Chapter Text
Peter tucked his Stark Industries ID badge under his shirt as he stepped out of the building, smoothing out the lines of the lanyard with absent sweeps of his fingers. The New York streets were dusky in the twilight, lit up sporadically by street lights and neon signs; he would normally have left his “internship” working on Iron Man tech hours earlier, but the Avengers were going to be out of town all weekend on some PR stunt that Tony had been griping about all day, and May had been working overnight at the hospital anyways. Instead, he’d stayed locked up with his mentor in the lab until Pepper came to collect Tony. After explaining that they needed to figure out last minute flight details, Pepper politely kicked him out, smiling apologetically and genuinely at Peter the whole time. Happy, looking exhausted and frazzled after dealing with his boss’ demands for the trip, had offered him a ride home, but Peter had declined it immediately. Happy had been looking haggard, and Peter was Spider-Man; he could get from Manhattan to Queens by himself.
He did, admittedly, begin to regret that when his spidey-sense started prickling painfully at the back of his neck a few blocks from home. Cursing softly, he ducked into the nearest alleyway and shoved his hand into his backpack, groping blindly for his suit as he strained his enhanced hearing enough to pick up hurry, Stark’s intern went down that one. Shit. If they were looking for Peter, then Spider-Man probably shouldn’t come bursting out of the same dead-end street. He withdrew his hand quickly and slid his bag underneath the nearest dumpster, knowing FRIDAY would be able to trace his suit later even if he forgot which pile of trash in New York he’d hidden it under.
The footsteps were louder - close enough for normal ears - and Peter rapidly ran through his priorities. His backpack was hidden well enough if they didn’t know to look for it. Peter Parker, Stark Industries intern, wouldn’t be caught with Spider-Man’s suit or webshooters - even if Peter wished he could have them on hand as his spidey-sense continued to buzz at the nape of his neck. There wasn’t anything else he could do except wait for the men to confront him and - do whatever it is they wanted him for. Bribery or extortion for Mr. Stark’s tech secrets, probably. Realizing belatedly that they might want his ID card but knowing he couldn’t risk giving away his suit’s location, Peter yanked the lanyard off roughly before snapping the metal card between his hands and shoving it into his back pocket. He let the cording dangle out, visual bait for him to tell the men he’d managed to break his card that day, such a shame, guess he didn’t have anything to give them after all.
Peter edged away from the dumpster and bent down to fiddle with his shoelaces, making it look like he’d stepped aside to clear the streets and re-tie them as a trio of burly men stepped into the alley. He rose to his feet clumsily, stumbling slightly as he turned to flash them a naive, trusting smile. “Need directions? You guys look a little lost.”
Always let them underestimate you. Tony had told him once early in their time working together. You don’t have a playboy persona to hide behind, and you can’t risk giving away your secret identity unless there’s no other choice. But you can show them a dumb teenager and hope they take the bait. Be Peter Parker - a friendly, clumsy, happy-to-be-here teenager with too much homework to do to sit around and chat. And remember - if the Vulture taught us anything, it’s that Peter Parker is more than Spider-Man. He’s more than just the suit. Peter hadn’t been convinced at first, but Tony had tilted his chin up to hold his gaze and added, You are more than just the suit. Don’t you ever forget that.
“No, I think we’ve found just what we’re looking for.” One man moved forward, the other two falling into flanking positions behind him. “Our boss wanted to have a little chat with you about your internship.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.” Peter took a careful step back and angled away from where he’d hidden his backpack. “I have an NDA, can’t really tell him - or her, or them, my bad - anything about it. Sorry to waste your time.”
“‘S’okay, kid.” One of the men in the back replied just as evenly, flashing a shark-like smile. “We’re not worried about the NDA. I don’t think Stark will blame you for talking.”
“He really values confidentiality, sir.” He was getting hemmed in quickly towards the back of the alley, but that was okay. With his enhanced healing factor, he wasn’t really concerned about the amount of roughhousing they thought would get an average intern to spill trade secrets, and he could climb the wall without his suit if it was a life-or-death situation.
“I’m sure.” The first man agreed easily, “But there will be mitigating circumstances, won’t there?”
