Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dinner in the Stark penthouse was loud in the easy, familiar way it always was, with everyone talking over each other while pretending they weren’t. Pepper set the pasta bowl down and immediately had to redirect Harley’s wandering hands. “Use the serving spoon,” she warned, pointing at him like she’d been waiting all week to do it. “I am using it,” Harley argued, even though he very clearly wasn’t. 

Tony slid a piece of garlic bread off Morgan’s plate, only for her to shriek, “Dad! That’s mine! Get your own, there's a whole plate over there!,” while Peter tried not to laugh so hard that he inhaled his water. MJ shook her head at the whole scene, muttering, “This feels like a zoo on visiting day,” and Ned recorded it like he was filming a nature documentary. It was messy and loud and warm, and Peter still had moments where he couldn’t believe he got to sit in the middle of it.

Halfway through dessert, Harley froze mid-bite like he’d just been hit with divine inspiration. “Oh my god. Arcade night,” he declared dramatically, knocking his fork onto Ned’s lap. “We haven’t been in, like, forever. And I need to reclaim my air-hockey crown.” Ned nearly choked on his soda. “Reclaim? You only won because the puck got stuck in that weird corner and you pretended it was a skill issue on my part.” Harley waved this off. “If the puck feared my power, that’s not my problem.” 

MJ raised an eyebrow and said, “You’re the only person I know who can talk trash about an inanimate object,” and Harley immediately bowed like she’d given him a compliment. Peter laughed under his breath, feeling something soft settle in his chest; this was exactly the kind of night he used to dream about when he was little.

Before Peter could voice an opinion, Morgan gasped loudly enough to interrupt everyone. “Can I come too? Please? Pleasepleasepleaaaase?” she begged, leaning halfway across the table like a tiny lawyer arguing her case. Pepper didn’t even look up right away. She just stared at her plate, gathering strength. 

“If you guys can watch her responsibly,” she finally said, making sure to look directly at Harley, “then yes. But you need to be back by ten. Ten. Not ten-oh-five. Ten. And no negotiating, that’s being generous. Already past Morgan’s bedtime.” Morgan slammed both fists onto the table in triumph. “Peter, you have to help me beat the claw machine again!” she said, bouncing. “I won the octopus last time.” Harley groaned. “Yeah, and then you cried because it had ‘too many legs,’ remember?” Morgan instantly crossed her arms. “It was suspicious-looking! I stand by that!”

When Tony asked, “All right, so which one of you is officially in charge tonight?”, Harley, MJ, Ned, and Morgan all pointed at Peter like they’d rehearsed it beforehand. Peter nearly dropped his fork. “Why me?” he demanded. “Harley’s older!” Harley pressed a hand over his heart dramatically. “Peter, I’m far too creative and impulsive to be responsible for- ” He gestured vaguely toward Morgan and Ned, who squinted at him like they weren’t sure they liked being described as a hazard. MJ pushed her plate forward and said, “Peter’s the only one here who won’t accidentally set something on fire.” Ned nodded solemnly. “He’s also the only one of the two who didn’t lose their shoes last week.” Harley groaned. “OH MY GOD, I lost them one time!” Tony rested a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Congratulations, kid. You’ve been unanimously elected team supervisor.” Peter gave him a betrayed look. “You should be protecting me.” Tony only grinned. “Yeah, but watching you suffer is funny.”

The getting-ready process was absolute chaos in the way only Stark-family outings could be. In the hallway, Morgan insisted she needed her light-up sneakers because, “They make me faster and stronger, duh,” and MJ helped her get them on while Harley accused Ned of hiding his jacket. Ned held up both hands. “Why would I hide your jacket? I’m literally wearing a T-shirt with Star Wars on it. I don’t need accessories.” Harley snapped his fingers like he’d solved a mystery. “Morgan hid it.” She gasped, offended. “I’m ten, Harley! I don’t do that anymore.” Peter tugged on his own shoes while watching the scene unfold with a mix of amusement and affection. Tony handed Harley a fivety as sneakily as a man in an action movie passing intel. Pepper sighed from the kitchen doorway. “Tony, please tell me you’re not funding candy.” Tony smiled innocently. “Of course not.”

“It’s totally for candy,”  Harley whispered, and Peter shoved his shoulder.

Morgan grabbed Peter’s hand as they all walked toward the elevator. Before the doors fully closed, Tony called out, “Ten o’clock!” Pepper added, “And no letting Harley trick anyone into eating anything questionable.” Harley gasped like he was offended by the truth. MJ called back, “No promises!” Peter gave Tony a half-smile, the kind he didn’t even realize he’d started doing until a few months ago. Tony’s expression softened into one of those quiet, proud looks that always made Peter feel steadier than he knew how to explain. “We’ll be back by then, promise.” Peter promised. Tony nodded. “Have fun.”

Inside the elevator, the sound bounced around the walls, Morgan humming, Harley talking about air hockey like he was entering a championship, Ned explaining his strategy, MJ roasting half the group just for existing, and Peter smiling at all of it. It was warm in a way that wasn’t loud or forced or temporary. It settled into Peter’s chest and stayed there. This was home. This was his family. And heading to an arcade on a Friday night felt like exactly the sort of simple, normal happiness he’d once thought he’d never have.

  -

Someone from the Tower’s security staff ended up driving them that night, since Happy was out of town for a conference and Tony didn’t want his kids walking out in the cold. It wasn’t a long ride, maybe ten minutes at most, but it gave Morgan exactly enough time to alternate between leaning over MJ to point out random storefronts and listing every game she planned to beat at the arcade. Peter watched her with this soft amusement, like he still couldn’t quite believe how much energy a ten-year-old could store in such a small body. Harley made jokes from the middle seat, kicking Peter’s foot every few minutes just to be annoying, while Ned narrated everything happening outside the window, still filming his documentary. By the time the car rolled to a stop, the night already felt bright and easy in that way weekends sometimes did when everyone was in a good mood.

The moment they stepped out into the glow of the arcade’s neon sign, Morgan bolted ahead, only to be caught by the hood of her jacket as MJ hooked a finger into it. MJ laughed, steadying her. “Slow down, speed demon. We haven’t even gone inside yet.” Morgan just grinned up at her, bouncing on her toes, as if physically incapable of standing still for more than half a second. MJ squeezed her hand, adding, “By the way, I’m borrowing her tonight. I’ve always wanted a little sister.” Morgan gasped dramatically and shouted over her shoulder, “Peter, she’s adopting me!” Peter groaned, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not how adopting works.” Harley slung an arm over Peter’s shoulders, smirking. “You'd better fix that, man. You’re losing custody fast.”

