, he was curious. He didn’t like that part of himself, but it was there, buzzing faintly behind the tension in his chest. Whoever this was - whoever HYDRA was willing to bait two Avengers for - had to be something else.

Part of him almost hoped it was Barnes. Just a little bit.

Because as much as Tony tried to be bigger than his grudges, as much as he’d moved past most of what went down in Siberia… the idea of facing down the Winter Soldier, face to face, with a clean shot?

Tempting.

Not because he wanted revenge, exactly. But because it would feel good to win.

—

The Asset hated the cold.

Assets weren't allowed to love or hate or feel, but this was something that he knew deep in his bones. He was not built for the cold. But he was built for HYDRA, to serve HYDRA, so he would persevere.

He launched forward, claws finding purchase in the wall. Not metal. Concrete with rebar spines. It splintered beneath his grip as he propelled upward, flipping once to avoid detection from the sensor grid he had mapped an hour ago. Every corner was memorized. Every thermal reader mapped. They’d tried to hide the surveillance. They didn’t know he could feel the temperature shifts through the soles of his feet.

They didn’t know what he was.

He moved like water, like shadow. The wolf spider, the quiet predator. Bred for walls, for ceilings, for the dark. He had been trained to kill fast, to incapacitate with precision. But they hadn’t fed him. The ache in his ribs was no longer dull. It was a scream now. It made him sloppy.

He was so hungry.

Voices grew louder.

“-signal dropped again - hey, Stevie, you wanna hold the antenna higher?” 

A voice that sounded familiar, and then a deeper response. A familiar voice. That one stopped him cold.

Captain.

The Asset’s mouth twitched under the mask, not a smile. A reaction. Recognition buried under layers of suppressants and conditioning. He knew that voice. That cadence. Captain America was here. It was a test. It had to be. Four targets. Maybe five. Bait. High-value. He was hungry. He could take them.

A voice clicked over his comm. “Fallback. Exit pattern seven. You are not cleared for direct engagement. Repeat. You are not cleared.”

The Asset switched off his comm with a thought. They didn’t matter. They weren’t here. They weren’t starving. He was. They didn’t understand the heat rising in his bones like a fever, how it clouded the corners of his vision and made his jaw ache. They would never understand.

He saw the target, the past Asset, the defector. The man turned, almost, like he’d heard Peter shift above him. Before he could move too far, Peter pounced.

—

The shout crackled over the comms like a whipcrack.

“Company!” Steve’s voice, sharp and clipped. A second later - something thinner, rougher. A wheeze. “Bucky? You okay?”

Tony’s heart skipped. His HUD blinked red as he whirled on instinct, scanners struggling to keep up as he shot further through the building. “Copy,” Natasha said calmly. “Eyes on. Second floor - northwest stairwell just lit up.”

“I see movement,” Clint added, less calm. “That’s not Barnes.”

There was a blur in the feed - a streak of black launching like a slingshot, fast and low, straight for where Steve and Bucky had disappeared into the west corridor. “Hey, uh,” Sam’s voice crackled in over the comms, clipped and a little breathless. Tony could hear the echo as he jogged through the halls. “Bucky? You got a kid with HYDRA we don’t know about?”

 “What?” Tony asked flatly, eyes narrowing beneath his faceplate as he scanned thermal trails through layers of concrete and debris. The base was half collapsed, a rat’s nest of ventilation shafts and broken corridors, and whatever they were chasing - small, fast, aggressively asshole-shaped - was two steps ahead, always. 

The figure shot out and barrelled into Tony, sending him careening off course. He slammed into a wall, and by the time he was back up and whirled around he was already gone.

“Because this guy-” Sam cut in again, then grunted as he had to veer suddenly around a crumbling overpass. “-he looks just like you.”

Tony’s gut twisted.

Immediately, Bucky’s voice filled the comms, low and harsh. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I mean it,” Sam replied, more serious now. “He’s got your build. Your jaw and hair and outfit and all of it. The way he moves - he’s not even using cover like a person. He’s using walls. Corners. Like he knows how to sneak. HYDRA-style.”

“That doesn’t mean-” Bucky started.

“Wait,” Tony muttered, half to himself. “Wait, hold on.” He banked hard around the outer wall, repulsors screaming, the bright heat of their target still ghosting on his HUD. “No. No no no. I saw him for like - half a second. He was crouched up on the ceiling like some kinda demon baby raccoon - barrelled towards me like he wanted to fucking bite my armor and then bolted - but I saw him. That kid does look like you.”

 There was a sharp beat of silence on the comms.

“…Bucky?” Steve’s voice came in, cautious. “Bucky. Did you have a kid?”

Tony’s mouth went dry. “Wait. Oh my god. Did you actually-?”

“What the fuck,” Bucky snapped, but it didn’t have the usual force behind it. It sounded… uncertain. Which, honestly, was worse.

“No, no, no,” Bucky said again, quieter now. “I - I don’t think - I don’t remember-”

“Oh my god,” Tony breathed, swerving around the hangar’s collapsed entry ramp. “Jesus Christ.”

“I was brainwashed for seventy years!” Bucky barked. “You really think I know what I was doing the whole time?!”

Steve made a helpless noise. “Bucky. Bucky - what if you have a kid?”

“I don’t! ” Bucky’s voice cracked like a live wire. “Probably. I don’t think so! Do I?! ”

“Guys,” Natasha cut in, her voice like the edge of a knife, calm and entirely done with the spiraling panic. “You’re all missing the important part. Which is that the HYDRA asset is actively trying to kill us, and I’m not in the mood.”

As if on cue, something slammed into the side of Tony’s left boot. Hard. His stabilizer faltered and a lithe, feral blur ricocheted off his shin, scrambled up a pipe and vanished into the ceiling grates like a terrified cat on crack. “Son of a bitch! ” Tony yelled, twisting in midair. “That was him! That was the kid ! Little bastard’s using the vents - he’s in the ducts, I swear to god, someone block the exits-”

“Is he wearing goggles?” Sam asked incredulously.

“He’s got something covered his whole face, I don’t know how the hell he still manages to see,” Tony snapped. “Practically a HYDRA barcode on his wrist and too many goddamn limbs - did you see the limbs?!”

“Yeah,” Sam said faintly. “Crawling like a bug.”

“Like a trained bug,” Natasha added, her voice dry. “I’m done waiting.”

“Wait, what do you-?”

There was the unmistakable sound of a sidearm being cocked.

“Nat,” Steve warned. “He looks like a kid.”

“He just pulled a chunk of insulation out of the ceiling and threw it at my face, Steve,” Natasha replied. “He’s not a kid. He’s a goddamn problem. I’m solving it.”

“Don’t shoot him!” Bucky exploded. “Just - just catch him! ”

“Do you want to go up into the vents and catch him?”

There was a long pause.

“No,” Bucky admitted. “Just send Clint.”

“I’d rather chew my own foot off, asshole,” came the barked response from over the comms. “No fucking way am I getting in vents with that thing. It’s gonna eat me.” Another thump from overhead. Something rattled in the ductwork. A skittering pattern, fast and erratic. Then silence.

Steve groaned. “We lost him again, didn’t we?”

Tony sighed. “Shit.”

“Tell me again how I’m not allowed to shoot him,” Nat said flatly.

“He’s just scared,” Bucky muttered. And then quieter, almost too soft to catch on the comms, “...shit. What if he is mine.”

There was another long, terrible pause. Nothing but static and breathing.

Tony, hovering in the middle of the collapsed corridor, let out a groan like someone had stabbed him through the heart with a soldering iron. “I’m going to kill Fury,” he muttered flatly, hands dragging down the sides of his faceplate. “Actually kill him. With science. I’ll build a new gun just to shoot him with it.”

“Join the line,” Natasha said. Her voice, as always, was dry and unimpressed, but it lacked its usual venom. She sounded… distracted. Pensive, maybe. Not ideal, when they were all hunting a half-feral child-soldier-mutant in the ventilation system of a blown HYDRA compound.

Steve cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said carefully. “We split up. Sweep sectors. Someone get to the sublevel before he does. If he gets to the elevator shafts, we’re screwed.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Sam said grimly. “He’s already two floors ahead of me. There’s blood around some of the vent openings. Must’ve scraped himself.”

"That's from when he tried to stab me," Bucky gritted out.

“Great,” Tony muttered. “Super. Love that for us.”

There was a soft, barely audible pop in the comms as Steve peeled off from the rest of them, jogging into a side hallway lined with cracked concrete and overturned med-carts. “Bucky,” he said after a second, his voice quieter, private-channel tone. “Was there anyone… with you? In HYDRA, I mean. That you might’ve…”

Bucky stopped moving.

His body tensed where he stood, rifle slung loose in one hand, vibranium fingers curling hard enough to whine against the casing. “Steve,” he warned, already feeling his lungs knotting.

“I’m not mad,” Steve said quickly. “I’m not. I’m not jealous or anything, Bucky, I’m not - I know you weren’t in control of yourself. I know that. It’s just… if he is yours. If someone - if something happened to make that possible, we need to know.”

“I don’t want to hear this,” Natasha muttered into the general channel.

Bucky closed his eyes.

The silence stretched long and thin like wire. Eventually, Bucky let out a breath and spoke, low and flat. “I don’t remember everyone I was paired with,” he admitted. “Sometimes they kept us isolated. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes… sometimes they made us train together.”

Steve didn’t answer right away.

 Somewhere deeper in the vents, a metallic clatter echoed through the base like a steel spider had slipped and caught itself. Everyone went silent again. 

Then: “Alright, I’m in,” Clint said, his voice faintly strained. There was the distant sound of someone crawling, boots scraping against duct metal. “This is the worst possible thing you’ve ever made me do. This is my nightmare, guys. This is everything I hate. Small space. Weird mutant kid. And it smells like wet copper and bad decisions up here.”

“We talked about installing scent filters in your goggles,” Tony replied absently, scanning floor schematics on his HUD.

“You said that was a luxury feature! ” Clint snapped. “Now I’m in the vents hunting Bucky’s maybe-son like a sewer rat!”

“We don’t know he’s mine!” Bucky growled.

“I’m pretty sure he tried to bite Steve and snarled in Russian,” Clint replied. “And honestly? The vibe is very you.”

“Focus,” Steve said gently but firmly. “Do you have eyes on him?”

“...Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Clint said a second later, voice shifting - tense now, alert. “He’s heading your way, Barnes. Fast. Left duct, near the collapsed stairwell.”

Bucky turned on a dime, heart leaping to his throat. He ran.

—

The Asset crouched low atop a rusting outcropping of steel, a collapsed scaffolding arm providing temporary vantage. Below, the dark belly of the ruined HYDRA facility yawned open like the mouth of something long dead. It reeked of mildew, iron, and old blood. His gloved fingers pressed into the edge of the corroded beam, balancing his weight with absolute stillness, nostrils flaring under the mask. One breath. Two. He adjusted his focus through the modified lenses of the muzzle, filtering heat signatures from static.

Four targets, at least.

They had said two, possibly three at worst.

Liars. Or incompetents. Either way, it meant someone would bleed.

He tilted his head slowly, spider-silk strands of grown-out hair brushing his cheek beneath the muzzle. His hair itched. They’d made him grow it - said it made him look like the Winter Soldier, like the original. Pattern recognition, they’d claimed. Psyops. The muzzle was a replica too, down to the cold-pressed vibranium weave. It fit tight. He could still feel the sharp pressure where it bit into his cheekbone last time he blacked out. Still healing.

He didn’t mind. Pain was just the consequence of function.

Below, a voice crackled on the radio - low, male, with the ease of someone too comfortable. “Yeah, it’s Barton. More movement from the northwest quadrant. Might just be a squirrel, but eyes up. Twink-Bucky could be inbound.”

Silence. Then a second voice - female, dry, amused. “Don’t let Steve hear you say that.”

The Asset’s jaw tightened behind the muzzle.

They were laughing.

He would kill them. Fast, if they were lucky. Slow, if he had time. His stomach twisted sharply, a hollow roar rising in his gut like fire curling through a vacuum. He hadn’t eaten in days - seventy-two hours, maybe more. Time blurred. They didn’t feed him when he failed. And failure, they reminded him, was disobedience.

He wouldn’t fail.

He dropped from the beam in absolute silence, the brief wind of his descent masked by the creaking groan of the ruined hallway. It was old, mothballed HYDRA tech, but it ran deep, nested into the mountain bedrock. It was what they’d used to draw out the original asset. Test him. Break him.

No, not break.

Replace.

The Asset was made to be better.

He moved with impossible silence, shadows folding around the matte-black plating that armored his limbs. They had told him he was stronger now. That the extra limbs made him perfect. That if one failed, they could grow another.

He had believed them. Until they began cutting.

Too much damage to repair. Better to sever. Easier to regrow than risk scar tissue, they said. Easier than listening to him scream. The Asset paused at a junction in the tunnel. He could hear laughter echoing faintly up the hall - Barton's again, unmistakable. “I’m telling you, Nat, they cloned Bucky. Except this one’s tiny.”

Footsteps. An amused snort. Another voice - calmer, heavier. “You’re a little too interested in this clone theory, Barton.”

Natasha. Light step. Dry tone. Calm, always.

“Just saying,” Barton replied. “It’s better than him actually having a kid with HYDRA. That’s just… sad.”

The Asset’s vision burned red around the edges. He didn’t understand the words. Not fully. But he understood derision. Laughter. Mockery. He had learned early that laughter meant weakness. Laughter meant they thought him small. Lesser.

He turned back to where he’d seen his mark, listened to the thud of footfalls through the halls. 

They would choke on that laughter soon.

—

The halls blurred past in concrete and rust, his boots slamming across the cracked tile. Somewhere above, the ventilation shaft creaked, and then - there. A flicker. A blur of movement in his periphery. Bucky skidded to a halt just in time to see something slip through the broken duct cover and drop low into the corridor ahead.

Small. Fast. Hunched and feral.

He couldn’t see the kid’s face - god, he had to be a kid from the size of him. Those extra limbs gave him some height when he used them, but standing on the ground like this, he was tiny. The whole portion of his face, from about his eyebrows down was covered in that same, familiar mask-muzzle they made him wear.

He just stood there, chest heaving, watching that dark figure freeze ten feet ahead like a cornered animal. Black limbs curled behind him - arms, spider limbs, twitching in agitation.

Bucky raised both hands slowly. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, quiet and even.

The kid didn’t move.

“Not gonna grab you,” Bucky added, crouching just a little, trying to meet his eye level without making himself a threat. “Clint said you were fast. But you came this way.”

No answer. The kid’s arms twitched slightly. His shoulders hunched tighter.

Bucky tried again. “You know who I am?”

No reaction. But he wasn’t running either.

Behind him, Tony’s voice pinged in through the comms. “I got eyes on you. Coming up behind. Non-lethal only.”

“No weapons,” Bucky ordered.

There was a pause. Then Tony sighed. “Fine.”

“Nat?”

“I’ve got Clint on babysitting the exits with me. Steve’s hanging back in case he tries to get past you. You do your thing.”

Bucky took one slow step forward. The kid didn’t step back. Finally, he looked up, and squared his shoulders. "...Who are you?"

The figure didn't move. His voice was wrong. Too cold. Too flat. "I'm supposed to be you," he said simply, mask blank, voice carefully even. "But better."

Then he shot out, grabbed Bucky's metal arm, twisted until the servos screamed, and kicked him across the hall.

—

It shouldn’t have been close.

Bucky Barnes was the original - the Winter Soldier, the asset, trained, lethal, forged in the shadows and tempered by blood. Tony wasn’t close with him; he didn’t even like the guy, but he had to admit, at the very least, that he was a well-trained fighter at the least. But Tony rounded the corner just in time to watch the man get his shit kicked in by a five foot something child soldier, and it was significantly less funny in practice than it had been in theory.

The movement was surgical. No wasted energy, no hesitation. Just raw, honed efficiency. Every strike was calculated. Tony’s HUD tracked it all in real time: velocity, impact force, joint angles. The HYDRA operative moved faster than Tony could track, and his limbs bent at angles that didn’t quite match human standards. Mechanical. Engineered.

Same with his limbs. His weird, creepy extra limbs that twitched and stabbed and managed to turn every offensive move into an opportunity to get stabbed. Bucky lunged. The operative pivoted, grabbed the vibranium arm mid-swing, and stopped it. Not redirected it. Not blocked it.

Stopped it.

Tony felt the air in his lungs freeze as the figure twisted the arm, planted a foot in Barnes’ abdomen, and kicked him away like a ragdoll. Bucky crashed into the far wall, leaving a crater and a long smear of dust and blood. 

The figure followed, stalking, not rushing. The muzzle-mask made him unreadable, blank. Almost featureless except for the eyes - those cruel, dark lenses narrowing like a hunting predator’s.

"You’re slow," he said calmly. Too calmly. No panting, no effort. Bucky groaned, hauling himself up. His left leg buckled. Probably fractured. The operative tilted his head. “I’m stronger. Faster. More agile. I don’t break. I’m not a traitor .” His voice was clinical. Evaluative. "I’m smarter."

Bucky didn’t respond. Just swung again - an uppercut that would’ve torn through steel.

The figure ducked, moved inside his guard, and elbowed him in the throat. “You’re nothing but a weak human,” he murmured. “And you got soft.”

Tony shifted forward, creeping behind. He was hardly quiet, but the figure seemed so focused on Barnes that it was like his vision had tunneled. He said something else, so low that Tony had to strain his ears.

“Once you’re dead, I’ll eat your corpse and return to base with your metal arm as a prize.” 

What the fuck.

The figure’s hand slid to his belt, pulling something - probably a gun, but before he could Tony cut him off. “Freeze,” he snapped, and the operative paused. “Don’t move or I’ll blow a hole in your back, asshole. I don’t know what the hell HYDRA is on these days, but they’re clearly doing something wrong if they’re so cheap they can’t even feed you.”

Bucky let out a noise that might have been a snort if not for the broken bones.

“Step back,” Tony demanded again. The figure hadn’t even twitched. “Now.”

When he did finally twist, slowly, carefully, he cocked his head at Tony, like he was assessing. He didn’t lower his gauntlet. Then the figure’s hand shot out for something - probably another weapon - but before he could get to it Steve’s shield slammed into him, slamming him into reinforced concrete, the shriek of metal twisting and the deep whump of a body hitting something solid.

And for a second, there was silence. Just the echo of impact ringing out across the broken concrete.

The kid straightened, crackly, and moved like a shadow unspooling. The figure launched themself through the air, a black blur ricocheting off a rusted support beam and slamming into Steve hard enough to crack drywall. The man twisted, kicked the kid off and sent him sprawling. Bucky staggered to his feet and threw the discarded shield back, and it hit the target square in the chest, so hard it dented the figure’s chestplate and drove them back into the wall with a stomach-churning crack of ribs that even Tony could hear without any fancy enhanced senses.

The figure crumpled and slid, shoulder catching the edge of a column. Something clattered to the floor. A piece of a mask. Tony's boots hit ground as he slowed, scanners focusing, locking in as he stood over the figure. Steve had disappeared off to the side to help haul Barnes up and make sure he wasn’t bleeding out as Tony tried to figure out what the hell they were dealing with, still.

The mask was the HYDRA design, obviously. Not new. Recycled. Muzzle-like, echoing the one they'd once bolted onto Bucky.

Recognition didn't hit him all at once. 

It crawled. 

The figure shifted, slumped where they’d been thrown, body twitching slightly - then pushed themselves up with one hand. Fluid, unnaturally smooth. The extra limbs dragged like a puppet with strings tugging behind every movement. Their mask had split down one side, a shard of dark plating knocked loose, revealing the edge of a jaw and cheekbone and a crack in the lenses that covered their face..

A jaw Tony had seen before.

Sharper now, older. Gaunter. But still - familiar.

And that suit. It was darker than he remembered, black as pitch, matte and stitched together in lines that looked more medical than tactical. But across the chest, though dulled and muted, was a spider. Not red and blue. Not the bold insignia of the friendly neighborhood variety.

But a spider nonetheless.

A tangle of hair hung across the figure’s forehead, longer now, curling past their ears in messy, tangled strands. Their eyes - one visible through the cracked mask - were brown. Dark. Haunted. Pale skin. Bruised jaw. Breathing too calm. Tony felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He wanted to hope. Desperately, he wanted to hope.

The figure looked up. Blinked once, slowly. He didn't want to say it, almost didn't want to believe it - but he couldn't not. Tony’s voice, caught between disbelief and something rawer, came out before he could stop it.

“… Peter? ”

Tony said it softly, like saying it too loud might spook him again.

It didn’t matter.

The second the name left his mouth, the kid jerked hard. A spasm, a full-body twitch, like someone had jammed a live wire into his spine. The dark spider limbs shot out, sharp and jagged and fast - like blades drawn mid-fight. One of them stabbed straight through the side of Tony’s suit.

Tony flinched with a sharp grunt, but the kid must’ve moved - just enough. The limb caught on the armored shoulder and glanced down instead, slicing across the inside of his upper arm with a whisper of heat and metal. Not deep. But enough to burn. Enough to sting. Enough to send alarms screaming inside his helmet.

“Jesus Christ-” Tony stumbled backward, clutching the arm, more startled than hurt.

Peter scrambled. Blood-slick hands scraping against concrete, limbs lashing out, slipping on the floor beneath him. He was wheezing, high in his chest, making these pitiful panicked sounds, spider limbs twitching like they weren’t under his control anymore. Like they were choosing for him.

His eyes were wild - dilated, rimmed in red, barely tracking movement.

Fucking Peter.

It was Peter. It hit Tony like a freight train all over again. Like every day he’d spent thinking this kid was rotting in the ground had been a lie .

And then-

Steve came out of nowhere.

He hit Peter like a wall of meat and momentum, all force and fury, crashing into the kid’s side and dragging him down with brutal precision. Peter screamed - a ragged, animal noise - and the limbs snapped forward in instinct. They didn’t get far. Steve was already grappling him to the floor, using his full weight to pin the twitching limbs down with brute strength.

Tony’s heart went vertical.

“No - Steve, wait-!”

But Steve didn’t let up. He was fighting for control, fists digging into Peter’s shoulders, knee wedged against one of the bio-limbs. Peter was fighting back, not with aim, not with tactics - just with fear. His limbs flailed. Kicked. Bucked. His fingers clawed at Steve’s uniform, not to hurt, but to get free.

He was trying to escape.

“He’s not attacking!” Tony shouted, pressing a hand to the destroyed section of his suit and bloody arm, “get the hell of of him!”

Peter shoved just hard enough to crawl out, but then Steve was back on him and Peter smacked the wall, hitting it hard enough to rebound instantly. Then Steve was already there, fists flying. The brutality was immediate. No quips. No hesitation. Steve fought like he meant to kill him, or at the very least intended to hurt him.

“Steve!”

Steve didn’t answer, and Peter - Peter, oh my god, Peter was alive - stabbed out again at him with one of the limbs on his back. It tore through a section of the reinforced material of Steve’s side, but the man held him firmer, hitting him a little harder. Steve was winning. Not because he was stronger - but because he was angrier. Less controlled. Peter couldn’t calculate the chaos. And when Steve slammed him into the floor with a gut punch that made the entire wing rattle,  Tony flinched.

Blood hit the ground. Peter’s. Another hit. Ribs. Skull. Concrete cracked.

Repulsors flared as he slammed into Steve hard enough to knock him ten feet across the room. "Back off!"

Tony’s HUD flickered red the second Steve roared and lunged. He didn’t think - just moved. Boosted hard with his repulsors and body-checked Steve mid-sprint, just before he could grab Peter by the front of his suit and slam him into the wall.

“What the hell are you doing!” Tony shouted, twisting to keep his body between them.

Steve hit the floor with a crash, shield clattering to the side. Peter scrambled backwards across the debris-strewn concrete, spider limbs twitching erratically like antennae caught in a live wire. He was panting - sharp, gasping little breaths - and his entire frame spasmed like he was trying to hold back the urge to bolt. His face was pale and clammy with sweat, and Tony could see blood already seeping from a gash along his temple.

Steve hit the wall and rolled to his feet, eyes blazing. “He - Tony, they sent him to kill Bucky! He-”

“He’s a kid! ” Tony roared. “You’re going to kill him!”

“He nearly did that to Bucky!”

“I know! ” Tony’s voice cracked. The HUD fuzzed. Hands trembled inside gauntlets. Natasha and Clint burst through the doorway behind him - shouting, weapons drawn. Clint’s bow went up. Natasha’s eyes were on Peter’s twitching body, still trying to rise.

“We need to contain him, ” she snapped.

“Not kill him!” Tony barked, louder this time, stepping into Clint’s line of fire like a damn idiot. “It’s - stop, be careful with him! It’s Peter!”

Everything was moving too fast.

The kid was thrashing on the floor - Peter, Jesus, Peter - half-conscious, half-feral, those awful spider limbs twitching in erratic spasms, stabbing at the air, dragging against the floor, metal-edged and shaking like his whole system was on the brink. The movement was wrong - it was too fast, too jagged, too... programmed.

Tony couldn’t stop staring at them. At him.

He’d known something was off when they caught that first glimpse through the corridors of this fucking place - Tony hated this place - those too-bright eyes, the way the kid moved, how fast he was - but he hadn’t let himself think it. Not until Peter had landed a hit hard enough to knock Barnes halfway across the clearing.

Tony could barely think.

Peter had been with HYDRA. This whole time. He wasn’t dead. He hadn’t been dead. He’d been alive. Trapped. Used. Jesus Christ, who the hell had they buried?

“I don’t know any Peters!” Clint shouted back from where he’d crouched beside a broken wall, drawing another arrow in pure muscle memory. His voice was high, strained with panic. 

“Fuck, it’s - Peter Parker!”

“You’re not narrowing this down, Stark,” Bucky gritted into the comms.

“Spider-Man!” Tony snapped. “He’s fucking Spider-Man, don’t hurt him!”

“Queens?” Steve choked. “The kid from the airport?”

Peter sat up slowly, blood streaming from his temple. The cracked mask shifted again, just barely, and Tony still wasn’t prepared for how fast Peter moved. One moment, he was half-collapsed against the wall, the next he was shooting out towards Bucky, who was standing - hands raised, calm, steady - and the next second, Peter was on him like a shot from a gun, limbs snapping forward with feral precision. It was almost too fast for even the suit’s sensors to track. There was a blur of black and metal - biological limbs and dark kevlar - and then Bucky was down, flat on his back with a knee in his chest and one of Peter’s goddamn clawed limbs at his throat.

“Peter, stop-” Tony’s repulsors flared to life, charging without conscious thought.

Peter didn’t even flinch.

There was blood dripping from his mouth, from where sections of the mask had cracked and cut into his face. His pupils were blown wide and glowing. The limbs were twitching around him like independent, living limbs, two of them tensed to stab and two anchoring his body into a brutal pin that was far too practiced for any teenager.

“What the hell-?” Steve’s voice rang out, stunned.

Peter’s breathing was ragged. His lips were drawn back from his teeth. Not in a snarl, not even in fury. It was panic. It was cornered-animal, last-ditch panic.

“Peter,” Tony said carefully, raising his hands. “Hey, kid. Let’s dial this back, alright? You’re safe.”

“Get off of him!” Steve thundered, already stepping forward.

“Don’t-” Tony barked, throwing an arm out to stop him, but it was too late.

Peter didn’t just punch Steve. He hit him hard, with a hell of a lot of mutant, spider-enhanced fury behind the swing. It was instinct. A strike designed to buy space and survival. It caught Steve square in the jaw and sent him sailing across the room and into a wall.

“Jesus,” Sam breathed.

“Holy shit,” Clint muttered from the catwalk, still holding a new arrow but not drawing it.

“Don’t hurt him!” Tony snapped, stepping between Peter and Steve, one hand raised toward each of them. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing-”

“I wasn’t going to!” Steve barked back, jaw flexing as he recovered, one hand rubbing his chin. “But he laid out Bucky like it was nothing!”

Peter hadn’t moved.

He was still crouched over Bucky’s chest, twitching, lips trembling, spider limbs arched like a scorpion ready to strike again. But now his eyes were darting between all of them, faster and faster, the panic mounting. His fingers clutched at Bucky’s suit like it was an anchor and a shield all at once.

“Steve, stand down, ” Tony hissed, eyes still locked on Peter. “You scare him, he’s gonna try to rip through all of us. This isn’t HYDRA’s weapon. This is a scared kid.”

“Then why the hell is he acting like-” Steve’s voice broke off.

Because they’d trained him to. Because the right kind of fear, the right kind of conditioning, stripped a kid down into reflex and survival. Peter wasn’t thinking. He was running a protocol. Bucky shifted beneath Peter’s weight, which should have been a good sign, except-

Peter flinched like he’d been shocked. He scrambled back in a rush, fell over himself, hit the wall behind him hard. One of the spider limbs dragged behind him, twitching. Then, horrifyingly, he stood and his head whipped towards the exit behind Tony.

“Peter, stop moving!” he shouted, lifting a hand but not powering the repulsor. Peter flinched anyway, like Tony had struck him. Then-

"Don't let him get away!" Natasha barked across the comms.

“Don’t shoot him!” Tony snapped again.

“That thing just took out Barnes!” Clint argued.

Tony snapped toward him, fury and grief boiling into one toxic thing. “That thing is a sixteen-year-old kid, Barton!”

Clint didn’t lower the arrow. Tony saw it in real time. Time didn’t slow - there was no dramatized bullet-time nonsense - but his brain hyperfocused. The arrow was tipped with a concussive charge, small but fast, aimed center mass - but it hit the limb. One of the dark, trembling spider arms, mid-leap toward the upper catwalk, took the full brunt of the explosion.

There was a shriek. But not from Clint. From Peter.

Tony had never heard that sound come out of a living thing. He’d heard men screaming on battlefields, in caves, under collapsed buildings. He’d heard people die and explosions go off and he thought he was pretty well acquainted to some pretty universal horrors. He didn’t recognize the sound Peter made. It wasn’t a human sound. It wasn’t even an animal sound. 

It was wrong. 

The moment the concussive arrow hit - when Clint aimed mid-air and tagged one of those twitching steel-capped spider limbs mid-leap - it blew the damn thing off. The shriek tore from Peter’s throat like a wire ripped from a speaker. Garbled. Raw. Pitched too high and cracking under its own frequency. Like his vocal cords couldn’t hold the noise. Everyone expected sparks. Or broken alloy. Or a metal limb sparking at the joint. Maybe even a prosthetic shorting out. But when the limb hit the ground, it twitched. 

It curled. Spasmed. Clawed once at the concrete like a dying insect and bled. Thick. Dark. Real blood. Too dark for human, too light for machine oil.

Clint blinked down at it in stunned horror. “What the hell-?” He crouched and caught the still-moving limb in his gloved hand. “The fuck is this made of?” he asked. Then his fingers came away wet. Tony watched the exact moment Clint’s brain caught up with what he was feeling. “Oh - oh, fuck, it’s bleeding ?”

The entire team froze. The air itself seemed to still. And then Peter shrieked.

It wasn’t a yell. It wasn’t pain. It was something primal, something full of terror and grief. Something pulled from a nightmare, distorted and inhuman. It echoed around the ruined compound walls, clawing down Tony’s spine like hot needles. Peter dropped like a rock, curling in on himself, eyes wide and unseeing, spider arms flailing as if searching for the missing limb. He made another noise - low, hiccuping, fractured. Then again, louder. And louder. A wail that crested from animal panic into something that didn’t belong in this world.

He wasn’t screaming because it hurt. He was screaming because something had been taken from him. Ripped out. Torn away. “Oh my god,” Tony breathed. “Oh my god - he’s - he’s bleeding. He’s - they’re organic.”

“He didn’t have those in Germany!” Sam choked, into the coms, settling into place beside Steve, who’s face was twisted, torn between fury and dawning horror. “What the hell happened since we saw him last?”

