Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November, 2005

Mary blinked awake, groggy and unsure of her surroundings. After rubbing her eyes and glancing around, she realized she was in bed. Richard lay beside her, asleep, the clock on the nightstand glowing 12:42 a.m. There was a feeling in her gut that something was wrong.

She sat up slowly, confused. Why had she suddenly woken when she usually slept straight through the night? Richard always teased her about being such a heavy sleeper—said he had to shake her a dozen times before she even opened an eye.

Throwing off the covers, she swung her feet to the floor. The wooden boards were cool beneath her toes. She took a sip from the half-empty glass of water Richard had brought in earlier, then slipped into her cardigan and slippers. The bedroom door gave a soft creak as she eased it open. Her heart was in her throat, not sure what she would find on the other side.

Out in the hallway, she stopped short. Peter was standing there—tiny, hesitant, like he was about to knock but couldn’t quite bring himself to. Mary’s heart ached. She crouched down to his level.

“Peter?” she asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

The boy shuffled in his fleece pajamas, staring at the floor instead of her face. “I couldn’t sleep,” he whispered, so quietly she almost didn’t catch it.

Mary frowned gently, thinking. “You wanna know something cool?” she said, trying to coax a smile out of him.

“Yes,” he answered instantly, and she couldn’t help but grin.

“If you can’t sleep, it means someone’s thinking about you,” she said, resting her hands on his small shoulders.

“Really?” His brown eyes widened.

“Mhm. You were thinking about coming in here, weren’t you?” Peter nodded. “Well, it woke me up. I could sense you needed me.”

His eyes filled with tears. “I missed you,” he said in a trembling voice.

“I missed you too, puppy. Wanna hug?”

Before she could finish, he was already in her arms. Mary held him tight, eyes closed, breathing him in—his shampoo, the warmth of his little body. Her son, so full of love, and that strange undercurrent of fear she still didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Peter sniffled into her neck.

“Why?” she murmured, rubbing his back in slow circles—the same way she had when he was a baby. It always calmed him.

“I woke you up.”

“I’m glad you did. I’d rather be awake with my boy than asleep not knowing you need me. Yeah?” He nodded, but she could tell there was more. She always could.

“Was there a reason you missed me?” she asked gently.

Peter stepped back, and she used the sleeve of her cardigan to wipe his tears. “Had a bad dream,” he mumbled.

Mary tilted her head, studying him. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“You and Daddy went on another trip,” he said, his voice breaking. “You had to leave, but you didn’t come back. I waited for you.”

“Oh, Pete…” She pulled him close again, holding him tight. “I’m here. Mama’s right here.”

He sobbed against her shoulder, shaking, and she just let him. She didn’t hush him or tell him to be brave—she wanted him to know it was okay to feel.

“Let it out, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Deep breaths, remember? Cry if you need to—just breathe.”

“Don’t go,” he mumbled into her skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised. “You’ve got me. It’s just you and me.”

That was the phrase she always used when he got panicky—to ground him, to remind him where he was. To remind him he was safe.

“Do you promise?” He clung to her tighter.

“Of course I promise, sweetheart.” She brushed her fingers through his hair. “You and I were destined to be together, you know that?”

He looked up at her, eyes wide.

“Out of all the possibilities in the universe,” she continued softly, “despite every odd and obstacle, we were brought together. Kind of wonderful, don’t you think?”

“Wow,” Peter whispered, eyes wide. “You think so?” He tilted his head to the side, mimicking his mother’s earlier gesture.

“I know so.” She kissed his cheek, smiling. “Want me to swear on it?” Her tone turned mock-serious, earning the giggle she’d been hoping for.

He stepped back and straightened his posture, and Mary mirrored him with a laugh. Then she held out her pinky. “Sir, I would like to make a solemn promise.”

Peter’s face turned red from laughter. “Okay,” he said, linking his finger with hers.

“Promise sealed,” she said.

And just like always, they kissed their joined hands to make it official.

“Mama?” Peter asked.

“Yes?” She grinned, giving his side a playful tickle.