Inside, the arcade swallowed them in a rush of sound and color, ringing bells, digital chimes, and bright flashing displays lining every wall. MJ and Morgan drifted off almost immediately toward a climbing structure, Morgan dragging her with the determination of a tiny general leading her chosen soldier into battle. The boys claimed the air hockey table, because that was tradition, and Ned was already feeding quarters into the slot before anyone else could suggest a different game. Peter scored the first point in three seconds, and Harley’s jaw dropped in outrage. “Nope. Absolutely not. You cheated.” Peter only lifted his brows, trying not to smile. “Harls, it’s literally just air hockey.” Harley jabbed a finger at him. “You have spider-reflexes. That is cheating.” Ned snorted, leaning on his mallet. “My guy, you’re only mad because you’re losing.” Harley pointed at the scoreboard like it had personally betrayed him. “This is a warm-up round.”

The game went on with the exact chaos expected of three teenage boys who took dumb competitions very seriously. Peter’s movements were smooth and quick, and Harley continued narrating every difference in reaction time like he was building a legal case. Ned kept switching sides, cheering for whoever wasn’t currently yelling at him, until Peter finally tapped the puck in for the winning point. Harley threw both hands in the air as if appealing to a higher power. “Rigged! Completely rigged. I want a rematch when he’s asleep.” Peter laughed, shaking his head. “That’s… not how I work.” Harley huffed. “Well, maybe it should be.” Ned grinned at them both. “You know Tony would totally install a power button if he could.” Peter groaned. “Don’t give him ideas.”

They wandered to the little café tucked into the corner of the arcade once the fun ended, still bickering lightly the whole way. It was small but warm, filled with mismatched chairs and the smell of fryer oil and melted cheese. Morgan and MJ had already claimed a table, Morgan proudly guarding a stack of prize tickets that was bigger than her head. MJ gestured at them with the air of someone announcing breaking news. “She’s a prodigy. She obliterated the basketball game. I’m pretty sure the machine short-circuited out of shame.” Morgan puffed out her chest. “I got ninety-two!” Peter slid into the seat beside her and ruffled her hair. “Look at you, Mo. You’re gonna bankrupt this place.” She beamed and nudged the giant pile of tickets toward him. “You can have half. But not all. I need the giant frog.”

Harley leaned back in his chair, smirking. “That frog is mine, actually. I’ve already bonded with it.” Morgan gasped, scandalized. “No! He’s my frog!” MJ patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Harley can visit the frog on weekends.” Ned broke into laughter so abruptly he nearly spilled his milkshake. Peter rolled his eyes, still smiling. “You’re all so dramatic.” And yet the table felt warm and safe, full of overlapping conversations and friendly teasing. They shared nachos, mozzarella sticks, and way too many milkshakes, talking over each other the way people did when they were entirely comfortable. MJ teased Peter for “air hockey showboating,” Harley reenacted the “cheating scandal” with increasing exaggeration, and Ned launched into an excited explanation about the new robotics project he and Peter were planning.

It was loud and cozy and familiar, the kind of night that didn’t feel special on the surface but would stick with them anyway. Peter leaned back in his seat at one point, looking around at the laughter, the soft glow of the café lights, Morgan swinging her legs under the table, and felt that rare sense of peace settle over him. Things were good. Really good. And sometimes, that was enough to make a moment feel perfect.

  -

Peter’s spider sense tingled. He looked around. The café was quiet around them, the bored girl behind the counter barely glanced up as they joked, the kind of casual laughter that usually settled in like a warm blanket. But Peter couldn’t shake the cold prickle crawling up his spine. When six men in grimy construction gear walked through the door, dragging dust and exhaustion with them, something deep in his chest clenched tight.

They looked like they’d been working a brutal, endless shift, faces set in tired lines, eyes sharp and calculating. Peter’s skin crawled, every instinct screaming, but he forced a smile and stepped out of their way, trying to drown out the warning bell ringing in his head.

He tried to focus on the easy back-and-forth with Ned, but his thoughts wouldn’t settle. The pit in his stomach twisted into knots.

Then Harley’s voice sliced through the room, sharp and tense. Peter looked up. His unease ballooned into cold panic, nausea curling at the back of his throat. He needed air, needed space.

He moved toward the counter, ordering water with a voice that sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.

And then everything exploded.

Kyle, the man Dad had sent to watch over them, collapsed like a rag doll. Blood bloomed dark and fast, seeping through his suit right over his heart. Peter’s stomach lurched violently. His breath hitched, chest tightening as the world tipped sideways for a moment.

But there was no time to fall apart.

Three men grabbed MJ, Ned, and Harley, holding them tight, their grips unyielding and merciless. A fourth had Morgan, small and trembling in his arms, pressed tight against his chest. The knife gleamed cruelly, cold steel hovering over her tiny shirt, pressed right against her chest.

Peter’s body moved before his mind could catch up. He lunged, desperate, reckless.

A fish-like hand clamped down on his shoulders, wrenching him backward. Pain flared as a taser struck his ribs, fire exploding through his body. His legs buckled, knees hitting the floor.

His arms were forced behind his back, bound cruelly. Panic blazed in his chest as he looked around. Ned and MJ were pinned to the wall, hands forced behind them, eyes wide but fierce. Guns glinted in the hands of their captors.

Harley was on the ground, a knee dug hard into his spine. Every struggle was met with violence; an elbow to the back of the head silenced his protests.

“Stop moving!” Peter shouted desperately. Harley’s eyes met his, wide with pain, and then he stilled, swallowing a groan.

Morgan’s terrified cry shattered the chaos, piercing straight through Peter’s heart. He turned toward her, pain and fury roiling in his gut, ready to fight for her with everything.

And then the taser hit him again, harder this time. The world spun wildly as he collapsed forward onto his knees, breathing raggedly.

A cold, sharp prick in his neck told him that something had been injected into him. The vile syringe dropped to the floor with a careless clatter.

“We know you’re Spider-Man,” a voice rasped, and Peter’s blood froze. No. This was why they were here. Because of him. Because of who he was. They were hurting the people he loved to get to him.

“What do you want?” His voice cracked, half despiration, half defiance.

“For you to come with us,” the largest man said, voice low and unkind.

Peter’s eyes flickered between them, MJ’s jaw clenched tight, Ned’s glare fierce despite his bound hands, Harley’s pale face twisted in pain, Morgan’s small sobs heart-wrenching in the cold air.

He nodded, barely able to trust his own shaking hands.

“You’ll let them go?” Peter’s voice was desperate, a plea.

MJ’s sudden protests to his words were cut off with a brutal slam of a gun butt striking the back of her head, not enough to seriously injure, but enough to silence her.

“Yeah. Your friends go after the hour. We need time.” The man’s words were cold and final.

Peter swallowed the dread rising in his throat.

Harley started to speak but was silenced with a cruel dig of the knee into his spine, his voice breaking into a strangled cry.

The man holding Peter yanked him up by the hair, pain flaring through his scalp.