Peter shrieked again - spider limbs flashing out and then immediately retracting partway into his back, like an animal flinching from a flame. Blood burst from the half-severed joint. He dug his fingers into the concrete and tried to pull himself backward, crawling in blind fear, feet slipping and scrabbling.

“Spider puberty?” Clint offered weakly. It came out like a desperate, panicked quip that made Tony’s chest cave in. His laugh cracked midway and never quite recovered.

“Shut up,” Natasha snapped. “He’s bleeding out!”

Peter didn’t seem to hear them. He curled tighter into himself, arm cradling the space where the limb had been attached. One of the others clawed the floor like it could dig through and disappear. He wasn’t speaking - he wasn’t saying anything coherent. Just sobbing. Trembling.

Natasha stepped forward cautiously and Peter let out another shriek - this horrible, shuddering, inhuman sound - and the limbs flared out again in instinct. One of them braced against the floor, and when Natasha moved in closer, he reared up like a trapped animal, crouched and trembling. A talon flicked forward - not to hit her. Just to warn her back.

Tony could see the muscles spasming in his legs, the way his pupils darted between exits. His hands were slick with blood. His chest heaved with shallow, panicked breaths.

He wasn’t fighting. He was terrified.

Peter looked at them like they were monsters. Like he expected one of them to finish it. Like he didn’t believe for a second that they weren’t going to kill him for what he’d done. For what HYDRA made him do.

“Kid,” Tony said, gently, raising a hand. “ Kid. Stop moving. It’s me. It’s - Tony. You know me, right?” Peter didn’t respond. Tony tried again. “You’re not in danger. You’re not-”

God, there was so much blood.

Too much of it. An impossible amount. It was soaking through the back of Peter’s torn suit in thick, arterial streams - cascading down the curve of his spine and pooling beneath him in a spreading slick of red. One of the spider limbs was gone entirely, the others spasming with the edges twisting and shrinking as if unsure whether to fight or flee.

The joint hissed and bubbled. Raw. Open. Biological.

And Peter - Peter was still sobbing. But not crying. It wasn’t a sound that belonged to grief. Or even pain. It was pure, unfiltered panic. He was gasping in short, shallow bursts, body seizing like he couldn’t get air in fast enough, like the act of breathing itself was being strangled out of him by the terror curling through his bloodstream. His hands were scrambling against the floor, slipping in his own blood, palms slapping wet against concrete, trying to gain traction and failing.

He wasn’t reaching for anyone. He wasn’t lashing out. He wasn’t even looking at them. He was curling in, hyperventilating, and but he wasn’t reacting to the pain. He wasn’t reacting to injury like someone newly wounded.

He was reacting like someone conditioned.

He was reacting like someone who had been here before. Retreating not from what had happened - but from what he thought was coming. He thought they were going to do it again. He thought this was punishment. That the severed limb had been intentional.

He thought they were going to finish the job.

Tony felt his stomach twist violently, heart dropping into his boots. His voice came out soft, strangled, too slow. “Kid, just stop. ”

But Peter couldn’t hear him.

He shrieked - a high, broken scream that rattled the room - and the limbs shot out instinctively. Then instantly retracted, curling in tight, flickering back toward his spine like an animal flinching from a hot wire. One of them triggered too fast and blood burst from the wound - like it was trying to regrow before the tissue was ready. He slammed his fingers into the concrete, nails splitting, and dragged himself backward.

He didn’t get far.

His feet were slipping in the blood. His palms were too slick to push off the floor. He looked trapped. Like a cornered animal that didn’t even have the luxury of dying with dignity. His wide, terror-blown eyes kept darting from face to face, but he wasn’t seeing any of them.

He wasn’t there.

“Peter,” Tony tried again, stepping forward, hand half-raised. “Kid, it’s us - no one’s going to hurt you, just stop - just stop -” Natasha moved - just a step, hands lifted to intercept him gently, her movements controlled and slow, like approaching a wild dog on the verge of snapping-

Peter realized he was fucked before any of them moved.

Tony saw it in the twitch of his spider limbs, the way they extended - not to attack this time, but to flee. A full-body recoil, his whole posture screaming abort, abort, abort. His eyes darted across the room like a trapped animal, the whites too visible, his mouth working open like he was already choking on the panic.

He wasn’t there for Bucky anymore. Tony could see it. The shift was instant.

Whatever directive or programming had launched him into that brutal, lightning-fast takedown had flickered out the second Clint’s arrow exploded and took the limb with it. The moment blood hit the floor, something inside Peter broke. He wasn’t an asset anymore. He wasn’t a weapon. He wasn’t anything except terrified.

“Stand down,” Steve warned, moving slow, palms out - but Peter was already backing away.

Tony stepped in closer. “Kid, breathe. You're not-”

Peter let out a wet, shuddering noise. It wasn’t even a word. Just a sound. One of those things humans aren’t supposed to make. Broken. Slurred. Half-sob, half-keening noise that made Tony's chest compress like a collapsing lung. He took a half-step forward out of instinct - tried to move slow enough not to startle the kid.

But Peter saw the motion, and he ran.

He fucking ran.

He didn’t scream a warning or shout - he didn’t even look at Natasha from where she’d approached even further. He moved through her. His shoulder caught hers with a sickening crack as he slammed her aside - sent her staggering - and he took off, limping hard, blood splashing underfoot. The drag of his leg was sharp and jerky - he’d torn muscle stabilizing those overextended joints, Tony knew it instantly - but he didn’t care. Didn’t slow.

Tony and Steve went after him instantly. Natasha flanked around the far side. Clint was already taking high ground - bow raised. Peter skidded over a pile of rubble, sprinted across a broken beam like a tightrope, stumbled hard - but didn’t stop. He was panting, gasping like the air was trying to kill him, muttering under his breath-

He ran like he was being hunted.

“Peter!” Tony roared, taking off after him.

The kid was fast. Even injured, even soaked in blood, even on a shredded leg from whatever had happened when Steve had been whaling on him - he was faster than any of them expected. He bolted across the wreckage, blood trailing behind him like ribbons, one of his remaining spider limbs dragging. 

He was running for his life. He wasn’t coming for Bucky anymore. He wasn’t coming for anyone. He was just running.

Tony kept his voice live over the comms. “ Do not shoot! Nobody else fires! Just catch him - gently, for fuck’s sake, he’s in shock -”

Peter ducked through the nearest hall. Took a hard left. Tried to wall-crawl up a slanted pillar - but his hand slipped in blood. He lost his grip and dropped. Hit the floor hard, blood flying, limbs scrambling for purchase. He moved like he was falling apart mid-run. 

Nat was there, cutting off one of his exit routes and Peter skidded. One of the spider limbs snapped out to brace him. Steve grabbed it. He tried to grab at them to hold him still. It was instinct. Grab the limb, stop the runner. But Peter screamed - high-pitched and raw and wild - and Tony saw the movement before he could shout a warning. One of the bio-limbs whipped forward, blade-like, and Peter severed the limb himself. One of his own talons whipped backward in a clean, vicious motion, cutting through the joint in one flash of metal. Blood sprayed the floor. The limb dropped like a dying animal. 

Tony watched, horrified, as it twitched like a self-defense protocol triggered by instinct. Blood fountained.

“Jesus Christ!” Steve’s voice bellowed behind him - and he let go, stumbling back with the twitching limb still gripped in his glove. Peter hit the floor hard - rolled, tried to recover, limbs flailing - but Natasha was already there. Her knee drove into his spine, hard but controlled, pinning him down. Clint dropped from above, grabbing his arm. Steve lunged for the remaining spider limb. Peter thrashed.

Sam helped pin him. Natasha jabbed a tranquilizer into what was left of his arm. Clint backed off, shell-shocked, the twitching, bloody limb still lying at his feet. But Peter-

Peter didn’t stop. He wasn’t attacking. Wasn’t fighting strategically. He was flailing.

Uncoordinated, primal movements - legs and arms thrashing, spider-limbs jerking in arcs bleeding that deep, dark red. His chest was heaving. Tears streaming down his cheeks. He screamed again, so loud it fractured the silence, so loud Tony’s helmet audio clipped. Peter’s voice was caught in his throat, trembling and broken and full of things that Tony didn’t understand. He tried to scream again but it came out cracked, barely a sound. He kept scrambling under Steve’s grip, kept sobbing, bleeding, panicking. The remaining limbs jerked, half-gone, still leaking blood down the seams.

Tony took a shaky step forward, reaching out. “ Peter. Kid. Listen to me. You’re not back there. You’re not - you’re not with them anymore. You’re safe. I swear to God-”

But Peter didn’t hear him, or maybe he couldn’t believe him. Not when all he knew was that he’d failed his mission. Not when he’d been caught. Not when both options drilled into his brain - HYDRA kills defectors and the Avengers kill traitors - were screaming the same thing:

You’re already dead.

His eyes were wide, but unfocused. Tears and sweat mixed on his face, smearing dirt and blood. The suit clung to him in wet patches, shredded at the sides. Blood was soaking into the fabric like dye. The spider limbs were twitching and dragging across the floor underneath him.

And he just kept fighting. Delirious. Bleeding.

Clint tried to pin one leg. The moment Peter registered it, he shrieked and bit him. Right through the glove. Clint swore and yanked back, but didn’t let go. Natasha shifted, bracing her forearm against the back of Peter’s neck. Still, he bucked like an electrical current was running through him.

“Hold him,” Tony snapped. “Hold him down! He’s gonna bleed out if we don’t-”

Peter screamed again - voice breaking this time. Less coordinated. It slurred into Russian, fast and ragged, his cadence erratic. Tony snapped, “FRIDAY, translate-”

“Asset requesting clarification - please advise - please advise - am I - am I - am I terminated - am I - am I-” Fuck, Tony wanted to be sick, “Did I fail - did I fail - please please please don’t terminate- ”

Tony was on his knees beside him now. One hand cradled Peter’s head gently, the other hovering over his chest, trying not to trigger more defense reflexes. He wanted to vomit. Wanted to scream. Because now, even bloody and gasping and shaking, Peter wasn’t trying to hurt them. 

He was just trying to run. Steve finally forced him down, wrenching the limbs flat, and Peter wailed, bucking underneath him like a trapped animal, voice cracking into broken Russian faster, harder - pleading, begging, sobbing words that didn’t sound like Peter at all.

Because he wasn’t even talking to them. He was pleading for his life. Begging. Voice breaking. Repeating directives, confessing - reciting programming.

He thought they were going to kill him.

“Fuck,” Tony whispered. He tore the helmet off with shaking hands. “Peter - Peter, listen to me - it’s me, it’s Tony - Tony Stark, I’m here - you’re not in HYDRA anymore - you’re safe- ”

But Peter didn’t hear him.

He just kept fighting. Keening. The spider-limbs tried to regrow, twisting violently as if trying to suture themselves closed. The open socket where the severed limb had been was spurting blood, tissue tearing further with every movement. His good leg kicked out again. Then again. Then slowed. Then stilled.

And then he collapsed. He was barely conscious now, let out one last breath and went limp, limbs shivering, blood leaking into the cracks of the concrete, eyes fluttering half-open. His lips moved, but no other sound came out.

Tony couldn’t take it. He ripped the helmet off and dropped to his knees beside them, hand open, palm out. “ Peter. Look at me. Look at my face. I’m not them. It’s me. It’s Tony. You remember me, right?”

Peter didn’t answer. He was a wreck. Delirious. Bleeding. Wild-eyed.

Tony dropped to his knees next to him when it was over, hands shaking as he tried to check for vitals, for breathing, for anything. His own HUD was glitching from blood splatter. He didn’t care. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Jesus, kid, what did they do to you?”

Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t even move. Just frozen, every muscle wound tight like he expected Tony to put a bullet in between his eyes. Tony didn't realize he was crying until his own voice broke again.

“You’re safe now,” he said, trying for comforting but his voice was failing him. “I swear to god, you’re safe. No one’s taking you back.” Tony leaned in again, jaw working. “Peter-”

Peter blinked up at him.

Then his eyes rolled back, and he went still.

—

The ride back to the jet was chaos.

Peter was half-conscious, slung between Steve and Clint like a broken puppet, feet dragging in the dirt, blood trailing behind them. What was left of the bio-limbs hung limp from his back, still twitching - two gone completely, one severed at the joint, the final one twitching and spasming like it didn’t know what to do without the others. Tony walked behind them with one arm braced under Peter’s neck, trying to keep pressure on the worst wound, his gauntlets soaked in red.

He kept blinking hard, like that would somehow make the image make more sense. It didn’t.

It didn’t make sense.

“He's alive.” The words came out hoarse, stunned. “All these years. They had him. He was just - he was a kid, and they - they kept him. They fucking kept him-”

“Tony-” Steve started, voice low.

“Don’t.” Tony snapped, eyes flashing. “Do not even try to say anything right now.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. He didn’t push.

The wind kicked up as they reached the jet. The ramp was already lowered, the inside prepped for evac. Natasha ran ahead, barking orders to FRIDAY through her comms, something about a med bay being set up mid-air. Bucky stumbled in silence behind the group, still walking under his own power, barely. Sam stayed near him, ready to catch him if he crumpled again.

As soon as they got Peter inside, Tony broke.

“This doesn’t leave the room,” he said sharply, spinning on his heel, blocking the jet’s interior with both arms as Clint and Steve moved to follow.

Steve frowned. “Tony-”

“No. No. He escaped. That’s it. We have no idea where he went after that. Hostiles retreated. He was never there. No one saw shit. Mission failed.” The silence was instant. Steve’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t argue. Not even a breath. Tony turned to each of them in turn - eyes blazing, mouth tight. “We’re not giving him to SHIELD. We’re not reporting this. We’re not letting some soulless bureaucratic mouth-breather throw him in a glass box and call it ‘recovery.’ You understand me? ”

Steve’s voice was quiet. “We could use them. If we’re going to get him out of - whatever this is, whatever they did - SHIELD might be able to-”

“No.” Tony’s voice cracked like a gunshot. “SHIELD isn’t touching him. Are you telling me you trusted SHEILD with Bucky? Didn’t they tell you to kill him on sight?”

Steve looked away. 

“We’re not doing that. I’m not taking any fucking chances. He’s staying in the tower and no one says jack shit to Fury.”

Steve didn’t argue again. No one did. The only sound left was Peter's breathing, shallow and uneven, and the low hum of the jet’s engines powering up. Bucky was slumped into one of the jump seats, looking like he'd gone ten rounds in hell and then asked for seconds. Blood was dried into the seams of his hair, and one side of his jaw was already swelling purple. He looked shaken. Like the damage wasn’t just physical.

Sam slid into the seat beside him with a grunt, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked over at Bucky, exhaled through his nose, then muttered under his breath, “At least you don’t actually have a kid.”

Bucky didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.

Just kept staring at the back of the jet, where Peter was laid out across the floor, limbs twitching in his sleep, wrapped in a silver blanket and still bleeding. Tony stood watch at his side, not looking away for a second.

And no one said a word.

Chapter Text

Peter lay limp on the Quinjet’s gurney, the restraints biting into his wrists, ankles, and chest. His breathing was shallow but steady - artificially so, regulated by whatever sedative Natasha had managed to pump into him. Even now, they kept him drugged just enough to hold back the worst of the instinctual responses, the fighting and thrashing and panic. His skin was waxy and cold, with a bluish tinge beneath his fingernails and around his lips that made Tony feel sick every time he looked too closely.

There wasn’t much they could do about the limbs.

No one was even sure what they were, biologically speaking - half-bone, half-carbon, or maybe some kind of chitinous hybrid, fused deep beneath the skin at his thoracic spine. Every few minutes, they would twitch on their own, testing the air like antennae, even when Peter was out cold. And sometimes - like now - they’d retract.

Tony watched it happen from across the jet, frozen in place, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

It looked painful. The uninjured limbs didn’t slide away cleanly. They shoved their way under skin and muscle, folding in on themselves like grotesque clockwork mechanisms trying to fit inside a casing too small for their shape. Flesh split around the joints as they slipped in; the skin bulged and tore. Blood beaded along his back in slick dark rivers - too dark, too oxygen-starved. Not red like it used to be. Not human anymore.

Steve made a small noise beside him, a grimace, but Tony didn’t say anything. He turned away before they could see his expression fall apart as the man made a small, helpless sound beside him. Not a word, just a strained exhale through gritted teeth. Tony heard it anyway. Heard the frustration, the helplessness, the bone-deep disgust with the entire situation - the way Peter looked, the wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding, the way his back arched even in unconsciousness.

Tony still didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d have to face the same grimace mirrored on his own face, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold the pieces together after that.

“Someone needs to dress those wounds,” he said flatly, turning away from Peter's unconscious form before they could see his expression collapse inward. But the words rang hollow in the sterile hum of the quinjet. Because who the hell were they supposed to get? No medics on board. No equipment strong enough to do more than patch a basic bullet graze. And this - this wasn’t a graze.

Peter's spider limbs - his real ones, the biological, twitching ones - had been shredded. Torn. One of them nearly ripped off entirely, the other still sluggishly bleeding from where he’d severed it. They weren’t bleeding like a human wound. There were no arteries or veins that matched any anatomy Tony knew, but they were bleeding. Thick, dark fluid seeped steadily down the junctions where the limbs met his back, and even Tony could see how much he’d already lost.

He wasn’t going to make it back to the Tower at this rate. Not unless they did something now.

“He’s gonna bleed out,” Steve said quietly.

Tony didn’t answer right away. He crouched near Peter again, scanning the spider limbs with just his eyes this time. The limbs twitched slightly in reaction to pain, sluggish and uneven, like they were firing off faulty signals.

“This isn’t like stitching up a cut,” Tony muttered. “I don’t even know what this is. I don’t know what kind of internal structure he has - there could be nerve junctions, fission plates, chemical control clusters. If I sew something shut that isn’t supposed to be-”

“We don’t have time for that,” Bucky said, low. Cautious. His voice tight like he didn’t want to say what he was about to. “We need to close the wound. We might need to consider…”

“Don’t.” Tony looked up, narrowed his eyes. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.”

“It might be the only option.”

“I said don’t.”

“He’s right,” Natasha interrupted. Her voice was calm, controlled. The kind of tone she used when trying not to escalate. “He’s not stable. He’s losing blood - whatever counts as blood for him - too fast.”

Tony turned his head toward her, jaw tight. “So your plan is to what, burn him?”

“Cauterize,” Bucky clarified, tone still even. “Seal the entry points. Just enough to stop the bleeding. We don’t know what these limbs are made of, but if they’re even partially organic, it might work.”

Steve’s eyes flicked down to Peter, face pale. He didn’t look like he liked the idea, either.

“He won’t survive the flight,” Natasha said. “Not like this.”

Tony didn’t answer for a moment.

He just stared at the kid - curled and motionless on the side of the quinjet, face smeared with sweat, lips parted as he made an unintelligible noise in a feverish slur. His breath came in shallow hitches. One of the spider limbs twitched, weakly spasming on the floor beside him. The others barely moved at all now.

“Goddammit,” Tony muttered. Then louder, snapping his head toward Clint in the pilot’s seat, “Barton, autopilot. You’re helping keep him sedated if he wakes up while we’re holding him down.”

“What?” Clint turned slightly. “I’m flying-”

“Autopilot! Now.”

Clint glanced back once at Peter’s trembling form, then flipped the switch. The quinjet steadied itself, and he unbuckled. “Okay, okay. On it.”

“Steve,” Tony barked, already standing and flexing his gauntlet, powering up the repulsor core with a slow hum. “You’re on arms. Barnes, ankles. Nat, keep his extra limbs still and make sure Clint has a needle in hand. You hit him if he starts to freak out again.”

Peter was mostly out of it, but as Steve and Bucky knelt beside him and began to shift his body, he let out a broken sound - half sob, half breathless protest. His eyes fluttered open briefly. One of the limbs gave a frantic twitch.

Tony’s heart kicked in his chest. He didn’t stop moving. Didn’t allow himself to pause long enough to feel anything. They rolled Peter gently onto his stomach. His suit was soaked through with blood - or fluid, or whatever the hell it was. It clung to his back like tissue paper. Steve used the edge of a knife to cut it open, exposing the source of the bleeding.

Tony felt sick.

The limb socket was… wrong. Not like a surgical implant. Not clean or metal. It was biological, a grotesque fusion of muscle and nerve and something else entirely, torn halfway through and spurting a slow but steady stream of dark, glistening liquid. The surrounding skin was raw and ragged, puckered like old burn tissue and new scarring. The limb itself hung limp.

Tony took a breath.

Then reached forward and gently curled his fingers around the base of the damaged limb. Peter groaned. A faint sob bubbled up from his throat.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Tony whispered. Then he pressed the white-hot center of the gauntlet’s repulsor directly into the wound.

Peter screamed.

The quinjet filled with it - raw, unfiltered, animal pain. He thrashed violently, but Steve and Bucky held him down, faces hard, jaws clenched. The repulsor sizzled. Tony flinched as the wound smoked beneath his hand. The fluid seared and bubbled at the edges, cauterizing under the intense heat. Peter writhed and cried out, voice breaking into high, cracked sobs. His limbs jerked and spasmed, some of them striking the floor, others coiling.

“Almost done,” Tony said, voice tight, and then pulled back.

Peter collapsed into the floor like his strings had been cut. He was sweating, trembling violently.

“Next one,” Bucky said sharply. “Fast.”

Tony nodded. Forced himself to not be sick. His hands were shaking. He reached for the second torn limb. “Sorry again.”

Then pressed the gauntlet down. Peter shrieked again - this time a higher pitch, more frantic. One of the limbs broke free and lashed outward, catching the air with a sharp crack.

“Watch it-!” Steve shouted, ducking.

Peter's eyes were unfocused, wet and terrified, darting side to side as his body thrashed in place. “Now, Romanoff!” Bucky snapped. Natasha didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and jabbed the needle into his thigh. Peter sagged again, fast, like a switch had been flipped. His breath hitched once. Twice. Then he went still.

Tony stumbled back and dropped into the seat beside him, repulsor still hot and humming faintly. He stared at his own hands for a moment, watching them shake, and felt something cold knot up behind his ribs. 

Peter.

Tony squeezed his eyes shut, knuckles white around the armrest of the quinjet seat, and tried not to be sick. He forced himself to look again. Forced himself to catalog the damage, the scorched, raw edges of the cauterized spider-limb wounds, the way Peter’s body shuddered with every breath even in unconsciousness. The tranquilizer had taken him under deep, but his limbs still twitched as if stuck mid-response to trauma. His skin was slick with sweat, pale in the way that made Tony’s stomach clench harder.

The rest of the flight felt like years.

“We’re nearly back,” Clint said quietly from the front.

“Land us straight in Bay Four,” Tony answered hoarsely, already bracing to stand. His suit adjusted to the shift in weight, supporting his knees as he moved toward the cot.

“Should I call a team-?”

“No.” His voice came out like a growl. Steve looked over, startled. Natasha tilted her head in quiet assessment, like she’d been expecting that response. “I don’t want anyone seeing him like this,” Tony continued, already tapping his palm against the interface on his gauntlet. “FRIDAY - evac the basement floors. Clear out the labs, the med bay, the sublevels. Lock down Bay Four. I want full isolation protocols activated.”

“You got it, boss,” came FRIDAY’s calm voice in return, though even the AI sounded… hesitant.

“He’s not a specimen,” Tony said to no one in particular. “He’s not. I’m not putting him on display. No gawking. No observation decks. I don’t want anyone looking at him.”

The others didn’t argue.

They all heard the unspoken part: no agents. No press. No medics who would file a report or leak classified data.

They brought Peter down to one of the isolated holding rooms in the tower. The lights were dimmed. Every piece of reflective glass had been blacked out. Tony had FRIDAY shut off all non-essential surveillance, locked every access point, and doubled the failsafes around the perimeter.

Cho was still in Singapore for a medical tech summit, which meant it was just Banner - wide-eyed and sleep-deprived, blinking furiously behind his glasses when he saw Peter laid out on the cot, his back a shredded mess of ruined skin and scorched tissue, the spider limbs barely attached at the base like charred, lifeless stalks.

“God,” Bruce whispered, dropping his tablet.

Tony didn’t say anything.

They rolled Peter gently onto his stomach. He groaned once, but the sedative held.

The wounds were worse than they’d realized in-flight. The cauterized patches had stopped the active bleeding, yes, but the surrounding tissue was raw and inflamed, and what hadn’t been burned away looked jagged and unnatural. There were no sutures. No signs of prior clean healing. Like whatever HYDRA had done had forced those limbs to exist without ever allowing the body to recover from it.

“Can you do anything?” Tony asked, too tired to keep the sharpness from his voice.

“I - I don’t know what I’m looking at,” Bruce admitted, voice shaky as he peeled back the gauze Tony had hastily taped down in the quinjet. “There’s neural tissue where there shouldn’t be. These junctions are like - like they're grown directly into his spine. This isn’t surgery, this is… forced evolution.”

Tony swore under his breath. “Just patch him up. Best you can.”

So they did. It was a rush job - there wasn’t much else to do. The bleeding wasn’t excessive anymore, but the flesh was open, inflamed. Angry. Bruce used saline to rinse the burns. Tony did his best not to gag when the fluid came away pink and laced with something that looked like oil. They applied a topical antibiotic just in case, though they didn’t know if it would work on whatever Peter had become. They taped gauze across the worst of it, wrapped the lower torso to keep it from reopening, and then stepped back.

Tony stood at the edge of the cot, eyes fixed on Peter’s face. He looked impossibly young again. Lips parted slightly. One cheek pressed into the pillow. The contrast was unbearable. Then came the sound of metal clinking as Bruce reached over the tray for some nightmare tool to make sure the wounds were closed. Peter stirred.

Tony’s head snapped up.

The spider limbs - the remaining ones - twitched. Just slightly. A slow, unsettling shiver. Then more pronounced, the tips scraping the cot frame. “Shit,” Bruce breathed. “He’s waking up.”

Tony reached for the nearest tranquilizer gun just as Peter jerked violently, limbs flailing in a desperate, spastic surge. “Restrain him!” Tony barked.

Steve and Bucky moved at once. Bruce backed away, shielding his tablet as Peter crashed out of the cot, landing hard on the floor in a tangle of limbs and limbs and - God, there were too many of them, too many moving parts-

Peter wailed.

It wasn’t a scream. Not human. Not even a full breath. Just a high, panicked whine that climbed in pitch as his limbs scraped and clawed at the floor, jerking as though trying to fight off an attacker only he could see. Bucky pinned one leg. Steve knelt on the other, arms around Peter’s flailing shoulders, trying to hold him down without hurting him more.

Tony watched, helpless. “He’s in pain - he’s in shock. We should’ve sedated him again-!”

“Too late for that,” Bruce said grimly. “He’s fully conscious now. His body’s metabolizing it fast, just - just dose him again, and then we’ll let it work itself out of his system.”

Peter was shaking violently, whining, limbs twitching like antennae caught in static. One of them slammed into the side wall of the room, denting the reinforced panel as Steve reached for another needle. Tony winced. “He’s gonna break something-”

“Hold him still!” Steve grunted, and Bucky shifted, locking one spider limb under his arm.

Peter’s eyes shot open. Bleary. Red. Wild. “Directive deviation acknowledged - do not terminate - Asset can comply - Asset can still comply-” he gasped out. “Asset is useful. Asset is useful. Asset is - do not discard-”

“No one’s discarding you, Peter,” Steve said firmly, not moving from his hold.

Peter was shuddering again, face pinched but not crying as he lay pinned to the floor, not resisting anymore. The panic was gone. Only dread remained as the sedative worked its way through his system.

Tony crouched down slowly beside him. He reached for one of the undamaged limbs. It jerked away, but not fast enough.

—

The door sealed behind them with a hydraulic hiss and a final metallic thunk, and Tony exhaled like it had been holding him together.

Inside the room, Peter was finally still. Sedated again, slumped half-under the cot in a mess of trembling limbs and bloodstained gauze. Bruce stayed behind to monitor vitals, but Tony needed to be out of that room. He couldn’t breathe in there. Not without the taste of burned flesh rising up his throat.

He braced his hands against the wall in the hallway, the concrete cool under his palms, and let his head hang forward. He had cauterized the kid. He’d held Peter down and burned him alive.

Steve stood a few feet away, quiet but watchful, while Bucky leaned stiffly against the far wall, one arm curled around his ribs like he was trying to hold himself together. No one spoke for a moment.

Tony straightened slowly, one hand dragging down his face, the motion smearing soot and blood he hadn’t realized was still there. “So.” He didn’t look at them when he spoke. “Anyone want to ask the obvious question?”

Steve’s voice was careful. “Which one?”

Tony’s laugh was dry and humorless. “Let’s go with, oh, I don’t know - what the hell was that? Since apparently Peter Parker is a genetically altered weapon with regenerating spider limbs and none of you told me.”

Bucky flinched like he’d been slapped. “I didn’t know, ” he said, low. “HYDRA didn’t do that to me. That’s not how they trained Assets. This - this is new. It’s not in any file I’ve ever seen.”

“Convenient,” Tony snapped, turning sharply on him. “That a knife-wielding kid with twitchy murder-limbs shows up calling himself the Asset , targeting you specifically, nearly rips the quinjet apart on the way home, and you - the actual goddamn ex-HYDRA assassin - just shrug and say I don’t know, boss ?”

Steve stepped forward quickly, one hand up. “Tony, hey - don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what, Steve?” he said, heat rising under his collar. “Don’t have a normal reaction to the fact that the kid just tried to kill us and has apparently been with HYDRA for years?”

“He wasn’t in control.”

“Oh, well, that makes it fine then,” Tony muttered. “You think that’s the part that’s tripping me up? I know that’s not him in control of his actions! How are you so okay with the fact that HYDRA nabbed a kid to turn him into the next terminator?”

Bucky pushed off the wall, his voice rougher. “You think I’m okay with this?”

“I think you of all people should’ve seen it coming.”

The silence that followed hit sharp and low. Bucky didn’t respond. He just stood there, breathing through his nose, jaw clenched tight like he was swallowing down every word he wanted to throw back. Steve shifted beside them. “This isn’t helping.”

“No, it’s not,” Tony agreed coldly. “But I’m fresh out of coping mechanisms, Cap. I burned a hole through a kid’s back. I held him down while he screamed like an animal.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “So forgive me if I’m not feeling particularly team-spirited right now.”

Bucky looked down, his voice quiet. “What do we do with him?”

Tony laughed again, sharp and bitter. “Funny, I was hoping you’d have that answer.”

 He could still hear Peter screaming - soft, muffled echoes in his head that wouldn’t quiet. Not the feral cries. The quiet ones. The barely-there noises he made when they touched him wrong, or when the lights were too bright, or when they tried to stop the bleeding.

“It’s not your fault,” Bucky said, voice low. Careful.

Tony’s jaw twitched. “You’re right,” he said tightly, standing too fast. “It’s yours.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

Tony snapped. “You heard me. They wouldn’t have gotten him if you didn’t get away.” Bucky’s mouth parted like he was going to say something, but Tony kept going. “You think this is just a coincidence? You think it just happened that the second you slipped through our fingers, they got him instead?”

“You wanted me to stay?” Bucky’s voice rose. “You wanted me to keep being the Winter Soldier?”

“If it meant they didn’t get to Peter? Yeah!” Tony’s hands were shaking now. “Look what they did to him!” Bucky looked away. “They mutilated him,” Tony shouted. “He has limbs growing out of his back, Barnes. He doesn’t even think he’s human. I haven’t seen him in years and now he’s calling himself an asset and talking like a robot! He said he ate people! He doesn’t make pop culture references, he doesn’t ramble, he doesn’t smile -”

Tony’s voice cracked.

“He’s not the kid I knew,” he gritted out. “He’s not the sweet, stupid kid that used to annoy the hell out of me.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. Tony turned away. Steve stepped in, finally, wedging himself between them before things got worse. His voice was calm, but sharp. “This isn’t helping. We need to stop pointing fingers and start talking about what we’re going to do.”

Neither of them said anything. 