He squirmed away with a laugh. “W—what does—stop!”

“Sorry, sorry.” She held up her hands in surrender. “Serious conversation.”

Peter giggled again, and she smiled—the sound of it filling the quiet hallway. It was her favorite sound in the entire world.

“What does solemn mean?”

Mary huffed a laugh. “Um… I don’t know, honestly.”

“Mamaaa!” he whined, already grinning because he knew she was teasing.

“Okay, okay!” She smiled, pretending to think hard. “It means… formal. Serious. Something you say with your whole heart.”

“Oh.” She could practically see the gears turning in his head. Then his face lit up. “Well, I solemn love you,” he said proudly.

“I solemn love you too, love bug.” She tapped his nose.

He beamed. “That’s me!”

“Indeed it is,” she said, scooping him up as she stood, making him squeal. “We gotta get you back into bed though, soldier.”

“Do I haveta?”

“Yes,” she teased, poking his side. “But… do you want me to make you some sleepytime tea first?” She brushed a few stray hairs from his face.

“Yes, please!” He threw his tiny arms around her neck.

“Alright then.” She smiled. “Do you want to walk, or should I carry you?”

He held on tighter in answer, and her heart warmed.

“Understood,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she started down the hallway.

By the time they reached the kitchen—which really wasn’t that far—Peter’s eyelids were already drooping. So she decided to make a cup at least for herself, even though the task wasn’t easy one-handed. She set the kettle to boil and then eventually let the tea steep on the counter, steam rising and curling toward the ceiling as she watched her son.

No matter what anyone said, he was hers. Always would be. Tears prickled at her eyes as she took in the innocence and fragility of him. Mary loved Peter with every ounce of her being, and with Richard’s line of work, there were always risks. She couldn’t stand the thought of being taken away from him.

Peter was never told the full extent of his father’s job—just that he worked at Oscorp, trying to save people’s lives. That was true, of course, but with that came enemies. Peter was as bright as they came, and even though he wasn’t aware of everything, he could feel it. The unease. The danger. Why else would he have had that dream?

Were the kids at school bullying him again?

Maybe she’d call May and Ben in the morning. As much as Peter loved his parents—and it was so obvious he did—he always seemed to find comfort confiding in Richard’s brother and his wife. Maybe it was because Richard could be intimidating. Not scary, and never unkind, just… commanding.

She smiled faintly at the memory of him calling the school after Peter came home with a bruise on his arm, demanding answers until someone stammered out an apology. Peter was too gentle for that kind of confrontation; he hated getting anyone in trouble, even when trouble had found him.

Mary took a few sips of her tea before heading back upstairs, padding softly down the hall and into Peter’s bedroom. She pulled back his Star Wars sheets and eased him into bed, making sure he was tucked in and that his favorite stuffed tiger was secure between his arms. She glanced toward the outlet by the door to check that his Christmas tree nightlight was plugged in—the one he swore he couldn’t sleep without.

Most nights, she’d do a monster check: under the bed, in the closet. Then she’d tell him he was perfectly safe, give him a goodnight squeeze, and turn off the lamp. But tonight, he was already asleep, mumbling something under his breath that she didn’t catch.

“Sleep well, love bug,” she whispered, brushing her thumb across his cheek. “Mama’s right here.”

His breathing steadied. The house fell quiet again. Mary lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, memorizing the small shape of his hand curled near his face. Then she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and closed the door softly behind her.

***

One Year Later

Peter had come home from school a few hours ago, drenched from the downpour outside. His father had promised to spend time with him that evening—something Peter had been looking forward to all week. Lately, Richard had been buried in his work, always rushing off or taking calls that went long into the night.

“I promise, Pete. The second you get home, we can do whatever you want, okay?” Richard had told him that morning as Peter clung to him at the school entrance, rain dripping from both their jackets.

But they didn’t, in fact, do whatever Peter wanted when he got home. Richard had apologized—again—and disappeared into his office. He said he just needed to take one quick call. Five minutes, tops.

It had been fifteen.