Weak and trembling, Peter stumbled after them, every step a battle against the drug coursing through his veins, draining his strength. He was broken and beaten, but not defeated. Not yet.

The car door slammed shut behind him after they bound his hand to the handle on the car ceiling, trapping him in darkness.

The engine’s hum was both a lullaby and a warning.

Everything was blurring in and out.

His head lolled sideways, resting on his bound arm as the shadows closed in.

And then… nothing.

Chapter Text

Harley couldn’t breathe.

Not because of the weight on his back, though the guy’s knee stayed planted between his shoulder blades like he was trying to fuse him to the floor, but because his brain refused to process what he’d just watched. One second, Peter was reaching for Morgan with that stupid heroic stubbornness he never grew out of, and the next, he was being dragged through the back door like a ragdoll, half-conscious and too weak to fight back.

Again.
It was happening again.

Harley pressed his cheek harder against the cold tile, trying to angle his head enough to see the others. Ned and MJ were still shoved up against the wall, hands pinned painfully behind them. Morgan- God, Morgan, was held tight against some stranger’s chest, her much smaller fists clenched in absolute terror, her eyes locked on the door Peter had disappeared through.

The same door Harley couldn’t stop staring at.

His heart hammered so violently he swore the man restraining him could feel it through his back.

“Stop moving,” the guy growled.

Harley didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Every muscle in him was buzzing with the kind of panic he hadn’t felt since he was six years old, hiding in the dark with Peter’s hand shaking inside his.

Don’t take him. Don’t take him. Please don’t take him.

The memory wasn’t a memory anymore, just a mirror of now.

He forced himself to look around for a clock, anywhere, because if Dad didn’t know something was wrong yet, he would soon. Tony Stark didn’t miss curfew. Not after what happened the last time. Not after eight years of waiting for two boys who didn’t come home.

Harley spotted numbers glowing faintly on the corner oven; 9:54 PM.

Six minutes until Tony panicked.
Seven until Tony found them.
Eight until Tony burned the world down if he had to.

Harley clung to that thought like a lifeline.

He scanned the room again, searching for anything, someone who might help. The girl behind the counter was gone. At first, he thought she had run, but then Harleys gaze caught on something behind the island counter. A flash of blue. Blue Converse. The girl was crouched low, frozen in fear.

At least someone else had seen. Someone else could tell the police. Someone else could say Peter didn’t just… leave.

Harley’s throat tightened so hard it hurt.

Peter didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t fight for himself. He only fought for Morgan. And then he went quiet, let them take him, let himself be hauled away like he owed them his life.

He whispered to himself, voice shaking, “You idiot, Pete… why would you-”

The man above him shoved his face closer to the floor. “Shut it.”

Harley squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears in. His chest trembled with the fight of it. He wanted to scream. To break free. To run after Peter until his lungs bled. But every time he tried to move, pain shot down his spine, locking him in place.

He didn’t even know if Peter was still conscious.
He didn’t know where they were taking him.
He didn’t know if he’d ever come back.

And that thought, the same thought he’d had when he was six, made bile rise in his throat.

MJ’s voice broke suddenly, trembling and furious. “Let Morgan go. Please, she’s a kid. Let her go.”

The man holding Morgan tightened his grip. She gasped, a small, terrified sound that cracked straight down Harley’s ribs.

“Quiet,” the man snapped.

Harley’s voice tore out of him before he could stop it. “Don’t touch her! Just- don’t- ”

The knee pressed harder into his back, forcing the air out of him. His vision blurred. He tasted something metallic he didn’t want to think about.

Ned whispered, “Harley… stop. Please.” But Ned sounded like he was about to pass out himself.

The room felt like it was shrinking around him. Every sound too loud. Every second too slow. Every breath too shallow. He couldn’t think past the last image he had of Peter.

Handcuffed.
Dragging his feet.
Eyes dazed and scared and resigned.
Like he believed this was what he deserved.

Just like before.

Harley bit down on a sob so hard it burned, swallowing it like poison.

He wouldn’t let this be like before.
He wouldn’t lose his twin again.
And Tony sure as hell wouldn’t either.

His gaze flicked back to the digital numbers glowing from across the room.

9:56 PM.

Four minutes.

Four minutes until Tony noticed.
Four minutes until Tony’s voice filled Harley’s phone.
Four minutes until Tony Stark tore the Earth open looking for his son.

Harley pressed his forehead to the tile, shaking, and whispered so quietly that only the floor could hear.

“Dad… hurry.”

He tried to twist again, just one more desperate attempt to ease the pressure grinding into his spine, but the man on top of him didn’t budge. His cheek was still crushed against the tile, his arms trapped numb behind him, and every breath came tight and shaky as the reality of what had happened settled like ice in his lungs. Peter was gone. He’d watched his twin get dragged through that back door, half-conscious, limp, and too dazed to even look back. It didn’t feel real yet; it felt like one of those nightmares he used to have after they were found, the ones where no matter how fast he ran, he never reached Peter in time. But this wasn’t a dream. This was happening again, in a different room with different men, but it was the same sick fear curling deep in his ribs.

He looked around frantically, needing something, anything that might help. He searched for the girl behind the counter, hoping she’d stayed, hoping maybe she’d seen enough to tell the police where Peter went. But she was gone. Great. Perfect. His heart dropped like a stone. Then his gaze caught on a flash of blue, barely visible behind the counter: a pair of blue Converse. She must’ve crouched down to hide. At least she was alive. At least there would be a witness. It wasn’t much comfort, but right now, Harley would take crumbs if it meant someone else could confirm Peter didn’t just leave them. If it meant Tony wouldn’t think, wouldn’t fear the worst all over again.

Outside, the wail of sirens split through the air. Sharp. Close. Too close for the men to pretend they didn’t hear. Everything shifted at once, as if someone had hit a switch. The guy holding Morgan let her drop, literally just let her fall onto the tile in a heap, and Harley’s heart lurched so violently he almost threw the man off his back. Morgan’s cry was raw and breathless, terrified and too small. The men restraining MJ and Ned immediately holstered their guns, moving with practiced indifference. The weight crushing Harley’s spine lifted abruptly as the man scrambled to his feet, stepping away like Harley was nothing but a prop he no longer needed.

Morgan sucked in a sharp breath and scrambled on trembling limbs straight into Harley’s chest before he even had time to sit up fully. Her little fingers fisted the front of his shirt with such desperation that Harley felt something inside him splinter. MJ and Ned stumbled toward him too, their faces pale and their eyes blown wide with shock, and the four of them huddled together instinctively, as if staying in one small, shaking pile might keep the world from collapsing.

They watched in stunned silence as the men walked out the same back exit they’d dragged Peter through minutes earlier. They didn’t bother running. They didn’t look back. They just vanished, leaving the room colder than it had ever been.

The worker behind the counter slowly stood up, legs wobbling under her, and rushed out from behind the register to check on them. Harley could barely hear her voice; everything sounded muffled, distant, like his ears were packed full of water.