In the silence that followed, Tony walked back to the window. Peter was still asleep in the gurney. Restraints still tight. Face still blank. Nothing about it felt like victory. They stood in silence for another beat - long enough for Tony’s phone to buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out with a sigh, not recognizing the number at first. Then he saw the SHIELD encryption line and almost didn’t answer.

He really, really should’ve let it go to voicemail.

But instinct kicked in, and his hand was already moving before his brain could catch up. Thumb hit accept, and the secure line cracked through his earpiece with a subtle pop of static and the low, gravely voice of the last person Tony wanted to deal with. “Stark.”

Tony leaned his shoulder against the wall, trying to angle himself away from Steve and Bucky’s line of sight. His head was pounding, temple tight with exhaustion, and there was still blood under his nails. “Director,” he greeted flatly. “Can’t say I’ve missed your sweet dulcet tones.”

“How’d the mission go?” Fury asked, straight to business. “Found something worth sharing?”

Tony hesitated for a beat. Not because he didn’t have the lie ready, but because saying it out loud felt like putting a nail in something he hadn’t finished burying yet.

“It was a bust,” he said finally, his voice low and clipped. “Found some evidence. Followed a lead. Spooked someone. They attacked Barnes, got into the vents, and disappeared before we could pin down who the hell it was.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“They disappeared,” Fury repeated, skeptical. “You’re telling me a hostile HYDRA agent slipped through your fingers inside a blacksite bunker?”

Tony exhaled slowly, jaw flexing. “You ever been in one of those places, Fury? You think HYDRA built bases that didn’t lock down comms tighter than a nuke silo? Once you’re inside, it’s a dead zone. No signal, no trace. Barely get functional radios a room over.”

“They couldn’t track him?”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “You think I wanted to come back empty-handed? We barely pulled Barnes out of there in one piece. The whole place was rigged to collapse. We got what intel we could, but whatever tech or trail they left behind? It’s gone. Burned.”

“You’re telling me you took Stark Tech, Romanoff, Barton and Barnes into a hostile HYDRA site and got nothing but smoke and echoes?”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “You want a different outcome, maybe you go next time and give it a go.”

The line crackled.

Fury didn’t respond right away, and for a second, Tony wondered if the director would push harder - demand a sit-rep, a recording, pull the logs directly from FRIDAY. But instead, Fury just clicked his tongue and sighed like a man who knew he was being lied to and didn’t have the time to chase it down.

“Clean it up,” he said eventually. “If I get another ping on that site, I’m not calling you first.”

“Glad to be your last resort,” Tony muttered, and killed the call before Fury could throw in any parting sarcasm.

The screen went dark in his hand, and Tony caught his own reflection in the black glass - drawn, pale, hollow-eyed. His mouth looked pinched. His shoulders crooked. There was soot in his hair and dried blood crusted into the corner of his jawline. He barely looked like himself. Not the public version, anyway. Not the one with charisma and a thousand-yard smirk.

He slid the phone back into his pocket, fingers slow and reluctant. It felt heavier than it should have. When he turned back toward the corridor, Steve and Bucky were still there, silent and watching.

Neither of them had moved. Not even a step.

Tony cleared his throat and stared straight ahead at the sealed door - thick titanium alloy reinforced with his own tech. Behind it, Peter was curled up like a kicked dog, unconscious and stitched up with tape and gauze, still twitching every time the sedatives began to wear thin. Still breathing. Still alive. Somehow.

Tony didn’t let himself look back at the others.

“I’m not telling them,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “Not Fury. Not anyone. Not until we fix it.”

There was a pause.

Then Steve said, in a voice lined with something sharp and brittle, “...fix it?”

Tony didn’t answer. He didn’t turn. He just walked. The metal of his boots struck the floor in cold, even beats, echoing down the corridor with a rhythm that sounded almost like retreat.

—

The room was wrong.

Not in its shape - he’d already mapped it in the first seventeen minutes - but in its stillness . The Asset had counted eighty-two pacing circuits since waking. Eight steps from wall to wall. Two-point-three seconds per length. Soundproofed. No visible cameras. No breathing. No movement. No control voice.

That was what made it wrong. There was always a control voice.

The Asset paused in front of the sealed door, his bare feet silent on the floor. Stark technology. Seamless. Composite alloys. Likely biometric locks embedded into the frame. He could see the faint shimmer of light along the seal when he pressed close enough. The kind of lock that would read retinal scans, or DNA, or a combination lock. He did not possess the clearance to open it.

He did not understand why he was not yet dead. The mission had failed. There was no extraction. No fallback. No coordinates burned into the base of his spine, no sharp correction in his ear. His jaw still ached from where the Captain had hit him. From where Stark had shouted something he didn’t understand. Names. Orders.

None of it had made sense.

He stood still, breath shallow, arms twitching at his sides. The spider-limbs behind him clicked against the floor once and then stilled. The limb that had been severed in the field had begun partial regeneration, but sluggishly. Blood loss had been too severe. Nutritional recovery subpar. They had not fed him yet. He had not asked for food. He had not been told to.

He inhaled again. Counted to four. Held to seven. Exhaled to eight. It was a trick he did not remember learning, but it helped stop the tremble in his hands. The Asset turned slowly back to the center of the room and resumed pacing. Eight steps. Turn. Eight steps. Turn.

He would not panic. The Asset did not panic.

But he had been captured. He had been delayed. He had not reported. He had not completed the extraction. He had not even completed the target elimination. The mission had been corrupted. Failure meant termination.

He would be terminated.

The conditioning clawed behind his ribs like frostbite. He had failed . There was no post-mission debrief. There was no dark corridor and no voice from the chair behind the desk. Just silence. His own heartbeat. The sound of his breathing. The scrape of twitching spider-limbs as they curled and uncurled, trying to vanish and failing.

He stopped again by the air vent in the left corner of the ceiling.

Too small. The screws had been stripped. Welded from the inside. The shaft might fit his skull. Might fit a single shoulder if he dislocated it. But not both. Not the chest. Not the back, and certainly not the limbs. And movement through such a confined space would be inefficient. Loud. Visible. Caught.

Still. Still he checked it. Again and again, every third pacing cycle. Just in case he had been wrong. He wasn’t wrong. The vent would not allow escape.

He needed to get back. He needed to complete recovery. Needed to deliver what information he had retained. Target strength. Strategic failures. Stark’s armor model - newer, slimmer, power rerouted into faster impulse cores. Captain’s movements. Anticipation strategies. The Winter Soldier’s state of mind.

The Winter Soldier was compromised. Unstable, and still very much alive. He wasn’t sure how to report that without consequences, or without being accused of contamination himself.

He moved back to the door. The spider limbs dragged faintly behind him, twitching against the concrete floor. He kept thinking he heard voices on the other side; the wall was thick. Too thick for enhanced hearing to penetrate with precision, but he could feel the frequency sometimes. A buzz of electronic static. Movement. Air pressure shifts. As if someone had passed by. Stopped. Listened.

But no one entered. No one questioned him. No one told him what he was supposed to do. He ground his teeth once. He closed his eyes and focused on the simulation of restraint. He would not break. Not here. Not yet.

He had survived worse.

The Asset clenched his fists and turned again. The room was starting to close in. He needed to leave, he needed to return to base. There had to be a way.

The lack of cameras bothered him. No surveillance was a lie. There was always surveillance. The absence of visible observation only meant that it had been concealed; optical camouflage. Neural microdrones. Stark tech, most likely. 

He had no tools. No access to frequencies. No command codes. He had not earned any privileges; he wasn’t supposed to be here this long. They should have killed him by now, or reconditioned him. Something. Anything. He did not know what to do when he was not being told what to do.

His hands trembled again. He clenched them harder and bit his cheek. The spider limbs behind him scraped faintly, dragging across the floor like the legs of a wounded animal. He wanted them to retract. They wouldn’t. He couldn’t control them yet. Not when he was this-

“Stop,” he said aloud. The sound of his voice was too thin. Not even his. It sounded borrowed. He turned to the door again. Pressed his forehead to it. “I am Subject B-318,” he said quietly, eyes wide and unblinking. “Mission status: compromised. Extraction failure. Requesting termination protocol.”

No one answered.

He stood there for a long time.

Just breathing.

—

Tony exhaled sharply before the door even hissed open, fingers flexing against the tray in his hands. The metal felt too cold, his pulse too fast. Every step toward this room had been a tug-of-war between dread and duty, and now that he was here, face-to-face with it all, it felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

The room was dim, lit soft and low the way Bruce recommended for trauma patients. No sharp lights. No overhead fluorescents. Still sterile, though. Still too much like a cell.

And Peter - Jesus. Peter looked like something salvaged from a graveyard. No muzzle this time, and somehow that made it worse. Without it, the kid’s face - his real, older, very much alive face - was finally visible, and it only made the change starker. His eyes weren’t brown the way Tony remembered, wide and full of questions and snark. They were sunken. Shadowed. Ringed with the kind of exhaustion no kid should wear. He looked older now, older than he should’ve been. The hair was longer, wild and tangled and damp with sweat near the roots, hanging in limp curls just past his jaw. The baby fat was gone. His jaw was sharper, cheekbones more prominent. He had a scar on his left cheekbone, and one on his upper lip, too.

He was pressed flat against the wall, like his bones had fused into it, like he was trying to disappear through sheer force of will.

Tony didn’t say anything at first. He just set the tray down slowly on the table by the wall - his hands didn’t shake, he made sure of that. Sandwich, some cut fruit, bottled water. Nothing hot, nothing metal. No utensils.

"Hey," he said gently. It didn’t sound right in his own mouth.

Peter didn’t answer. Just watched him.

That stare crawled under Tony’s skin, scratched at the base of his throat. Not curious, not even wary - just empty. Alert and empty. Like a camera watching for signs of movement. Nothing human behind it. "You, uh…" Tony cleared his throat. "You probably don’t remember me. That’s okay. I’m Tony. Tony Stark. You used to-" His voice caught. "We knew each other. You were… we were friends, I think."

Still nothing. Not even a twitch.

He took a small step forward. Peter stiffened. Tony froze. Didn’t move another inch. Let out a breath. "Okay. Not close. Got it. I just… I brought food. You need to eat. You don’t have to eat in front of me. I can just leave it and go."

There was a short pause, then FRIDAY’s voice called down from the overhead speaker. “Sergeant Barnes says that is ‘a bad idea, Stark.’”

Tony’s jaw tensed. “Tell him to stick a sock in it,” he snapped, too fast.

Peter flinched. Just slightly. A tremor down his arms, maybe. His spider limbs - fuck, they still hadn’t figured out what to do about those - shrank back slightly, tension coiling in his frame like a coiled spring, ready to explode. But still he didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just… watched.

Tony took another step in.

“Look, I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, tone softer. “I swear. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I don’t know what they - what HYDRA - did to you. But we’re not them. And… and I know I was an idiot. I know I should have looked harder for you now, kid. I know… I know I shouldn’t have let you just walk home after that plane crash. I should’ve been there.”

He tried to take another step, and that was it. Peter lunged.

It was fast, too fast for someone who looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept in days, but the movements were unsteady, sluggish. He wasn’t at full strength. One hand lashed out, and Tony’s armor snapped on just in time to keep the full force of Peter’s swing making contact with his side. The impact rang off the plating and Tony stumbled back a half-step, not because it hurt - he barely felt it, with how weak and still drugged Peter was - but because the shock knocked the air from his lungs.

The door behind him hissed open and Bucky was there, fast and silent, sweeping into the room like a shadow. Steve followed close behind, already moving to intercept.

Peter turned, frantic, and dove for the open door, a desperate scream - wordless, raw - tearing from his throat. His fingers got to the threshold, but Steve was faster. Stronger. He grabbed him by the torso and dragged him back in like a ragdoll. Peter thrashed violently, one of his limbs lashing out and catching Bucky’s arm hard enough to tear cloth. Another wrapped around Steve’s neck, briefly, until Bucky managed to shove him backward.

They didn’t hit him hard - Tony saw that - but they had to shove him to break the lock. Peter slammed into the cot hard enough that the metal legs screeched across the floor and one gave out. He howled when he landed, bandages darkening immediately, his whole frame curling around the wounded limbs.

It wasn’t just pain, though. It was panic. Animal panic.

Tony’s heart thudded in his chest. "Jesus."

Peter was down, snarling, pushing himself up with bloody palms and trembling limbs, mouth twisted into something broken and terrified. He looked at all of them like he was seconds from being executed. Tony backed up, armor still up. Didn’t dare speak. 

The door hissed shut behind him.

The hallway outside was too bright. Too cold. He stood there for a beat, chest heaving, gauntlets still warm from where they’d engaged. His stomach twisted. The silence stretched.

Bucky was the first to speak.

“You need to keep your distance until he’s stable.” His voice was low. Flat. Not cold, but distant. Detached.

Tony turned his head slowly toward him, jaw clenched. “He tried to kill me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Because he doesn’t know who you are.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Tony looked back toward the door. Peter hadn’t even screamed his name. He swallowed against the taste in his throat. Metal. Ash. Maybe he didn’t know who he was. Maybe he never would again.

And god, that hurt worse than the knife ever could.

—

The door didn’t open again.

That should have been expected. It was expected. But the Asset remained frozen there anyway, cheek against the cool surface, listening.

Silence.

Even the low static hum he’d tracked before had faded. No sound. No light. No commands. He drew back slowly, one hand braced against the frame, the other twitching near his side. The spider-limbs at his back fluttered again, raw at the joints. Damaged. One limb - still missing, the other only partially. Both were slow to regrow. Malfunctioning. Weak.

He hated how exposed that made him feel.

They had been severed before. He remembered that - vividly. The pain. The sound. The finality of it. He hadn’t known they were really, truly organic until they bled. He hadn’t known he bled like that. That there was something living and soft inside the weapon casing. And they’d all seen it, now.

The Avengers. The targets. The enemies.

Tony Stark had yelled at them to be careful. Had shouted a name.

Peter.

The Asset flinched, jaw locking. He hated how that name unsettled him. It meant something. But not to him. He did not have a name. He had a designation. He had orders. That was all. That was supposed to be all. And now there was nothing.

He started to pace again, faster this time. Four steps. Pivot. Four steps. Pivot. Veered toward the corner and crouched low, inspecting the seam between the floor and the wall. There was no give. He pressed a palm against the edge, braced his shoulder, tried to wedge his fingers under the trim.

No give.

His shoulder throbbed from where he’d wrenched it earlier. It wasn’t healing fast enough. He needed more calories. More protein. The tray Stark had left before was knocked over, not that the Asset would touch it anyway. Likely poisoned. Inedible for his body, anyway. They offered no supplemental injections. No stabilization packs. He bit down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to taste blood.

The mirror in the small, curtained section of the room that acted as a bathroom - small, unbreakable. Plastic polymer layered over shatterproof resin. No sharp edge. The toothbrush was synthetic, flimsy. The bristles fell apart if he chewed them. No metal. No glass. No wires. The water only activated for twelve seconds at a time, heat-regulated, temperature controlled.

He had nothing to work with.

Not even a paperclip.

If HYDRA had put him in a room like this, it would’ve been for evaluation. Conditioning. To see what he did under stress. To monitor baseline behavior under unpredictable variables. The lack of control input. The lack of stimuli. He was being watched. Even if he couldn’t see them.  

HYDRA was coming. They would bring an extraction team. If not, though… Then it meant he was off-grid. Then it meant they thought he’d defected. And traitors didn’t get recovery. They didn’t get reconditioning. They got liquidated.

He pressed his knuckles against his mouth and forced his breathing to slow. Do not panic.

But his pacing got faster. His thoughts blurred at the edges. His body felt too tight in his own skin. The limbs scraped on the walls, twitching without rhythm. His skin was too hot. His fingers flexed open and closed like he was preparing for a strike. He wasn’t planning to strike. He didn’t want to.

He didn’t know what he wanted, except out.

(Assets did not want.)

He’d gone after the mission. He’d followed the orders. He’d acted according to training, according to instinct, according to the years of drills and memory assignments and codeword reboots. And he failed.

He failed and they saw him fail.

He made a list in his head. Assets do that when the environment shifts beyond defined operational parameters. Organize. Analyze. Prioritize.

The door was sealed. No keypad. No clear magnetic lock. No discernible sensor trigger. It hadn’t opened once since the food tray came through, and he doubted it would open again anytime soon. The walls were reinforced. Not standard concrete - something else. Soundproofed, too, if the silence was anything to judge by.

He'd tried tapping. Once. Then harder. Then with one of the spider limbs, knocking in patterns, rapid sequences meant to provoke a response - anything from feedback to aggression. Standard stimuli protocol.

There was nothing.

No sound. No movement. Not even the distant hum of systems outside. That meant either the room was fully isolated… or the surveillance was passive. Could be motion-based sensors. Could be AI filtering. Could be visual-only. He had no way of knowing. They’d stripped him of his tech. There was no HUD in his mask anymore. No uplink. No neural tether.

It was like they had gutted him.

He walked back to the center of the room and sat. Cross-legged, spine straight. Hands on knees. A HYDRA-trained meditation pose meant to regulate cardiac rhythm and slow external response patterns. It was the posture used before reprogramming sessions. Before interrogation. Before punishment.

He sat there for a long time. Then his fingers began to tremble. It wasn’t visible. Not really. But he could feel it. Just under the skin, like static. His pulse wasn’t responding to regulation the way it should. His breath caught every fifth inhale. His jaw ached from grinding.

This wasn’t a waiting room. This wasn’t pre-debrief. This was a cell. He was in a holding cell in enemy territory with no communication, no feedback, and no backup. And there was still no execution protocol. Which meant - he had to assume - HYDRA didn’t know where he was. And if HYDRA didn’t know where he was, then HYDRA assumed he was compromised. Which meant he had a few days at most before his implant activated. 

He shuddered violently.

The mission had been a test. He’d been deployed to assess viability. Combat readiness. Mental response. To see how deeply the HYDRA imprinting had taken root after the last failed overwrite. He remembered most of it. He remembered being dropped into the field, then the activation code slipping through his ear like oil. Cold. Slippery. Controlling.

Then he remembered fighting the Soldier. Then blood.  

Peter.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek again until the taste flooded his mouth. Peter Parker was dead. That was the file HYDRA showed him. Photos. A burned-out apartment. A funeral. Stark grieving. The narrative was clean. They never said what they did with the body. His hands clenched against his knees hard enough to leave indentations.

He couldn’t think about that. That way lay fracture. And fractured minds were put down. 

He needed to get back.

He rose again. Paced. Began to test the floor again for vibration, listening for mechanical pathways beneath. Some kind of duct system. A way to feel a presence behind the walls. There was nothing. He dropped back down and circled again, this time eyes flicking along the seams of the ceiling.

There. Near the corner.

An embedded camera, minuscule. Barely noticeable. Not in a standard casing. The kind that was meant to seem hidden but still be seen - just enough to let the prisoner know they were watched. So, he wasn’t alone. He turned toward it, staring, trying to focus. Let his face go blank.

“Subject is aware of failure. Subject acknowledges deviation from mission. Subject requests termination or reassignment.”

He waited. Still nothing. Fine. That’s how they wanted it?

He moved to the corner and crouched again. The spider limbs behind him twitched erratically. He gritted his teeth. If he could just stimulate the limb generation more deliberately - if he could force the regrowth - they might stabilize. He needed one more for proper balance, for full locomotion. And if it meant he had to carve some tissue to do it, he’d do it.

But they weren’t responding.

The tissue damage from the first severed limb was still too raw. His back throbbed with each breath. The skin hadn’t closed completely - it had reopened after his attempted escape. It wept slowly. He could feel the blood tracking down the ridge of his spine. He was falling apart. And no one was coming.

He pressed his forehead to the floor and counted backward from two hundred, just to still the shaking. He had to make a plan. Even if escape was impossible - he had to have a plan. That’s what they trained him for. That’s what kept him alive when others didn’t make it.

He just needed out.

He needed orders.

—

The security door hissed as it slid open, the hydraulics louder than usual in the stifling quiet of the lower levels. Tony stepped into the containment cell and exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet, like he was trying not to scare a wounded animal.

Because that’s what it felt like.

Peter was already awake. He always was. No matter what time Tony came down here, no matter how quietly he tried to approach, the kid was already sitting up - curled into himself in the corner like some kind of ghost. Hollow-eyed but high alert. Shoulders pressed so tightly into the corner seam of the wall it was like he wanted to sink through the concrete.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look startled.

But his eyes were locked on Tony the moment he entered, sharp and watchful. Not blinking. Not moving. Just watching.

Tony swallowed. The tray in his hands felt too heavy for how little was on it - just a bowl of soup and some soft bread. Nothing that required chewing. Bruce said they should keep it simple until Peter started eating again. Tony hated how clinical the term re-feeding syndrome sounded. Like it wasn’t a sixteen-year-old kid wasting away in front of them, refusing every bite they offered.

He hadn’t eaten in too long. He hadn’t eaten since they’d brought him back in yesterday, and his metabolism was insane enough before. Now, it was - well. Tony didn’t know. But he assumed having extra limbs hardly shrank the caloric requirements.

“Hey,” Tony said softly, taking a careful step forward.

Peter’s eyes didn’t flicker. His entire body tensed like piano wire, legs drawn in against his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of the cot’s sheets. He didn’t make a sound. He just pressed further into the wall, like he could disappear into the concrete if he tried hard enough. 

Tony hated this room.

He hated the reinforced panels and the muted lighting and the reinforced glass. He hated the isolation protocols. Hated that they needed them. Hated that this was Peter in front of him - Peter, not some nameless weapon or subject or ghost from Tony’s nightmares.

“I brought something for you,” Tony continued, crouching slowly so he could set the tray down near the door, where it was closest to Peter without being a threat. He kept his voice even. Gentle. “It’s still warm. Soup. No weird chunks. I didn’t make it, I promise, so it’s edible.”

Nothing. No change. Not a blink.

The silence pressed in like a vacuum, thick and airless.

Tony stayed where he was for a moment longer. Not speaking. Just watching Peter’s eyes - how wide they were. How utterly still he stayed. No twitch, no reaction, no flicker of recognition or relief. Just raw, silent calculation, like he was waiting for Tony to make the wrong move so he could defend himself.

And maybe he was.

Tony stood up slowly. “I’m gonna leave it here, okay?” he said. “You don’t have to eat it now. I’ll be back later.”

Peter didn’t look away. Didn’t nod. Didn’t move. Just watched. Tony lingered another second longer than he should have. Then he backed out. The door hissed closed behind him, and the silence swallowed the space again.

—

Three hours passed.

Tony didn’t check the cameras. He couldn’t. Not anymore. He couldn’t keep watching Peter pacing the same four steps like a caged tiger. Couldn’t watch him sit with his back to the wall, eyes closed but never truly resting. Couldn’t watch him flinch every time FRIDAY’s voice echoed too loud in the room. Couldn’t watch that plate sit there.

But he still hoped.

He still let himself believe that maybe this time, Peter had reached for it. Maybe he’d taken just a bite. When Tony came back in, the tray was still there. Untouched. Soup cold. Bread hardening at the edges.

Peter was exactly where Tony left him - back against the wall, knees pulled in, arms wrapped tight around them. His eyes opened as the door hissed, and once again, he locked onto Tony like a loaded weapon. Not a single blink. Not a sound.

Tony stood there in the doorway for a moment, the weight of it crashing down like lead. It settled on his chest, curled under his ribs, carved out a space in his stomach. He crouched again, picked up the tray. Didn’t say anything this time. 

There wasn’t anything left to say.

Chapter Text

Three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes. The Asset had counted every one.

He had not been restrained - this was, he suspected, a mistake - but they hadn’t needed to bind him to keep him still. His limbs had stopped responding on the first day. Sedation, he assumed. Or perhaps one of the injections from the red-haired woman in the black suit. He hadn’t seen her since, but the dull ache under his skin lingered.

His limbs were still missing.

They had severed them. He remembered that. A brief flash of heat, pain white-hot and then gone, a scream half-bitten through before it could escape. Termination procedure, most likely. A controlled detonation. A punishment.

But he had not died.

The Asset did not understand why. He had failed the mission - had engaged the wrong targets, had let himself be captured, and yet he still breathed. That was not protocol. He should have been terminated. 

He no longer understood the parameters.

The cot was stiff beneath his spine, but he remained on the ground beside it, where the walls met at a corner and the shadows made him smaller. He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. There were no walls in sleep. No edges. No concrete. Only thoughts, looping and broken, memories scrambled into things he couldn’t hold. Stark’s voice. The defector’s face. A flicker of Steve Rogers standing in the doorway.

None of them made sense. They spoke like they knew him. But they didn’t. They couldn’t. He didn’t even know himself. 

He knew the serial number etched into his hip bone, the subject number on his shoulder blade; the mission parameters memorized in triplicate. The lines of the manual. The taste of copper when the conditioning failed. He knew protocol. Hunger was a distraction. Pain was an illusion. Fear was irrelevant.

But three days without food - and even longer since the explosion - had left the Asset less than optimal.

He gritted his teeth and wrapped the wound again with what little clean gauze he had left. No one had entered the room since the sedation and his last escape attempt. No handlers. No punishment team. No commands. Only food trays, pushed through the slot at regular intervals. Cold. Sterile. Wrong.

He hadn’t touched a single one.

He couldn’t. If HYDRA had ordered termination, eating would only accelerate the protocol. If this was a holding area and HYDRA found him, any deviation could be flagged as betrayal. No signal had come. No override directive. Not even a command code for temporary stasis. He didn’t know the objective anymore.

He didn’t know where he was.

The Asset pressed his hand to the floor, crawling toward the far corner, just under the observation glass. He pressed his ear to the wall. Nothing. Silence again. The floor vibrated faintly - machinery, perhaps. No footsteps. No voices. No orders. Just white, flat walls and the vague humming of an energy core somewhere beneath the room.

He clenched his fingers. His nails scraped against the floor.

This is not a HYDRA facility.

The thought clawed through his skull like a breach. He swatted at it mentally, forced the override. This was a temporary holding zone. Temporary. The handlers would return, the extraction team would find him. They would fix the damage. Reinstate his commands. He would be debriefed. Reassigned.

His chest tightened. Not panic. Assets didn’t panic, but something like it. Something cold and sharp. A frayed wire behind his ribs, sparking. He backed away, stumbling to his feet. The limbs were twitching - part reflex, part defense posture. He curled them close, wincing as the burns pulled. The longer he was offline, the worse his performance would be. He couldn’t return like this. He wouldn’t be of use. They’d see it. They’d know.

They would terminate him.

His breath hitched.

Time kept moving. The food tray slot clicked again. A new tray. Something warm this time. He could smell it. He hated that he could smell it. That his body responded - stomach clenching, saliva welling. Hunger was weakness. Hunger had gotten him captured in the first place.

His hand moved toward the tray. Hesitated. Then drew back.

The Asset crouched beside the cot again, arms wound around his knees, back to the wall. The lights didn’t dim. There were no sleep cycles. Just sterile, even brightness that stretched the hours into something unbearable. He hadn’t been able to sleep. Couldn’t afford to. He couldn’t wake up somewhere else. His head pounded. His skin itched. The gauze had turned rigid against his back, crusted in dried blood and yellowed antiseptic. Beneath the bandages, something shifted. Pulled. Reformed.

He had tried not to think about it.

There had been a time - though he couldn’t place the location, the temporary handler, or the year - when he had lost one of the appendages during a mission in Tunisia. It had been torn from the base by enemy artillery. The others had remained. His combat effectiveness had been reduced, and the punishment had been severe.

He could feel them now.

Curling beneath the gauze like pressure behind his ribs, like a breath caught and held too long. New joints aching. New tissue pulling taut beneath skin. It made him nauseous. It made him furious. He was not supposed to be this way. He was not supposed to be anything anymore.

The Asset was malfunctioning.

That was the only logical conclusion. Damage had been sustained during exfiltration. Internal systems were compromised. Motor function had decreased by thirty-seven percent. Pain response was irregular - severe, unfiltered, raw.  He sat still on the cold cot pressed into the farthest corner of the containment unit, the edge of his back flattened to the wall, ribs curling inward protectively. He was not restrained, not physically, but the barriers were clear: reinforced door, mirrored wall, noise-cancelling insulation that rendered every sound hollow. The silence was weighted. Intentional.

Every hour stretched too long. Too many thoughts. Too much freedom.

He should not have this much autonomy.

His hand trembled as he reached for the gauze wrapped around his upper left limb. The material was already darkened with dried plasma, stiff and flaking. He hissed under his breath - more reaction than he meant to give - then peeled it back slowly. It stuck to the raw tissue beneath, pulling the cauterised skin away with it in small, tearing clumps. His jaw clenched. White spots blinked across his vision, but he didn’t stop.

When he began tearing the bandages off, it wasn’t a decision. It was instinct. The med tape had started to curl at the edges. It scratched at the skin near his shoulder, digging into tender places where flesh had only just begun to seal. The longer he sat still, the worse it got. Suffocating. Sticky. He clawed at it once. Then again. Then harder.

It peeled in clumps, the gauze coming away with sickening resistance. The cloth had fused to the regrowing limbs, and when he pulled, it took pieces of him with it. He didn’t make a sound. Pain was irrelevant. Pain was expected.

One by one, the bindings fell. And beneath them-

The limbs had returned.

Shorter than before. Incomplete. Still raw around the base, the skin stretched too tight where new cartilage pushed forward. But they were unmistakable. Bone. Muscle. A glint of dark chitin at the tips. The third one twitched involuntarily. The Asset flinched back, breath caught in his throat.

It was wrong.

The reconstruction wasn’t standard. Not approved. The facility couldn’t have administered it. There had been no handlers. No equipment. No regeneration pods. The limb wasn’t regrowing properly - it wasn’t regenerating the way it had after previous amputations. The cuts weren’t clean. The cauterisation had sealed it off, like scarring metal over broken wiring. Flesh that hadn’t been meant to be burned.

Asset repair protocol required clean incisions. Immediate regrowth. Proper sterilisation. The field conditions had failed all of those criteria. He needed a lab. He needed handlers. He needed to report.

His fingers slipped again, trembling, as he tried to rip away the last section of gauze. The fourth limb was resisting. Caught on something. Embedded too deep. He yanked harder. It tore free. The skin split open in a wet, clean line, and something long and jagged slid out, trembling with the movement.

He stared at it, breath shuddering, muscles locked.

The door opened. He didn’t look up at first. He was too focused on the limb. The blood. The curl of it. The way it shook against the floor like a spider dying in the light. “Jesus, Peter, stop - don’t-”

The voice made him freeze. He knew the voice. It rattled somewhere deep inside his skull, like a piece of metal kicked loose. He didn’t have a name for it. But the tone was sharp, commanding, horrified. His body reacted before his thoughts could. He backed away, scraping against the cot leg, dragging his aching frame toward the corner again. Head down. Shoulders tense. He didn’t respond.

Peter wasn’t a name that belonged to him, and the man in the doorway was not his handler. He would not obey. 

He shifted back against the wall and didn’t take his eyes off the man until he left.

—

The tower was quiet. 

It was late - late enough that most people had cleared out or moved back to their own floors, and even FRIDAY had gone into standby mode unless spoken to. Harley liked it like that. Quiet. Empty. He could actually think.

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he stepped into the elevator and made his way up to the lab. When he arrived, he half expected the usual; music and DUM-E badly welding cracked plates together. Having to step over a scattered mess of tools and parts to actually get back to his desk. Tony always yelled at him about putting things back where he found them, but half the time it was Tony who left them there. Besides, Harley had been here since early morning, troubleshooting a design schematic that wouldn’t cooperate. 

Everything was normal and quiet and familiar, and Harley hadn’t meant to overhear anything. But he’d stopped in the threshold of the doorway, just out of sight when he’d heard Tony talking to someone. Arguing, maybe, if the volume was anything to go by.