Peter sat in the hallway outside the office, swinging his legs because they still didn’t reach the floor. He picked at the hem of his shirt and stared at the crack of light beneath the door. This wasn’t anything new. And yet, he’d still let himself get excited. Still spent the day skipping from class to class, waiting for this moment.

Suddenly, the door opened a crack, and Peter’s head shot up, hopeful. But Richard was still holding his phone to his ear, his expression distracted. Peter’s shoulders slumped.

“Yeah, just a second, Reed,” Richard said quickly, covering the microphone with his hand. His voice softened as he looked down at his son. “Peter?”

“Yes?” Peter replied, his tone edged with impatience.

“I promise this call’s almost over. If it isn’t, you can come knocking on the door and hold me to it, okay?”

That made Peter smile. “Okay.”

“Why don’t you find a place to hide, yeah? I’ll come find you in just a minute.” Richard’s voice was almost pleading now, like he was trying to hold on to the moment even while it slipped away.

Peter hopped off the chair and wrapped his arms around him. “You better,” he mumbled into Richard’s shirt, his voice muffled.

Richard chuckled and hugged him back, ruffling his hair before adjusting his glasses. “Scout’s honor,” he said quietly, then slipped back into the office with a soft click of the door.

Off Peter went, scouring the apartment for a spot that would be hard for his father to find. He nearly collided with his mother as he rounded a corner. Mary had just returned, taking off her jacket and scarf to hang on the coat rack.

“Woah there, don’t trip!” she said, steadying him with a gentle hand on his shoulders.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled, cheeks turning pink. “Dad and I are playing hide-and-seek.”

“Ah, I see,” Mary nodded, smiling. “Well then, you better find a hiding spot before he sees you.” She stepped aside with a grin.

“Okay! See you later!” Peter’s little feet pounded the stairs as he ran, clutching the railing like his life depended on it. Which, given that his untied shoes kept catching, might have been true.

He eventually decided the bathroom was the best place to hide, clambering into the shower and pulling the curtain closed. Settling onto the tub’s edge, he wore a small, satisfied smile. He traced the shapes and colors of the curtain with his finger, memorizing each one. Then he looked up at the wall and began counting the jade tiles.

His mind wandered easily, shifting to addition and subtraction, then to the fraction formulas he’d learned earlier that day. The other kids in his group had seemed stumped, but he had no trouble. It made him feel accomplished… and a little strange, too. Out of place maybe.

About ten more minutes passed before Peter realized his father wasn’t coming. He shouldn’t have been surprised—and yet, the disappointment still stung. He climbed out of the shower and padded back downstairs. Turning the corner, he expected his father’s office door to be closed.

It wasn’t.

The door stood wide open. Drawers were pulled out, papers scattered across the floor. The room had never, ever been in disarray. Even though Peter was only allowed in there occasionally, he knew that. Equations covered the walls, chalkboards his father had installed himself. The desk, usually meticulous, was in chaos, and the windows rattled violently in the wind.

Confused, Peter circled the desk, taking in the room from what would have been his father’s perspective.

“Dad?” he called, his voice small.

No reply.

Then his anxiety spiked. “Dad!”

This time, his father appeared down the hallway, rushing into the room, eyes wide at the state of the office. The air felt cold, and Peter didn’t understand why—until he saw the hole in the glass behind him.

“I didn’t do it!” Peter blurted, watching his father’s expression carefully.

“I know. I know, kid,” Richard said quickly, hurrying to grab him and move him away from the window. He didn’t know if anyone might come back, and he didn’t want Peter in harm’s way if they did.

“What’s going on?” Peter’s heart raced, palms slick with sweat.

“It’s going to be okay, Peter,” Richard said, rifling through the chaotic desk before pulling a file from a seemingly empty drawer and shoving it into his briefcase.

Mary came running down the hallway. “Peter? Richard?” Her voice trembled—more afraid than Peter had ever heard her sound.

“Mama!” he cried, relief flooding him as she spotted him by the chalkboards. She scooped him up immediately, cradling his head against her shoulder.

“Richard?” Mary asked tentatively.