But then the floor vibrated.

A metallic thud shook the air, loud enough to rattle the light fixtures, and Harley’s breath hitched. The Iron Man suit hit the pavement just outside the café. A half-second later, the door was shoved open with more force than necessary, and Tony Stark stormed in, not as Iron Man but as a father who had already survived losing his children once and was not emotionally equipped to relive it. 

His face was wild, frantic, searching. He counted them instantly. Harley could see it in his eyes. One. Two. Three. Four. But he didn’t relax. Instead, he froze.

Because one was missing.

Tony’s gaze locked onto Harley, who still had Morgan clinging to him, and the color drained right out of Tony’s face. He looked sick. Like the air had been punched out of him.

“Where is Peter.”
Not a question. A demand. A plea. A nightmare.

Morgan burst into louder tears, pushing away from Harley just enough to launch herself into Tony’s arms. “H-he’s gone,” she choked out, clinging to her dad so tightly her fingers went white.

Tony swallowed hard. “What do you mean, gone?”

“He left with the men,” Ned said, voice cracking in panic. He kept glancing at the back door as if Peter might walk through it any second. “They- they took him.”

“Six guys came in and- ” MJ started, but her explanation was cut off by three NYPD officers bursting through the entrance with guns drawn, shouting commands. They’re twenty minutes late to the party, Harley thought humorlessly.

Tony let out a bitter, sharp scoff. “Little late for that.”

Harley, still shaking, finally forced himself to speak. “That’s not helping.” His voice came out hoarse and fragile. “We need to find him before it’s too late.”

Before they lost him again. Before history repeated itself. Before Tony had to survive the kind of grief he’d barely survived the first time.

Tony crouched down in front of them, smoothing Morgan’s hair and checking MJ and Ned for injuries, then scanning Harley with shaking hands, his shoulders, his jaw, the bruising on his back. “Are any of you hurt?” His voice was breaking and he didn’t even try to hide it. “Did they hurt you? Did any of them touch you?”

“We’re okay,” MJ whispered. “Just scared.”

Harley exhaled a shudder. “Dad… go. Please. Just- go get him.”

Tony nodded once, eyes sharp with grief and fury, and stood to face the officers. “Can you watch these four?” he asked, already stepping backward toward the door. “My wife and our driver will be here in ten minutes.”

The officers barely had time to answer before Tony Stark was gone, out the door, into the night, chasing his son like he’d tear the sky open to bring him home.

Harley barely had time to process Tony’s exit before one of the officers stepped closer, lowering his gun as his expression softened. “Are you all okay? Is anyone injured?” he asked, voice gentler now that the danger was gone.

“No, we’re fine,” MJ answered automatically, still shaking.

Ned shot her a look like she’d personally offended him. “She got hit in the head,” he said, pointing at her like he was giving evidence in court. MJ turned toward him with a betrayed glare, and Harley felt the same twisting frustration when Ned added, “And Harley- he was being crushed. His back got messed up.”

Harley let out a quiet groan. Perfect. Now he knew exactly how MJ felt. Betrayed by the most unhelpful honesty possible.

A pair of paramedics came in behind the officers, already unloading equipment while skeaping to the officers. One crouched in front of Harley. “Can you lift your shirt for me? We need to check for any damage to your spine.”

Harley obeyed stiffly, flinching when cool fingers pressed the bruised spots across his lower back. It sent sparks of pain down his legs, but nothing serious. “Just bruising,” the medic said. “You’ll be sore, but you’re okay.”

Somehow that made it worse. His brother was gone, and Harley was “okay.”

Not long after, the door burst open again, this time with familiar faces. Pepper rushed in first, her heels clicking sharply against the tile, with Happy right behind her. The second she saw Harley, she dropped to her knees and pulled him into a tight hug, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other gripping his shoulder like she could anchor him to the ground.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, kissing his hair the way she had when he was little and scared. “Are you hurt? Are you- baby, are you okay?”

Harley didn’t trust himself to speak. He just nodded.

Morgan came barreling into her next, tears streaking down her face, and Pepper immediately wrapped her up too, kissing her forehead, checking every inch of her like she expected to find something broken that the paramedics missed. “Sweetheart, it’s okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you.”

Then Pepper looked up.

Her eyes scanned the group. Harley, MJ, Ned, and Morgan, and when she didn’t find who she was looking for, her face fell. Her shoulders tensed. Her brows furrowed sharply.

“Where’s Peter?” she asked, breathless. Panic already creeping up her throat.

Harley opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Pepper’s voice rose slightly as she repeated herself. “Where is Peter?” She repeated.

“They took him.”
The words came out flatter than Harley meant them to. He wondered distantly why he wasn’t screaming or crying or shaking. He felt like he should be hysterical, but everything inside him felt muted, blurry, numb.

Pepper surged to her feet. “WHAT?” The word cracked through the whole café. “What do you mean took him? Who? Where? Harley- where did they take him?”

Harley swallowed hard. His throat burned. His eyes stung, but the tears didn’t fall- they just gathered and sat there, heavy and stuck.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “They… they said they knew he was Spider-Man. And he complied with their demands. They-”

His voice broke, and he ran his fingers through his curls.

“He tried to keep us safe,” Harley whispered. “They had- they had a knife to Morgan’s throat and guns to Ned and MJ’s heads. He didn’t… he didn’t have a choice.”

Pepper pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, her whole body shaking as she squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could stop the images Harley had just put in her head. Harley watched her chest rise and fall too fast, too shallow, like she was trying not to break down in front of her kids.

But Harley could see it, the echoes of the same horror she lived years ago, back when she thought she’d never see her children again.

It was happening all over again.

And this time, Peter wasn’t missing.
He was taken.
And he chose to go.

Because protecting them meant more to him than surviving.

“They said they knew he was Spider-Man?”

Pepper’s voice cracked in a way Harley had never heard before. She clutched Morgan tighter, her fingers trembling against the back of her daughter’s shirt. Harley nodded once, but the motion felt stiff and disconnected, like his head belonged to someone else. Everything around him sounded underwater; the sirens, the officers speaking to dispatch, the paramedics zipping up their bags. It was all noise he couldn’t make sense of, not when the image of Peter being dragged out the back door kept replaying in his mind like a record stuck on a single frame.

“Why didn’t he fight back?” Pepper asked. Her voice rose and fell sharply, desperate, as if any explanation would be better than the silence surrounding them. Morgan hid her face in Pepper’s neck, hiccuping uneven breaths. Harley ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek, trying to steady himself, but the truth pressed against the back of his ribs. He forced himself to meet Pepper’s eyes, red, frantic, needing answers he didn’t have.