He’d only come to the lab looking for a replacement actuator and a specific torque wrench Tony kept hoarding under the pretense that Harley would break it again. The man was a genius and also a ridiculous hoarder. Which was fine, mostly. Tony had built a whole empire off that kind of control-freak behavior. Harley could handle being snapped at for using the wrong drawer. What he hadn’t expected - what made his stomach drop cold into his sneakers - was hearing Peter’s name spoken like it was still a real and living thing.

The moment Harley heard Peter’s name, it was like the air shifted. It was muffled, not quite a shout - but loud enough through the partially open lab door that there was no mistaking it.

Harley had paused just outside the door. Tony wasn’t cracking jokes. He wasn’t snapping or barking like he usually did during a project. He was pissed - but it was the tight, fraying, scared kind of pissed. His voice edged out sharp around the corners of a low argument, distorted a little by the distance but not enough that Harley couldn’t make it out.

“…can’t keep him down there forever,” Tony said, voice grating. “You think I like it? You think I wanted this?”

“He’s dangerous,” came… was that Bucky’s voice? It was quieter, but with the steel undercurrent that made Harley nervous. “You saw what he did. You were there.”

“You think I didn’t see?” Tony snapped. There was a metallic clang - something thrown. “I was the one he tried to stab, Barnes!”

Harley froze, heart stuttering.

“I’m not saying he isn’t dangerous,” Steve said then. Even-keeled, calm. “I’m saying he’s scared. You said it yourself, he’s clearly not in his right mind.”

Tony exhaled hard, the sound crackling like static against the polished floor. “Doesn’t remember, doesn’t talk, doesn’t sleep unless we drug him. He’s feral. He can’t even be in a room for longer than ten minutes without trying to bolt.”

Harley’s chest tightened. Then Tony kept talking.

 “I can’t just keep the kid in the basement like this. Peter’s been restrained long enough, and now he’s not even eating. It’s like he’s just… shutting down.”

Everything stopped for Harley. His whole body felt like it had been hit something; his ears ringing, chest going tight. For a second, he thought maybe he’d misheard. Maybe it had been someone else, some new recruit or alias or name that only sounded like Peter.

But the way Tony said it - the way his voice cracked ever so slightly on the name - was unmistakable.

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with him!” Tony barked. “He’s losing it. He’s gonna hurt someone - again - and we’re the only assholes who’ll be to blame when it happens!”

Harley’s stomach dropped like a stone.

He stepped back. Then again. He turned on his heel, storming past the lab and into the elevator with blood in his ears and static under his skin.  They were still talking, even when the elevator doors opened with a soft chime and Harley stormed in, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. His hands were shaking as he stabbed the panel for the basement levels.

“FRIDAY,” he snapped. “Why was Tony saying Peter’s name?”

The AI’s response was immediate - and maddeningly neutral. “I’m sorry, Harley. I cannot answer that.”

Harley’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail. “Is Peter alive? ” he demanded. “Just answer the damn question. Is he alive?”

Another pause.

“I’m unable to confirm that information,” FRIDAY said again.

Harley’s chest constricted. His breath hitched and stuttered, and his voice cracked. “Is he here? Is he-” his breath hitched, chest tight, “is he in the tower?”

Silence. A pause so long it made his fingers twitch.

“FRIDAY,” he snapped. His hands curled into fists. “Just tell me!”

“I’m sorry, Harley,” she said gently. “That information is classified.”

That made it worse. So much worse.

Classified meant real. Classified meant true. And if it was true, then - then everything he’d been told, everything he’d mourned, the nightmares, the guilt, the ache that hadn’t stopped in years - it was all a lie?

Harley turned and punched the wall of the elevator, hard enough that his knuckles burned. “Fine,” he bit out, rage beginning to pulse under his skin. “Fine. Then tell me this: which floors are classified for me right now?”

There was a brief pause as FRIDAY seemed to process the request. Harley waited, heart in his throat, mouth bone-dry. 

“Currently restricted floors: Sub-Level Two and below.”

Harley’s lungs were closing. He pressed a fist to his mouth and tried not to shatter. The elevator was moving too slowly. His vision was swimming. The air felt too warm, the metal walls too close.

“FRIDAY,” he said, voice tight. “Override.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Harley.”

He gritted his teeth. “Why?”

“That level is restricted to clearance level seven and above. You are not authorized.”

“But Peter’s down there.”

There was a long pause. A soft hum in the speakers. Then: “I’m afraid I can’t confirm that information.”

Harley shut his eyes. “So he is.”

“...I’m sorry.”

He didn’t wait for the elevator to hit the lowest floor he was cleared for. Harley slammed the emergency stop with the heel of his palm, the elevator shuddering to a halt, and wrenched open the side panel. He ducked through the emergency exit and into the stairwell, lungs burning, legs moving before he could think twice.

“I’m going,” he muttered. “You can’t stop me.”

The stairwell lights buzzed faintly overhead. He took the steps two at a time, forcing his legs to move. “Harley,” FRIDAY said again, softer now. “Please don’t do this.”

“I have to,” he snapped. “If Peter’s down there - if he’s alive - I have to see him. I have to know what the hell is going on.”

There was no reply.

He hit the landing for Sublevel Two and reached for the door - only to find it locked. A hard, metal clunk sounded when he twisted the handle. “What the-? FRIDAY, unlock the basement stairwell.”

“I’m sorry, Harley,” she said, almost apologetic. “Access to those levels is restricted.”

“Override it,” Harley snapped, already moving down the flight. “I live here. I helped build half the door systems down there, I know they’re not supposed to lock from the inside. You can’t lock fire safety doors. That’s, like, rule number one of fire safety!”

“The Tower is not currently on fire.”

“That’s not the point! ” There was no answer. The next door was sealed. The keypad blinked red. “FRIDAY,” he tried again. “Come on. Please.”

Still nothing.

Harley kicked the door, hard, yelling wordlessly. Metal rang under his foot, but it didn’t budge. His chest was heaving now, eyes wet, fury and dread twisting into something tangled and unbearable. His hands shook. He pressed his palms to the wall, leaned his head against the cold metal, and tried to keep himself from breaking in half.

He pressed his forehead to the cold surface and let out a breathless laugh, one that cracked in the middle and sounded more like a sob. This was insane. This was so far past insane that he couldn’t even see the edge of it anymore.

Peter was alive. Locked in the basement. And no one would tell him why.

FRIDAY’s voice echoed behind him. “I’m sorry, Harley. But for your safety, you’re not permitted access to sub-levels two and below at this time.”

Harley yanked at the handle with everything he had. It didn’t open. “Please, FRIDAY. Unlock the doors.”

“...I apologize.”

Harley backed up, furious and winded and on the verge of breaking down entirely. “You’re all keeping him from me. From everyone. He was dead. Tony told me he was dead.”

He stared at the steel-reinforced fire door, heart crashing against his ribs like waves against a breakwall. Peter was here. Peter was alive.

And they hadn’t told him.

He shoved himself off the door and stormed back down the stairwell, steps echoing like gunshots. He tried desperately to think of reasons, of why Tony would keep Peter. In a basement. Why he would keep him and not tell anyone. Why he would let Harley grieve for years.

He had a hundred ideas, all of them awful. All of them ending with Peter alone and scared and hidden away by the one man Harley had trusted with his own life.

If he couldn’t get past FRIDAY, he’d do the next best thing. 

He shoved open the back exit door, felt the cold air hit his face, and dug his phone out of his hoodie pocket with trembling hands. The air outside was colder than Harley expected.

The moment the fire escape door slammed shut behind him, he realized he’d walked out without grabbing his hoodie. Not that it mattered. His skin felt like it was burning from the inside out anyway, fevered with adrenaline, too full of motion and noise to register something as distant as cold.

He stumbled into the alley beside the Tower, feet dragging like they didn’t know where to go next. His hands were still shaking. He pressed them to his knees, bending over slightly as he tried to breathe - just breathe - but it felt like there was no air anywhere. Not in the city, not in his lungs.

Peter.

He said Peter’s name. Tony said Peter’s name. He remembered the way Tony had looked when he told him, years ago. Quiet. Pained. Honest, or at least Harley had thought so.

He fumbled for his phone with clumsy fingers, nearly dropping it. The screen lit up too bright in the shade of the alley, his contacts a blur until he blinked enough times to find the one he needed.

He hesitated for a second. Just one. Then he hit call. The line rang once. Twice. Then again. He almost hung up. Almost told himself this was a terrible idea, that maybe it wasn’t what he thought, that he was making it worse. But then: 

"...Hello?" Ned’s voice was rough. Tired. Harley could hear background noise - a TV maybe, someone talking faintly - and then the unmistakable sound of the phone being moved to a quieter space.

“Ned,” Harley breathed, voice wrecked. “I need your help.”

There was a beat of silence.

"...Harley?" Ned said, voice soft. Then again, a little steadier. "Hey, man. What’s up?"

Harley opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first. His throat closed. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to hold himself together, trying to sound normal, but there was no pretending this wasn’t anything but what it was. "I need your help," he said again, low. Urgent.

"Okay," Ned said immediately, no hesitation. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. What do you need?"

Harley shut his eyes, leaned against the brick wall beside him. "You’re good at coding, right?"

"Um. Yeah. I mean - I guess. Depends on what you want me to do."

"You bragged once about getting into Tony’s stuff," Harley said, voice rushed, too fast. "For Peter. You said you hacked one of the backup servers to get him in on something. You remember that?"

There was a pause.

Then a breath. Shaky.

"Yeah," Ned said. And Harley could hear it now - the way his voice hitched. How quiet he got. "I remember."

Harley swallowed around the lump in his throat. He turned away from the Tower, eyes staring hard at the sidewalk like it would give him answers if he just looked hard enough. "Can you do it again?" he asked, voice thinner now. "Can you get into FRIDAY? Just - override a lock. One door. One floor."

Another pause. The silence hurt.

"Why?" Ned asked, careful. "What... what is this about, Harley?"

Harley squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to scream. To punch the wall. To run. But instead he said, "I can’t tell you. Not yet. It’s important. Like - really important. Like top-secret, spy-movie, burn-after-reading important."

Ned didn’t laugh.

He was quiet for a long time.

"It’s important?" he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

Harley’s heart cracked. His knees nearly gave out. He leaned harder into the wall. He didn’t answer. Ned let out a breath, and it definitely sounded wet now. Like he was trying not to cry.

"Yes," Harley said. His voice came out wrecked. "It’s so - I don’t know anything yet, but I need to. Please, Ned. You could be, like... you could be my secret agent hacker guy."

Ned sniffed. Then, barely audible: "Like... like your guy in the chair?"

Harley felt like his lungs collapsed. He nodded before realizing Ned couldn’t see him. "Yeah. Yeah, man. Anything you want. Just... just help me. Please."

There was silence. Then: "...Okay," Ned breathed. "Yeah. Okay. Give me a day or two. I’ll figure something out."

Harley nearly fell to the ground with relief.

"Thank you," he whispered. He meant it with everything he had. “It’s - I need access to the basement floors. Sublevel Two and below. Can you just - can you override FRIDAY temporarily? Maybe give me an access code or something to get past the locked doors? Just - anything.”

"I’ll see what I can do," Ned murmured. 

Harley closed his eyes, and wanted to cry.

—

Tony Stark had never liked watching people from behind glass. It felt clinical, cold, a line drawn between the person being observed and the person doing the observing - like something out of a science fiction movie. But this wasn’t fiction. It was the basement of his own damn tower, reinforced with vibranium, lead, and desperation. And the boy curled up in the corner of the containment room wasn’t just anyone.

Peter Parker. Spider-Man. His kid. The one he’d buried years ago. Or thought he had.

And now he was back. Different. Wrong.

Tony leaned against the glass and stared at him. He tried to make sense of the stillness - the way Peter’s head slumped to one side, how he sat with his knees drawn close, one bare foot tucked awkwardly beneath him and the other turned out at a strange angle. The posture wasn’t defensive. Not exactly. It was something else. A waiting position. Like someone trained to stay where they were put. Peter didn’t twitch, didn’t blink, barely breathed.

Tony had been standing at the one-way window for fifteen minutes before he realized he hadn’t blinked.

The glass was cold under his fingers. His reflection hovered just faintly, warped by the lighting in the observation room - thin and pale, mouth pressed into a flat, tired line. Peter had stopped pacing an hour ago. Now, he just sat. Still. Silent. A kid trying not to look like one.

The food tray was still untouched. Four full hours. Tony had made sure it had things Peter liked - or, at least, what he used to like. Pizza. Sliced apples. Goldfish crackers. A bottle of that strawberry yogurt he used to hoard in the tower fridge when he thought no one was looking. All of it sat there, condensation collecting along the edge of the bottle.

Peter hadn’t touched it.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a slow exhale through his nose as he rubbed the tension away. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t really eaten either. Couldn’t bring himself to. He wasn’t sure what this kid in the cell was, but he didn’t feel like he had the right to sit down and enjoy a meal while Peter was starving twenty feet away, refusing to even look at food unless it came with a command attached.

Tony’s chest ached. Behind him, footsteps. He didn’t look.

“Still nothing?” Natasha asked, stepping beside him, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Tony grunted. “Not unless you count going catatonic as progress.”

She gave a slow, mirthless hum and nodded toward the room. “Bucky’s ready. He says he’ll try again, but we’re pushing it.”

Tony turned. “What do you mean?”

“HYDRA conditioning doesn’t break overnight,” she said softly. “He’s not going to talk to you. You represent a threat. Power. Conflict. He’s confused. He’s scared. He’ll talk to someone who speaks the language.”

“Do we have to do this in Russian?” he asked, voice tight. The question wasn’t really aimed at anyone, but Natasha answered anyway, leaning against the far wall with her arms crossed.

“Yes,” she said. “He’s more likely to respond to it. It’s all muscle memory at this point.”

Tony made a quiet, bitter noise in the back of his throat. “Great,” he muttered. “Fantastic. Because this whole thing wasn’t creepy enough.”

Natasha just looked away. “It’s not just the Russian. He knows how they talk. What questions to ask.”

Tony didn’t like it. Not because he didn’t trust Bucky - though let’s be honest, the jury was still out some days - but because the idea of putting Bucky in a room with Peter again twisted something in his chest. Last time, it hadn’t ended well. None of them had expected Peter to go straight for the throat. Literally.

Still, he nodded once and gave the signal. The door to the containment room hissed open. Bucky stepped in without hesitation, boots quiet, shoulders squared. Peter didn’t move. Didn’t even glance up.

The door sealed shut again.

Tony leaned forward instinctively, gaze locked on Peter’s every movement, or lack thereof. Bucky crouched low, staying a few feet back, and said something softly in Russian. Peter’s head twitched. A flicker. Like someone had just snapped their fingers in front of a sleeping animal.

Bucky was speaking in low tones. Calm, measured. There was something different in him when he spoke that language - it dropped over his voice like a filter, made him seem harder somehow. Less gentle. None of it meant anything to him. It may as well have been static. His jaw locked tight.

Peter’s head was tipped slightly, his arms folded tight over his knees. He looked like a ghost.

“Он слышит меня?” Bucky asked again. Peter’s eyes shifted up, slow and glassy. He didn’t answer. 

“What’s he saying?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the boy on the other side.

Natasha, standing silently at his side, spoke in a flat voice. “He’s asking if Peter can hear him.”

Bucky repeated the question, a little louder. “Ты меня слышишь? Кто ты?”

“Who are you?” Natasha repeated.

There was a beat. And then, slowly, Peter shifted. Just a little. A breath. His spine lifted from the wall, like he was getting ready to bolt.

“Предмет B-318,” Peter said, voice low, mechanical. “Субъект под наблюдением. Приказ неизвестен.”

Tony felt his chest clench. That wasn’t Peter. That wasn’t his voice. It was - wrong - vacant, deadpan, the kind of voice you might expect from an audio recording or an AI assistant. Not from a teenager who used to whine about algebra homework and recite Star Wars dialogue mid-fight.

Natasha translated evenly. “Designation: Subject B-318. Subject under observation. Orders unknown.”

Tony’s stomach twisted. Bucky nodded slowly, crouching lower. He switched tactics. “Ты знаешь, кто я?”

“Do you know who I am?”

Peter’s head tilted again, a subtle jerk. “Дефектор. Подлежит устранению,” he replied.

Tony glanced sharply at Natasha. “What was that?” he asked, voice sharp. Natasha didn’t answer right away. “What did he say?”

She looked over. “He called Bucky a traitor. Said defectors get terminated.”

Tony blinked. “Jesus.”

Bucky didn’t react. Just let the words fall like stones between them. His posture didn’t shift, but Tony could tell from here - he was hurt. Maybe not by the insult, but by the fact that Peter meant it. That whatever programming was locked behind that haunted gaze still told him Bucky Barnes deserved to die.

“What’s he doing?” Tony asked, breath caught in his throat.

“Testing boundaries,” Natasha murmured. “Peter’s trying to reassert the chain of command. If Bucky’s a traitor in his programming, Peter’s expected to eliminate him. It’s… fear disguised as authority.”

“Wonderful,” Tony muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

Bucky didn’t move. Instead, he leaned forward a little more, expression unreadable. He said something else, quieter. Natasha translated it out loud. “He’s asking who Peter’s handler was. Which division of HYDRA handled his conditioning. Where he was stationed. Why they’re coming back for him now.”

Peter flinched. Just barely. But enough.

Then, all at once, Peter moved. He pushed up from the wall, legs shaky, as if just standing cost him energy he didn’t have. His spine straightened slow, deliberate. Bucky had said something - Tony caught the rhythm of a command - and Peter’s head snapped toward him like a whip crack.

Then he snapped something in Russian, faster than before. Sharper. Louder. Natasha hesitated for half a beat, then translated. “He says that Bucky’s a traitor. That defectors are to be eliminated and that he should be free. That he shouldn’t be here. He’s demanding to be let out.”

Tony felt his chest tighten again, this time for a different reason. He watched Peter’s hands curl against the floor. Not clenched. Spread, fingers digging into the tile like claws. He was going to lunge again. Tony could see it building.

Bucky stood. Calm. Quiet. His tone dropped lower.

“No.”

Peter flinched as if the word had struck him.

He surged to his feet, staggered - barely upright - but there was something desperate in the motion. Something primal. He was going to fight, even if he didn’t stand a chance. The reaction was instant. Peter tensed. Every muscle pulled taut as wire. And then, without warning, he lunged. 

Tony flinched forward toward the glass, but Bucky had already turned and walked out. The door sealed shut before Peter reached it. He crashed against it - not hard, but enough to make the glass rattle faintly - and then slumped again. Not pacing. Not crying. Not begging. Just… slumped. Like the last bit of wind had gone out of him, before he wobbled back to his space beside the cot and collapsed into it.

He didn’t fall, not all the way, but he slid down like his knees didn’t want to hold him anymore. And then he was back in the same position. Sitting. Breathing hard. Head tipped down. The door clicked shut behind Bucky. He looked worse than when he’d gone in. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes darker than usual. There was a wet sheen in his hair from the heat in the room.

Bucky let out a breath.  Tony turned to face him. “Anything useful?”

Bucky shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Still thinks he’s HYDRA.”

“Still thinks I’m a traitor. So… yeah. Guess so.”

Tony stared, numb.

Steve was waiting at the door. He didn’t say anything. Just reached out, gave Bucky’s shoulder a quiet squeeze. “I’ll stay here,” Tony said, when they turned to leave. “You two go get some air.”

“You sure?” Steve asked, brows drawn. “You haven’t slept.”

“Yeah, well.” Tony gestured vaguely at the glass. “Neither has he.”

He looked from the room to Tony and laid a heavy hand on Bucky’s shoulder, who had joined them outside and now stood with his head bowed slightly, expression unreadable. “You did what you could,” Steve said quietly. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs. We’ll regroup.”

Bucky gave him a look - too tired to argue - and turned towards the elevator with Steve. 

Tony turned back to the glass. Peter hadn’t moved. Just sat there. Hiding in the open. His arms looped around his knees, face half-shadowed, like he knew they were watching and didn’t care.

Peter’s fingers curled in the blanket on the cot, white-knuckled. He hadn’t touched the food they’d left in the room. Two untouched trays sat on the space by the door - one from last night, now cold, and one from this morning. Peter hadn’t even glanced at them.

“He’s starving,” he said hoarsely. “He hasn’t eaten in two days.”

“Starving,” Natasha agreed, but didn’t move. “But still trained enough to believe food might be a trap.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Tony thought - hoped - that after getting him back, after the chaos in the Quinjet and the nightmare of cauterizing the wounds, Peter might stabilize. That there would be some part of him - some version of the kid who used to swing around Queens and talk too much and eat too many Pop-Tarts - that would resurface when he realized he was safe.  Or… safer. That maybe they could reach him if they just spoke softly enough, waited long enough.

But Peter didn’t look like someone waiting to be rescued. He looked like someone trapped in the wrong shape, the wrong body, the wrong life. The muscles in his jaw were clenched, his mouth a straight line. 

The hair - too long, thick in matted tangles - hung down past his jaw, barely tamed. The muzzle had been removed days ago, but the bruises from its clamps still ringed his face like shackles. And his eyes… they weren’t Peter’s. Not the ones Tony remembered. These were flat. Alert. Animal.

He didn’t blink much, either. 

“He looks older,” Tony said suddenly, and hated how his voice cracked. “Is that just me?”

Natasha didn’t say anything. Just watched quietly. Tony didn’t move.

Steve looked at him, brows furrowed. “Tony?”

“I’ll stay,” he said, voice flat. He didn’t look away from the glass.

He wasn’t ready to.

 —

Harley had always thought the worst part was not knowing why.

That black, gaping absence where Peter used to be. A body. A funeral. Just fire and smoke and rubble and silence. A hole in the world shaped like someone who was once his best friend. For years, he’d convinced himself that Peter must’ve died quickly. That maybe he didn’t feel it. That maybe it had been quick and painless, and Harley hated that the kindest thing he could hope for was that Peter had died quickly. For months it had felt like maybe there had been some mistake, some kind of cruel miscommunication, but-

But now. Now there was something worse than not knowing. Knowing just enough.

Just enough to start filling in the blanks with things Harley couldn’t unthink. Just enough to imagine Peter alive, but not free. Peter alive, but not whole. Peter alive - and in the goddamn Tower, apparently - in the basement, behind levels of clearance Harley didn’t even know existed.

And Tony knew. Tony had known.

He hadn’t said a word.

Harley hadn’t slept since the elevator. He hadn’t gone back to his room. Not really. He’d paced the hallway outside the stairwell until his legs ached, gnawing at the inside of his cheek, hands clenching and unclenching until they cramped. Eventually, he'd gone back to the lab just long enough to sit in the chair Peter used to claim - spun it, once, listlessly - before he stood and opened one of the storage cabinets that still required palm-encoded clearance. He didn't hesitate. He keyed in the override with fingers that shook and slipped.

And when it hissed open, Harley reached in and pulled out a gauntlet.

He didn’t care which model. It was older - sleek, scarlet-red plating with a palm core that hadn’t been charged in weeks but still had just enough power to work. One of the test units Tony used when he wanted to simulate impact dispersion in a closed environment. The kind with just enough power to break down a locked door. The kind that wasn’t supposed to be outside the vault.

It was clunky. He had to tuck the wires back and clip the wrist plate into his belt loop just to keep it from rattling. It wasn’t fully armed - he didn’t need it to be. He just wanted something. Something to make him feel less like a terrified kid sneaking into a haunted house and more like someone who could handle what he might find.

Then he slipped the gauntlet off the table and shoved it into his backpack, zipped it halfway, and walked out like he belonged there.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Not really.

He just knew that Peter was - somewhere - beneath his feet. Somewhere under the reinforced concrete and the tower’s pristine floors, in a place so locked down that even FRIDAY refused to tell him what was going on. A place labeled classified. A place so far off-limits that even mentioning it out loud felt like trespassing.

And Tony. Tony.

God. God.

The thought kept repeating, scraping through his skull like static.

He’d loved Tony. Still did, probably. But something about that made it worse. Harley couldn’t imagine Tony doing something terrible. Couldn’t imagine him hurting someone, much less Peter, not on purpose. But what if it wasn’t about purpose? What if it was something else - something even colder?

What if Tony had found Peter and kept him anyway?

Kept him in the dark.

Kept him locked up.

What if he’d known for years, and just - just decided Peter didn’t belong to the world anymore? That he was something else. Something that needed to be contained. Harley’s throat was raw. His chest ached. He kept trying to come up with reasons. Rational explanations, but then he thought about the words he’d overheard.

Feral.

Tony’s voice, rough and urgent. He’s basically feral at this point.

And that terrible, horrible moment where FRIDAY hadn’t let him in. Really, there was only one reason to keep a person locked in the basement like that. Only one reason to silence an AI as powerful as FRIDAY. Only one reason to say nothing for years. And it wasn’t protection.

It was containment.

Ned had texted saying that he’d hopefully got the override working along with the temporary total access to the tower. Harley rubbed his hands over his face and pressed his forehead to the wall of the stairwell. It was colder here, industrial and humming with distant machinery. Peter had always hated the cold. And now, down below - somewhere on the floors underneath him - Peter was sitting in the dark, probably scared out of his mind, and Harley had no idea what state he was in.

What if he was hurt? What if he was drugged or restrained? What if Tony hadn’t just found Peter - what if Tony had taken him? What if that fire had been a cover-up? What if Peter had never left the city at all? What if May had died just so Peter cold be taken by the one person they thought they could trust?

Harley’s stomach twisted, nausea curling at the base of his throat.

He didn’t want to think that way. Didn’t want to believe it. But what other explanation was there? Why hadn’t Tony told them? Why had he let him grieve for years?

He closed his eyes, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to keep himself from spiraling. It didn’t help much. The concrete pressed cool and unyielding against his forehead, but his thoughts kept running in circles, feeding off each other, spiraling down and down.

Peter, alive. Peter, locked up. Peter, hidden.

Harley couldn’t stop shaking.

It started in his hands - just a fine tremor at first, barely more than the buzz of adrenaline he always got when he was mid-project or trying to rewire something in the lab too fast. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t excitement or nerves or caffeine. It was something colder. He gripped the edge of the elevator’s control panel and stared at the light blinking at Sublevel Two , the one FRIDAY had labeled as classified - and locked.

The word sat heavy in his chest. Classified. Like a secret. Like a weapon. Like something buried. Like a grave. Peter’s grave, maybe.

Peter had been dead for years. That was what they told him. What everyone had said. That the fire had consumed everything. That the building collapsed. That they were sorry.

They said May had died too. He remembered holding her obituary. Remembered going to that memorial Tony had arranged, the one that felt too polished, too neatly tied up with a bow of tragedy and closure that never sat right in Harley’s gut. He remembered the way Tony never really talked about it after. Just set up a trust and closed the door on the subject with one of those patented Stark-level shutdowns. The kind that said: don’t ask. Don’t dig. Don’t make me lie to your face.

But he hadn’t thought anything of it back then. Why would he? Peter was gone. He was gone.

Except… he wasn’t.

And Harley couldn’t stop replaying that moment over and over in his mind - Tony’s voice behind the lab doors, low and strained, snapping something about keeping him in the basement and he’s feral now, and then-

Peter’s name.

Harley had thought his heart had stopped. The sound of that name - the weight of it - felt like someone had punched the air from his lungs.

Peter. Peter.

There weren’t other Peters in this Tower. That wasn’t some common name that happened to come up. Tony had said it. Like it was current. Like it meant something.

He didn’t want to believe the things he was thinking. Didn’t want to believe that Tony Stark - his Tony, the one who gave him a shot, the one who let him tinker in billion-dollar labs and trusted him with schematics and tools - could have done something that bad.

But now… now Harley couldn’t stop thinking about the worst possible version of what that might mean. Peter alive and in the basement, locked away for years. Why? Why would he be down there? Why would Tony keep him hidden? Why would FRIDAY - FRIDAY, who always liked Peter, as much as an AI could like people - refuse to even say his name?

What the hell was going on?

His fingers closed around the glove, still half-hidden in his backpack. His grip was tighter than it should’ve been, and the hard edge of the wrist panel dug into the meat of his palm.

What if Tony locked him down there? What if he’s hurting him? What if that’s why no one’s allowed to talk about it?

It was stupid. So stupid. He knew that. Tony wasn’t… wasn’t like that. He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t hurt people. He didn’t kidnap children and hide them in the Tower like some deranged villain in a sci-fi movie.

Except-

He hadn’t said anything. About Peter. Not once. Not in years.

And Harley had been here. Lived here . Worked beside him in the lab, cracked jokes, eaten dinner with him, spent holidays with him, and Tony had never - not once - let slip that there was a kid locked up a few floors beneath his feet. It didn’t make sense. Unless he wasn’t supposed to know.

Harley’s hands trembled harder.

He made it to the elevator without being stopped.  

When Harley stepped into the elevator, something was already wrong. The moment the doors slid shut behind him, he glanced toward the ceiling instinctively. Nothing. No soft chime of FRIDAY asking where he was headed, no casual quip about the time or a polite reminder of curfew. Just silence.

Harley stared at the glowing manual buttons. He pressed one, and there was no apology or refusal, and the elevator was already descending. The lights were dimmer here, and the hum of the Tower sounded wrong. Like something beneath the surface was off-kilter. The longer he stood there, the tighter his chest felt.

No cameras, no AI voice, no flickering interface in the walls. Just him. Alone. That eerie quiet settled deep into his bones.

The doors hissed open and he stepped out.

The sub-level floor was sterile, too quiet for a place meant to be part of the Tower. The air was colder. More clinical. This was the basement level Tony never talked about. Harley moved fast, his sneakers squeaking across polished flooring as he rounded the corner - and skidded to a stop.

He froze.

There was a room. Containment. The wall of it was one-way glass, and inside was a single cell.

Steve and Bucky were sitting just outside, their silhouettes cast long by the artificial light. They were talking in low voices, too low to hear through the glass. Steve sat straighter the moment he saw Harley. Bucky’s expression dropped into something closed and grim. Harley didn’t know either of them particularly well. He didn’t particularly care, right now, either.

Because them being here meant that they knew, too.

Steve pushed off the wall and crossed the space with long strides. "Son," he said, voice firm but not unkind, "you’re not supposed to be down here."

"Peter’s here!" Harley snapped, shoving past him. His heart was pounding. "Peter’s alive, and he’s right there, and I need to see him."

Steve looked pained. He reached a hand out but didn’t grab Harley. Bucky turned away, jaw clenched.

"Peter’s not himself right now," Steve said gently. "You should talk to Tony first."

Harley looked past him, eyes catching on the shape behind the glass. It was Peter. Slumped against the metal cot, knees drawn up, thin arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to disappear. His head lolled to the side. He looked pale. Exhausted. Hollow-eyed. There was a faint cut on his cheekbone. He looked pale and exhausted and starving and in pain-

Harley turned back to Steve, horror creeping up his spine like ice water. "Is he hurt?" he asked, voice breaking. "What the hell did you do to him?"

Before Steve could answer, FRIDAY’s voice echoed from the ceiling, flat and tinny. "Boss is on his way."

"You don’t get to hide him from me!" Harley shouted, his voice cracking with fury. "He was right here, and you just - you kept him locked up like an animal. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Harley tried to look past the man, scanning the figure slumped on the floor. Peter was there, alive, no question - only he looked broken. His limbs were restrained with heavy-duty handcuffs and straps, his clothes torn and stained. Dark bruises mottled his skin, and cuts ran raw across his arms and face. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, a thin sheen of sweat on his pallid skin. Peter’s eyes were closed, but even in unconsciousness, there was a haunted, trapped quality about him that tore at Harley’s chest.  

Tony stepped out of the elevator just as Harley turned to scream again.

"How long?" Harley demanded, stepping toward him. "How long have you been doing this?"

Tony stepped forward, hands half-raised like he was trying to keep a cornered animal calm. “It’s not what you think-”

“What do I think, Tony?” Harley snapped, stepping back out of reach. “That my dead friend - my dead best friend - is apparently alive and being kept in your basement? ”

Tony flinched. Steve looked away.