“Do you still have that bag?” There was no beating around the bush.

“I don’t want to leave him,” she said instantly, shaking her head. “He’s just a kid.” Her voice cracked.

“We’ll be back. It won’t be long,” Richard said, approaching her and placing a hand on her arm. “We planned for this.”

“You planned for this. This is not my fault.” She held Peter tighter as he whimpered.

“Mary. We can’t stay,” Richard tried to reason with her, knowing that staying would put Peter in danger.

“Don’t go. Please, don’t go.” Peter’s voice rose in a cry, breaking her heart.

Richard swallowed, eyes welling up. He grabbed an eraser and quickly moved behind Mary, making sure his equations would be incomplete for anyone trying to recreate them.

“Pete,” he said softly, placing a hand on his back before lifting him into his arms. “We won’t be gone for long, I promise.”

“You’re a liar!” Peter sobbed into his father’s shirt. “You said we’d… we’d play, and you lied about that too.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Pete,” Richard whispered, hugging him tight. “You have to know that I didn’t mean to.”

Then he gently lowered Peter to the floor, cupping his face in both hands. “I love you. You hear me? More than anything in this world. This is not your fault. This… this is for you.”

“Then why do you have to go?” Peter wheezed.

“I wish I didn’t have to. I can’t explain it all right now,” Richard winced. “But I will, okay? You have to trust me.”

“I love you, Daddy,” Peter whispered after a moment, clinging to him again.

Richard closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to Peter’s temple, a tear sliding down his own cheek. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever made,” he whispered.

He told Peter this every time guilt crept in for being too wrapped up in work. He wanted Peter to know that, no matter what, his priorities would always lie with him.

“You’re going to be with Aunt May and Uncle Ben for now, okay?”

“For how long?” Peter brushed at his cheeks.

Mary turned away to cover her mouth, stifling her sobs. She didn’t want her son to see her like this. To know that what Richard might answer could very well not be true. They could be gone for months. They could be gone forever.

“Not long,” Richard said finally, choosing his words carefully. He crouched down slightly to meet Peter’s gaze, giving him a soft smile and squeezing his arms. “Go with your mom to pack an overnight bag, and then we’ll all meet in the car, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter nodded, his voice small. “I’m gonna miss you.”

Richard’s composure broke. He pressed a hand to Peter’s cheek, brushing back a stray lock of hair. “Oh god… I’m gonna miss you too, Pete,” he whispered, his voice catching. “We’ll call as soon as we can, okay? Every chance we get.”

“Okay.”

Mary held out her hand, and Peter grabbed it without hesitation. Together, they left Richard in the office, rushing up to his bedroom. Richard lingered for a moment, taking one last look at his son before following behind, heart aching with every step.

Mary grabbed Peter’s backpack from the closet and dumped out his school supplies. Peter watched as she darted around the room, gathering things: his nightlight, his tiger, his toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom, and more than enough clothes for one night.

He had so many questions, but he knew that even if he tried to ask, he wouldn’t be getting any more answers tonight.

The drive to Aunt May and Uncle Ben’s house felt like a blur. Peter watched the four adults sit at the kitchen table, speaking quietly, their words rushing past him. Aunt May looked at him and offered her usual warm smile—the kind that always made him feel safe. But tonight… it felt hollow.

He only truly focused again when he saw his mother and father walk toward the door. They turned to hug him one last time, lingering for a heartbeat before disappearing into the night.

Peter’s gaze drifted to the number 36 painted on the glass door of the apartment, staring back at him. A hand gently rested on his shoulder.

Chapter Text

December 31st, 1999. Bern, Switzerland 

Tony had been invited to the Bern Millennium 2000 Technology Summit Y2K party to give a lecture on integrated circuits as the head speaker. Turning it down had crossed his mind, but he had been in a perpetual state of “upholding his reputation”—or so he called it when asked by his colleagues. And by colleagues, he really meant his personal bodyguard, Happy Hogan. Besides, the idea of standing in front of a crowd, proving his worth to a room full of people who would practically look at him like a god, sounded pretty damn good.