The two men behind him moved at once. Peter turned toward the one who had spoken earlier, hands raised defensively to protect his face; his spidey-sense flared a warning that he was too slow to interpret as a narrow tool cut through his peripheral vision and pressed against his side. Pain exploded through him as electricity rippled out of the device, his stomach muscles spasming as he tried to twist away. What the f-
The man in front grabbed Peter’s forearms roughly as the electric current broke off, slamming him against the grimy brick wall of the alley. “Listen, you’re a fair bit younger than our normal clientele so I’ll give you a warning. We want information on your boss, and we’re willing to do a lot to get it. Luckily for you, the pain stops once we have what we need, and we’ll leave you dumped on Stark’s steps to take care of you after. I’m sure he’ll handle all the medical bills for you to keep this off of the shareholders’ radar.”
“No, I-” Peter tried to lift his leg to kick out at the man’s chest but his attacker stepped away quickly, releasing Peter so quickly that he stumbled back against the wall. Before he had a chance to do anything else, the cattle prod was jabbed back against his quivering core muscles, sending them spiraling into painful jerks yet again. The pain seemed to build every second the prod was applied and his mouth tasted like copper. Bleeding. Probably biting my tongue. I need to be careful.
“If you don’t think he’ll help you out after, then that’s all the more incentive to tell us what we need as soon as we get you to the warehouse. So don’t fight it. Once you’re there, just turn into a little songbird for Ha- for our boss, and then we’ll let you go.”
Peter wasn’t sure he believed that - the men had let him see their faces, and they’d nearly given away who was in charge already. He already suspected that Ha- meant Justin Hammer; he might be wrong, but he’d take any information he could glean back to Tony once one of them broke him out. Be small, be weak, be mild. He could do that. Tony had also told him to hand over whatever information he needed to stay alive, but he was sure it wouldn’t come to that. “O-okay. P-please, just turn it off, please.” After a gruff nod from who he was internally calling Head Honcho at this point, the newly dubbed Cattle Prod turned off the device but held it towards Peter menacingly as he was led out of the alleyway and shuffled quickly towards a waiting car with darkly tinted windows.
He was thrown into the backseat with Cattle Prod sliding in beside him, and he buckled up with shaky hands when ordered. Immediately after, a rough burlap bag was shoved over his head - maybe they were planning to let him live, if they didn’t want him figuring out how to retrace his steps later - and the pronged, round tip of the prod was pressed against the outside of his thigh. It was off, thank god, and jeans would mitigate most of the damage if that changed, but he understood the threat for what it was. The man could and would apply it to direct skin if he had to. Biting back his innate desire to fill silence with chatter, Peter instead focused on cataloging each turn and stop along their path, silently filing it away for later. Tony would be proud of him for not provoking additional ire, but Peter was sure that good will was soon to run out.
When they got to the facility, Peter was led - bag still over his head, a good sign - through a winding network of hallways and elevators. Peter was fairly sure he was being walked down each of them two or three times to make him think the building was larger than it really was. Despite that, it wasn’t long before he was shoved roughly into a plastic chair; his wrists were pinned behind him and zip tied together but no other restraints were added and the bag over his face was finally yanked away. It felt a little too much like being unmasked for his comfort, but he was too busy running through what Tony called “Kidnapping 101” to spend too much time worrying about it.
Hands, restrained to each other but by something he could break. Ankles, unrestrained. No restraints to the chair. Vision, now unobscured. Route to the building, vaguely mapped out. Route inside of the building, not mapped out well enough to outrace people familiar with it unless he used his abilities, which he was hesitant to do over corporate espionage in a warehouse that was surely crawling with surveillance cameras. Injuries, uncertain. His core muscles felt sore and vaguely tingly (in a “slightly concerning, Peter was definitely going to be forced into the medbay for a visit even if this didn’t go further” kind of way that he wasn’t really a fan of) but they hadn’t twinged too badly when he walked through the building. Injuries acceptable, then.
He could work with that.