Something cold clawed up Harley’s throat. “I knew it. I knew something was wrong with how you acted when we talked about him. You always changed the subject. You always said the fire was - was too bad, that they never recovered anything.”

Tony said nothing. His eyes were unreadable, mask in place.

Tony raised a hand, face tight with something between guilt and control. "Kid, take a breath-"

"Don’t call me kid! He’s - he’s tied up in your basement, that was at such a high clearance level I couldn’t even get in! What was am I supposed to think, Tony?”

“Look, kid, he’s - he’s sedated and restrained for his own protection right now,” the man tried, but that just made him angrier.

“Protection?” Harley snapped, lip curling as fury and disgust bubbled under his skin as he stumbled backward, disbelief and horror crashing over him like a tidal wave. “You’ve had him locked up down here for two years ? You’ve been keeping him like… like some prisoner? And you’re saying its for his own protection? Are you shitting me?”

Tony sigh, pressing his hands to his face. “Fuck, FRI - how’d Harley even get down here? This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.”

FRIDAY’s voice wavered for a split second. "It appears I have been temporarily overridden."

Harley snapped. He reached into the backpack slung off his shoulder and pulled out one of the prototype gauntlets he’d been working on. The metal clanked as he yanked it up, clumsy with adrenaline.

Tony’s eyes widened. "Harley. Put that down."

“You kidnapped Peter?” Harley’s voice cracked with accusation. “He’s all hurt… I - why is he restrained like that? Did you - did you kill May to get him here? Have you been hurting him?!" Harley shouted, finger trembling against the trigger. "What the hell did you do?"

Steve stepped closer, hands raised. "Harley, listen to me-"

"No! You knew, didn’t you? Both of you. You let this happen to him! You let him do this to Peter!" He turned back to Tony.  “Let Peter out. You can’t keep him locked up like this.” He raised the gauntlet, aiming it at the man with shaking hands. “I’ll figure out how this thing works if I have to.”

"It’s not like that!" Tony barked. "You think this is what I wanted? I’m trying to keep everyone safe-"

"Let him out!" Harley shouted, louder, and his hands trembled as he held up the guantlet. “Let him out, now!”

Tony’s gaze hardened. “He’s not himself, Harley. You don’t understand. If we let him out right now, someone’s going to get hurt. He might get hurt.”

Harley’s grip on the gauntlet tightened. “I don’t care! I’m not letting you keep him locked up like this!”

“Kid,” Tony warned, voice sharp but tinged with warning, “don’t even think about it.”

But Harley had already made up his mind. Before anyone could stop him, he spun on his heel and aimed the gauntlet at the heavy, reinforced door’s control panel and fired. The blast knocked him back a good two feet, slamming him into the wall with a grunt. Sparks flew. The panel cracked. There was a groan of shifting metal as the door malfunctioned. Harley scrambled up and shoved his way through the half-jammed entrance.

The containment room smelled like antiseptic and metal. The light was harsh. Cold. Peter stood as Harley entered, dazed and blinking, like the movement hadn’t quite registered. His back hit the wall, eyes wide and bloodshot.

"Peter," Harley gasped, racing forward. "Peter, I’m here. I didn’t know. I didn’t know, I’m so sorry-"

Peter rose unsteadily. The moment he stood to his full height, something unfurled behind him, clicking and twitching with something almost biological. Almost sentient.

Harley stopped cold. "What the hell… what the hell is on your back?"

Peter didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to the broken door, then back to Harley. 

Then he lunged.

Peter shot forward, fierce and desperate, snarling like a trapped animal. His movements were erratic and violent.

One of the limbs shot forward, but Tony’s gauntlet intercepted it in a flash of repulsor energy. The metal screeched. Steve grabbed Harley and yanked him backward, shielding him with his body. Bucky rushed past them and slammed into Peter mid-lunge, sending the smaller boy crashing against the far wall. Peter wailed. The sound was high and guttural, raw and confused. His head hit the concrete with a sick thud. 

The door slid closed with a grinding whine. Tony stepped forward and fired, melting the locking mechanism into a warped seal. Peter hurled himself at the barrier, fists and limbs slamming into it with unrestrained violence. He screamed through it, unintelligible and furious.

Harley stared.

“What the hell was that?!” Harley shouted, whirling around to glare at Tony, who was watching with a grim expression.

Tony turned to him, expression carved from stone.

"That," he said, voice flat, "was Peter."

Harley blinked back at the sight of him, half-there and slamming against the door. Feral, he realised, a little horrified. Peter had just tried to kill him. Peter was out of control. Peter was alive.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Harley felt like he couldn’t breathe.

His chest rose and fell too fast, air catching on the edges of his lungs like he was choking on it. His heart beat a stuttered rhythm against his ribs, a frantic, panicked flutter that made the room tilt. His eyes darted to the thick reinforced glass and watched as Peter tried desperately to break through the door that Steve had slammed shut and Tony had welded closed. He was snarling and wild, and Harley didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry or scream, because it was Peter. Alive.

Peter was slamming himself against the far wall of the containment room, limbs twisting in angles that didn’t make sense, inhumanly fast. There was a snarl on his face, lips peeled back and teeth bared, but it wasn’t anger, not really. Harley couldn’t name it. It was like watching a predator panic in a trap. Unhinged. Wild. Starving.

“That’s not him,” Harley breathed. His voice cracked at the end, barely audible. He stepped back, away from the glass, away from the way Peter's limbs scraped against the steel walls. “He’s not - what’s wrong with him? That’s - that’s not him.”

Tony stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly, a shadow of guilt carved into every line on his face. His voice was grim when he answered. “Yes, it is. We figured it out after he nearly killed us all.”

Harley flinched like he’d been hit. “What?” he snapped, his voice sharper now, jagged. “He’s - he’s killing people?”

Tony didn’t look at him. Instead, his gaze shifted back to the glass, where Peter had finally stopped moving. He’d retreated back to the other side of the room, crouched in the corner by the cot with his legs pulled under him, too thin and trembling, his breathing shallow but still watching them through the glass. Watching them like he was calculating something, despite the fact that Harley knew that it was one-way glass and Peter couldn’t really see them. Like he was waiting.

“Not now,” Tony said at last. “But not for a lack of trying.”

Harley wanted to vomit. The relief that flooded him at the word ‘now’ made him hate himself. But Peter - Peter was alive. Peter was alive.

Even if he wasn’t Peter anymore.

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. “Why?” he asked. “Why is he like this?”

Tony exhaled slowly, like he was trying to bleed the tension from his body. He turned fully then, his eyes bloodshot, voice tired and low. “HYDRA kidnapped him.”

Harley blinked. “HYDRA?”

Tony nodded.

“Why the hell would HYDRA want Peter?” Harley asked, voice rising. “He’s - he’s a dumb kid from Queens.”

Tony hesitated. And then said, “Because he’s Spider-Man.”

Harley snorted. He actually snorted, and then Tony didn’t laugh. The humor drained from Harley’s face. He blinked slowly. “You’re serious.”

Tony nodded again, stiffly this time. “We think HYDRA knew his identity. They grabbed him, and they wanted him as a replacement for Barnes.”

Harley turned back to the glass. Peter was still staring through it, head tilted. His limbs were coiled like something alien, twitching every now and again. Watching. Waiting.

Everything clicked at once. Harley remembered the stupid bruises Peter always had. The lies. The missed calls. The excuses. The quick reflexes. The weird moments when he vanished. All of it. “I rejected Spider-Man?” Harley breathed faintly.

Tony blinked, thrown. “That’s the part you’re caught up on?”

“No - I-” Harley sputtered. “I’m processing! The last time I saw him, I turned him down, and then he - what, he crashed a plane? And then HYDRA burned down his house and now he’s here, and-” Harley cut himself off, squinting. “Did he always have that many limbs?”

“No,” Tony said tiredly. “Those are new. We… we don’t know the full extent of what HYDRA did to him just yet.”

Harley’s mind reeled. “So… you didn’t kidnap him?”

Tony turned slowly. His face tightened, a crack of emotion slipping through. “You think I kidnapped Peter? I’m trying to keep him alive!”

Harley raised his hands. “I don’t know! You’re a billionaire with all kinds of resources, and I just found a missing kid tied up in your basement. What else was I supposed to think?”

Tony rubbed his hands over his face, looking more exhausted than Harley had ever seen him. “That I’m not a terrible person?”

Harley scowled. “Well I know that now, obviously,” he snapped defensively. “I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I couldn’t think of a single scenario where something terrible wasn’t going on.”

“I love your faith in me,” Tony muttered, before scrubbing his face.

Harley stepped closer again, just enough to see Peter shift his weight subtly, a flicker of tension rolling across his spine like he was preparing for something. He swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Harley asked, quieter now.

Tony didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the table, eyes drawn and tired. He looked older than Harley remembered. “Because he has to be contained,” Tony said finally. “He’s not himself. And if you think you can just walk in there and fix him-”

“I can fix him,” Harley insisted stubbornly, chest tightening. “Put me in there with him.”

Tony stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Are you stupid?” he asked flatly. “He just tried to kill you. Kid, he doesn’t remember us. Whatever HYDRA did to him, it erased everything.”

Harley stepped closer to the glass, pressing a hand to it. “He’ll remember me.”

Bucky stepped forward from where he’d been silently watching. “He doesn’t know you,” he said. “Doesn’t even know himself. He’ll kill you, and all you’ll do is make him feel terrible later on.”

Harley turned away from the glass, his voice hoarse. “I want to tell MJ and Ned.”

Tony didn’t look up. “No.”

“They deserve to know. You can’t just shut me down like-”

“I can,” Tony snapped. “We’re not telling anyone. The fewer people who know, the better. SHIELD’s already been sniffing around.”

“They’re his friends,” Harley argued.

“They’re liabilities,” Tony said. “If SHIELD finds out what was done to him-”

“They’ll take him,” Bucky finished. “He won’t be safe.”

Harley turned away, pacing across the lab. His fists clenched, breathing shallow. “It’s not fair,” he muttered. “It’s not right.”

“It is what it is,” Tony said.

Harley didn’t answer.

Instead, he stared through the glass. Peter still hadn’t moved.

—

Tony tried again.

He stepped into the containment room with a quiet hiss of hydraulics and the soft clatter of a food tray in his hands. He kept his movements slow, unobtrusive - no sudden gestures, no clipped commands. Just calm steps and soft breath.

Peter didn’t look at him. He was curled up in the corner, wedged between the cot and the wall, spine tense and knotted, legs tucked beneath himself like something still feral and afraid. His eyes, when they flicked up briefly, were dull and flat. Blank. 

“Hey, kid,” Tony said gently. “How’re you feeling?”

Peter blinked. Then turned his face away.

Tony kept talking, trying not to let the pang in his chest show in his voice. “I know Harley probably scared the shit out of you, barging in like that.”

No reaction.

“He missed you. He’s never been good with taking his time, though.”

Peter’s head lolled, exhausted. The kid was starving. He blinked up at Tony, eyes half-lidded. His jaw tensed, and Tony’s chest soared when he realised Peter was going to speak, and-

“Let me out.”

Tony winced. He exhaled, shoulders tight. He set the tray down carefully, quietly, and stepped back. “Sorry, kiddo. Maybe when you’re a little better. Eat something first, then we’ll talk. I’ll come back in a bit.”

The door closed behind him.

—

“Let me try,” Harley said.

Tony turned from the screen in the observation hallway, brow furrowing. “We already tried everyone, Harley. He won’t respond. He doesn’t even flinch anymore.”

“I’m not gonna interrogate him,” Harley said. “Just let me sit in there. Just me. No pressure.”

Tony didn’t answer other than waving him off. So Harley waited. He’d practically set up in the chair in the corner, laptop and phone charger and a hoodie that he had thrown over his lap. It was like now that he knew Peter was alive, he couldn’t bear to be apart from him anymore.

Fuck. Harley still couldn’t believe that he was Spider-Man.

But he could help. And sure, Peter had just tried to… attack him, but Harley had startled him. Peter was scared, and messed up, and had been held in this box for days, and all he’d had for company was the people who had hit him hard enough to bring him in. Harley could help. Harley owed him at least that much.

So, the next time Tony opened the door to slide in another untouched meal tray, Harley darted in behind him. “Harley - Jesus, no-” Tony cursed, spinning.

But Harley was already past him, ducking under the half-open door as it began to hiss shut. It sealed behind him with a soft thunk, and he turned slowly toward the hunched figure in the corner. Peter was already staring at him. Not with recognition. Not with hostility, either. Just… staring. Watching. Searching. Harley didn’t move closer.

He sat down on the cold floor, cross-legged, leaving at least six feet between them. “Hey,” he said, quiet, almost conversational. “You look like shit. Sorry. You do.”

Peter blinked.

Harley kept talking. “I know you never used to be picky about what you ate. I saw you eat pizza that had been dropped on the lab floor once, and now you’re not even looking at half the super sugary and unhealthy things that Tony’s getting desperate enough to throw your way.” No response. But Peter didn’t shrink away. “FRIDAY says you’ve got a whole nutrition chart now. Like, one with percentages and graphs. I think Tony’s gonna lose his mind if you don’t eat something soon.”

Harley scrolled his phone open and turned it slightly toward Peter, pulling up that old picture of them in the lab with DUM-E in between them. Harley had it printed after Peter had died. “Remember the shit we’d eat on lab nights when May let you stay over?"

Peter didn’t look at the screen.

He looked at Harley.

That same empty, searching expression - and Harley hoped that it softened, slightly, but that might have just been him seeing things or the edges dulling with exhaustion. His head dropped a little as he leaned against the cot. He didn’t say anything else.

They sat like that for a while.

Then Tony opened the door. Peter jerked back instantly, and he pressed further into the metal bars of the bed like he’d been burned, back into the space beneath it, arms dragging behind him as he disappeared. “Okay, hey-” Harley started, reaching up a hand. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to-”

Something small and hard clattered against the floor at his feet. A plastic spoon from the tray, flung with enough force to snap it in half. 

“Alright,” Harley murmured, standing slowly. “I’m going.” He backed toward the door, steps slow and careful. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Or whenever. Just... It's okay. I’m not mad.”

Peter didn’t respond. Just stayed curled beneath the cot, limbs withdrawn, expression still, and body wound tense. Harley didn’t look back until the door closed behind him.

Tony’s voice echoed as Harley stepped out of the containment room, the door hissing shut behind him. “What the hell were you thinking?” Tony barked, storming up with furious steps, one hand gesturing wildly while the other ran through his hair in exasperation. “Do you think this is a game? You can’t just slip past me into a room with a traumatized, genetically altered, half-starved teenager who’s still so far gone he doesn’t even know his own name, Harley! What if he had snapped?”

Harley didn’t flinch. “He didn’t.”

“That’s not the point!”

“He didn’t,” Harley repeated firmly. “He didn’t snap. He listened. He looked at me.”

“Jesus-” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, turning in place like he had to physically spin out the frustration. “This isn’t just you being stubborn. You don’t know what they did to him. You don’t get it. He’s not just Peter right now.”

“That was the most Peter he’s been since you dragged him back here,” Bucky said flatly from behind them, leaning in the doorway. “Whatever you think he might’ve done, or might still do - he didn’t lash out. He let Harley sit with him.”

Tony whirled around. “You’re siding with him?”

Bucky just shrugged. “I didn’t know the kid. Met him once, and that was it. But that right there wasn’t aggressive behaviour.” Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. And then looked through the window, at Peter curled beneath the cot after Harley had left, a strange sort of devastation and comfort in the shape of his silhouette.

Tony sighed and looked away.

—

The Asset did not pace.

Pacing indicated distress. Unproductive motion. Visible weakness. The Asset did not panic. The Asset completed objectives. But the mission was gone. The moment had slipped past him, like blood through a closed fist. He had failed to breach the door, had miscalculated the response time. There were no further orders. No fallback protocol. No voice in his ear. No correction. Only silence.

The silence was the worst part.

He stared at the wall, blank and featureless, trying to sync his breath with the overhead hum of the lights. Four seconds in. Four seconds out. Standard. Clean. But the rhythm kept breaking, fraying at the edges like his thoughts. He needed to return to base. The objective had failed. He would not be able to terminate the defector. He had not made successful contact with the target. There had been no recovery.

The Asset must report.

If he didn’t get back soon - if he didn’t kneel, give the report, accept judgment - then-

Termination.

The word slithered through his mind like oil. Cold and slick and inevitable. The longer he stayed here, the louder it got. No mission. No command. Just the growing certainty that he was expendable, that he had outlived his usefulness, and that he had proven it. He would be terminated.

He shifted, barely, shoulders scraping against the wall as he curled tighter into himself. It wasn’t a protective posture. It was conservation. Every joint ached. His bones felt hollow. The severed limbs - what remained of them - were regrowing, but the process was slow and biologically inefficient. Most of his energy had been funneled into it without consent. His system was trying to repair itself, optimize, survive.

Survival was not the objective. And still, he couldn’t stop shaking.

He had tried to remain alert. Eyes open. Spine straight. But exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. He hated it. The Asset does not sleep without permission. But he had dozed twice now - unforgivable, weak - and each time he’d snapped awake with a jolt, heart thudding, body coiled for violence that never came.

Worse than the fatigue was the hunger.

His stomach had begun to cramp sometime in the last cycle - sharp and mean, like something gnawing from the inside out. It had only gotten worse. There had been food, at regular intervals. Inedible. Unsurprising. He knew the pattern. It wasn’t new.

And yet - there was no voice. No handler. No command.

Just silence.

He couldn’t afford to wait much longer.

Attacking wouldn’t get him out. He knew that now. The walls were reinforced. The glass was layered with something his limbs couldn’t breach. His previous assault had done nothing but provoke further sedation or no progress - and the aftermath of that left his muscles sluggish, his thoughts full of static.

So he wouldn’t attack again. He would adapt. There was always another way out.  Eyes half-lidded, he scanned the room again. Every corner. Every screw. Every shadow. He catalogued every potential weakness with mechanical precision, even as his vision blurred. He was slowing down. The body was failing. He could feel it - the trembling in his limbs, the sluggish response of his reflexes. His breath hitched. Not panic. Not fear. Just data. Just warning signs. He was running out of time. He would be terminated.

Unless he escaped. Unless he proved he still had value. Unless someone came.

He swallowed down bile and forced himself upright with trembling arms, breath rasping through clenched teeth. The spider limbs twitched once - two were missing, one halfway regrown, the last curling uselessly above his shoulder like a phantom limb. He hated the sensation an not having all of them. He withdrew them back under his skin, hissing through his teeth at the stretch and the pain. He hated being so-

Human.

Another bad thought. Assets didn’t hate.

He needed to return.

The boy - Harley - might be vulnerable. He catalogued the name carefully. He’d showed empathy. Soft. Untrained. Emotional. A weakness. Emotional. Chatty. Inclined toward humor as a method of emotional buffering. Not physically threatening. Technologically useful. Possibly exploitable, though without known ties to HYDRA or any prior exposure to their systems. Unlikely to be a viable control. But he did not treat the asset with fear.

That was unexpected.

Not fear. Not disgust, either. Something else. Something like concern. 

Useless.

Harley did not appear to be a handler. But Tony Stark - Iron Man - was more volatile. More dangerous. Resource-rich. It would be smarter to keep him at a distance. Stark, when provoked, was unpredictable. Like fire under glass. The Captain was easier to read, but more difficult to distract. Physically superior. Stronger sense of moral rigidity. He would not be convinced of the Asset’s docility unless proven. Repeatedly. Too disciplined. Structured. Unlikely to fall for misdirection. He’d recognize weaponry when he saw it. And the woman - the Widow. Romanov.

He would not even try.

He had seen what she did to captives who resisted. Even their intel reports had said to avoid direct confrontation unless ordered. Her hands were silent. Her eyes colder than the Siberian outposts. He had never seen someone who so closely resembled the conditioning units themselves. He would not succeed with her.

And the Soldier-

The Soldier knew. 

Something in his eyes had shifted the moment their fight began. He looked at the asset like he recognized him. Like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. Not the target. Not the enemy. Like he saw… himself. The Asset didn’t know what to do with that.

He didn’t want to know what to do with that.

He didn’t know why they were keeping him alive, if not to interrogate him. But they hadn’t done much other than the Soldier’s initial attempts. But there had been no torture. No shouting or hands or pain. And they hadn’t terminated him.

Why? Why was he still breathing? Unless - his knees gave out suddenly, the thought slamming into him hard. 

Unless they were waiting to dissect him.

He knew how HYDRA treated broken prototypes. Failed assets. Especially ones that deviated from programming. Especially ones who let the mission slip through their hands because of hesitation and emotion. He should have killed the target. He should have completed the strike. He should have taken out the Winter Soldier and fled, just like the mission parameters dictated.

But he didn’t.

He’d hesitated and slowed and tried to flee. He hadn’t retreated when ordered. Stupid. Weak. Flawed. The worst part - the worst part - was that Stark had known him. Had recognized him. Had shouted his name like it meant something. That wasn’t how missions were supposed to work.

He was not supposed to be known.

He stood again. Walked to the curtained-off bathroom. Gripped the edge of the sink hard enough that the polymer bent slightly under his fingers. His face in the mirror looked pale, his eyes too big. Blood-crusted along his temple from a ruptured vein he hadn’t even noticed.

He looked like a ghost. He felt like a ghost.

No shock collar. No vapor gas. No knockout injection hidden in the vents. Just silence. Too long. Far too long. This wasn’t protocol.

This wasn’t anything.

—

Bucky hated walking into the containment level. Hated the way the walls buzzed too loudly with the low hum of active security fields, hated the smell of sterile floors and the faint chemical sting of antiseptic that lingered long after the last cleaning drone passed through. But most of all, he hated what was waiting behind the glass.

The kid sat perfectly still in the corner of the room. Not slouched. Not hunched. Just... still. Spine straight, legs folded beneath him, hands resting on his knees, palms up. There was nothing natural about it. No instinctive movement, no shifting for comfort. Even his breath felt measured.

Tony stood beside him, arms crossed tight across his chest, eyes hollow. “He hasn’t said a word in hours. Not even to FRIDAY.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just watched - watched the way Peter’s head tilted a fraction of a degree when he and Tony entered, watched the gold-edged eyes narrow ever so slightly. Not hostile. Not scared. Just assessing. Calculating.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Hey, kid.”

Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink.

“You should take a shower,” Bucky tried again. He kept his voice level. Firm, but not harsh. “It’s been there, but FRIDAY says you haven’t touched it.”

At that, the kid moved. In a single fluid motion, Peter rose to his feet and reached for the collar of the tattered, blood-crusted suit. He didn’t hesitate. Just grabbed it and started peeling it away, one piece at a time. Bucky’s heart skipped.

Tony jolted. “Whoa - no, stop-!”

Peter froze instantly.

It was terrifying how fast he obeyed. Hands paused mid-motion, face still blank, expression unreadable. “...I’m sorry,” Peter said quietly, voice devoid of inflection. “You instructed I shower. This unit assumed removal of the garment was required to comply.”

“This isn’t - Christ-” Tony was flustered, voice cracking as he tried to reassemble himself. “You don’t have to get undressed in front of - God, Barnes, I-”

“I’ll handle it,” Bucky cut in. He didn’t look at Tony. Couldn’t. “Just go.”

Tony didn’t move at first. He was still staring at Peter like he was going to collapse. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Tony hesitated a second longer. Peter hadn’t so much as looked away from the wall. He stood in place, arms at his sides, like a soldier awaiting further orders. Eventually, with one last glance at the kid, Tony turned and left. The door hissed shut behind him.

Bucky exhaled, long and low. He took a slow step forward. “Okay. Come on. The shower’s through here.”

He led the way into the little curtained off section of the built-in bathroom. There was a simple curtain, a waterproof bench, and a minimal faucet setup. Bucky drew the curtain halfway closed, turned the water on low, then looked back.

Peter was trying to pull off the suit again - this time with more effort. The spider limbs had clearly been damaged, and it looked like they were still painful to move. He’d retracted them again, and Bucky tried not to look too hard at the sight of them shifting under his skin. The one that had been blown off was stitched, half-reformed and twitching. Another was locked at an unnatural angle, dragging stiffly behind him like a dislocated limb.

It didn’t seem like he could retract the injured ones.

“You need help with that?” Bucky asked. Peter didn’t answer. Just blinked once, like he couldn’t quite process the question. Bucky tried again. “Do you need help with the suit?”

Silence. Too long.

“I’ll help,” Bucky said more firmly.

That got a response. Peter stilled, then nodded, just once. He didn’t look at Bucky. Just turned around.

The back of the suit was buckled with dried blood. The seams at the joints had burst in places. When Bucky crouched behind him and started working on the shoulder clasps, he could feel the kid trembling. Not fear. Not pain. Just... tension. Like he was waiting for something to happen. Waiting to be struck.

Bucky kept his hands steady. Slow. Careful.

“There,” he said after a while, stepping back once the suit was split down the middle. “Shower controls are here. You can talk to FRIDAY if you need anything.”

When he turned around again, Peter hadn’t moved. He was just standing there, half-undressed, staring directly at him. Head cocked slightly to one side. His posture shifted - subtle, but deliberate. His weight came forward. Bucky didn’t move. Instinct screamed at him to, but he didn’t. Because this kid - no, this Asset - was watching everything. Calculating. Reading him for weakness.

And then Peter stepped closer.

One step. Then another. The kid moved like a predator in slow motion - no wasted movement, no hesitation. The soft pads of his bare feet made no sound against the tile. His head remained tilted, that slight, uncanny cant like he was observing through the wrong lens. Not Peter Parker. Not the kid with the bad jokes and nervous hands and that stupid Queens accent that Bucky could remember absolutely hating in Germany. No, this - this was someone else entirely.

Analysing. Not like he was wound to fight, but like he was squaring himself and preparing for something. He stepped forward again, but Bucky didn’t step back. Stepping back would show weakness and it seemed like all Peter focused on was body language.  

Until his knees bent and he sank to the floor, tile cold under his legs. The movement wasn’t reverent. It wasn’t hesitant. It was mechanical. Practiced. Something that had been burned into his spine with repetition until kneeling became as reflexive as blinking. 

Bucky’s breath caught in his chest.

The spider limbs arched and bowed faintly behind him - wounded but ready. Like they were mirroring some primal instinct to loom, to gauge space, to crowd Bucky without actually touching him. And he was doing it. Deliberately. He wasn’t looking for comfort. He was testing something.

Bucky held his ground.

Peter didn’t break eye contact. His pupils had dilated enough that only a faint ring of brown clung to the edges, and his skin was drawn tight with tension, but his expression hadn’t changed. He was calculating. Judging the shift in Bucky’s shoulders, the flex in his jaw, the weight in his heels. Reading every inch of his stance like it would tell him whether Bucky was a threat or not. He eased down further, knees touching the tile, spine straight, shoulders set back like he was offering himself for review.

Bucky’s mouth went dry. He tried to speak. Didn’t manage it.

And then Peter’s hands reached forward - quietly, almost carefully - and came to rest on Bucky’s thighs. Not tentative. Not frightened. Obedient.

The contact was so light it barely registered. The fingers were cold. Too thin. Bucky didn’t dare look down. If he looked down, it would be real. If he looked down, he might lose whatever thin string of control he had left.

Peter’s voice was a whisper, but it still cut through Bucky like a blade. “...Are you my new handler?”

No fear. No hope. Just a question.

God.

“Are you Handler Rostov’s replacement?”

Handler Rostov. The name landed in Bucky’s chest like ice. There had been a Rostov in HYDRA’s structure years ago - Bucky remembered the name from a mission brief, from the rumors that floated like rot around the darker corners of Siberia. Rostov specialized in control and compliance. He was known for breaking people, not fixing them. He trained tools, not soldiers.

And right now, Peter thought Bucky was a replacement. A faceless stand-in for someone who’d done this before. Someone who’d taken from him. Peter’s fingers moved again - rising slowly, sliding upward toward Bucky’s hips. Nothing frantic. Nothing demanding. Just smooth, polished subservience. His breathing remained even.

“I can be good,” Peter said softly, like it was a promise. A fact he could prove with enough repetition. Peter’s fingers began to slide higher - soft, featherlight, almost apologetic in their pressure. Bucky felt the slow climb of those pale hands and felt bile rise in his throat. “I’m well trained. I can prove my worth.”

The words didn’t even sound human. They sounded installed. Bucky couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Peter leaned forward. A pale hand inched higher. Bucky felt sick. 

He didn’t think. He just reacted. With a snarl, he shoved Peter back. The force wasn’t violent, but it didn’t have to be. Peter wasn’t expecting resistance.  He sprawled backward, landing hard on the tile, a slap of skin against ceramic. One spider limb twitched, failing to brace him in time. His head hit the tile with a dull thunk but he didn’t even flinch.

He didn’t scramble to his feet. Didn’t back away. Just lay there, breathing slow and shallow, eyes pinned to Bucky like he was still waiting. Watching for cues. For punishment.

Bucky couldn’t speak for a moment. His hands were clenched at his sides. His jaw ached from the force of biting back bile.

His grip tightened into fists.

“You can get the rest of your suit off yourself,” he said, the words barely managing to stay level. “Tell FRIDAY if you need anything else.” He paused, and forced himself to meet Peter’s eyes. “Don’t touch me like that again.”

Peter didn’t move. He just stared. Like he was waiting for punishment. Bracing for it. Bucky stepped around him. Peter still didn’t move, but he tensed when Bucky walked past like he expected to be kicked on the way out. He tensed like he expected the boot to come, or the shock, or the blow. 

Still no change. Peter remained motionless, half-naked on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath him. His head lolled slightly, following Bucky’s movement as he turned to go, but nothing else.

No shame. No fear. No offense taken. He just... accepted it. Bucky’s stomach turned.

He didn’t look back. He just stepped out, tugged the flimsy paper curtain shut behind him to give the kid some semblance of privacy more for Bucky’s sake than anything. 

Tony was pacing when Bucky stepped out. Not the kind of nervous shuffle most people did. No, this was Tony Stark pacing - sharp, erratic footfalls that bounced between polished steel walls like he was trying to burn a groove into the floor with raw stress. He looked up the second Bucky appeared, hands clenched tight around a tablet that looked one wrong twitch from being hurled.

“What happened?” Tony asked immediately, voice too fast, too clipped. “Is he - did he say anything? Is he okay? Did he-”

“He’s fine,” Bucky said stiffly.

Tony froze. “You sure? Because you look like you’re about to throw up.”

“I said he’s fine.”

Bucky didn’t stop walking. He brushed past him without slowing. He could still feel the shape of Peter’s hands on his legs, those ice-cold fingers tracing patterns into his skin, polite and mechanical, like it wasn’t even a thought, just a preprogrammed response to proximity and a target profile. He didn’t need to debrief that.

Tony turned and followed, trailing behind by a few long strides. “Was he - did he talk? Did he remember anything? Did he look at you like - like he knew you?”

“No.”

“Well, did he do anything?” Bucky stopped walking. Tony nearly collided with his back. “C’mon, talk to me. You left him in there like a live wire and now you’re out here looking like you just got shot. What the hell happened?”

Bucky didn’t turn around. His jaw worked silently for a moment, grinding tension through his molars. “He doesn’t know who I am,” he said finally. “He doesn’t know who you are. Doesn’t remember anything outside of protocol and briefings. Doesn’t ask where he is, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t smile. Just follows orders.”

Tony’s breath hitched slightly. “Orders.”

Bucky nodded once. “Yeah.”

He could feel Tony’s gaze boring into the back of his skull. “What kind of orders.”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Bucky didn’t answer. Tony stepped beside him, expression tight with something brittle and ugly in the corners. He looked paler than usual. Like the thought of whatever Peter had done behind that door had knocked the wind out of him without touching him at all.

“Did he hurt you?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “No.”

“But something happened.”

Silence.