On top of that, a little internal vendetta had been quietly growing over the years: Tony wanted to show up his dead father. His parents had died in a car crash eight years ago, leaving Tony to inherit Stark Industries at the age of 21. Not everyone agreed with the idea of him running a weapons manufacturing company, but Tony was used to disagreement. He was used to being right. And he had made it his mission to make Stark Industries bigger, better, and louder than anything his father had ever imagined. He made it his mission to become the most well-known person on Earth, since his father never seemed to spare him a second glance the entirety of his childhood. 

He would never admit any of this out loud, of course. He forced himself to believe that being emotionally unavailable was just part of his charm, and that people would have to accept it. Tony was a firm believer that the world should change for you, not the other way around. If it didn’t? Well… he’d just pull a few strings.

So here he was, in Bern, Switzerland, standing in a hotel lounge transformed into party central. Music blasted from the speakers above, and blue-and-gold balloons floated everywhere, some already stuck to the ceiling. Tony winced at whoever’s job it would be to clean up in the morning. At least it wasn’t his problem. Yet he still made a mental note to leave a decent tip for the cleaners before his stay was over.

“Tony,” a brunette scientist called, trying to get his attention. But he had already drifted somewhere else—maybe it was the liquor, maybe the realization that he no longer wanted to be here.

A New Year’s Eve blowout smacked him in the face, jolting him back. He laughed and smiled, just like always.

“Give me that thing, will you?” He snatched the item from Maya Hansen’s hands, grinning when she laughed. He blew it in her face, booping her nose.

“Very mature,” she said, shaking her head as she adjusted her party crown.

“Half an hour till the ball drops,” Happy reminded him, stepping into the conversation.

The earring in Happy’s left ear made him grimace. 

“What?”

“I don’t understand why you wear that thing,” Tony gestured to his own ear. “It’s actually blinding me,” he covered his eyes as Maya settled beside him and put her arm around his shoulders. 

“I thought you said you liked it,” Happy said. “We had a whole conversation about it. I told you I wasn’t sure I wanted the piercing, and you said it sounded like a great idea.”

“Was I in the middle of doing something else?” Tony quipped. “Because if I was paying attention, I most certainly would not have recommended you show up to work looking like a Backstreet Boy.”

Happy stared. Deadpan.

“Don’t be mean to the poor man,” Maya chimed in. “He already suffers enough being in your company 24/7.”

“Thank you,” Happy added with mock gratitude.

Tony placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me. My best friend and the woman who will eventually claim me as the love of her life, ripping me to shreds.”

Maya scoffed. “You are not the love of my life.”

“You say that now,” he said, biting his lip and staring into her eyes, “but in a few hours, you might sing a different tune.”

“You’re disgusting,” she giggled, shoving him back.

Maya was another reason Tony had decided to show up to this party. He’d heard of her and her research into biological DNA coding, and that she was planning to make an appearance. While that might have sounded elitist to some—actually, most—he was tired of dumbing himself down and being smart was the one thing he truly liked about himself. He wasn’t about to let it go. Another part, again that he would not admit out loud, was that he figured the less friends he had—the less people he could get hurt by. Standard introvert procedure, dressed up as cockiness and bravado. 

He knew Maya had studied at MIT, graduating with flying colors and high praise from her professors—specifically Dr. Curtis Connors, who taught quantum mechanics. That part wasn’t particularly interesting to him, except for the fact that Connors was missing an arm. Part of Maya’s research involved the potential to regrow limbs. That intrigued him.

And, of course, she was pretty.

If he had the chance to work with her—or even under her—he didn’t mind at all.

Suddenly a random man approached their little group of three, trying his best to get Tony’s attention. This was something he was used to at this point, but he would let Happy handle it. 

“Tony Stark! Great speech, man!” The person said as Happy was already in pursuit, guiding the stranger into a different direction. 

“I gave a speech? How was it?” Tony asked. 

“Edifying,” Happy said in a grumpy tone. 

“Unintelligible,” Maya added, and a smirk grew on Tony’s face. 