There was a wooden crate in front of him, and Peter tamped down the urge to kick his feet up on it flippantly like Tony would have; instead, he shrunk back against the chair as Head Honcho took a seat on the other side of the makeshift table. “So here’s what we need from you.” The man began easily, leaning back in his seat like it was a throne and not some cheap IKEA find. “I want to hear anything you know about what Tony Stark is currently working on. With his suits, his business, anything you can think of. I also want a description - or a map, if you can draw worth a damn - of how to get to his server room. Are there any other weak links besides you, anyone we can press for more information that you don’t have access to?”
Besides you. Peter’s breath caught in his chest, a painful squeeze that left him coughing slightly as he forced the air back out. He wanted them to think he was just an intern who’d gotten lucky with his position, but it still stung. At least he could do Mr. Stark proud now, though. He could keep the secrets these men were willing to extort and threaten for, and either Tony would find him or he’d make his own way out if need be. The Avengers were heading out of town and May wouldn’t expect to see him until at least the next day so Peter had time to kill before he had to give up his secret identity; there was still a good chance they would come once they knew he was in danger. “Stark Industries doesn’t hire weak links. They wouldn’t give anyone access to information they couldn’t be trusted with.” Not anymore.
His guard grunted out a laugh. “So which am I supposed to believe, then? Stark has a personal intern who isn’t allowed to see anything he’s working on and just runs around fetching coffee and sending away his one night stands the morning after, or that he has an intern with helpful information that he thinks he can keep from us in a misguided fit of bravery and loyalty?”
“Oh the first, definitely!” Peter replied eagerly, giving him a beaming smile and what Tony called his ‘Bambi eyes’. “If you want a map to where all the coffee machines are, I can probably do that for you, but I should really borrow someone’s phone to call Mr. Stark to check just in case. I seem to have lost mine in the scuffle.” Thankfully, he knew it was in his bag back in the alley - safe and sound and track-able.
“I’m alright.” Dark eyes narrowed on Peter, wandering up and down his frame consideringly. “Let’s start with something easy. An intern at a tech company would have seen the server room even if all he does is run around bringing the CEO coffee and paperwork.”
“Oh, I would never bring him paperwork. Mr. Stark doesn’t like to be handed things, Mister…?”
“You can call me Frank.” Not as good as Head Honcho and probably not his real name, but okay. “And nevermind Stark. Tell me how to get to the server room.”
“Sure!” Peter leaned forward eagerly, spreading his legs slightly to brace himself on splayed feet. “So you go in through the front doors and then in that initial atrium there’s a desk over on the right wall at the back-”
“A desk?”
“Yeah! That’s the security desk. You should definitely go there and ask for Happy Hogan; I’m sure he’d love to help you.”
“Hogan… Stark’s bodyguard?”
“Yep, and head of security. He’s supposed to handle all the non-Avengers threats. You know, like people trying to break in and mess with the servers, so that’s probably the best place for you.”
‘Frank’ sighed, leaning back in his chair like Peter had brought home a particularly disappointing test score. Not that Peter would know; he didn’t really do that. “Lincoln, jab him.”
“With pleasure.” Cattle Prod Lincoln stepped forward, pressing the cattle prod to Peter’s bare arm and thumbing the button on the other end. The pain was worse this time without the barrier of his shirt, and his elbow and wrist felt jostled and loose by the time the jerking, burning sensation stopped and the man withdrew the device. He only pulled away by a few desperately needed inches, but Peter appreciated the break anyways.
“Lincoln, Link - can I call you that? - listen.” Peter let out a pained, hissing breath, straightening his seat carefully in the chair so he wouldn’t slip off of it. “I’m not really a huge fan of the zapping, but I don’t know anything. The internship is supposed to look good on a college application, but I’m really just a glorified barista. As you said, I just handle his coffee. This is all a big misunderstanding, and I won’t even be mad if you just dump me outside the Tower now instead. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
“I’m afraid, little barista, that it is a very big deal. We can’t afford for this to be a misunderstanding, not with our boss. See, he’s the one who told us to grab you. If we tell him that he made a mistake, well, he won’t really like that. It’s better for all of us if we make sure of it first - and by all of us, I mean everyone but you, of course.”