“I- I don’t know,” he said, the words shaking loose from him. “Well- they injected him with something, actually.” Harley’s voice stumbled, tripping over itself as the memory crashed forward. “He just… slowed down. Like everything in him was shutting off. It must’ve weakened him, I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.” The phrase dissolved into something hollow and panicked, and his breath faltered.

His knees buckled before he even realized he was falling. He hit the curb with a dull thud and stayed there, elbows on his knees, hands pressed to his face as everything finally caught up at once. The fear. The guilt. The sight of Peter slumping forward as the needle went in. The way he didn’t even try to run. A hand rested lightly on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Ned kneeling beside him, expression tight and scared but steady. Next to them, MJ leaned against a streetlight, eyes closed, her exhaustion and greif written into every line of her body.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t swipe it away.

Morgan wiggled out of Pepper’s arms and crawled into MJ’s lap, seeking comfort, warmth, anything that felt like safety. MJ wrapped an arm around her automatically, even as she stared blankly ahead, like the world had tilted and she couldn’t get her balance back. Harley watched Morgan’s breathing slow into a shaky, dazed rhythm, her small fingers clutching MJ’s jacket sleeve.

Pepper took a step back. Just one. Quiet, measured, like she didn’t want to disrupt the thin thread holding her together. Her hand remained over her mouth, shoulders rising and falling in uneven, stuttering breaths. She looked toward the direction Tony had disappeared, her eyes filling with a grief so sharp it hurt to look at. She didn’t cry, not openly, but her face was breaking all the same.

Harley didn’t blame her for needing space. He needed some himself. Space to breathe. Space to think. Space to understand that his brother was gone again,  after fighting so hard to come home, after finally settling into a life where he wasn’t alone, after choosing them, he was gone. Taken because he wouldn’t risk the lives of the people he loved more than his own heartbeat.

The officers kept talking somewhere behind them. The paramedics loaded equipment. Reporters asked questions from across the police tape. But none of it mattered. Not right now. All Harley could focus on was the empty space where Peter had been minutes before, the spot that seemed to echo louder than anything around them.

Pepper turned away and walked a few paces down the sidewalk, one hand braced on her hip, the other pressed to her eyes. She didn’t sob. She didn’t scream. She just stood there, silent, shaking, holding herself together by sheer force of will.

Harley watched her go, feeling something cold and heavy settle in his chest.

He didn’t blame her for needing a minute.

He needed one too.

Chapter Text

Pepper felt like puking. There was no way this was happening. Again.
The thought alone made her vision blur, made her stomach twist so violently she had to brace a hand against the cold metal of the nearest NYPD cruiser. She dropped to the curb before she even realized she was moving, her knees hitting the pavement, her back pressed to the door, needing something solid to keep her upright. She had just gotten him back. A year. Twelve tiny months, fragile months of having her son home again, of learning the sound of his laugh, the way he leaned into hugs shyly, the way his shoulders loosened every time he realized they weren’t going anywhere. And now this. Her throat constricted hard, like grief itself had wrapped around her windpipe.

She tilted her head back and squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to breathe through the burning in her throat. The sobs that escaped were silent, but they still shook her, sharp little jolts that made her ribs ache. Her eyebrows pulled together as if the emotion itself had a physical weight, pressing down on everything inside her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to stand up and throw something, punch something, demand the universe stop playing this cruel joke on their family. But there were kids watching. Her kids. And she had to be strong for them. She didn’t feel strong. She felt like she was about to crack in half.

Eight years.
Eight years of searching and praying and waking up every morning terrified that she had failed him by simply not finding him fast enough. And after all that time, after all that pain, after finally getting to hold him again and feel his hair under her palms, he was gone. Torn away like the universe was determined to repeat itself. “No… no, no, no,” she whispered, barely audible, each word a fractured gasp. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. Peter had suffered enough for five lifetimes, and now he was somewhere out there, scared and alone, because someone decided they were entitled to him.

A soft, shaky voice pulled her back to reality.
“Mom?”
Harley stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around himself, eyes glassy with the kind of shock that didn’t settle in until after the adrenaline had worn off. Beside him, Morgan clung to his sleeve, her face puffy and wet with tears, her breath still shaky. MJ was leaning against a streetlamp, eyes closed, jaw tight like she was fighting the urge to fall apart right there. Ned hovered awkwardly near her, torn between comforting one of his best friends and trying not to make her feel worse. Both of them tried their best not to look at Pepper like she was about to collapse, because she was.

Pepper blinked fast and forced herself to sit up straighter and wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I’m here,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m okay. I’m… I’m right here.”
Harley nodded, but the movement was stiff, unconvincing. He sat down next to her. “They took him,” he murmured again, like repeating it made it more real, more unbearable. “He didn’t even fight back.” His voice was rough and cracked multiple times throughout the short sentence.

Pepper inhaled sharply through her nose, her stomach dropping. “Why? Why wouldn’t he- ? He’s strong, he’s capable, he-”
Harley shook his head quickly. “They injected him with something. Before he could do anything.” His voice cracked on the last word. “He tried to protect us any other way, but he couldn’t. And when they threatened Morgan and MJ and Ned… he just- he just went with them.”

Pepper felt her vision flicker, a wave of cold rolling down her spine. Peter must’ve been terrified. Disoriented. Still trying to protect everyone, even when his body was failing him. And God, he would’ve been apologizing in his head the whole time, like it was his fault any of them were ever in danger.

She pressed her shaking hand over her mouth, trying to breathe around the rising panic. Tony was still out there, chasing down any lead he could find. The idea of him alone, frantic, tearing through the city for their son, it made her want to crumble all over again. But she couldn’t. Not yet. She had to keep it together for the children who were here.

A paramedic walked over with gentle steps. “Ma’am? You’re pale. We can check you-”
“No,” she said quickly, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Check them. I’m fine. Just a bit shaken up.” She touched Harley’s shoulder, brushing hair back from his forehead. “Are you hurt? They said you were on the ground-”
His jaw clenched. “Just bruised. Nothing serious.” But the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “Mom, I-I tried to stop him. I-.”

Pepper cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing just under his eye. “You kept your sister safe. You kept your friends safe. Peter would be proud of you. I’m proud of you.”
Harley let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sob, but close.

Morgan crawled into Pepper’s lap without a word, pressing her face into her chest, her little hands clinging to Pepper’s shirt like she was afraid she’d disappear too. Pepper folded her arms around her daughter and kissed the top of her head, the tears finally spilling freely again. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Even though she didn’t feel like she had anything under control at all.

After a moment, Pepper looked up at MJ and Ned. They looked exhausted, shaken, too quiet for teenagers who’d just survived something like this. “Are you both okay?”
MJ nodded slowly. “We’re… we’re trying.”
Ned swallowed hard. “We just want Peter back.”

Pepper shut her eyes, exhaling shakily. “We will find him,” she said, not sure if she was reassuring them or herself. “Tony will bring him home.”