“Really?” He gave her a sideways glance. 

“Mhm,” Maya smiled.

“That’s my favorite kind. A winning combo,” Tony grabbed her by the arm and started walking with no destination in mind. He simply wanted to get out of the room. 

“Uh, where are we going?” Maya quirked a brow as she allowed herself to continue being led from the crowd. 

“To town on each other, probably in your room. Because I also want to see your research,” he gave her his award-winning smile. 

“Okay you can see my research but that’s—I’m not going to show you my ‘town’” Maya stated as she tried her best not to succumb to his undeniably magnetic energy. 

“Sure. Of course. Although, I can sense that there’s a lot of sexual tension between the two of us. Do you feel it too? It’s kind of warm in here, what do you say we–” he was cut off by another voice in the crowd. 

“Mr. Stark!” The voice called and Tony let out an audible sigh. If he was interrupted one more time he would ask Happy to bring the car around. “Ho Yinsen,” the man came into view, holding out a hand for Tony to shake. He did so, although he didn’t enjoy it. Something people that worked with him often would hear, was that he ‘didn’t like being handed things’. No one ever questioned him, and probably assumed it was a minor quirk. The truth was that Tony was a germaphobe. 

“Ah, I finally met a man named Ho,” Tony forced a smile, before wiping his hand on his pantleg not-so-subtly, and grabbed Maya’s arm as she drifted away. “Come here,” he muttered, needing to have at least one semi-familiar face close by. 

“I would like to introduce you to our guest, Dr. Wu,” Yinsen said as he led Tony in the opposite direction of the door. He felt his heart rate rise just slightly, and took a deep breath. 

“Oh this guy. Hey,” Tony said as the man greeted him in mandarin and offered his hand to shake. Why did so many people want to shake his hand today? 

“You’re a heart doctor,” Tony pointed directly at Dr. Wu. “She’s going to need a cardiologist after I…” he trailed off, tooting his party horn to fill in the blanks as he walked away, dragging Maya with him. Quiet. He needed quiet. 

“Bye,” Maya sounded apologetic.

“Perhaps another time?” Yinsen asked hopefully, getting no response. 

The second that they moved into the hotel lobby, there were cameras and flashes and people saying his name. He clenched his fist and unclenched it, holding his head up high, telling himself that it would just be a few more minutes until he was able to breathe properly again. 

Then a third man began to approach him from the crowd. Great. 

“Mr. Stark!” The kid was younger, definitely needed to brush his hair and cut it, and he had a bit of a limp. He followed Tony, Happy, and Maya to the elevator, desperate to get a word in. Women were also clambering into the elevator, and the mixes of about ten different perfumes was starting to give him a headache. 

“Tony! My name is A-Aldrich Killian, I’m a-a big fan of your work,” he stuttered, giving him a hopeful smile. Tony didn’t do hopeful. 

“My work?” Maya cut in, trying to save Tony. 

“Well, of course, but… well Miss Hansen my organization has been tracking your research since year two at MIT,” Aldrich said, making Maya look at him in confusion. Then her expression altered to worry. 

Happy was keeping the elevator door open and was about to let it go, nudging Killian backwards. “Yeah, that’s great. We’re full, kid.” 

In response the guy ducked under Happy’s extended arm and made himself at home in an empty spot in the elevator. 

“Oh wow, he made it. He made the cut,” Tony said, surprised and annoyed. 

“What floor you going to, pal?” Happy asked him, blocking his view of Tony by stepping in his line of sight.  

“Well, now, that is an appropriate question,” Aldrich huffed a laugh.“The ground floor, actually, I have a proposal that I’m putting together myself. It’s a privately funded think tank called Advanced Idea Mechanics.” 

Aldrich then reached into his pocket and grabbed two business cards, handing them to Tony and Maya over Happy’s shoulder. 

Maya stared at the cards. “Uh..” 

“She’ll take both,” Tony said quickly. “One to throw away and one to… not call,” the last part he muttered under his breath. 

“‘Advanced Idea Mechanics’, or ‘AIM’, for short. Do you get it?” The guy gestured to his clothing. 