“Oh.” Peter slumped back in his chair, pouting visibly. “Well, I understand wanting to do your due diligence and all of that. It’s just going to be a waste of your time. I don’t know anything, and Mr. Stark always says time is money. I’m sure your boss-”
“Would much rather we spend our time making sure you’re not a bad investment.” Frank cut in gruffly, rising to his feet. “It seems like the cattle prod isn’t strong enough to get you to talk. That’s a shame. I’d prefer not to get my hands bloody on someone who looks about twelve, but someone’s gotta do it.”
They really don’t. Peter thought ruefully as the third man scampered out of the room - likely a bad sign, since Frank didn’t seem inclined to let this go. “Has your boss considered setting up a meeting with Mr. Stark? I’m sure he could squeeze one in, as a special favor.”
“A special favor to his intern who just makes the coffee?” Frank asked cooly, one eyebrow raising.
“Oh yeah, I make really good coffee.” There was another sharp jab of the cattle prod from Lincoln, nearly sending Peter tumbling off of the chair. “Wha- Link, did you want some?”
“Shut the hell up, kid.” Lincoln grumbled, waving the crackling cattle prod at him. “Unless you want to tell us something useful.”
“Oh, okay.” Peter fell silent, wriggling back into the center of the chair. After a moment of consideration, as if he were actually thinking about it, he offered up, “Mr. Stark wants to get a pet cat, but Ms. Potts said she’s not going to be the one to take care of it; he said he could build robots to handle everything.” He paused, cocking his head to one side. “You know, now that I think about it, that might have been a joke because that was a few days after the Avengers had to take of this cool radioactive tiger thing in New Jersey. You know, the glowing pink one?”
Frank opened his mouth and then shut it again with a snap, reaching one calloused hand up to rub at the tension in the center of his forehead. When the door creaked open a minute later, he gave a heavy, relieved sigh. “Thank fuck, okay. We’re going to try stronger persuasion methods with you before we escalate this.” He stalked over to the door, grabbed something from the person standing in the doorway, and then returned to stand next to his seat. Instead of reclaiming it, he set a few items down on the crate between them: a lighter and a pack of cigarettes.
“Oh, no thank you.” Peter gave another cheerful smile, “I’m too young to smoke, and it’s bad for your lungs at any age. I could probably tell you some statistics about cancer, but I’d prefer just to skip it all together.”
“I’m sure.” The man agreed, falling back into his seat. Looking at Peter with resigned irritation as if this was somehow his fault, he tugged a cigarette out of the pack and lit it; leaning casually, he puffed silently as hard eyes wandered over Peter assessingly. “I wouldn’t be too worried about your lungs.”
“Oh, second hand smoke is still bad for you, Mr. Frank.” Peter replied earnestly, shaking his head. “In fact, I’d really prefer we go outside for some fresh air.”
“Is that right?” Frank asked dryly, drew deeply from the cigarette, and then reached out almost lazily to press the burning end to Peter’s bicep. A surprised, pained scream split the air and it took Peter a few seconds to realize the noise was coming from him as the man pressed down harder. When he finally withdrew, Peter’s shoulders were hunched tightly around his head and his chest hammered with the force of hiccuping breaths that desperately wanted to become shallow sobs.
Frank gave him a slow, humorless smile. “Oh good, you can make a noise besides your inane prattle. Let’s try this again, then - tell me anything useful. Anything-” he added harshly as Peter opened his mouth, “-besides the stupid fucking coffee.” Peter closed his mouth again. “Alright, kid. We can do this your way. If that’s how you really want it.”
An hour later, Frank stepped away to get some water and cool off. The kid wouldn’t break. His arms were now littered with dark circular burns and his cheek had been briefly reddened by a backhand, but he hadn’t offered anything except thoughts on Stark’s coffee requests. Not that there was much to say about the coffee either, since he claimed the man drank it black, but that hadn’t stopped him from bringing it up about a dozen times. Despite his unhelpful silence - and in fact, because of it - ‘Frank’ was sure that the teen knew something. If he didn’t, he would have been babbling about anything he could to get them to leave him alone. He would have made up the location of a server room, would have invented a dozen projects, would have told them something. But he didn’t. Which meant he knew something. Which meant he might be important after all.