Tony ran a hand through his hair, dragging it back roughly. “Jesus. What the fuck did they do to him, Bucky? He was - he was just a kid. He was fourteen. I thought he’d been buried in pieces and all this time - all this time - he was-”

“I know.” Bucky’s voice cracked on it.

Tony didn’t say anything for a second. Then, quieter: “Is he scared of us?”

Bucky turned to look at him finally. “No. That’s the problem.”

Then, because there was nothing else to say, he turned and walked stiffly back to the elevator, and tried not to put his fist through the wall once the doors slide shut behind him.

—

The Asset did not move at first, or for several minutes after the door shut.

He remained exactly where he’d fallen - on the tile, one elbow folded awkwardly beneath him, cheek against the cold floor, staring at the place where the Handler had stood. Bare skin prickled as condensation rolled down the plastic curtain behind him. He’d hit the floor hard - hard enough to jar his teeth, to rattle something in his ribs - but he didn’t register pain. Not properly. Pain was a signal. It meant an order had been disobeyed, or a lesson was being taught. Neither had happened.

Not yet.

His exposed limbs trembled faintly from shock and exertion. His knees ached from where they’d collided with the tile. His cheek was wet - though he wasn’t sure if it was water or something else. He didn’t care. Failure pressed down on him like a weight. Dense and quiet and final.

It hadn’t worked.

He blinked slowly, watching the exit as it hissed shut behind the defector - the Winter Soldier. No final strike came. No blow to the ribs, no boot to the head. No warning shot. Just departure. A storming exit and a door that didn’t lock behind him fast enough.

That was dangerous.

No retaliation meant uncertainty. Uncertainty meant risk.

He blinked, slow. The light overhead buzzed faintly. There were particles in the air - dust, perhaps. The Tower’s filtration was strong, but nothing was ever truly sterile. Not like the HYDRA base in Minsk. Not like the lab in Sublevel D, with its chemical stench and always-damp floors. Not like home.

No.

Not home.

He peeled his cheek off the floor and turned his head, just enough to watch the defector - the Winter Soldier - storm out through the containment chamber’s exit. The door hissed closed. No final blow came. No punishment. Just… absence.

His fingers twitched.

It had not worked.

The Asset blinked once, twice more. Something in him felt… off-kilter. He wasn’t entirely sure what went wrong. The sequence had been executed properly, he was sure of it. Kneeling posture, voice lowered. Eyes trained downward, limited eye contact and hands positioned for maximum psychological impact - vulnerable but promising - first passive, then enticing. He had leaned in, spoken soft. Just enough breath, just enough pleading. It had always worked before.

This technique was statistically effective at averting conflict with difficult handlers, particularly those who demonstrated signs of moral compromise or residual emotion.

So why hadn’t it worked? Why had the Soldier pushed him? Why hadn’t the Soldier used him?

His new contact had denied the title. Denied being Handler Rostov’s replacement. This was a variable he hadn’t accounted for. He blinked, slowly. His cheekbone ached where it had hit the tile. There would likely be a bruise, though he’d taken worse. Bleeding was minimal. One of his spider limbs twitched behind him, metal cracked and leaking.

His mistake.

He had misunderstood the dynamic. Misjudged the cues. He should have waited for explicit permission. Premature contact had not been approved. He pushed himself up slowly, folding into a kneeling position, spine straight, eyes forward. Still. Listening.

There were no footsteps. No return. No punishment.

The Asset swallowed dryly. The floor felt slick under his palms. He pushed himself up - slowly, gingerly. The extra limbs dragging behind him ached where the flesh around the socket had been cauterized, and the unsteady twitch of phantom feedback made his vision blur slightly. He ignored it. The feedback loops would correct eventually. They always did.

The room hummed softly around him - containment-grade titanium alloy walls, layered with sonic dampeners and nullifiers. No reflective surfaces. No corners. No shadows to hide in. He’d catalogued it all. There were exactly three cameras in his visual radius, though he suspected a fourth above the reinforced light fixture.

He rotated his wrist. Checked the minor abrasion forming on his elbow.

Corrective discipline had been minimal. No further escalation. The contact had not delivered a follow-up blow. Had not issued a shock pulse. Had not ordered sedation. He had only left.

Peter stared at the door.

“Don’t touch me like that again.”

The words looped softly in his head, quiet and sterile. He had not meant to offend. He had been attempting reassurance. Demonstrating value. Submission was a recognized tactic. Reinforcement was rewarded under previous programming. Contact was often encouraged, if not expected.

But the defector - he was different. He hadn’t reacted like the others.

Peter slowly shifted into a sitting position. The remains of his suit clung to his waist, half-unstrapped and broken. His chest was still bare, the dark bruises stark against pale skin. One of the severed spider limbs twitched again, and he ignored the pain.

His right hand clenched into a fist.

It was not good that this attempt failed. It was not good that the Soldier had left angry. It was worse that the Stark was involved. The Stark had many connections. He could report this incident. He could recommend decommissioning. The Asset was already flagged. He had failed to return to base. He had failed to complete his mission. He had hesitated. He was defective. Or worse - deficient.   He didn’t know which outcome HYDRA hated more.

Termination was likely. Slow, if they were angry. Immediate, if they were scared. Either way, the Asset had calculated the risk. He was still alive. But barely. Barely was not acceptable. He had to escape.

He would not survive a second retrieval. He dismissed the failure.  That had only ever been part of the protocol.

The real goal had been acquisition.

The Asset slowly flexed his fingers, testing the weight of what he had retrieved. Hidden in the lines of his palm, tucked up beneath the band of his half-shucked suit, was a narrow, worn-handled combat knife. Standard design. Eleven centimeters. Fixed blade. He recognized the model without needing to look at it. And it hadn’t come from the Tower.

It had come from the Soldier. 

Stolen clean, during the moment of distraction - when the Asset had placed his hands on the defector’s thighs, slid them up with slow intent, eyes lowered and voice subdued - the Soldier had frozen, focused entirely on the implication of Peter’s actions.

He hadn’t noticed the Asset’s fingers dip into his cargo pocket. He hadn’t noticed the shift in weight. He hadn’t noticed the blade go missing. The Asset exhaled softly through his nose.

It had worked.

He’d been trained for this. The motion was fluid, drilled into his muscle memory from months of practice. It didn’t matter that the Winter Soldier was a legend, a former top asset, a defector. It didn’t matter that Peter had flinched when he shoved him off. What mattered was the fact that his fingers had brushed against fabric and metal, his palm had closed around the hilt, and the man had been too stunned - too consumed by the wrong implication - to notice the threat right under his skin.

The drag of his palms up the Soldier’s thighs had been more than theater. It had given him a precise map of where the weapons were stored. Left side, utility strap. Right pocket. Underarm holster, likely a backup. The Asset knew how to read pressure points and fabric tension. His hands had moved with purpose. Deliberate. Trained.

One knife was all he needed.

Now he had it.

He peeled himself slowly off the floor, each movement controlled. His limbs felt heavy, like he was wading through water, but he ignored it. The pain in his back pulsed - dull, throbbing. His spider limbs hung slack behind him, aching at their sockets. He wouldn’t use them again unless he had to.

The blade he’d stolen was hidden against his side now, tucked beneath the folds of his suit with meticulous precision. Flat. Concealed. Invisible to a surface check unless someone knew exactly where to look.

He moved behind the drawn curtain again, the soft plastic rustling against his bare shoulder. The quiet hiss of the shower filled the space like static. It felt wrong without the barked command of a handler, without the clatter of other Assets preparing for decontamination. 

Here, there was no order. No timer. Just… space.

He turned the water on.

The blade gleamed faintly in the fluorescent lighting. Not long enough to be a weapon - but enough to pick a lock. Or open a vein. He tucked it carefully into his suit. His limbs shook as he stood, but he didn’t allow himself to falter. The body obeyed. The mind obeyed. Anything less was failure. He did not fail. He could not afford to. The Asset stepped behind the drawn curtain again. The room was quiet, the water waiting.

He turned on the shower.

It was cold, but not freezing. Not like the hydrotanks in the Siberian base. Not like the pressure hoses in the Cairo facility that left skin raw and blood in his ears. This was gentle in comparison. Almost indulgent. Which made it worse. Comfort was not for Assets. Comfort meant deviation. It was not the ice-cold deluge of facility hoses, nor the sterile mist of decontamination units. It was cold - but not cruel. Chilly in a way that reminded him faintly of rain. The kind he remembered from somewhere long before he was Asset . When the name Peter still belonged to him. A Peter who wore mittens, maybe. A Peter who once stared up at clouds.

But names were dangerous.

He bowed his head and stepped under the spray.

Water ran over his scalp, his neck, the bony line of his spine. Over his bandages. The one on his shoulder peeled off, soaked through. Another wrapped tight around one of the damaged limbs. It slipped away, swirling down the drain with streaks of blood.

His hands came up slowly, mechanically. They scrubbed at skin. At scar tissue. He’d washed himself before, but this was different. This was not under instruction. There was no timing. No supervisor. Just… an open command.

Go shower.

The Asset struggled with the formlessness of it. What constituted a complete shower? Was there a checklist? He rinsed twice. Shampooed once. Scrubbed every crevice. Timed it to eleven minutes, then extended to thirteen to account for lag. That was standard.

He scrubbed quickly. Efficiently. No wasted movement. Eleven minutes, twenty-seven seconds. Then an extra minute to account for bandages that had soaked through. He peeled one from his shoulder and watched it spiral down the drain, crimson unfurling like ink in water.

By the time he stepped out, his limbs ached from the effort of remaining upright. The pain reminded him of endurance drills - left too long in detention and dragged out too fast, body protesting as it adjusted to motion again. Still, he didn’t hesitate. He reached for the towel, dried himself mechanically, and turned toward the bench where his suit lay waiting - ready to pull it on with stiff, familiar motions - when he saw it:

The medical gown, folded neatly over the sink. Soft. White. Waiting. The Asset stared at it. It was too familiar, too close to restraint protocol. Too close to Sublevel four, where they took the sick ones. The unstable ones. The ones who screamed at night.

The Asset stared at the fabric for a long time. He could feel something clawing at the back of his throat. It wasn’t emotion - he wasn’t allowed those. It wasn’t revulsion, either. It was… something harder to name. A tangle of instincts and commands and ghost memories. The kind of reaction that wasn’t his but once had been, underneath all this programming.

But even as he thought it, he felt the quiet echo of himself recoil from the memory of gowns like that one - thin cotton, open-backed, strings tied too tight. Sterile corridors. Cold metal tables. Latex gloves that held too tight. Needles. Restraints.

He shouldn’t feel. He knew that. Assets didn’t feel. But something about the way the gown hung limp and waiting made his stomach twist.

He hated it.

Which meant he shouldn’t touch it. Shouldn’t acknowledge it. But he didn’t want to disobey. Assets did not indulge in preference.

He didn’t want another mark on his record. But disobedience, no matter how small, could still be logged. He couldn’t risk Stark appearing again, seeing him in his suit, interpreting it as resistance.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out. He touched the cloth. It was light. Thinner than a uniform. Easier to move in.  Easier to bleed through.

He hesitated again.

Then, with methodical care, the Asset peeled off his suit, dried himself, and slid into the medical gown. 

It itched.

He folded his suit. Folded it carefully, precisely, with each seam pressed down flat. Each corner lined up with exact angles. It was the same way he folded his uniform in the barracks, back when he shared a cell with Subject C-512. Back before that unit was disbanded for “mental instability.” 

He slipped the stolen blade deep into the folds. Not at the hem, not in a seam, but in the heart of the suit. Between layers, pressed tight. Enough to avoid detection. Easy to retrieve, where he could reach it in seconds, if he needed.

He placed it under the cot in his containment room. Right-hand corner. Back against the wall. Where the camera wouldn’t see. Then he sank down against the wall and the cot. Back straight. Eyes forward. Waiting. Preparing. He would escape. He had to. 

And next time, he would not fail.

Chapter Text

The floor was too quiet. Bucky hated quiet.

It made his thoughts too loud - let them crawl out of the holes he'd shoved them into and stretch their limbs. He could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the dull tick of the wall clock, the faint whoosh of the ventilation system overhead. It was domestic, normal, human - and he couldn’t stop hearing it like a threat. Like a countdown.

He stood with one hip leaning against the kitchen counter, mug of untouched coffee cooling rapidly in his hand. His reflection stared back at him from the microwave door, smeared and distorted, like a ghost in a funhouse mirror. And he couldn't stop thinking about the kid.

Peter.

God, the kid had screamed.

He hadn’t made a sound when Bucky slammed him to the ground the first time, hadn’t even looked at him like a person - but when Tony welded the door shut and the others backed off, when it all settled and Peter realized he was alone and locked in - he’d made this raw, animal sound that Bucky couldn’t get out of his head. Not pain. Not even rage. Something deeper. Recognition. Recognition of what it meant to be trapped again.

So desperate to get out that the next time that Bucky had gone in, he’d gotten on his knees and-

Bucky felt sick.

“You good?”

Steve’s voice was quiet, gentle. Meant to be an offer, not a demand. Still, it made Bucky tense. He didn't look at Steve right away. Just stared into the coffee, like it might give him the answer. Eventually, he said, “No.”

There was a pause. Not tense, not awkward. Just the kind of pause Steve gave you when he knew there wasn’t a quick fix coming. Bucky appreciated that. He didn't want false comfort. He wanted to feel it - wanted the ache to be real and raw and unflinching. He deserved that much.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bucky started, slow. Then stopped. He gritted his teeth, jaw tight. “About HYDRA.”

Steve didn’t answer. Bucky glanced over, and found him nodding. Just once. No need to explain. He was listening. Bucky looked away again. Couldn’t hold eye contact.  

“It should’ve been me,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “They never should’ve gotten to the kid.”

“Buck-”

“I know it’s not logical,” Bucky snapped, louder than he meant to. His hand clenched around the mug, and the ceramic creaked dangerously in his grip. He set it down before he shattered it. “But logic’s not the point, Steve. Stark said it himself. HYDRA wanted a replacement for me. And they got him. They got some random kid instead.”

“He’s not a random kid,” Steve said, like that made any of this better. “He was Spider-Man.”

“Like that makes it any better?” Bucky asked a little desperately, his voice cracked at the end.

“...Bucky,” Steve said softly. “That’s not your fault. None of this is.”

Bucky laughed bitterly. “Feels like it is.”

“Because you survived?”

“Because I ran.” Bucky exhaled, sharp and uneven. “Because I didn’t finish them. Because I thought hiding was good enough for me.”

“It’s not your job to erase them,” Steve said, stepping closer. “They’re a system. You did what you had to. You did what you could. Peter - what happened to him - it’s on HYDRA. Not you.” Bucky didn’t respond. Just pressed a hand to the counter and leaned forward, shoulders hunched.  He felt like he was back there. Not in the Tower. Not in New York. In some cold, sterile cell half a world away, steel beneath his feet and blood under his nails.  

He blinked and saw Peter’s face, distorted by the glass wall.

“I keep seeing him,” Bucky said quietly. “In the cell. The way he looked. The way he moved. It’s not - he’s not just scared, Steve. He’s gone. It’s HYDRA, in there. The programming. The posture. The voice. It’s like…”

Steve hesitated, then said gently, “Maybe… maybe you let me and Tony handle this one.”

That hurt. It wasn’t meant to. Steve wasn’t trying to cut him out. But Bucky still felt the sting of it. He straightened, shoulders stiff. “You don’t trust me with him.”

Steve blinked, clearly startled. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I get it,” Bucky said. “Hell, I wouldn’t trust me either. Not after what happened last time I was in a room with him.”

Steve took a deep breath and tried again. “Buck - come on. That’s not what this is about.”

Bucky turned to him, eyes sharp. “Then what is it about?”

“Bucky,” Steve said quietly. “I get it. I know you want to help, and you feel responsible, but this one’s not on you. Maybe you let me and Tony take this one. It’s not worth destroying yourself over someone else, especially if that someone might not be ready to be fixed.”

Bucky turned away again, jaw tight. “What about me looked ready? I thought SHEILD figured I was so far gone it was kill on sight?” Steve didn’t have anything to say to that. “It’s not fair,” he muttered. “It’s… why’d they have to...”

“I know,” Steve said. “But you’re not responsible for this.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am,” Bucky insisted, voice raw now. “Don’t lie to me, Steve. Don’t sugar-coat it. I was the original, and they wanted another me - and they got one.” Steve didn’t argue this time. Just looked at him with that soft, infuriatingly patient expression. The one that said I’m not giving up on you, but I’ll wait until you stop punching yourself in the face.  “The kid’s fucked,” Bucky said at last, voice nearly inaudible. He couldn’t even look at Steve now. His hand curled into a fist against the counter. “It’s… I can’t even say it. But you know what I mean.”

Steve nodded slowly. “I do.”

There was a long pause.

Then Steve asked gently, “You okay with a hug?”

Bucky froze.

He felt the question in his chest like a bullet. It was stupid - he was a grown man, a soldier, a killer - but the question knocked the wind out of him. His brain said no. His instincts screamed no. Hands meant pain. Contact meant control. Opportunities for physical contact were traps, triggers, heat and muscle and memory and-

But it was Steve.

Steve was soft. Steve was slow. Steve was always asking. He didn’t grab. Didn’t push. He never hurt him, not on purpose. Not if he could help it. “…Yeah,” Bucky said hoarsely, nodding once. “Yeah, okay.”

Steve stepped forward, careful and gentle, arms spreading just a little before Bucky leaned into him. And when he did - God - it was like collapsing. Like every brittle piece of him gave out all at once. Steve wrapped him up without hesitation, a steady warmth pressed against him, and Bucky let his head fall forward into the crook of Steve’s shoulder.

He didn’t cry, but he could have. And for once, he didn’t feel ashamed of it.

 The hug didn’t last long - but it was long enough.

Bucky let himself lean into it. Just for a moment. Just until the sharp edge of panic dulled to something less urgent. Steve held him without pressure, one arm around his back, the other resting gently against his shoulder. He wasn’t trying to fix it. Wasn’t even offering solutions. He just was.  

When they pulled apart, Bucky felt drained. He scrubbed a hand down his face and moved to sit heavily at the kitchen table, like the weight of everything was finally too much to carry standing up.

Steve stayed standing, watching him. Not hovering. Just… keeping an eye out. The way Steve always had. The way he used to, when Bucky would come back from a mission and disappear for days, eyes hollow and hands shaking. Some things never changed.

Bucky stared at the table for a long moment, jaw clenched.

“He was kneeling,” he said finally.

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Peter?”

Bucky nodded once. “Yeah.”

There was a pause, but Steve didn’t push. Just let the words come.

“He dropped down in front of me,” Bucky murmured, fingers curling slowly around the edge of the table. “Eyes low. Shoulders slouched. Palms up. Like he was offering something.” Steve’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Bucky could feel the concern radiating off him. “He was trying to get something,” Bucky went on. “Trying to get out. Figured I’d be the weak link.” He snorted humorlessly. “Wasn’t wrong.”

“Buck…” Steve said, a warning edge of sympathy in his voice.

“He started talking when we were trying to get him to shower,” Bucky continued, like he hadn’t heard him. “Just… fuck. He’s so messed up, Stevie.”

His hand twitched on the table. He remembered the way Peter’s voice had softened, just slightly - how calculated the shifts were. Just subtle enough to pass for natural, but not to someone who’d lived through it. Someone who knew the moves because he’d used them, too.

The mask. The performance. The desperation beneath it, weaponized.

“It’s not him in there,” Bucky said, voice barely audible. “It’s them.”

He looked sick. He felt worse.

Steve didn’t say anything right away. Just slowly sat across from him, elbows braced on the table. There were dark shadows under his eyes. After a beat, Steve asked quietly, “He was trying to manipulate you?”

Bucky hesitated.

The question itself made something cold settle in his chest. Made his stomach twist. He hated even thinking the word - manipulate - because it felt like a betrayal. Like pointing a finger at someone who was just trying to survive.

But Steve deserved the truth.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, finally. “HYDRA taught him how to get out of locked rooms. Without violence. Just with words and with posture. Tone. Weakness. I think he’s good at looking small. Scared. Safe. To play to whatever the handler wanted. You learn quick - what gets you food, what gets you killed. But now, I think he’s just… trapped. And he knows it.”

Steve’s shoulders sank, the tension in him bleeding out into visible weariness.

“…Jesus,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. That’s…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Bucky didn’t blame him. “Something to look out for,” Steve said instead. “Does Tony know?”

Bucky shook his head stiffly. “No.” He looked down again, ashamed. “I just… I had to get out of there.”

It hadn’t even been a choice, really. His body had made the call before his brain caught up. One second he was standing in that white-walled room with Peter staring up at him like an obedient little soldier, and the next he was in the elevator, heart racing, vision narrowed, ears ringing.

Fight or flight. He’d chosen the latter.

Steve didn’t judge him for it. Didn’t say you should’ve stayed or we needed you. He just reached across the table, resting a steady hand on Bucky’s forearm. “That’s okay,” he said gently. “I’ll tell him.”

Bucky closed his eyes and nodded once. It wasn’t okay. Not in his head. Not in the gnawing pit of guilt behind his ribs. But hearing Steve say it was - that was something. That was a splint on a fracture. Maybe not enough to heal it, but enough to keep it from breaking further. 

The kitchen was quiet again. But this time, Bucky didn’t hate it quite as much.

—

The Asset sat on the edge of the narrow bed, spine straight, hands folded atop his knees. The bandages on his back were still damp beneath the loose medical gown, but he did not move to adjust them. It wasn’t his place. He had not been instructed to rest or reposition. The command had been: shower, clean up, dress. He had completed it.

The silence in the room buzzed in his ears like white noise. Not loud, not piercing - just ever-present. The kind of quiet that scraped at his thoughts. There had always been noise in the HYDRA compounds. Whirring machinery, barking voices, the ever-present buzz of security drones sweeping the halls. But here, in this room, the silence hung like a weight.

He didn’t like it.

That thought alone was dangerous.

He watched the security camera in the corner for a long while. It didn’t move. Probably a wide-angle lens. Maybe heat-sensitive. He hadn’t been able to find a blind spot, not even in the corners. That meant they could see him. Monitor everything. Maybe they were watching now. The Stark might be observing. Or the Soldier. Or the red-headed interrogator. All of them were dangerous in different ways.

He should be punished. He had made an error in judgment.

Instead, no one came.

The Asset shifted, just slightly. Moved his foot an inch. Looked at the door. Still nothing. His muscles were tight. The internal strain of waiting coiled like a wire around his ribs. Was this psychological conditioning? Testing him for endurance? Were they building stress before breaking him again?

He had endured worse. Still, it itched under his skin.

He pressed a palm to the center of his chest. Felt the faint, steady drum of his heart. Too fast. He slowed his breathing, as he’d been trained to. Inhale. Hold. Count. Exhale. Repeat. With each cycle, he mentally recited the HYDRA command code: submission, silence, service. The repetition helped. Grounded him.

He did not move again until the door opened.

It was the Soldier. James Buchanan Barnes. Defector.

The Asset's head lowered instinctively, gaze flicking to the floor. Not as a challenge. Never as a challenge. This was deference. Obedience. Proper behavior. His legs tensed to kneel, but the Soldier said nothing, so he held still, unsure. Bucky crossed the room slowly, boots solid on the floor. His stance was wide, careful. Like approaching a trap. The Asset did not understand. He had submitted. Why was the Soldier tense?

The Asset didn’t speak at first. Bucky didn’t either.

Then, with a mechanical sort of carefulness, he lifted his head. “I apologize for earlier. I didn’t realize that would offend you.”

“You didn’t offend me,” Bucky said finally. He looked away, jaw working. “Just… don’t do that again.”

The Asset blinked slowly. “Did I do something wrong?” There was no defensiveness in his voice. No shame. It was a pure request for information, the way someone might ask if they’d misfiled a document. A soldier trying to adapt.  

The Soldier looked away, just for a moment. Jaw tight. Shoulders like stone. Then he paced, slow steps. Controlled. His hands were by his sides, but his right curled briefly into a fist. “You tried to use sex to manipulate me,” Bucky said at last.

The Asset nodded again. Calmly. “It works on most handlers.” Silence again. “I’m well-trained,” he offered. “I can adjust my behavior to your preferences.”

Bucky’s hands clenched at his sides before he could stop them. “Stop it,” he said sharply.

The reaction was instant. The Asset’s mouth shut with an audible click, and he went rigid on the cot, spine perfectly aligned, chin lifted like he was awaiting judgment. Submission posture. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a beat.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, long and low. He rubbed a hand down his face, before walking over to lean against the wall near the door. Not too close. Not in reach.  “Just... stop talking like that.” 

The Asset hesitated. This was the part that usually brought punishment. Or rewiring. Or sedation. But the Soldier wasn’t moving like he meant to strike. He looked like he was waiting. Still, the Asset said nothing. Not silence out of defiance. Silence out of confusion. Why interrogate him and not use him? Why not threaten? Or touch? Or command? He did not understand.

The Soldier took another breath, slower this time. There was another pause. Long. Heavy. Then Bucky began pacing again. “You remember missions?” he asked. “You remember what they made you do?” He didn't speak, and the Soldier sigh. “I’m not here to… control you,” Bucky said, finally. “I just need to ask you some questions.”

The Asset nodded once, despite how his stomach curled. “Understood.”

Bucky kept his voice steady. “How long were you with HYDRA?”

There was a beat of silence. He didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. His face remained passive, blank. Then: “Classified.” Bucky frowned. Another pause. Then, calmly: “My last debrief was thirty-nine hours ago. Operational protocol remains active until updated or terminated.”

Bucky didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. But he knew that would read as frustration, and frustration could be seen as weakness. The Asset saw it anyway. “Who gave the debrief?”

He hesitated. Not long - barely a pause, but the Asset knew he could give information so long as none of it was important. Maybe it could even be used to sway him. Seen as compliant and docile and cooperative. Still, it felt like a betrayal as he said, “Handler Rostov.”

Bucky had heard it before. Bastard. “He ever hurt you?”

Peter blinked, almost confused by the question. “All punishments were within acceptable parameters.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Peter was silent again.

Bucky pushed off the wall and crossed his arms. “What kind of missions did they send you on?”

There was no change in his expression, but his hands - still folded neatly in his lap - tightened slightly. “Surveillance. Retrieval. Termination. Reconnaissance. Intelligence extraction.”

“How old were you when they got you?”

“I don’t have that information,” he said. “Asset training began immediately after intake. Biological age was not a focus.”

Bucky tried again, softer this time. “Do you remember anything you were before HYDRA?”

Silence.

The Asset didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But there was something underneath the stillness now, something too tightly coiled to be calm. His gaze didn’t shift. He had been gone for days, at least. Assuming four, now, he only had three days to make contact before HYDRA would mark him as defective or deficient. He was starving. He needed to get out.

He finally asked, “is this your new mission directive?”

“No,” Bucky said. “That’s not what this is.” The Soldier looked like he regretted the words immediately.  

“If there is no mission,” he said, voice just a hair quieter, “what is the purpose of this containment?”

“We’re trying to help you,” Bucky said.

The Asset stared at him for a long time. “Am I… being retrained?”

“No,” Bucky said, and this time it came out firmer than he meant it to. “You’re not a weapon.”

He blinked again. The silence stretched. He looked down at his hands, then slowly back up at Bucky. “Then what am I?”

The Soldier didn’t answer. Instead, after another few seconds, he turned toward the door.

—

Harley stood in front of the reinforced glass, arms crossed tight against his chest, eyes fixed on the figure inside. He hadn’t blinked in a while, and he didn’t really notice. His gaze was locked on Peter - or what was left of him.

"He's not moving," Harley said, voice low, rough. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Steve stood beside him, equally still. "He hasn't moved in hours."

Harley leaned forward a little, forehead nearly touching the glass. His breath fogged a tiny circle on the surface before he exhaled shakily and pulled back. Inside the containment cell, Peter remained slumped in the far corner, curled slightly inward like he was trying to disappear into the wall. His knees were drawn up, but barely. His back was bowed with the kind of tension that didn’t come from pain alone, but from a quiet, crushing despair.

"He looks hungry," Harley murmured.

Steve didn’t answer right away. Then, with a quiet sigh, he said, "He's starving."

Harley swallowed, his throat dry. The sharp sting of helplessness settled behind his eyes, and he blinked it away. He wasn’t going to cry in front of Steve. He wasn’t going to break. "Why isn’t he eating?" Harley asked.

Steve shook his head. "He still thinks he’s on a mission. He won’t eat unless it’s part of his conditioning protocol. We can't reach him. Not yet."

Harley pressed his knuckles to the glass, not quite a fist. Just enough pressure to keep himself grounded. "I need to talk to him."

Steve’s body tensed. He turned slightly, enough to put himself between Harley and the door. "No."

"Please." Harley’s voice cracked, and he didn’t care this time. He looked up at Steve, eyes wide and wet and desperate. "Please. Just for a minute. He’s - he’s so weak. He’s going to die in there. He needs someone who isn’t a soldier. Just let me talk to him. I won’t go near him. I swear."

Steve's jaw was tight, his expression unreadable. Harley could see the storm behind his eyes though. The hesitation. The war he was fighting internally.

For a long time, Steve didn’t move.

Then he looked back at the cell, eyes lingering on Peter’s crumpled form. Something flickered there. Not sympathy. Recognition. Understanding. He’d seen this before. Maybe not with Peter, but with Bucky. In another life, another cell. And maybe in the tight line of Harley’s shoulders, the fierce way he refused to look away, Steve saw a reflection of himself. Harley didn't know, or even particularly care. He just wanted to get in.

He exhaled slowly. "If I let you in, I’m watching the whole time. If he so much as twitches, I’m pulling you out."

Harley nodded, fast. "Yes. Yeah. That’s fine. I’ll stay by the door. I won’t move closer. I promise." Steve held his gaze for another moment. Then he turned, entered the security code on the panel, and the door hissed open. As Harley stepped through, he paused just long enough to say, "Thank you."

Steve didn’t answer. He just watched. Waiting.

Inside the cell, Peter didn’t move. Didn’t lift his head. Didn’t react at all.

Harley swallowed hard. 

—

The Asset was not asleep.

He didn’t sleep in the traditional sense anymore. Not unless sedation was involved, or the pain had taken him far enough from conscious awareness to simulate the effect. His body did what it had been trained to do - shut down non-essential processes, conserve oxygen, slow the heart, regulate muscle twitch - but his mind remained lit, sharp and crawling with static.

It was always too loud in his head.

Right now, he was under the bed.

The metal frame above him cast long shadows, breaking the fluorescent light that spilled in from the single fixture near the cell ceiling. The space underneath was narrow and cramped, but he had folded himself into it hours ago, tucking his knees toward his chest, spine flattened against cold cement. A spider limb curled around his waist protectively, another coiled near his shoulder, poised like it might lash out if something moved too fast.

He liked the edges under here. The way the walls and floor closed in around him. Contained. Predictable. If someone wanted to grab him, they would have to reach. If someone aimed a gun, the angles would be off. If someone tried to speak-

He could ignore them.

The blankets had slipped down hours ago. He hadn’t moved to retrieve them. His skin felt cold, but that was tolerable. Pain meant the body was working. Pain was information. Pain was safe.

He stared at the dust particles swirling in the gap between floor and mattress. They caught the light when the HVAC unit hummed to life overhead. He tracked each one, counting the turns they took. Seven-point-two rotations per speck before it vanished into stillness again.

That was when the door opened.

The light shifted. A shadow fell across the floor. Not heavy boots. No clank of reinforced plates or military tread. Just sneakers. Cautious. Light.

The Asset didn’t move.

He kept one arm pulled beneath the bed, his fingers curled around the base of the mattress slat. The limb stayed still by his shoulder. He flattened his breathing to the barest whisper of noise, trained on the voice when it came.

“Hey.”

That voice was not an interrogator’s voice. It didn’t belong to the handlers. Too young. Too uncertain. 

The boy.