The problem was, she remembered the last time she had said those words.
The last time she’d promised herself they would find him.
And it had taken eight years.

Now she had to pray that the universe wasn’t cruel enough to repeat history.

  -

Pepper sat on the cold pavement outside the café, her back pressed against the front of an NYPD cruiser because her legs simply wouldn’t hold her anymore. She felt like she was floating just above her body, watching herself unravel in slow motion, unable to stop it. Her arms wrapped instinctively around Morgan’s tiny form as if pulling her close enough might stop the reality from sinking its claws into her chest. The night air was too sharp, too loud, every sound brittle enough to shatter her into pieces. Crackling radios, the buzz of officers murmuring into walkie-talkies, the quiet sniffles from the three teenagers sitting nearby. Pepper felt her stomach twist as she blinked tears from her eyes, forcing herself to breathe because she could not break down, not here. Not in front of them. Not again.

Morgan whimpered in her arms, exhausted and confused, and Pepper smoothed her daughter’s hair automatically, her movements shaky and disjointed. Her mind was a chaotic mess of flashing memories; Peter as a baby laughing at bubbles, Peter at six clutching Tony’s hand on the sidewalk, Peter’s first night home after eight years of being missing, Peter brushing flour off his hands in the kitchen just this morning while helping Harley bake chocolate chip cookies. All of it tangled together, squeezing her heart until her breath caught in her throat. She had only had him back for a year. Twelve months after eight stolen years. And now he was gone again. Her body trembled at the thought, not because she was cold, but because her heart was tearing itself apart trying to comprehend the possibility of losing him twice.

Harley sat beside her, leaning into her shoulder like he used to when he was younger. His face was pale, his expression blank in that awful way kids sometimes go blank when reality is too big for them to hold. Pepper felt sick looking at him. Peter had thrown himself into danger to protect Harley, Morgan, and their friends. Again. Always again. Harley’s breaths were tight, uneven, and his hand kept curling and uncurling in his lap, like he was trying to ground himself. She wanted to pull him close, hold his face in her hands, and make him believe she could fix things. But she couldn't fix this. She couldn't reverse time. She couldn't change the fact that Peter had walked straight into the arms of danger. Of the men who took him. 

Pepper barely registered the voice at first, soft, uneven, stumbling, until she repeated herself. She looked down at Morgan’s curled-up figure, sitting in her lap, soaking up her mother’s warmth and comfort. Her cheeks were blotchy, eyes wide and shining with fear.

“Mom?” Morgan whispered, voice trembling in a way she hadn’t heard from her in years. “Is… is Peter okay?”

The question hit Pepper so hard her breath caught. Morgan wasn’t little anymore, but right then she looked unbearably young, scared, pale, clutching the sleeves of her jacket in tight fists. Pepper opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her throat burned.

Morgan scooted closer, lower lip shaking. “He didn’t look okay. He wasn’t moving right. And they wouldn’t let me get close.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “Please just tell me he’s gonna be fine.”

Pepper reached up, cupping the back of Morgan’s head and pulling her against her chest. “Honey,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady even though she could feel it splintering, “we don’t know anything yet. Everyone’s doing their jobs. Dad’s out there trying to find him right now. As soon as they tell us something, we’ll go from there.”

Morgan pulled back just enough to look at her. “But you’re scared,” she said, barely getting the words out. “You never look like this unless something’s really wrong.”

Pepper’s breath shuddered. She brushed a strand of hair from Morgan’s face. “I am scared,” she admitted, because lying felt impossible right now. “But we’re going to do our best to get him back. We’re going to do everything we can. We won’t let him be alone.”

Morgan nodded slowly, wiping at her face with her sleeve. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay… I just don’t want him to disappear again.”

Pepper pulled her close again, holding on tighter this time, heart aching in a way she didn’t have words for. “Me neither,” she murmured into her hair. “And we’re not letting that happen. Not ever.”

Across from them, MJ sat against a streetlight, her arms wrapped around her knees, exhaustion pulling at every line in her face. Ned sat close beside her, his leg bouncing wildly with nervous energy, his eyes red from crying or shock or both. They kept answering officer questions in these mechanical voices that didn’t sound like them, like the night had scooped the color out of their personalities and left behind washed-out versions. Pepper found herself staring, taking in the four of them, the shell-shocked expressions, the trembling hands, the silence, and felt the panic climb up her throat again. They were all children. They should’ve been joking about school or fighting over air hockey or complaining about homework. Not giving statements to police officers about armed men and threats and Peter being dragged away.

She tried to steady her breathing, but it hit her all over again, that spiraling realization she’d been trying to swallow since Tony had called her: He’s gone. He’s gone. She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead and shut her eyes tight, telling herself she had to stay strong. She had to be their anchor, the one who held everyone together. But she felt anything but strong. Inside, she was screaming, clawing at whatever faint hope existed. She couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t survive that again. Not after everything they’d just rebuilt.

The sound of metal landing hard on concrete echoed through the block, that familiar, heavy thud of the Iron Man suit hitting the ground. Pepper’s heart leapt in her chest as Tony rushed toward them. His helmet folded back to reveal his face, pale and frantic, his eyes scanning wildly for the one person he wouldn’t find. As soon as he reached her, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her upright and against him. Pepper let out a single quiet sob into his shoulder, unable to hold it in anymore.

“Did you find anything?” she whispered, not sure she wanted an answer.

Tony closed his eyes for a few agonizing seconds, jaw clenching before he forced himself to meet her gaze. “No.” His voice cracked just barely, just enough for Pepper to feel the ground tilt beneath her. “Not yet.”

Her breath shook. “Tony-”

“I know.” He took a sharp breath, blinking hard. “We need to get back to the Tower. Get the kids in the car. Happy will drive you. I’m going back out; I have calls to make, people to pull in.” His voice steadied only by sheer force of will.

Pepper nodded, even though she barely felt present enough to process anything. Tony always moved into action when terrified, building, planning, and fighting. Pepper, though… she held the aftermath. The fear. The grief. The what-ifs. She forced her spine straight and wiped beneath her eyes quickly, smearing the last streaks of mascara that gave away her panic. She had to get herself together. For Morgan. For Harley. For Peter, wherever he was.

She stepped forward, heels tapping sharply against the pavement as she approached the officers. Her voice was steady because it had to be. She got clearance to take the kids home, thanked them even though her words felt hollow, and turned back toward the group. Morgan was half-asleep, clinging to Harley’s shirt. MJ rose unsteadily to her feet. Ned rubbed at his eyes before grabbing MJ’s hand, grounding both of them.

They all piled into Happy’s car in silence. The door shut, muffling the sounds of sirens and radios and Tony’s suit powering up as he launched back into the night sky. Pepper buckled Morgan in. Harley slid in beside her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, pale and shaking. Pepper sat between her children, her hands trembling uncontrollably in her lap.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Pepper stared out the window at the flashing lights fading behind them, her chest tightening with each passing second. The world outside kept moving, cars still stopped at traffic lights, and people still walked down the street. But her world was frozen around the shape of an absence.