When he stepped back into the room, the first thing he saw was ‘Lincoln’ pressing the cattle prod into the kid’s arm as the boy spasmed in the chair, face flushed, cheeks wet with silent tears. He stood there waiting, watching, as the boy grit his teeth to avoid biting his lip and then sagged against the chair once the attack was done; his chest was rising and falling raggedly, but still he offered up some worthless comment about a hotdog cart Tony Stark had eaten from once years before. “Lincoln, get him moved over to the interrogation room.”
“Isn’t this the interrogation room?” Peter asked, lifting his sweaty face to squint at Frank in the doorway. “I’m feeling pretty interrogated, is all.”
“No.” A genuine smile tugged at his lips, pulling uncomfortably at an old scar running through the top one. “Think of this like the waiting room. The interrogation room is where it gets fun.”
“Oh goodie.” Peter muttered as Lincoln hauled him to his feet, “I’ve been really craving more fun and whimsy since I’ve been here. You know, that’s really all I’ve been able to think about. Why won’t they tell me a knock-knock joke while they put a cigarette out against my skin? I crave enrichment like an animal at the zoo.”
“That’s a great analogy, actually.” Frank countered mildly, earning him further consideration from the intern - who should have been sobbing and trembling and broken by now, not looking at him like he was a puzzle to be figured out. “Because you’re about to be part of a live-streamed exhibit.”
“Ew.” Peter’s nose crinkled in disgust, stumbling on his feet as he was led out of the room. “This better not be part of some scheme with freaks who like to watch a kid get beat up because I gotta say, not a good look for your boss.”
Frank grimaced, turning away to lead them down the hallway. “No, we’re going to reach out to Stark. I thought you were an idiot intern who didn’t know anything, so it wasn’t worth trying to extort him. But now I think you’re an idiot intern who does know something, so I’ll give it a shot. He might be willing to pay enough money to get you back that it doesn’t matter if we get any new tech out of it or not.”
“Oh.” The teen hummed softly as he thought it over, following obediently after Frank as Lincoln trailed behind closely at the rear, occasionally reaching out to poke him with the inactive cattle prod as a reminder. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best. Mr. Stark should know about this. He should be in the air right now on Avengers business, though; I’m not sure if he’ll answer.”
“You better hope he does.” Frank pushed his way into their new room - a larger one with closed cabinets, drains in the tiled floors and something like a massage table situated in front of a tablet on a stand. Not Stark branded, Peter noted. “Do you have his number?”
“Sure do - and I can probably bypass the voicemail if he doesn’t pick up. I, uh, don’t really want to lay on my arms, though. They’ll go all pins and needle-y. Can you…?”
Frank looked between the table and Peter’s zip-tied arms and shook his head. “Sit up on it, then. Just give me the damn number.”
So Peter hopped awkwardly onto the table, swinging his legs freely as he rattled off the number easily. It went straight to voicemail - like Peter thought it would - but the teen leaned closer to the phone that Frank shoved in his face without seeming very concerned. “Hey FRIDAY, it’s Peter! I need to talk to Mr. Stark; can you patch me into his suit or let this call ring through on priority 1? I’ve been kidnapped, and I’m not really having a great time. I think they want a video call?” He glanced over at Frank, who nodded. “Yeah, a video call. No projection, please; I don’t think it’s going to be very pretty. Tell him sorry about that, too.”
There was a brief pause - only a few seconds but long enough for Frank to start to think Peter (apparently; he hadn’t bothered to ask before) might be wasting their time - and then a crisp, electronic voice replied. “Peter, I’m connecting you now. Please remain on the line.”
“No worries!” Peter leaned back on the table, careful not to kick Frank as he continued to move his legs, working out some of his nervous energy. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere for a bit.”
“You’re sure not, kid.” Frank agreed, taking a few steps away with the phone and transferring the call to the tablet as it rung a few times and then connected.