“I see that, because it’s on your T-shirt,” Tony provided a tight lip smile in return.  

“Oh,” Aldrich laughed at his own stupidity. 

The elevator dinged and Happy started directing people. “Ladies, follow the mullet. Ladies first, please.” 

“Thank you, I’ll call you,” Maya said Aldrich, holding up the card. Tony assumed she must’ve felt bad for him. 

So he waited until everybody else had left the elevator, while he propped the door open. Then he turned his attention to Aldrich, with a genuine sadness for the poor guy. He just wanted someone to listen to him. 

“I’m titillated by the notion of working with you,” he said, and watched the guy’s eyes light up. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’ll ditch these clowns, I’ll see you up on the roof in five minutes.” 

Then Tony pressed the ground floor button and exited.

“I’ll see you up there,” he heard behind him. 

“Damn betcha.”

He really had planned to meet the guy up there. He had. But the second he walked into Maya’s room and saw her computer open and waiting, his brain shifted gears.

Happy was already there—poking around like he owned the place, touching things that definitely weren’t his. Tony ignored him and gravitated toward the glow of Maya’s laptop instead. He leaned on the desk, eyes scanning the data as she sat beside him, biting the nail of her thumb.

“I thought this was just a theory,” he said, genuinely impressed.

“It was,” Maya replied, clicking on a model of the human brain. “But if I’m right, we can access the part that governs repair.”

“Wow.” For once, he meant it. For a second, he forgot where he was. The noise in his head—the party, the people, his father’s voice —all dimmed into the background. 

“…And, you know. Chemically recode it.”

“That’s incredible. Essentially, you’re hacking into the genetic operating system of a living organism.”

“Exactly.”

“Tell me, when did you start working on this again?” He tilted his head, acting like he didn’t know the answer when he already did. 

“My time at MIT. I worked with a professor there that I got quite close with, he helped give me some ideas but it was mainly just me,” Maya answered nervously. 

Tony, always thinking on the business side of things, didn't like the sound of that. “That seems like it could end you up in a tricky position. If this guy decides he eventually wants credit, that won’t go well for you.” 

“I have thought about that, but I don’t believe that he would come after my research. He’s a smart man, but he knows that this was my baby.”

“Well that sounds a little naive if you ask me. What’s this guy’s name anyway?” Tony stood up and readjusted his shirt. Again it was something he already knew the answer to. 

“Dr. Curtis Connors. He taught quantum mechanics,” Maya went back to fiddling with her model and running trials on her computer. 

“Why would a professor of quantum mechanics have anything to do with this? Doesn’t really seem like it’s a part of his field.”

“It’s not. Not really. Aside from the fact that this might be the key to disease prevention, even possibly the regrowth of limbs. Connors lost an arm in the military. He was a surgeon back then when it happened. Blast went off, the rest is history.”

“Yikes. Okay, fair then I could see why he is interested. But who is to say that he doesn’t want to continue the research himself?”

“How do I know that you don’t want to steal my research Mr. Stark?” She gave him a pointed glare. 

That stung, not because she was wrong, but because for a heartbeat, he actually didn’t want to.

“Fair enough,” he smirked in response. “Does he have any access to it?”

Maya shook her head. “Not that I know of. I made sure that I took everything with me when I left, all of my files are password protected and encrypted. Besides, back then I didn’t know nearly as much as I do now. The one thing that I haven’t seemed to figure out is the glitch.”

“Glitch? What glitch?”

Behind them, Happy was touching Maya’s Ficus that appeared to be in some sort of reptile terrarium, the door of it open, a grow light shining on it from above. 

“Can you.. can you not touch my plant?” Maya directed her attention to Happy. 

“Why?” Happy was once again defensive. 

“She doesn’t like it.”

“‘She doesn’t like it’? It’s a plant,” Happy gestured towards it. 

“Plants can be very finicky and can respond to touch, I don’t want you stunting her growth.” Maya stood as she watched Tony grabbing her computer and making his way into the bedroom section of her hotel room. 