Peter was gone.

And if she let herself think about what that meant, really think about it, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to breathe.

Chapter Text

Peter came back to consciousness slowly, like his mind was trying to swim up through thick, freezing water. For a second, maybe two, he wasn’t really anywhere. Then the cold hit him. A deep, earthy cold, the kind that seeped under skin and into bone, the kind that didn’t care that it was supposed to be summer. He blinked, or at least he thought he did; his eyelids felt heavy and slow, like they weren’t fully connected to the rest of his face.

The ceiling above him was cracked concrete, stained and webbed with patches of dark mold. The air tasted damp, metallic. Stale. It made something in his chest tighten, like whatever he was breathing had been trapped here longer than he had.

Basement, he thought weakly. Or a bunker. Something underground. 

He tried to lift his head, but his neck refused to cooperate, sending a dull ache spreading across the back of his skull. That was when he realized he couldn’t feel half his body properly. His arms were numb from the cold and from the way he’d been sprawled on the unforgiving floor. His legs felt… distant. As though someone had unplugged the connection between his brain and everything below his waist.

Panic flickered, faint but real.

Move. Just… move.

He told his fingers to curl. Nothing happened. He waited. Concentrated. Pushed past the pounding in his temples. Eventually, his fingers twitched. A  weak, stiff curl that barely counted as a fist, but it was movement. He let them uncurl again and almost cried from relief.

He had no idea how long he’d been lying here. Minutes? Hours? Days? Longer? His stomach hollowed and cramped with hunger, yet he also felt nauseous enough that breathing too deeply made his throat clench. His ears rang, not with sound, but with the overwhelming absence of it. No footsteps, no humming lights, no distant machines. Just the heavy, suffocating quiet pressing in on him.

He hated the silence. It made the fear louder.

Peter forced a breath in through his nose. It stung. Everything smelled like wet stone and mold, and underneath it, faint, but terrifyingly familiar. Chemicals. The smell just didn’t seem to belong in a basement. It was a kind that he’d smelled before; cold rooms, metal tables, a place from another life he didn’t talk about.

Something icy slid down his spine.

Not again. Not here. Not them.

His body trembled as he tried to shift. He managed to roll onto his side, the movement slow and clumsy, sending small sparks of pain shooting through muscles that felt bruised and overworked. Curling in on himself was instinct, protection, warmth, anything he could get. He pressed his back against the nearest wall, its damp chill sinking straight through his clothes, but at least it grounded him.

Then the nausea surged.

His mouth watered in that awful way that meant no warning. He turned his head just in time as his stomach lurched, but there was hardly anything in him to bring up. Only bitter, stinging bile hit the floor, burning his throat on the way out. He gagged again, even though his body had nothing left to give.

Great, he thought weakly, breathing hard through his nose. Either I already threw up… or it’s been long enough that everything’s out of my system.

His dinner. The snacks he’d had at the café. Gone.

The café.

His eyes snapped open wider despite how heavy they felt. His breath stuttered.

Morgan.

Harley.

Ned. MJ.

Were they okay? Did they get out? Did those men hurt them? They’d had weapons. They’d had Morgan… he remembered her little hands pulled tight, remembered the fear in her eyes.

A tremor rippled through him, stronger than before.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to swallow down the rising panic. His heart thudded unevenly, too fast, then too slow, like even it couldn’t make up its mind.

He needed answers. He needed to know where he was, what they wanted, how long he’d been here.

But he couldn’t even sit up.

The dread that had been coiled low in his stomach since he woke up finally unspooled, spreading like ice through his veins.

Something was very, very wrong.

And he wasn’t sure anyone even knew where to find him.

Peter’s thoughts cut off at the sudden metallic snap of a lock sliding open somewhere to his left, a sound so sharp and unexpected that it sent a shiver crawling down his spine. 

He hadn’t even realized there was a door there; his brain had been too foggy, too slow, like someone had stuffed cotton behind his eyes and inside his skull. 

The door swung outward in one smooth motion, light spilling into the dim room in a thin, unforgiving line. Footsteps followed, three sets, steady and confident against the concrete floor. Peter blinked hard, trying to clear the haze, but the world remained slightly doubled around the edges, like he was looking at it underwater.

A man stepped in first, dressed in a sharp business suit that looked painfully out of place in a room that smelled like mildew and chemicals. He moved with a kind of practiced calm, as if he’d walked into scenes like this hundreds of times before. 

Behind him came two men in black military-style uniforms, head to toe in dark fabric and armor that absorbed light rather than reflected it. Their berets were marked with a symbol that tugged at something in the back of Peter’s mind. Two circles, a skull in the center, curling shapes that took his sluggish brain a moment too long to interpret. When it clicked, his entire body tensed despite how weak he felt, a cold spike sinking straight through his stomach.

Hydra.

He didn’t even get the chance to process the fear tightening in his chest before the suited man closed the distance between them. Peter barely had the strength to lift his head, and the man didn’t wait for him to. He just crouched down, grabbed a fistful of Peter’s hair near the front, and yanked his head up so fast pain shot down his neck and into his spine. Peter let out a strangled breath he didn’t mean to make, his vision blurring for a second as his body tried and failed to keep up with the sudden movement. His eyes, unfocused, burning, and watery, met the man’s. And the man smiled. Not a warm smile or a reassuring one. A leisurely, cruel, almost bored smile.

Then he let go, and Peter dropped. His shoulder hit the ground first, then the rest of him, a dull wave of pain radiating out and settling under his skin like a slow burn. The suited man dusted off his hands like Peter was nothing more than a piece of lint he’d brushed away. “Some hero, huh?” he said to the guards, voice light, almost amused. They grunted their agreement, their laughter low and humorless.

Behind them, a man in a white lab coat hovered near the doorway, his posture stiff as if he wasn’t entirely comfortable standing in the same room. His bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lighting, and he wrung his hands the way nervous people do when they’re trying very hard not to show it. “Mendell Stromm,” he offered, voice uncertain.

Peter didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could.

The suited man stepped closer again, raising his brows in that confident, performative way people do when they assume everyone knows who they are. “I don’t think I need an introduction,” he said smoothly.

Peter blinked up at him, forcing his face into something unreadable. “Sorry,” he said, his voice thin and hoarse, “who are you?”

He knew. Of course he knew. But he also knew exactly how much that question would irritate him.

The man’s jaw tightened the slightest bit before smoothing over. “My name is Norman Osborn.”

Peter lowered his eyes again, staring hard at the cracks in the concrete to steady himself. His pulse thudded in his ears, too fast, too uneven. “So what do you want?” he asked, breath hitching halfway through. “Why am I here? And why did you need to hold a knife to my ten-year-old sister’s throat?”