“Peter.” Tony Stark’s unmistakable, cultured drawl slid through the air like a hot knife through butter. “FRIDAY told me you were kidnapped and I’m really hoping you mean N- your friend picked you up to build LEGOs on your way home.” He accepted the video call, leaning in to squint at the camera as Peter came into focus.
“Hey, Mr. Stark! No, but that would be super cool, I should definitely suggest that for my next free weekend.” Peter shrugged his shoulders at the camera, the closest he could come to a wave since his arms were pinned behind his back. “They wanted information, but I didn’t tell them anything, I promise.”
Tony frowned, taking on a very familiar look of exasperation and concern. “I believe you, kid.” Even if you should have. “What do they want from me?”
“Answers.” Frank replied smoothly, stepping into frame and twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers casually, “Or money, your pick.”
Frank had finally put on a mask, a cheap blank canvas of white plastic that reminded him of the Phantom of the Opera, but Peter was too focused on the voice he heard in the background of the call. Natasha, whispering harshly, was clearly hissing her concerns to the rest of the team. Did he say “kidnapping” and then “kid”? Should I be turning this plane around?
“Oh, are you already on the Quinjet, Mr. Stark?”
“Different plane, but potato, potato.”
“You said those the same way.” Peter protested, flinching reflexively when he heard the faint click of Frank’s lighter striking.
Tony caught the movement, stiffening visibly. “Hey kid, you’re going to be alright. What’s going on over there?” With a few flicks of his fingers, he sent the video up into a flickering hologram suspended over his phone. Well, at least he’d had a warning that things weren’t good before he did that.
Frank took a long drag on the cigarette, watching the concern wash over the billionaire’s face as his intern hesitated to answer, torn between offering helpful information and not worrying the man. Interesting. Before Peter could decide, he leaned over and pressed the cigarette to a small flash of visible collarbone under the neckline of the teen’s shirt. Peter let out a startled yelp that quickly turned into breathier, deeper groans of pain as he trembled under the continued burn; he didn’t pull away, a clear sign to Tony that he’d tried and failed already with previous attacks.
When Frank finally withdrew his hand, Peter flashed a grim smile at the camera. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Stark. I can do this all day.” A trio of wounded noises spilled through the mic - Tony, of course, but also who Peter could only assume were Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you weren’t still using headphones, my bad.”
“No.” Tony replied sharply, forcing himself not to reach out to the hologram as if that would let him hold and soothe the teen. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. Alright, Ghostface, what do you want in exchange for him? What info - or how much money? I can be back in the state for an in-person handoff in about 30 minutes.”
“That depends.” Frank grabbed Peter’s shoulder, twisting his arm towards the camera so Tony could see the line of bleeding burns down the length of it. “What’s your angle, Stark? Is he your kid or something?”
“Of course not.” Tony gave him a cocky playboy smile as Natasha and Bucky came to stand behind him, each peering over one shoulder. “I don’t do parenting. He’s an intern, and a pretty good one when he’s not knocking shit over in my lab, so I like keeping him around - and safe.”
“Not Red Room.” Natasha murmured behind Tony, green eyes darting around the limited view of the hologram. “Guy’s too unpolished.”
“Not HYDRA.” Bucky added gruffly, metal fist clenching and unclenching in turn, whirring slightly with a metallic whine. “Mask’s too stupid.”
Peter snorted softly at the comment that he shouldn’t have been able to hear, earning him a sharp pinch to his burnt arm. He smiled disarmingly at Frank in response, and the man eventually turned back to face the camera. “1 million.”
“Done.” Tony agreed promptly, “No problem. Keep him safe until I get back, just send me coordinates.”
“And an Iron Man suit.”
Tony hesitated at that - but only for a second. He could recall or self-destruct a suit, but he couldn’t replace Peter. “Sure thing. Any preference on color? I’ve been branching out.”
Frank frowned, looking between Tony and Peter. Too easy. This was too easy. “No.” He decided finally, shrugging one shoulder at the camera. “If you want him back that badly, then he knows something worth more than a mill’ and a suit. I’d rather have that. So either one of you needs to tell me something believable, or I’ll have to get it out of him myself.”