The one with the messy hair and the anxious mouth. The one who’d gotten in through the doors. The one who had seen him, crouched and still and feral on the ground, and didn’t scream or run. Just stared. Just… sat there.

The boy was back.

The Asset’s eyes tracked the shadow as it moved farther into the room. Not a threat posture. No quick movement. Nothing in the hands - unless he was hiding a weapon in his waistband. That was possible. Even likely. HYDRA had done worse with children.

The boy approached the bed, hesitating just long enough to leave his scent in the air - shampoo, graphite, faint traces of oil and copper wiring - and crouched. “Are you-” he started, then stopped. “It’s me. Harley. From before. Not sure if you remember…”

The Asset did not respond. He didn’t blink. He looked through him. Harley leaned slightly to the side, trying to catch his gaze, but the Asset turned his face toward the wall, half-shielded by the mattress frame. It wasn’t a refusal. It was strategy. Denial of visibility. A way to assess without being assessed.

He could hear the boy’s breathing. Too fast. A bit uneven. There was no immediate sign of fear - but there was nervousness. Palms probably sweaty. Pupils likely dilated. The signs were easy to recognize.

The Asset did not move.

He watched Harley through the shadows, just peripheral, tracking the hand that had rested on the floor now shifting into a backpack. He expected a device. Some kind of monitoring tool. A sedation patch, maybe. A camera.

But the boy pulled out… a binder. A battered school binder, three rings bent and stuffed with loose paper, tabs worn at the edges. A pencil was stuck behind his ear.  Then, without ceremony, Harley sat. Right there. On the cold floor. In front of the Asset’s bed. He crossed his legs, opened the binder, and started writing.

The Asset froze.

He waited. Two minutes passed. Then five. Then seven. The only sounds were the scratch of the pencil and the occasional creak of a shifting sneaker sole. Harley didn’t say anything. Didn’t do anything. Didn’t reach under the bed. Didn’t ask for a name. Didn’t call for backup.

He just… sat there. Working.

It was wrong.

Nothing in the Asset’s training accounted for this behavior. People didn’t just sit with assets. People didn’t ignore assets. They commanded them. Controlled them. Restrained them. Interrogated. Monitored. Evaluated. Broke down. Rebuilt.

But Harley just flipped a page and scratched a long equation across the margin.

The Asset found himself - against his better judgment - glancing up. Just once. Just enough to confirm the angle of Harley’s wrist, the tension in his jaw, the slow, rhythmic tapping of his foot as he did math.

None of it was threatening.

All of it was deeply, deeply confusing.

Harley said nothing for forty-three minutes. Then he stood. He didn’t speak a goodbye. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t even make a sound until he turned, slowly, and walked to the metal tray still resting near the door.

The Asset had ignored that tray for a day and a half.

The food was probably cold by now. Some kind of starch and protein paste in sealed pouches. It didn’t smell like poison, but smell wasn’t reliable. Neither was sight. HYDRA had disguised worse things in appealing packaging.

But Harley didn’t take the tray. He knelt down instead and added something to it. A wrapped bar of some kind. Then - without looking under the bed again - he left. The door clicked shut behind him.

And the Asset remained frozen.

He’d missed his chance. He still had the blade, tucked in the folds of the suit. The boy wasn’t close enough to attack, anyway. He didn’t move for another hour. Maybe more. Time blurred inside the walls. He knew it was irrational, but every muscle was still tense, still waiting for a catch, a trap, a second wave of handlers or punishment for non-compliance. But none came.

Just the quiet. Just the buzz of the light. The static in his skull. The faint scent of banana, protein and salt. The spider limb near his shoulder twitched.

He stared at the tray.

Then, inch by inch, a second limb uncoiled.

He hissed as it pulled from his skin, and it stretched slowly across the concrete floor, slipping over the faded gray tile without a sound, legs splayed like a crab as it neared the tray. One long claw tapped the edge.  Waited.

No reaction.

Another inch. Then another.

The bar was sealed. No punctures. No discoloration. The wrapper crinkled faintly when the claw pinched it, dragging it back across the floor in slow, deliberate movements.

He didn’t eat it.

Not yet. But he took it. Dragged it under the bed, and curled around it like a scavenger guarding his kill. Not edible. But he was staving, and desperate, and if he attacked the boy they would surely kill him. This would have to do for now.

— 

The boy came back.

The lights in the containment room buzzed faintly overhead. Too bright, too white, too clean. The Asset kept his gaze forward, back perfectly straight against the sterile wall. He did not rest against it. His shoulders hovered millimeters from contact. Touch was weakness. Leaning was indulgence. Comfort was earned.

The Asset sat on the floor of the containment room, spine stiff, posture perfect, legs folded precisely beneath him. Every second was calculated. Every breath measured.  He did not fidget. He did not twitch. Movement meant energy. Movement meant distraction. He had neither to spare. Every inch of his posture was deliberate, his stillness absolute. Even blinking came at measured intervals, each movement calibrated to conserve energy and attention.

Across the room, Harley was talking again.

Not standing. Not behind the glass like Stark usually was, mouth tight with guilt and worry and something bordering on disgust. Not behind the two-way mirror like the Captain, silent and observing. Not even pacing the floor like Barnes, whose movements were clipped and military even when he was pretending not to watch. No, Harley was different.

Harley insisted on sitting beside him.

The Asset still didn’t understand it.

From the first visit, the boy had simply walked in, kicked off his shoes - why? - and dropped down beside him on the floor with a huff. Not close enough to touch, but closer than the others ever dared. The Asset hadn’t reacted at the time. He hadn’t known how. He’d simply catalogued the behavior, marked it as non-threatening, and waited for it to change. But it hadn’t.

Now, it was routine. Harley would come in, sit cross-legged in front of him, then beside him like they were equals, and talk about nothing. About names and places that meant nothing. About people that the Asset didn’t remember - should remember - but who existed only in photographs or files or facial composites in briefing folders.

Like now.

Harley was warm beside him on the floor. Still sitting cross-legged like the Asset wasn’t dangerous. Like he was still someone he could talk to. The kid had sat himself down again, next to the Asset, shoulder brushing his. Closer than protocol allowed. He didn’t understand why. That intimacy confused him. Made it harder to pin Harley as either a captor or a threat. But proximity was good. He could use it.

“…she used to call you ‘Penelope Parker,’ you know?” Harley was saying with a low chuckle, nudging him lightly with an elbow. “Every time you got all mopey. MJ. She thought it was hilarious.”

The Asset didn’t react outwardly, but he absorbed the name. Michelle Jones. Cross-referenced: civilian. Student. Close contact. Minimal threat assessment. Known alias: MJ. Sarcastic. Verbally dominant. Not a handler. Possibly a friend. He turned his head slightly. Blinked once. Expression blank.

“Penelope,” he repeated, voice flat. “You are misgendering the subject. That is a female identifier.”

Harley grinned like he’d expected the reaction. “Yeah, well, you’d sit around moping with that kicked puppy look, and she couldn’t help herself.”

Moping. Puppy. Insult? Teasing? Affectionate slur? He didn’t know. It wasn’t in the manual. Contextual tone read as… affectionate? But Harley’s eyes were soft in a way the Asset couldn’t parse, which made his threat level hard to define.

He turned his head fully now, studying Harley with quiet intensity. The boy was still close. Still relaxed. Legs spread out haphazardly on the concrete, back leaned casually against the wall. One of his arms brushed the Asset’s knee when he gestured too widely. He had no training. No discipline. He shouldn’t be this at ease with someone so dangerous.

The Asset narrowed his gaze.

He turned his head slowly. Calculating. Weighing. He’d marked this one early - emotional, reactive, softer than the others. Not physically weak, but susceptible. He was still sitting on the floor beside him. That was weakness. Harley had to be emotional. It was the only explanation for such consistent irrational behavior. Emotional, reactive, ruled by sentiment. Not logic. Not strategy.

Which made him exploitable.

The thought settled like cold steel behind his ribs. The Asset adjusted his hands minutely in his lap. “Do you pity me?” he asked.

Harley paused mid-sentence, blinking like he hadn’t heard correctly. “What?”

“Your presence implies sympathy. Your tone implies familiarity. Your behavior implies attachment,” the Asset asked again, tilting his head. Voice soft. Low. “Your emotional displays are disorganized and inefficient. I am trying to determine your motivation. Do you pity me?”

Harley looked at him with a complicated expression - somewhere between disbelief and discomfort. His brow furrowed. Harley looked confused. Uncomfortable. That was promising. “Man, no. That’s not - Peter, I’m not here because I pity you.”

Peter.

The name made his chest tighten involuntarily. The correction came instinctively. “Do not call me that,” he said, sharper than intended. “There is no Peter. That designation is void.”

“Right.” Harley’s voice dropped. Softer now. He didn’t move away. “I’m just saying… you don’t need to talk like that. You’re not a weapon.”

The Asset said nothing.

Instead, he leaned closer. Shifted subtly on his knees. Calculated the angle of movement. Tested for resistance. Harley didn’t move.

“Do you care about me?” He asked. 

Harley stared. “What?”

“Do you want me to die?” the Asset tried again, blunter.

“No,” Harley blurted, shocked. “What-?”

“Then let me out,” the Asset said, voice sharper now. “I will not harm you. I need to leave. They will terminate me. Defectors are subject to cleansing protocol. I am not defective. I can be useful. But only if I return.”

Harley’s brows furrowed. “Peter, you’re not going back there. You’re not-”

Then, in one smooth movement as he lifted himself onto his knees and turned to face Harley fully. Barely a shift at first. A subtle shift of weight that wouldn’t register as a threat, just an adjustment. Harley didn’t flinch. Good. He didn’t see it coming.

“I need to leave,” the Asset said, voice quieter now, closer to a whisper, as if imparting something secret. “They will terminate me. HYDRA will assume I’ve defected. Or that I’ve been compromised. If I do not return, they will mark me as irreparable. You do not understand what that means. It’s not exile. It’s not prison.” He paused. Measured Harley’s face. “It’s death.”

Harley’s throat bobbed in a swallow. “They’re not gonna kill you, Peter.”

“I am not-” The Asset bit off the rest of the sentence. Breathing too fast now. A crack in the armor. Sloppy. He steadied himself. “You don’t understand,” he repeated. “They don’t rehabilitate broken tools. They discard them. I’m not trying to escape for freedom. I’m trying to survive.”

Harley’s expression twisted. Still emotional. Still uncertain. But his posture hadn’t changed. Still relaxed. Still sitting beside him like they were equals. The Asset tilted his head. Calculated again. If emotional appeals didn’t work, he’d try something else. A different bribe. He shifted forward, deliberate now.

So he pressed in - subtle. Enough to feel Harley’s thigh under his own, and then more deliberate. His knee shifted, and then his other leg followed, slow and confident as he threw it over Harley’s lap, straddling him and settling into it with practiced grace, his hands brushing lightly along the boy’s shoulders. Pressed his chest against the boy’s. Watched the way Harley stiffened, arms frozen. He was shocked. Speechless. Good. That was good.

Not violent. Not aggressive. Seductive. A distraction. A weaponized tactic. He moved with the kind of ease that made it feel routine. Expected. Like this had worked before.

Because it had. Dozens of times. High-ranking operatives, compromised assets, low-level guards. Sex had gotten him out of countless locked rooms and tight spaces. It wasn’t a reward, or a punishment - it was just another tool. He’d been trained for this. Conditioned to use it. He knew what worked. Knew what to say. What to do. And this - this always worked. Especially on the emotional ones.

He was a perfect lure when needed. Pretty, they called him.  

Harley froze.

Perfect.

 He leaned closer, nosed at Harley’s jaw, fingers curling lightly around the edge of Harley’s shirt. “You’re emotional,” the Asset murmured against his ear. “You don’t want me to die. I can be of use to you. I can offer more than loyalty.”

The Asset leaned forward. Let his breath ghost against Harley’s cheek, and hoped that the others behind the glass wall weren’t watching. Maybe Harley had been stupid enough to come down here himself, the Asset figured as he watched the goosebumps rise along his neck. 

“You’re soft,” he breathed, voice carefully low. “You’ll help me if you think I’ll break. I can give you something in return. Something useful. Something real.”

His fingers brushed down Harley’s chest, curling lightly at his collar. Slowly, he began to rock forward, testing pressure. Testing proximity. Harley didn’t speak. His eyes were wide, mouth parted like he was going to say something - but nothing came out. His face turned red. His hands twitched where they rested on the floor.

Good, he thought. He was distracted. This was working.

The Asset took that as permission.

He leaned in, pressing forward, letting his weight shift into Harley’s lap. His hands came up to rest on Harley’s chest, and then trailed lightly over his shoulders. Harley’s breath caught. Still not moving. Peter could feel the hitch in his lungs under his palms.

 “Please,” the Asset said, quiet and even. Not pleading - calculated. It had to sound like desperation. People responded to desperation. He pressed closer, spider-limbs flickering faintly under his skin with the effort of holding himself upright. He was starving. His back was screaming. His ribs ached from where he’d been pressed under the cot for hours. But none of it mattered.

He was about to win.

And then-

“No,” Harley said again, but this time it came out cracked. “Dude - what the hell - Peter, stop-” Harley’s hands were pushing at his hips, gentle but firm. Not in. Away. The Asset’s heart rate spiked. Pulse thudded in his ears. No. No, not rejection. This wasn’t - he could pivot. Could redirect. Harley was soft. Harley just needed more coaxing, more- “Stop,” Harley said again, voice harder now. “I don’t - just get off - what are you doing?”

And just like that, the Asset’s last viable tactic crumbled. The panic hit like a vice around his chest. Harley said no.

The word sat in the space between them like a live wire, and the Asset didn’t react at first. His face didn’t change. His hands stayed flat on the floor. He didn’t blink. It felt… wrong. Script-breakingly wrong. Like an error in a program. “No” wasn’t part of the parameters. He’d offered a trade. He’d given incentive. Harley was emotional, sentimental - he talked about things like school and friends and memory. The Asset had calculated that, leveraged it. He thought if he could be what the boy wanted - if he gave him access, obedience, availability - then it would be enough.

It should’ve been enough.

But Harley had said no. Not with hesitation. Not like he was tempted. Just a firm, confused, quiet rejection. A flicker of recognition, of shame, rose behind his eyes - but he shut it down fast. That wasn’t useful. That wasn’t safe.

So the Asset adjusted. Fast.

He moved closer, a calculated pivot in approach. That was part of the protocol, too. If Plan A failed, you moved to Plan B, then Plan C. The objective was not to stop. The objective was escape. Escape meant survival. Survival meant he could return and avoid termination. Or at least avoid recapture. Avoid interrogation. Avoid the blade.

The panic hit fast and hot, bubbling up through his chest like bile. He was doing it wrong. He was losing control. The trick wasn’t working. The command wasn’t landing. Harley wasn’t taking the bait. Which meant this was it. No more options. No more time. No leverage left. He was a cornered dog.

And so the Asset did what HYDRA had taught him to do when the mission was about to collapse. He escalated.

The spider limbs came out before he even realized it - the spider limbs surged forward, two of them slamming into the floor behind Harley’s hips, boxing him in. Not enough to hurt. Not yet. Not if it worked. Peter's other limbs hovered close, twitching with tension as they bent inward. One braced by Harley’s shoulder. Another near his thigh, creeping under the bed and pulling his suit closer.

He didn’t want to use them like this. They weren’t for this. They weren’t supposed to make people stay still. They were supposed to be for walls, ceilings, reaching, grabbing.

But he had to get out.

His entire nervous system was screaming it now. He saw the shock pass across Harley’s face. Saw the moment Harley registered the shift from awkward confusion to genuine fear. That breathless, heartbeat-long pause before flight. The Asset could hear the alarm in his breath now. Good. Fear was leverage.

He yanked the knife from beneath his shirt in one smooth motion. Small. Concealed. Sharp.

The blade gleamed, catching the artificial lighting from above. He moved fast - smooth, practiced. Knife high, limbs tight, all points of control locked into place like a net snapping shut. The blade was cold in his hand, its weight grounding him as he brought it up and pressed it, gently, to Harley’s throat.

"Don’t scream," he said, tone still flat. Still calm. Just like the briefings had instructed. Fear wasn’t efficient. You had to be steady. Precise. Harley stilled instantly. His breathing went shallow. His eyes were huge. The Asset didn’t move. Just held there, panting, sweat cooling on his back, the spider limbs trembling. He didn’t want to hurt Harley. That wasn’t the goal. He didn’t even see Harley as a threat. He wasn’t trying to kill him.

He just had to get out.

The Asset leaned in. “You have to understand. If I go back, I can prove I’m still loyal. I can fix it. But if I stay here - if they keep me - they’ll put me down. Like a dog. Like a weapon that’s outlived its use.”

“Peter-” Harley whispered, voice tight.

“Asset,” he corrected sharply. “There is no Peter. I’m not your friend. I’m not-” His eyes burned. His throat felt raw. His voice came out calmer than it should have, far too level for someone panicking, but that was just the training. The useful lie of composure. Inside, his body was shaking with adrenaline. Every breath dragged like a blade through his lungs.

Harley didn't scream. But his mouth opened a little. He stopped breathing.

"Please," he said, and this time the formality cracked a little. His voice rasped. “I need to leave. I need to-” No, that was too vague. Inefficient. Ineffective. Emotional appeals didn’t work if they weren’t backed by evidence. Even HYDRA taught that. So he tried again. “They’ll terminate me.”

The words came out quickly, on a sharp exhale, like he was coughing them up. Like he’d swallowed glass and was trying to get it out.

He pressed the knife just a little closer, not enough to break the skin. He wasn’t trying to hurt Harley. Not really. He wasn’t trying to kill him. This wasn’t a mission. This was about leverage. Threat, not execution. He needed to escape. That was the priority. The only one that mattered.

“HYDRA,” the Asset whispered. “They’ll know I failed the mission. They’ll think I gave intel. I didn’t, I didn’t, but it won’t matter. They’ll think I’m compromised. They’ll come back. They’ll kill me.”

He could see Harley trying to process that - trying to keep his cool. But his eyes darted to the limbs, the blade, and his face was pale.

He leaned closer, heart hammering in his chest. “Please,” he said, again. This time his voice cracked. “If I’m not back on their grid - they’ll punish me. They’ll recycle me.”

That was what they called it, right? That was what they said to the assets that failed. Recycled. Like machines. Parts stripped, data extracted. No waste allowed. Harley still hadn’t moved. Still tense, still sitting against the wall, his hands splayed wide on the floor to keep from being seen as a threat. His pulse was visible in his neck.

His hands were sweating. His grip on the blade trembled slightly.

“I don’t want to die,” he said. It was the most honest thing he’d said in days.

The door hissed open, and the Asset flinched like he'd been shot. The limbs curled tighter. The blade pressed closer to Harley’s throat - just a millimeter, enough to make him wince - and the Asset’s head snapped toward the noise like an animal caught in headlights.

Tony Stark stood in the doorway. His repulsors were lit, gauntlets raised. He didn’t speak at first - just looked. The kind of look that made the Asset recoil a fraction. Not fear. Not hate. Disappointment. “Kid,” Tony said, carefully. “You don’t wanna do this.”

His brain blanked out. Just for a second.

All the fear, all the desperation - it didn’t vanish. It imploded. Collapsed into itself like a star gone cold. He was nothing but muscle and instinct. He stared down the barrel of a glowing gauntlet and felt his blood freeze. Because Stark wasn’t alone.

Behind him, Captain. Romanov. The defector. 

His limbs shook. His hand jerked a little, and Harley inhaled sharply. The Asset immediately adjusted the grip to keep the threat without inflicting damage. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hurt him. But he didn’t know how else to survive.

“Peter,” Tony said, carefully. “Put the knife down.”

The Asset shifted again, arm locked tighter around Harley’s throat. Blade pressing closer. Harley didn’t scream. He didn’t plead. He just looked at Tony like he’d been waiting for him the whole time. “Don’t come closer,” the Asset warned. “I’ll-”

“Kid,” Stark said, raising both palms. “Peter, easy. We’re not gonna hurt you-"

“You’re lying.” He didn’t know where the words came from. They spilled out on reflex. “I used force against - protocol says termination. I-”

“You’re not with HYDRA anymore!” Stark shouted.

“You don’t get to decide that,” the Asset said, and his voice dropped low. Cold. “They’ll come back. They always do.”

“Peter.” That voice. The Soldier now. Quiet. But sharp. “Drop the knife.”

Peter’s eyes flicked to him. And for the first time - he hesitated. The man had no weapon drawn. No fists raised. No panic. No threats. Just that voice. Something about it dug under his skin like a splinter. Peter’s breath hitched. He glanced back at Harley, who was still frozen, not resisting, not pushing - just watching. And not with fear. Not like the others had. There was something different in it.

He didn’t know what it was.

That made it harder.

Bucky stepped forward. Just once. Peter's limbs coiled tighter. “Peter,” Bucky said again, calm but firmer. “You don’t want to hurt him.”

“I don’t,” Peter said, and his voice cracked again - like the words were being pulled from him by force. “I’m just - I don’t know what else to do.” The Asset’s grip faltered for a second. Only a second. But it was enough for Harley to jerk slightly beneath him - and then freeze again when the blade nicked skin. Not deep. Not intentional.

But it bled. The Asset stared at it. He hadn’t meant to.

“Drop it,” Bucky barked in a froze him entirely.

The Asset’s hand opened, and the knife clattered onto the floor. Loud. Too loud.

And Harley moved. Shot out from under him like a slingshot released, scrambled back on all fours like he couldn't get away fast enough. His foot caught on the cot, and he crashed into the wall, hands trembling. Peter didn’t follow. He didn’t run. Didn’t attack. He just went still.

His limbs pulled back. His hands raised. Tony lunged forward and kicked the knife away. “Hands up! ” he barked. Peter obeyed. Instantly. No hesitation. His chest heaved. Sweat dripped down his spine. The extra limbs withdrew too fast and it was bright and painful as they slipped back into his skin out of fear of being removed. One of them dragged behind him, limp and flickering. The others curled in.  

The Asset raised his hands. Not out of surrender. Out of programming. He lowered his head. “I did not mean to escalate,” he said flatly. “I apologize for miscalculating.”

“Barnes, get his suit. Search it.”

The Soldier moved. Peter didn't resist.

Bucky came forward and checked Harley with a glance. He didn’t even look up as Bucky rifled through his folded uniform, found the hidden knife, and pulled it out. Didn’t flinch when Bucky patted him down, hands rough but not cruel, methodical. He whispered, “Apologies. The Asset did not intend to compromise mission stability.”

Bucky stopped moving. He kept his eyes down. Didn’t speak again. When they left, the door slammed behind them. 

​​He backed up, slow. Steady. Moved under the cot. Tucked himself into the farthest corner. The spider limbs folded around his body, shielding him even as they twitched and bled at the joints. He did not cry. He did not shake. He just waited.

Because termination would come soon. And when it did, he would not resist. 

—

There was blood on Harley’s sleeve.

Tony didn’t even realize he was moving until he was already at the kid’s side, crouched down with both hands fluttering over Harley’s shoulders as the suit fell away, then gripping his arms, then cupping his face. He was saying something - he could hear his own voice - but it felt like it was coming from underwater.

“-Harley. Harley, hey. You good? Are you okay? Talk to me, kid. What the hell happened?”

Harley looked pale and dazed, the sharp edges of panic softening into something worse - detachment. There was a tremble in his fingers, blood on his palm that wasn’t his. He blinked slowly like he was just now registering Tony's face hovering inches from his.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to,” Harley muttered. “I swear. He just started - he just...”

“I know,” Tony said, voice quieting instinctively. “I saw. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? You’re not in trouble. Well. You are. Trust me, I’m gonna rip you a new one for sneaking in without me down here, but that’s later, okay? We’re just gonna make sure you’re okay, first.”

Natasha came into view and immediately dropped to one knee beside them, eyes sweeping over Harley, scanning for injury, signs of shock and gently prying Harley’s shaking hands away from the dried blood. “I’ve got him, Tony,” she said. “He needs to get upstairs to the Medbay. I’ll sit with him.”

“Yeah.” Tony nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah, okay. Just - make sure he drinks something. Juice or water. Something cold. No caffeine. He’s probably - he’s probably gonna crash.”

Natasha gave a clipped nod, already helping Harley to his feet with a hand firm on his elbow. Harley didn’t protest. His legs were stiff, but he moved. The shock had him in a chokehold. Tony hated seeing him like that. Hated more that it had happened under his nose.

He waited until they were out of earshot and the elevator doors closed before he turned around and let it all hit him like a damn truck.

“What the actual hell just happened?” Tony barked, whirling around to face the others. “How the hell did Harley get in without me being alerted? You know I’ve got seven layers of security on that door!”

There was a pause. Steve shifted his weight. Bucky stood statue-still.

“I let him in,” Steve said. His voice was low, but steady. “Earlier this week. I supervised. Peter - he responded to him.”

Tony stared. “You what ?”

“I didn’t leave them alone,” Steve said quickly, hands raised slightly. “I was right there. I didn’t tell you because - I didn’t know if it would help, but it did. He talked to Harley. He took food that Harley left him, and he ate it. First time since we brought him back.”

Tony’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. His brain was lagging behind his temper. “And what - because he ate once, that made it a good idea to let Harley wander into the containment floor alone?”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t send him down there.”

“But he knew the codes. Which means he had access. Which means you let him in once and didn’t tell me, so he thought it was okay to come back. Alone.”

“He thought he was helping.”

“Helping?!” Tony barked out a harsh laugh, gesturing toward the elevator where Harley had disappeared through. “That kid is barely seventeen! He could’ve been gutted! He shouldn’t even know Peter’s down here in the first place!”

“But he does now,” Bucky growled under his breath, arms crossed. “No putting that genie back in the bottle.”

Tony shot him a sharp glare, but Bucky wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at the one-way glass again, jaw locked, expression unreadable.

Steve’s voice was quieter now. “I’m not saying it was smart. I’m saying it worked, once. He ate something. It made him sick, yeah. He threw it up. But it still got past the barrier. It was the first breakthrough we’ve had.”

“That’s not a breakthrough,” Tony said flatly. “That’s Russian roulette.”

“I know.”

“He could’ve died.”

“I know that too.”

“Do you?” Tony snapped. “Because if you’d really thought about what might’ve happened, I don’t think you’d be standing there trying to justify it.”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you are, Cap. You’re trying to justify risking Harley’s life because you’re projecting your and Barnes’ shit onto these kids.”

Steve exhaled slowly through his nose. “I won’t let Harley go down again. Not even with me there. We’re on the same side, Tony.”

Tony shook his head and turned away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He couldn’t stop seeing the blade against Harley’s throat, those spider-limbs that could’ve pierced a lung. Punctured an artery.

God, he could’ve killed him.

Tony had tried to think of every possibility. Had locked down that entire level with enough failsafes to keep even the Hulk contained, if it came to that. But it hadn’t occurred to him that Harley would be the one to walk into the lion’s den and nearly get mauled.

“I just…” Tony’s voice cracked without permission. “I just need one thing to go right, and instead I get this.”

“He’s not thinking clearly,” Bucky muttered, still looking through the glass. “He’s not - he’s not trying to kill anyone. But he’s desperate.”

Tony glanced over.

Bucky nodded toward the containment cell. “Look.”

Tony followed his line of sight. Inside the room, Peter had retreated. Again. Back into that goddamn corner, his back to the wall, knees drawn up, arms locked around them. His head was down, spider limbs curled in defensively. The remaining ones, anyway. He looked smaller than ever.

“Every time someone gets close, he panics,” Bucky said, tone flat. “But he doesn’t go for the throat. Not really. It’s always a warning shot.”

Tony didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to say anything that wasn’t dripping with guilt. Because Bucky was right - and that might’ve been the worst part. Peter wasn’t trying to kill Harley. He was trying to get away. Trying to make space. The same way an animal trapped in a cage lashes out - not to destroy, but to survive. And the worst of it - the real knife in the ribs - was that Peter had liked Harley. Before all of this. Before HYDRA turned his brain into static and cut him off from everyone who ever gave a damn.

Harley had been family. Tony didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

He took a breath. Shaky. Slow. Turned back to Steve. “No one goes in there without my say-so. Not even you. Not Bucky. Not Natasha. I don’t care what kind of reaction he has - if it’s not planned and monitored and cleared through me, it doesn’t happen.”

Steve nodded. “Understood.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just kept staring at the kid inside the glass box. Tony ran a hand through his hair. It came back damp. “Great,” he muttered. “Now I get to explain to Harley why his big emotional gamble ended in blood and screaming. That’ll be fun.”

He looked toward the hallway Natasha had taken Harley down. Part of him wanted to go after them. Sit down. Explain. Apologize. Make it right.

But what the hell could he say?

Hey, sorry you thought being kind might fix him. Guess trauma doesn’t work like that. Thanks for trying, though. Try not to have nightmares.

Tony turned back toward the glass, jaw tight. Peter hadn’t moved. But Tony could see the way his spine trembled, even from here, like he was waiting for punishment.

—

A day passed.

Twenty-four hours of silence. Of Peter curled up in the farthest corner of the containment room, barely moving except to shift his weight from one aching side to the other. Tony watched it all from the surveillance window, the feed flickering occasionally as FRIDAY cycled through thermal, infrared, vitals. It didn’t help. No matter the angle, the kid still looked like he was dying.

Tony didn’t say it out loud, but he was starting to wonder if that was exactly what Peter was doing.

He had stopped responding to sound. Didn’t flinch when the intercom buzzed. Didn’t lift his head when the lights changed. Bucky had spoken Russian through the glass - nothing. Steve had tried everything from bargaining to reading him the Daily Bugle - still nothing, which in Tony’s opinion was probably the strongest evidence something was wrong. The Peter he remembered wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to rant about Jameson calling him a “mutant menace” again.

He was just... folded in on himself. Limbs drawn tight to his chest, one broken spider-limb hanging limp and darkened at the tip like it had started to rot. The others barely twitched anymore. His face was hidden behind his knees. Shoulders shuddered every now and then, like he was cold or hurting or both. The blanket they’d given him was half-draped across his back but kept slipping off because he didn’t have the energy to pull it back up.

Tony stood with his hands jammed deep in his pockets, watching the kid like he was waiting for him to fall apart in real-time. “Jesus,” he muttered. “He looks like a starved dog.”

Bucky, standing just behind him with arms crossed, didn’t look away from the glass. “I was gonna go in. This morning. Thought maybe I could talk to him.”

Tony turned slightly.

“But?” he prompted.

Bucky’s expression didn’t shift. “Didn’t look good. He was already gone when I came down.”

Tony glanced back through the glass. “Gone how?”

“Checked out,” Bucky said. “Not unconscious, just… not there. Like he’s already made peace with whatever’s coming next.”

The silence that followed sat heavy between them. It wasn’t a metaphor anymore. This wasn’t Tony being dramatic. Peter wasn’t eating. Wasn’t drinking. Hadn’t moved in hours. And that twitch - every time he flinched or trembled - it wasn’t the restless agitation they’d seen when he’d first been locked in. It was something deeper. Bone-level. It looked like pain.

Tony pressed his palm to the glass, thumb dragging across the cool surface. “Can’t we just stick him with an IV or something? Get some nutrients in there, even if he doesn’t want it?”

“He’ll tear it out,” Bucky said immediately. “Soon as he wakes up. And if we sedate him to keep it in...”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Tony didn’t need him to.

He turned his head toward the other man. “You think it’d do more harm than good.”

“Yeah.”

Tony let his forehead drop gently against the glass, breathing in slow. “This is insane. He’s gonna go septic from the limb injury, or pass out from malnutrition, or-”

“Tony.” He looked up. Bucky’s voice was quieter now. Not gentle - he wasn’t good at that - but real. Steady. “He’s not giving up because he wants to die. He’s doing it because that’s how they trained him. HYDRA doesn’t let you live past usefulness. If you’re broken, you’re done.”