Osborn let out a quiet, amused sigh. “Well, Mr. Parker, you have something that belongs to me. Something I created. Something you’ve been using without permission.”

Peter felt the panic start to swell in his chest again, but he tried to breathe through it. Tried to stay still. Tried not to let them see how scared he was.

“My spider,” Osborn continued. “The one that bit you during your unfortunate detour on a school trip.”

Peter nodded weakly, his head bobbing once, twice, like it weighed more than he could handle.

“Then you understand,” Osborn said. “Your abilities exist because of me. Because of my work. And that makes you mine.”

Peter forced his gaze upward again, anger flickering faintly behind the exhaustion clouding his eyes. “Is everyone from the café okay?”

“Yes, they’re fine,” Osborn said, already sounding impatient.

Peter’s shoulders sagged in quiet relief. But before he could fully process it, he nodded toward the uniformed men. “Why are they here? What is this?”

Osborn opened his mouth, but one of the Hydra soldiers stepped forward first. His voice was cold, clipped, professional. Someone used to giving orders, not answering questions.

“They’re here because you’re valuable,” he said. “Not just to Osborn. To us.”

Peter stiffened.

“We know the Avengers care about you,” the soldier continued. “Especially Tony Stark. You’re leverage. A pressure point. And Hydra is very interested in pressure points.”

Peter stared at him, disbelief mixing with disgust. “Leverage?” he echoed.

“Yes,” the guard said flatly, like Peter was too slow to understand. “Leverage.”

Osborn stepped closer, and Peter felt the air around him tighten. “Once we connected the missing spider to Spider-Man’s sudden appearance,” Osborn said, “everything else became obvious. Your identity. Your habits. Your weaknesses. Your connections.”

Peter swallowed hard, nausea rising again.

“And when a man like Stark loves something,” the soldier added, leaning forward just enough to make the air feel colder, “it becomes the easiest thing in the world to break.”

Peter’s stomach twisted, dread dripping through him like ice water. His mind raced. Morgan, Harley, Pepper, Tony, Ned, and MJ. Faces overlapping in flashes he couldn’t control.

“And just so we’re clear,” the soldier said quietly, “if you attempt anything, anything at all, the consequences will not fall on you. Hydra doesn’t issue warnings twice.”

The room felt like it tilted for a second. His breath hitched, uneven and shaky.

Osborn clapped his hands together once, the sound too loud, too final. “Now then. We’ll show you to your cell. There will be doctors, scientists, guards. All armed. All briefed. Cooperation is in your best interest. And those you wish to keep safe.”

Peter didn’t move. Not because he refused, but because he physically couldn’t. His body felt heavy and wrong, like the air itself was pressing down on him.

One of the guards stepped forward anyway, reaching down, grabbing Peter by the arm, and hauling him upward like lifting a ragdoll.

Peter’s legs nearly gave out on contact with the floor.

They didn’t care.

They just dragged him toward the door.

Hydra didn’t need him strong.

They just needed him trapped.

  -

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Peter alone again. The echo clattered around the room, bouncing sharply off concrete walls before dissolving back into the kind of silence that felt cruel. Heavy. Intentional.

He didn’t move at first. He couldn’t. His body felt like someone had drained all the heat and energy from him and replaced it with wet sand. His limbs were too heavy, his skin too cold, and he could feel each shallow breath scraping down the back of his throat like it wasn’t supposed to be there. The air tasted stagnant, damp, and metallic. Like old pipes and mould and something else he didn’t have a name for. Something that made the back of his tongue prickle.

His cell was barely bigger than a walk-in closet. The walls were poured concrete, stained darker in patches where water had seeped down over time. The floor was the same. Hard, uneven, gritty under his palms whenever he shifted. A fluorescent light flickered above him, buzzing faintly, giving off a sickly blue-white glow that made everything look washed out. Diseased. There was a drain in the far corner, rust crusted thick around the grate. And a metal door. No window, just a keypad and a small sliding slot near the bottom.

That was it. No bed. No blanket. Not even a bucket.

Just enough space to exist in, and not comfortably.

Peter pulled his knees to his chest, the movement shaky and slow, like his joints were rusty from disuse. Every muscle ached in a way that felt deep and wrong, like his body had been pushed past what it could handle and then left to figure itself out. His ribs hurt when he breathed too deeply. His arms trembled without meaning to. His stomach twisted painfully, empty but still restless, still rolling with leftover nausea.

He pressed the back of his head against the wall, flinching when the cold soaked straight through his hair to his skull. He tried to ground himself, count breaths, blink slowly, but his thoughts wouldn’t settle. They kept circling, faster and faster, crashing into each other until the panic became something tight and jagged lodged underneath his ribs.

Morgan’s face, her brown eyes that looked so much like his, wide, terrified, a knife pressed far too close to her throat. 

Harley yelling his name.

The way Tony had frozen like the world had just ended.

He squeezed his hands into fists against his knees, his fingers trembling violently. His skin was clammy. His heartbeat felt uneven, almost stuttering.

Hydra. Hydra had him.

Hydra knew him.

Hydra knew them.

Every part of him felt like it was spiraling inward. He could still hear Osborn’s voice replaying in his head, calm, smug, so sure he owned Peter like he was a stolen object instead of a person. And the Hydra agent’s threat sat heavier than anything. Names he loved spoken so casually. Like leverage. Like bargaining chips.

He buried his face in his knees for a moment, trying to breathe around the pressure building in his chest. He’d been kidnapped before, years ago, when he was a kid, but this felt different. Worse. He wasn’t six anymore. He understood too much. He knew exactly what Hydra did to people. 

And he knew that this time, nobody could afford to come charging in after him.

If he messed up… if he disobeyed even a little… they wouldn’t hesitate. They’d go after Harley. After Morgan. MJ. Ned. Pepper. Tony.

They’d hurt whoever they had to, just to prove a point.

His stomach twisted again, painfully this time. He swallowed hard, tasting bile. His body was shaking again, weak and uneven, either from fear or exhaustion or both.

He tilted his head back against the concrete, staring numbly up at the flickering light.

He’d always thought being Spider-Man meant he could protect people. That he could make things safer. That he could stop things like this from happening.

But sitting here, cold, starving, shaking uncontrollably, he didn’t feel like a hero. He didn’t feel like anything powerful at all.

He just felt like a kid alone in a cell underground, waiting for the next awful thing to happen.

The silence closed in again, thick and suffocating, pressing against his ears until he could hear his own pulse thudding unevenly. He curled smaller, trying to make himself disappear, trying to get warm even though it wasn’t working.

Time passed. He didn’t know how long. Hours and days blurred together. The light kept flickering. The air stayed stale. The cold sank deeper.

And Peter stayed exactly where they left him, shivering and miserable and completely, horribly alone.