“Oh.” Peter let out a deep sigh as if this were a half-expected inconvenience and not a potential death sentence. “Yeah, I thought that might happen. You might want to end the call, Mr. Stark. I would, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”
Surprisingly, Bucky spoke first. “Don’t you fucking dare, Stark.”
“I wasn’t going to, Barnes, Jesus. Hands off the phone.” The image blurred and shook briefly as he took a few steps away from Natasha and Bucky, shooting them a quick glare over his shoulder. “FRIDAY, copy the incoming video feed over to the tablets, please. Anyone who wants to watch can do it without getting in my way. Now.” He turned back to the camera, giving a polite, businessman’s smile. “What information do you think I’m keeping from you? I can be an open book; just ask me.”
“What does the kid know?”
“Know? A lot of shit, most of it unimportant to anyone else. He likes fun facts - has he told you the one about giraf-”
Frank clucked his tongue, “That’s a shame. Maybe you two are related; this level of idiocy could be hereditary. Lincoln - you know what to do.” Definitely not his real name, then, if he would say it in front of the Avengers, Peter decided.
Peter flinched as the man approached with the cattle prod, his brow furrowing in worried confusion as Lincoln stopped to yank off both of his shoes and then his socks - mismatched Avengers socks, one featuring the Hulk and the other, Thor. “Uh, I’m not ticklish.” He offered, “If that’s what you were going f-” His words ended in a choked off scream as the cattle prod turned on, prongs buried firmly in the arch of one foot. Peter jerked away so sharply that he fell back onto his pinioned arms, writhing on the wooden table as Lincoln followed his movement easily. A hand pinned his ankle down, keeping his foot twitching but otherwise still as the cattle prod continued to burn against his skin.
Don’t kick, don’t kick, don’t kick. You can’t show your strength. The enemy will see, and so will the Avengers. You can’t do anything but wait it out. Mr. Stark will come. You have to be brave. You have to be stronger than this. Tears were coursing freely down his cheeks, mostly from his frustration.
Slowly, the overwhelming twin rushes of pain and fear faded enough for him to hear his mentor calling his name roughly through the tablet. He lifted his head with difficulty, letting his injured foot slide off the table and dangle towards the floor now that it was released. “-ter, are you okay?”
“Oh, you know.” Peter choked out, wiping his cheek dry against his shoulder as best he could. “Not as good as Taco Tuesday, better than a pop quiz. Barely felt it.”
“Kid.” Tony wheezed, almost blotting out the sounds of the Avengers muttering furiously in the background. Gotta get him out of there. He’s going to shut down soon. They could kill him. Who is he? Is he Tony’s son? Doesn’t matter, he’s a kid. He looks fourteen. Do you see anything helpful, anything we can use? “Listen, Ghostface, Pete passes me the tools when I work on the suits sometimes. He’s seen them before and knows they’re confidential, but I’ll send you the schematics of the newest iteration right now if you step away from him.”
Frank paused to consider but Lincoln didn’t, frowning down at the teen. He seemed exhausted and wrung out from the pain, he was clearly affected, but his blasé attitude was starting to piss him off. “You can take a break if you just tell me that it hurts. I’ll stop as soon as you beg for it.” He flicked Peter’s sweat-dampened shirt off of his stomach and then buried the tines of the cattle prod into the skin there, activating it and holding the button down firmly. Peter jerked and moaned underneath the force for a long minute - and then two. He’d bitten down so hard on his lower lip that it was bleeding freely, and his body trembled and seized with spine-rattling shudders, but nothing even remotely resembling words passed his lips. No begging, no pleading, certainly no answers. There was the crackle of electricity and the scent of burning flesh, and still nothing. This didn’t make any fucking sense.
Peter’s thrashing started to wane, and Frank finally turned to grab Lincoln’s arm and yank it away. “Don’t kill him.” He hissed, “We won’t get anything, then, and Ham- ugh, he’ll have our ass.”
Who? He heard Natasha ask sharply from somewhere near Tony.
Peter let out a choked sob as he forced himself to sit up, shoulders slumping forward - one of them at a weird angle, probably dislocated from slamming against the wooden table if the burning sensation in the muscle was anything to go by. “Frank, you were Justin time.” He mumbled through the blood in his mouth, spitting it out with some difficulty. “I feel like someone’s taken a hammer to my stomach, god.”