Tony swallowed hard. His throat felt like sandpaper. “I hate this,” he said under his breath. “I hate this so much.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Me too.”

They stood in silence for another few seconds. Then Tony pushed off the glass and turned away. “I’m going in.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “You bringing food?”

“Yeah. Steve said whatever he ate last made him sick. Probably too much sugar. We’re trying something else.” Tony pulled off his jacket, tossed it onto the bench, and grabbed the tray he’d left in the warming unit. It wasn’t fancy. No flashy seasoning. Nothing with dyes or chemical preservatives. Just plain roasted chicken breast, a little soft rice, a few steamed vegetables, and a bowl of thin broth with enough nutrients to at least buy them time.

Minimal salt. No spice. Just food, stripped down to the bones.

Tony wasn’t betting on a miracle. But maybe - maybe - Peter’s body would recognize it as something that didn’t come from HYDRA’s kitchen.

He keyed in the access code and waited for the inner door to unlock. The containment room was temperature-controlled, sterile, and quiet. The moment the door hissed open, a wave of stillness hit him like a wall. Even the sound of his boots was dulled.

Peter didn’t move.

Tony entered slowly, keeping his posture loose. Non-threatening. He carried the tray in both hands like it was a peace offering. “Hey, kid,” he said softly. “Got you something.”

Still no movement.

He crossed the room, pausing a few feet away from the curled form on the floor. Closer up, it was worse. Peter’s skin had taken on a sickly grayish cast. His lips were cracked. His eyes - half-lidded, dull - flickered once toward Tony but didn’t hold the gaze.

“Soup,” Tony said, his voice was quieter than usual. Not sharp. Not barking. Just… steady. Like he was talking to something fragile. Breakable. Peter blinked slowly, eyes trained on the floor. He didn’t lift his head. “Rice. Chicken. Stuff people actually eat on purpose. No sugar cubes this time or whatever the hell Harley tried to feed you before.”

His limbs - both human and not - stayed curled against the cot frame. The spider limbs didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise to threaten. They hung low and unmoving, splayed along the mattress like he didn’t remember they were part of him.

Tony sat cross-legged on the floor just outside arm’s reach, the tray between them - close enough to slide the tray within reach but far enough not to trigger a panic response. The spider limbs didn’t even flinch this time. That might’ve scared him more than anything.

“I get it,” he murmured, like he was talking to the floor. “You think you’re done. That you messed up and this is the end of the line.” Peter didn’t answer. Tony sighed. “But that’s not how this works. Not here.”

Not here.

Peter’s fingers twitched where they curled under his chin.

“I have to go back,” he whispered. Tony kind of wanted to cry. “I have to…”

“No can do, kiddo,” Tony said gently, and he tried not to throw anything. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have anything else. Peter just turned away. Curled tighter. Pressed his cheek to the wall under the cot and slid backwards, letting the shadows swallow him inch by inch until his back touched the cool metal bars. The tray stayed where it was.

The soup cooled.

Tony waited, and waited, and wondered if Peter waited for him, too, those first few months. He wondered if this was karmic justice for letting the kid rot away in god knows where just to watch him fade away in front of him.

“Okay,” Tony murmured, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I’ll leave you to it.” Then he stood. Peter didn’t look up. He couldn’t. The door hissed open, then shut.

The tray stayed untouched, steam curling upward in the silence until there wasn’t any left. The spider limbs flexed once in his sleep, but he didn’t come out.

—

The lab was quiet, for once. A kind of eerie quiet that usually meant something was wrong. Stark Industries never truly slept, not even in the belly of Avengers Tower, and yet the lab lights hummed softly like a lullaby. Tony had been calibrating the biometric stabilizers for the latest suit - nothing fancy, just a simple upgrade to keep his hands busy, to avoid spiraling again over the kid downstairs.

He hadn’t heard Peter’s voice in days. Not even the clipped, robotic tone of the Asset. The silence gnawed at him. It always did.

"Boss," FRIDAY said, voice interrupting his thoughts with an unnatural edge. "It’s Peter."

Tony looked up immediately, chest tightening. "What about him? Did he get out? Is someone hurt?" He was already moving, stepping away from the workbench as his mind supplied the worst possible scenarios. Peter had escaped. He'd snapped. Maybe killed someone. Maybe killed himself. Shit. Shit.

"No," FRIDAY said. "He’s seizing."

Tony froze, halfway out the door. The words didn't make sense. Not at first. Then they settled like lead in his chest. "Seizing? What the hell - why?"

"I don’t know yet," FRIDAY admitted. "But I ran a scan as soon as I detected irregular motor activity. There’s something... off. A device, possibly."

Tony's blood ran cold. He turned on his heel and started running, heart hammering in his chest. "What kind of device?"

"Something implanted in his neck. Near the C2 vertebrae. Small, shielded. I can’t get a clear reading."

“What can you scan?” Tony snapped. “Components, chemical irregularities, Jesus, give me anything, girl.” He hit the elevator hard enough to rattle the frame, jabbing the override key until it started descending. His stomach swayed with the motion, or maybe it was just panic threatening to boil over. "Could it be a tracker? A transmitter?"

"No signal. No pingback. No data bursts," she said. "But..."

Tony hated that hesitation. "But what?"

"There’s something foreign. Chemical residues, trace metals. The outer casing reads like it's designed to disperse a payload. Possibly biological. Possibly-"

"What, like a neurotoxin? A failsafe?"

"Yes, boss." Tony stumbled out of the elevator before the doors even fully opened, sprinting down the corridor. His chest ached. His hands were already shaking. "He's still alive because of the healing factor," FRIDAY added quietly. "But it's drawing it out. Slowly. Electrically."

"Like it’s cooking him," Tony whispered, horrified.

"Yes."

He hit the lower containment level like a hurricane. Steve and Bucky were already inside the monitoring room, eyes wide, tense. "What the hell is happening to him?" Tony demanded.

Bucky turned. "Something's wrong with his nervous system. His muscles started locking up. We couldn’t stop it."

Tony shoved past them, fingers fumbling the override code for the inner chamber. He punched it in twice, too fast the first time, trembling the second. The lock protested. Safety protocols blared at him. He didn't give a shit.

The door hissed open, the air pressure sealing behind him with a whisper like a tomb. "Pete - Peter, hey, it’s me," he said, falling to his knees.

He couldn’t touch. Not yet. Peter's body was still convulsing, every muscle fighting itself. His eyes were blown wide, pupils like ink in milk. Blood streaked from his mouth, smeared across his cheek. He must’ve bitten through something.

Tony didn't breathe. He just watched. Counted the seconds. Counted the beats.

Finally, Peter stilled. Collapsed in on himself like a puppet with strings cut. His fingers twitched. His breathing was shallow. But he was alive. Tony let out a slow, unsteady breath.

Behind him, Bucky's voice was grim. "Hydra used to install things like that. For control. For insurance. If an asset got captured... or rescued..."

Tony turned, pale. "You’re saying if we don’t send him back, it kills him?"

Bucky didn’t look away. "Or makes him kill himself."

Tony sat back hard against the floor. "Jesus Christ."

FRIDAY spoke again, voice solemn. "We need to remove it, boss. I can’t guarantee how long he has. The device is active and escalating."

"We don’t have time to prep the medbay," Tony muttered, brain whirring.

"Then we do it here," Bucky said. "On the floor if we have to."

Tony stood, hands trembling. "FRI, get Banner. Get Helen. Anyone with surgical experience. I want that thing out of him yesterday."

"Already en route."

Peter let out a sound then. Not a word. Not a scream. A low, guttural whine that rose into a raw gasp as another spasm seized him. His back arched, limbs trembling. Tony fell to his knees again, pressing a hand near Peter's shoulder without actually making contact. "Hey, hey, we got you. We’re gonna get it out. Just hold on. You hear me?"

Peter didn’t respond. His body jerked again, and again, and Tony wanted to be sick. Steve knelt beside him, voice tight. "We need to stabilize him until help gets here. If that thing’s delivering shocks, it could stop his heart."

Tony nodded, eyes locked on Peter’s face. "He’ll be okay. We’ll stabilize him then cut the damn thing out."

He didn’t care how deep they had to go. He didn’t care if they tore every inch of HYDRA tech out with their bare hands. He was not going to lose the kid again. 

The wait for Bruce and Helen to get down to their floor was too long. Tony didn’t remember opening the door for them. He just looked up when it hissed open and Banner stumbled through, jacket half-on, face pale and already scanning. Helen followed, her tablet in hand, her sharp eyes locking on Peter’s twitching frame. The kid was curled on the ground, limbs jerking every few seconds with painful, involuntary shudders.

“Where is it?” Bruce asked, dropping to his knees beside Tony. “FRIDAY said something about the cervical spine?”

“Yeah,” Tony said, voice tight. “C2. It’s shielded, embedded, and it’s active. It’s killing him slowly.”

Helen knelt down opposite Bruce, tapping on her tablet. The device chirped once, then cast a small projection of Peter’s spine in ghostly 3D. It was an ugly sight. The foreign object was visible only as a faint outline, nestled dangerously close to his spinal cord.

“We have to cut it out,” Helen said, her voice low. “Now.”

“We don’t have a sterile OR prepped-” Bruce began.

“There’s no time,” Bucky snapped. “We do it here. I don’t care if you cut it out with a spork. Just do it.”

“Anesthesia?” Helen asked.

Tony paused, glancing at Bruce. Bruce looked grim. “Nothing we have works on him. We’ve got sedatives that take the edge off for Steve and Bucky, but Peter’s biology is accelerated. We’d need a custom blend. I can maybe whip something up but-”

“There’s no time,” Bucky repeated, firmer. He looked down at Peter again. “He’s not going to last long enough for you guys to mix a cocktail.”

Peter groaned weakly. Another electric shock tore through him and his back arched, neck craning, mouth open in a silent scream. Blood seeped from his gums now, his lips shredded from biting through them. The kid looked like hell. Peter thrashed on the table, muscles corded so tightly they looked like they’d snap from the bone. Sweat rolled off him in waves. 

Bucky was already moving, crossing the room and dropping to his knees beside them. Steve came in next, face drawn. “What do you need?”

“Hold him down,” Bruce said. “I can't do it if he's shaking.”

“You sure he’s not going to kill us?” Steve asked tightly.

“Look at him,” Tony snapped. “He’s barely conscious. He’s not going to kill anyone. He’s dying.”

They braced him down - Bucky gripping his ankles, Steve holding his shoulders. Helen sterilized the area as best she could with what they had, while Bruce opened a portable kit, fingers trembling. Peter thrashed as they touched him, a strangled, instinctive sound rising in his throat. When Helen pressed down on his spine with the scanner, he let out a sharp, cracking whimper - an inhuman sound of pain and confusion.

“Don’t let him bite you,” Tony said quickly, moving to the side. “FRI, monitor vitals. Keep the mic open. I want updates every ten seconds.”

“Yes, boss,” FRIDAY responded, voice clipped with tension.

Bruce hovered over him with trembling hands, knuckles white around a sterilized scalpel. Tony stood just out of reach, a hand locked in his own hair with horror freezing him in place.

“Stop moving,” Bruce begged. “Peter, you have to let us-”

Peter screamed.

It wasn’t words. It wasn’t even human. It tore from his throat like something guttural and ancient, pain cracked so raw it made Tony flinch where he stood.

The back of Peter’s neck arched again, electricity dancing in arcs under the skin, just above the base of his skull. FRIDAY’s vitals display shrieked across the screen. Spiking cortisol. Heart rate over 200. Neural activity barely coherent.

“I can’t knock him out,” Bruce snapped, his voice cracking. “Nothing we have is strong enough - not for his metabolism - he’s burning through it before it hits the bloodstream.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony breathed. “Then what do we do?”

“We just cut it out,” Helen said flatly. “Now. We don’t wait for him to seize again.”

“No,” Tony barked. “You’re not slicing him open while he’s awake-”

“We don’t have a choice!” Helen hissed. “You want this thing to go off? You want to lose him? ” Peter bucked so hard he nearly threw himself out from under them. Bucky caught him at the hip, arm barlocked across his legs. Steve moved in from the other side, jaw clenched, pinning Peter’s shoulders with both hands. 

Bruce took a scalpel. He paused, hovering over the skin. Peter writhed once more, his head slamming lightly against the floor as he looked up at Tony.

He thought he was going to be sick when he forced out the words, “do it.”  

The blade bit into flesh. Peter’s whole body jerked like he’d been hit with another shock. He screamed - high and raw, throat already hoarse - and they had to lean in with all their weight to keep him down. Bucky’s face was tight, jaw clenched. Steve was murmuring something useless, half a prayer, half an apology.

And then Peter’s voice broke.

“Please - please don’t - don’t-” he gasped out, in a voice too young and too familiar. Tony froze. That wasn’t the soldier. That wasn’t the Asset. That was Peter. Just Peter.

“God,” Tony whispered.

Peter was crying now, hiccuping between screams, trying to twist away even as his strength failed him. “Didn’t mean to - didn’t mean - I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to hurt-”

“We’re not punishing you,” Tony said, eyes stinging. “Jesus, kid. We’re trying to help.”

Peter didn’t hear. Or he didn’t believe. He sobbed, twisting in their grip, arms trembling with effort. But he didn’t lash out. He didn’t bite. He didn’t kill. He was scared. “Get him out,” Helen ordered. “Now. I need focus.”

But it was too late - Tony was already stepping forward, already grabbing at Bruce’s shoulder, voice breaking. “We can wait - just a second, we can - he’s just scared-”

“Tony.” It was Steve. Quiet. Final. “You can’t be in here.”

Tony blinked at him, wild-eyed. 

“You can’t help him if you’re the one he’s screaming at,” Steve said gently.

“Out,” Helen snapped. “Now.”

Tony didn’t move. Not until Bucky caught him by the shoulder with one hand and gently pulled him back. Not until Peter screamed again, and that sound cracked something inside Tony so hard he barely felt himself stagger from the room.

Behind the glass, Peter’s voice fractured. He sobbed once, a sound so broken it didn’t match the wild, feral thing he’d been moments ago. For a second, he was just a kid. A hurting, scared kid who thought he was about to die.

“Please - please, I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you - I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry-”

Inside, Helen braced. The light flickered as Bruce made another, deeper incision.

Peter shrieked. The room filled with noise - vitals spiking, muscles bucking, sobs cracking like thunder, blood. Too much blood.

And then-

“Got it!” Bruce said, breathless. The scalpel clinked against metal, and he reached in with fine tweezers. “It’s deep - it’s right on the nerve.”

“Hurry,” Helen warned. “His vitals are crashing.”

Another shock spasmed through Peter’s body, and he screamed again, raw-throated and bloody. “Almost got it…” Bruce murmured. His brow was slick with sweat. Then the humming stopped. The charge that had danced through Peter’s spine was gone, and his body went slack. Bruce was trembling, but the twitching faded.  Peter didn’t pass out - he just collapsed under the weight of it. Eyes still open. Barely conscious. Still breathing. But quiet, now.

“Is it-” Tony started.

“Stopped,” FRIDAY confirmed. “Electric current has ceased. He’s unconscious. Breathing is shallow, but stable.”

Bruce held the device aloft in bloody forceps. It was small. Black. Shielded in a coating of something Tony didn’t recognize. “That thing was going to kill him,” Bruce muttered.

“Yeah,” Tony said softly.  

Helen moved fast to patch the incision, applying dermal mesh, antiseptic, a stabilizer. Peter didn’t move. His face was slack, pale, lips still parted and stained red. Bucky sat back slowly, lifting his hands from Peter’s legs. Steve exhaled a long, shaking breath and rubbed his face.

Tony stayed kneeling. Close, but not touching.

“Let’s get this tested,” Helen said, holding the device in a sealed tray. “Whatever it was, I want a full analysis.”

Bruce nodded, already moving to follow. Peter groaned faintly. They froze. His eyes didn’t open, but his mouth twitched. A sound - small and warning - rose in his throat.

“Back off,” Tony said quickly. “Give him space.”

They stepped back, giving Peter the room he needed. He didn’t move again.

—

The world came back slowly.

Not in light or clarity, but in shapes - dark silhouettes shifting beyond a screen of eyelids too heavy to lift. Sound followed after: dull, distant. Muffled like underwater noise. A wet cloth wrung out. The hiss of breath through someone’s nose. A sterile metal tray being moved across a counter. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t lift his head.

Couldn’t remember if he was supposed to.

The pain was sharp and electric, centered in the back of his neck and radiating downward like a chain of fire - like nerves that had been dug out, rerouted, and put back all wrong. He’d felt pain before - blades in his sides, his hands shattered under training weights, reconditioning stings slicing under the skin. But this was rawer somehow. Like it hadn’t been sanctioned.

His muscles twitched involuntarily. His spine jerked. A whimper escaped before he could bite it down, before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to make noise. He tensed, expecting retaliation.

But no strike came.

Instead, something pressed lightly to his forehead. A small hand. Cool. Cautious.

It ran a damp rag down the side of his face, careful not to touch too firmly. Peter’s breath hitched, and for a moment - for just a second - he leaned into it. His cheek found that soft cloth like it was instinct. Like it was safe. Like it meant something.

It didn’t. He didn’t.

A sound escaped his throat before he even meant to. A stuttered gasp, breath catching in his chest and shattering. He realized distantly that he was crying - his face was wet and warm, but not from the cloth. His chest convulsed with a ragged sob, and a voice - someone’s voice, female and soft - whispered something soothing, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Because it wasn’t real. Nothing was.

They were going to kill him.

His breath came in uneven, shallow gulps, panic thick in his lungs. The cry turned into a full wail, guttural and broken. The sound of a child abandoned. Of an asset discarded. “No,” he rasped, voice cracking. “No, please, please don’t - I tried - I didn’t mean-”

The hand paused, cloth still against his cheek.

“Shhh,” the voice said again. A different one, deeper this time. He couldn’t tell who. He couldn’t make out faces. Just shadows. Shapes. Ghosts. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Safe.

Peter let out a ragged noise, half sob. He wasn’t safe. He had nowhere left to go.

He’d failed. The mission had failed. He’d been compromised. Caught. Interrogated. Rejected. HYDRA had tried to kill him. That implant - that thing buried in the base of his neck - they’d meant for it to fry him from the inside out. Terminate on extraction. Terminate on failure. Terminate if turned.

And it hadn’t worked.

He should be dead. He should’ve died.

Instead, he was here. Crying like a child into someone’s lap, as they mopped blood and sweat from his face and stitched his neck back together like it meant something. Like he meant something. But he didn’t.

He was defective. Weak. Not even useful enough to kill cleanly. Rostov would be furious. Would have called him pathetic. Would’ve said he should have let the asset codes expire naturally instead of risking a full meltdown.

"‘You had one purpose,’” Peter murmured aloud, voice hoarse and fragile, like paper burning. “‘One use. And now look at you.’”

The rag stilled. Someone exhaled slowly above him.

He blinked, tears streaking his temple. Tried to make sense of what was happening. Why he was still alive. Why his head wasn’t bursting with white-hot agony anymore. Then he remembered. Stark.

It had to be Stark.

Stark had the tech. The resources. The capabilities. Iron Man’s systems had always been a red-flag anomaly when Peter was still working recon missions for HYDRA. Stark’s signature was all over every secured data node they tried to access - impossibly layered encryptions, modular evolving algorithms, impossible even for HYDRA’s systems to fully map. Iron Man’s gear was proprietary, but years ahead of SHIELD's. Years ahead of HYDRA’s on some fronts, too.

Stark could’ve shut the device down. Could’ve ripped it out. Did rip it out. If anyone could shut down a kill implant, it was him. Which meant- 

Peter’s heart thudded unevenly. Which meant the Avengers were choosing to keep him alive.

But why? Interrogation? To keep him just alive enough to break him again? Restructure him? Or maybe this was just the first part of dissection. Data extraction. Biological salvage. They’d seen what he could do. The limbs. The healing. The implants. Maybe they wanted the tech back.

Peter whimpered again, instinctively curling tighter in on himself, away from the touch. His spine ached from the way it arched. His neck throbbed where the implant had been. He could feel dried blood crusted into the bandage, and damp skin underneath.

He didn’t know what they wanted from him. Didn’t know how to be without a mission, without a directive, without a clear set of rules to follow. Stark had broken the chain, but he hadn’t given him anything in return. There was no new anchor point.

He was floating. Useless. Defective.

But still alive.

And that was worse somehow, because now he had to prove he was worth keeping.

Peter’s breath hitched again, quieter now, more tired than panicked. He didn’t fight the touch when the cloth returned, brushing sweat from his temple again. Didn’t bite when someone’s hand ghosted near his cheekbone. He didn’t lean in this time either. Just… lay there. Trembling. Not speaking. Barely blinking.

Just watching them patch him back together, unsure whether it was an act of mercy or preparation for further deconstruction. Still a threat. But no longer armed. Still a body. But no longer owned. Whatever came next - whatever they wanted from him - he’d do it.

As long as they didn’t throw him away.

—

Tony found him curled in the shadow of the cot again, half beneath the frame, limbs too long and sharp for the space. The room was dim - the lights always were down here, set low and gentle, per Bruce’s advice. Sensory triggers and overstimulation and trauma - Tony had started hearing those words so often they felt like science now, something clinical, detached. But there was nothing clinical about what was left of Peter.

A spider limb protruded from the side of the bed, twitching faintly like it was dreaming. It caught the light for a second - dark, sleek and alien against the cold floor - and then retreated just as slowly back under the cot.

Tony stood in the doorway, unsure whether to move forward or turn around and walk right back out. 

He took a breath and chose forward.

The tray in his hands rattled faintly when he sat on the edge of the cot, joints aching from a day hunched over schematics and sleeplessness. “You gotta eat, buddy,” he said softly. “You burn through calories like nobody’s business, and Bruce says if we don’t get food into you soon, we’re looking at muscle breakdown. Organ stuff.”

He paused.

Below him, there was a faint shuffling noise - fabric against tile, the quiet skitter of fingernails, maybe. Tony glanced down. Still just the shadow. Still just silence.

He tried again, even quieter. “Remember when you used to clear out the fridge after patrol? Whole tower looked like raccoons got in. I think we’re all still traumatized by that leftover lasagna incident. Where'd that appetite go?”

Silence.

Then - another shift. A pause. Something uncoiling.

One of the spider-limbs slid quietly out from under the bed again, folding low and tight to the floor like it wanted to disappear into the tile. Another one followed, then another. And then Peter.

He moved like something broken. Slow. Painfully slow. Shoulders hunched, legs folding under him as he dragged himself half out from under the cot. He shuddered once - sharp, involuntary - and Tony could see it: the flinch that trembled through him like a current. Not in his expression - Peter’s face stayed flat, unreadable - but in the way the arms retracted back into his skin, vanishing as smoothly as they’d appeared.

Tony barely breathed.

Peter's eyes flicked up. Just once. And that was all it took for Tony’s heart to plummet.

There was blood dried along his throat, crusted dark into the edge of his collar. His eyes were dull and distant, but they met Tony’s for a single, fleeting heartbeat - and then dropped away again, like it hurt to hold contact.

Tony opened his mouth - he didn’t know what to say. You’re okay now wasn’t true, and I’m sorry wasn’t enough. He thought - just for a second - that Peter was going to pull himself up onto the cot beside him. That maybe he was ready. That maybe this time, something would give.

Instead, Peter inched forward on the floor, slow and quiet, until his head dipped forward and pressed - very lightly, barely even touching - against Tony’s knee. Face down. Still. Waiting.

Tony froze.

Every nerve in his body screamed to move, to do something - put a hand on his shoulder, stroke his hair, say it’s okay, kid, it’s okay - but he didn’t. He didn’t do anything. Because Peter was waiting. Because this wasn’t affection. This was submission. This was conditioned.

He looked up to the one-way glass.

He could feel Bruce and Bucky watching from the other side. He could feel their stillness. Their breath caught in their throats the same way his was.

He looked back down.

Peter hadn’t moved.

“I-” Tony swallowed. Cleared his throat. His voice came out softer than it should’ve. “I brought you food.” He didn’t ask if Peter was hungry. That wasn’t the point. He just reached down, slowly, and set the tray beside him. Then nudged it forward, just enough to be within reach.

Peter didn’t lift his head. Didn’t speak. But he reached, fingers trembling just slightly, he took the bowl, bracing it against the floor. Didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t acknowledge Tony at all. But he started eating. Small spoonfuls. Mechanical. Focused. Quiet.

Tony sat there, hands limp in his lap, unsure if he wanted to scream or cry or just crawl out of his own skin. Peter didn’t look up. Not once. He just kept eating like it was an assignment. Like that was all he knew how to do now - but fuck, at least the kid was finally fucking eating something. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because he had no idea what to do or how to help.

And Tony - helpless - just stayed there with him.

Chapter Text

The Asset did not know who was in charge.

It was the first and most pressing issue, more urgent than the dull, phantom ache in the ragged sockets of his healing limbs or the way the sterile lights overhead hummed without rhythm or purpose. It had been days. He had stopped counting after seventy-nine hours and fifteen minutes, since he had woken up and last left from the last known HYDRA facility. Seventy-nine hours and fifteen minutes of irregular meals, unpredictable questioning, foreign command structures, and silence from the voice he used to belong to. At least one hundred and sixty-eight hours, because the implant had gone off. They no longer wanted him. 

The Asset catalogued the silence like a wound.

His knees ached from the hard floor where he had chosen to kneel, as always, as expected, but no one had come. No one had stepped into the room and corrected his posture. No one had tugged his chin up or kicked his ankles farther apart. No voice had barked his designation. There had been no contact, no protocol. Just voices outside the room, muffled by glass and surveillance feeds, all of them watching, waiting, debating - as though he were a puzzle to be solved instead of a weapon awaiting orders.

It was inefficient.

The Asset curled his fingers tighter into his thighs, nails digging through the soft material of the sweatpants someone had provided. The fabric clung too gently, too loosely. It wasn’t the tactical uniform, wasn’t the HYDRA blacks or the sensory-tight weave that made him feel invisible and precise. This was cotton and warmth and something disturbingly… human.

He did not want to be human. Humans hesitated. Humans disobeyed. Humans asked questions. The Asset had no right to ask anything.

But still, the problem persisted: he did not know who to obey.

He had analyzed all present variables. The Soldier spoke in a dialect the Asset recognized. Russian, sometimes German, mostly English, always low and steady. An echo. A fracture. He moved like a weapon too, stiff and exact. But he did not issue commands, often. Only when the Asset had done something wrong. He offered conversation, though it seemed mostly information gathering. His hands stayed open, and his footsteps approached slowly. He looked at the Asset like they shared something broken, like he expected a reflection.

But the Asset was not a reflection. The Asset was a function.

Then there was Stark, all electricity and scent and arrogance. He never entered alone without his technology, and never with intent to command. He watched, he asked, and he left frustrated. He gave orders to others but never to the Asset. He did not touch. He did not kneel. He did not raise his voice. He was powerful, yes. A figure of influence. But not a handler.  

The Captain was more confusing. He gave quiet orders to the others. He seemed to lead them in military formations, briefings, but he looked at the Asset like a boy. He offered kindness. The kind that the Asset had learned, in early years, was a precursor to punishment. He waited too long before speaking, and when he did, it was never a command.

The Asset could not determine rank.

There were no insignias here. No black stripes, no scars of service that spoke louder than words. No blades pressed to the spine as encouragement. No red rooms. No Rostov.

His breath hitched at the thought of the name.

Rostov.

The Asset flinched, head lowering before he could stop himself. He blinked slowly and drew in a breath, counted to four. Then six. Then ten.  

Grief was not a directive. But the emptiness clawed at him like hunger.

He missed the routines: the soft grip of fingers curling through his curls after successful assignments, that hush of breath beside his ear as the words хороший мальчик bled into his scalp like warmth. He missed the lap he’d been pulled into, the gloved hands that undid the bloody clasps of his armor, the gentle click of a syringe cap removed and the slow injection of quiet, the firmness of muscle against his cheek. He missed the rhythm. He missed being good.

He did not understand how to be good here.

There were too many people. Too many voices that did not align into hierarchy. No one punished him when he moved incorrectly. No one pulled him into formation. No one touched him at all, which should have been preferable - and yet.

And yet.

The Asset curled further inwards, hunching on the padded floor of the containment room, arms around his knees. The walls were a soft matte white. Soothing. Deceptive. There were no corners to hide in, other than underneath the cot. Nowhere to kneel with his back to the glass wall. He felt exposed.

He remembered - Rostov always let him rest after dismemberment. If the mission required him to bleed, Rostov would lift him into the shower, cradling him against his chest and washing the viscera from his curls. He would speak softly in Russian and tilt the Asset’s face up to meet his gaze. He would hum. Little wolf spider. That’s it. Good boy. You were beautiful tonight.

The Asset knew those words were meant to soothe, not to praise. But they had felt like praise. And praise was safety. Safety was following orders. Safety was knowing what came next. And now there was no punishment for disobedience. There was no order to obey. There was only… waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The Asset hated it.

Just silence. A containment room with walls that did not scream, lights that did not pulse red, and surveillance that watched but never spoke. No handler entered. No comms clicked. No collar. No drug. No purpose.

And still - still - he waited.

—

The space beneath the bed was small, enclosed, the underside of the metal frame running like a crossbar just inches above the Asset’s face. Dust clung to the concrete below his chest and static from the mattress made his hair prickle where it brushed against the cotton sheet draped down like a curtain. The light filtering through it was pale and sterile, warped by the fabric into flickering shadows that moved whenever someone walked by outside the room. He did not look toward them.

The Asset did not move at all.

Time became a flat thing. Not measured. There was no clock under here, no blinking red numbers or schedules to obey. He tracked it in the ache behind his eyes, the deepening of the hunger gnawing through his gut, the steady, slow throb from the useless, blackened spider limb he could no longer retract into his spine. The others - three still operational - he had pulled inward, keeping them clenched tight against his back and hidden beneath his shirt days ago. They hadn’t reemerged. He wouldn’t allow them to.

They had not terminated him.

He had failed. Had eaten food from the enemy’s hand. Stark. That name repeated in his head like a hiss, a static echo that burned every time he thought it. He’d taken food from Stark. Accepted it. No - he’d asked for it. Not in words, but in action. Weak. Undisciplined. Drenched in fever and failure, he had crawled to Stark, ribs nearly bursting through his shirt, and accepted nourishment like a pet. A thing. He’d let his jaw be touched, his stomach filled. He had spoken to him gently. He had allowed it.

The Asset squeezed his eyes shut.

He had betrayed HYDRA. They must have seen it. They would know by now. Somewhere, in some black site server, in some secure evaluation report, they would be reviewing his collapse - his regression. They would see his break-in protocol. And they would make decisions accordingly.

He would not be recalled. He could no longer return. That understanding had bloomed in him like mold - slow, invasive, and spreading without permission. Each time he thought of the way the food had tasted, bland but warm, or how Stark’s voice had lowered when he spoke, not unlike how handlers whispered to new assets to keep them from panic - each time, the shame crept in deeper.

He had allowed himself comfort. And it had cost him everything.

The bandages on his neck itched with maddening consistency. The area where they’d removed the subdermal implant burned in jagged pulses. Sometimes it felt like there were still wires embedded there, tugging at invisible threads. He did not scratch. It was beneath protocol. But when the sweat pooled beneath the cotton gauze and soaked into his collar, the urge to tear his skin apart became a constant buzz at the base of his skull.

He had failed in too many ways to count.

He would not answer to HYDRA anymore. And that absence - of direction, of purpose, of orders - left his thoughts gaping and loose. There was no mission. No voice. No ranking officer to report to, no coordinates to reach, no safehouse to flee to. They had stripped him of the only thing that had mattered. He had no master now.

So the Asset hid beneath the bed, where it was dark and familiar, and he tried to think. Tried to reorder the fragments of his programming around this new, gaping void. But he wasn’t certain how to. If HYDRA had cut him off, if he had become compromised, then it stood to reason that he needed new leadership. New structure. New authority to serve.