“Justin Hammer.” Natasha said crisply in the background, probably - hopefully - too far away from Tony’s mic for Frank or Lincoln to hear. “CEO of Hammer Industries, longtime rival of Stark Industries. Also, a major douche. Grabbed my ass once at a work luncheon when I was undercover.”
Tony plastered on a fake smile, eyes darting off somewhere in the distance, probably to where Natasha was briefing the rest of the team. “So as I was saying, I can send over that schematic now, if you’d like. I can even wire over that million I promised, too. I just need to know where to pick Peter up.”
“Not sure I can do that.” Frank replied slowly, “But I suppose we’re having some trouble keeping the merchandise safe in storage, so it might be best to get it moved, huh?”
“I agree.” Tony’s smile widened, “I would hate for you to damage something irreplaceable and not be able to recompense me for it. I have some of the best lawyers in the world - and some co-workers you probably don’t want to meet.”
Steve came to stand behind Tony, glaring directly at the camera on his phone. Well, a bit to the side - but Peter wouldn’t tell him that. It was the thought that counted, really. “We’re on our way back now; we’re about 10 minutes away from Stark Tower, if you’re in New York. We expect to find the kid safe when we get there. Where should we land?”
“Ah-” And for the first time, Frank seemed to understand that extorting Tony Stark meant more than holding up the richest man on Earth. It meant threatening an Avenger by hurting a kid. Ah, fuck. “You know, I don’t think we should meet in person for this. I’ll leave the kid somewhere for you to pick up.”
“Where?” Tony asked sharply, “When?”
Peter closed his eyes, filtering out the sound of his own shaky breathing and the metallic taste in his mouth. He stretched his enhanced hearing out further, combing through his memory at the same time. No, to the feel of burlap scraping over his cheeks. Yes, to the stops and turns he’d memorized. No, to the grimy wall where he’d left his suit. Yes, to the birds he’d heard and ignored during their travels. Gotcha. “Mr. Stark?” He asked, affecting the hazy quality of someone slipping into shock or suffering from a concussion. “When this is all over, can we go to the ocean again, like last summer?”
“Of course, kid.” Tony’s eyes narrowed on him, scanning for anything Peter could get past the two - now squabbling, distracted - men in the room with him. “Anything for you. Anywhere in particular?”
“Not that far from home, I probably won’t be up for long trips for a while. But still, away from work, away from all the pigeons and the traffic.” Near my home, he meant, not yours. Queens, not the Tower.
“Sure, doesn’t really narrow it down though.” Not enough for him to show up without giving their position away, at least.
“I like fishing on the wharf. You remember that shop that sells blown sugar fish? Maybe we could visit there, not sure if it's nearby enough.”
“Hey.” Frank turned at that, finally realizing the information that was being passed along a few feet away from him. He snatched the cattle prod from Lincoln, waving it in Peter’s direction. “Shut the fuck up, kid.”
“Not enough, Pete. I need a building.” Tony spoke over Frank, nearly shouting into his phone. “You need to cut your losses and get out of there before the situation gets stickier.”
Oh. Well, that he could do. “Is it enough for an EMP? I’m tired of being on camera.”
“NO - we can’t lose the connection. We need to know if he’s alive, Tony. Don’t you fucking dare nuke that call.” Huh, he’d have to thank the Black Widow later. Maybe she liked coffee; he’d spent a lot of time thinking about coffee today.
“It’ll take a few minutes, kid. A lot can happen in a few minutes. And I won’t be able to get the jet or suit in there.”
Peter gave him a slow, resigned smile. “Yeah. That’s okay.”
The video link was still up when Frank pressed the cattle prod to the base of Peter’s neck, leaving him seizing and choking on his own blood. It was still up when Peter went limp on the table and slowly slid off of it. It was still up when his body hit the floor with a sickening thump. It was still up when Frank raised crazed eyes to the camera and gave them a tight, feral smile, Peter’s blood splashed and speckled across his face. And then it cut off.