“She’s not like the others. Come on, let’s go in the bedroom,” Tony said as he moved. 

“Ha ha. Very cute.” 

“You think I’m cute?”

“Shut up.”

“So what is the name of this thing?” Tony asked as he sat on the edge of her bed. 

“For now I’m calling it Extremis.” 

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Just.. sounds a little extreme.”

In the adjoining section of the room, Happy ripped off a stem of the plant in defiance and threw it on the ground. 

“You know, you’re the most gifted woman I’ve ever met,” Tony said with a smile. 

“Wow,” Maya widened her eyes, clearly not believing him. 

“In Switzerland,” Tony continued. 

“Hmm. That’s better,” Maya laughed as she reached up to take his glasses off, saying “you’re seeing things”. Then she placed them on her own face and pushed them up the bridge of her nose with a laugh.  

“This week,” Tony added one more snarky remark. “You almost bought it didn’t you?” He laughed and finally felt his pulse slow down. Being with her didn’t feel like a performance—and that scared him a little.

Maya grabbed Tony by his ridiculous scarf and pulled him close. He looked into her eyes, and for once, he was at a loss for words. Behind him, the bedroom doors slid shut–Happy finally taking the hint, or so Tony assumed.

He’d been joking about it all night, but now, with Maya just a few centimeters from his face, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time. Nervous. The kind of nervous that came with intimacy that felt... unfamiliar. She must’ve seen it too, because she smiled.

His usual instinct, to hide behind a joke, a smirk, a line–that wasn’t working. His brain was moving a mile a minute.

Then she kissed him.

A small explosion blasted across the room. Tony jolted, spinning around to see smoke rising and Happy standing frozen in place.

Maya sighed. “That’s the glitch I was talking about.”

“Have you checked the telomerase algorithm?” Tony blurted automatically.

“The what?”

“What the hell was that?!” Happy shouted.

“It’s a glitch in my work,” Maya repeated calmly.

“She was just talking about that–glitches, they happen,” Tony said quickly, trying to smooth things over.

Fireworks cracked outside, lighting the window in bursts of color.

“Hey,” Tony said to Happy, smiling faintly. “Happy New Year, buddy.”

“Happy New Year,” Maya added.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Tony said, shaking Happy’s hand.

“You good?” Happy asked, still tense.

“Yep. Fit as a fiddle.”

“I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you,” Tony called after him, listening to the door click shut a few moments later.

“Well, it’s midnight,” he said, turning back to Maya. “I think it’s time for champagne, don’t you?”

Maya crinkled her nose. “Champagne is disgusting.”

“It might be, but it’s customary–and I’m a very traditional man,” he said, reaching for a bottle on the bedside table. He wasn’t sure how it got there. Probably Happy.

“You’re trying to get me drunk.”

“You’re already drunk?”

“Tipsy,” she corrected.

“Good. That was a test,” he worked at twisting off the muselet. 

“Test for what?” She inched closer to him. 

“I’m not a man who takes advantage,” he threw the wire onto the ground. 

“Tony!” Maya laughed, slapping his shoulder.

“Hey, I respect women.”

“Clearly. You leave every event with at least five trailing behind you.”

“Who says I’m not just giving them a lift?”

“The papers,” she deadpanned.

“Oh, and the papers are always correct, right?” His ego stung, just a little.

“Listen, Tony–”

“Maya.”

“This might not be the best–”

“Maya.”

“–idea. We’re both drunk.”

“Tipsy,” he corrected again.

“Happy’s probably waiting for you.”

“He’s heard worse,” Tony shrugged.

She laughed, exasperated. “Tony–”

He couldn’t help himself. He wanted that feeling back–the brief moment earlier when the world had gone quiet, when he didn’t feel broken or restless. “Kiss me.”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “I already kissed you.”

“Well, now my lips are cold,” he pouted.

She laughed. “I doubt that.”

He smiled faintly, realizing she wasn’t going to budge. “Understood. A no is a no.” He leaned forward, brushed a gentle kiss against her cheek. “Happy New Year, Maya.”

He stood, looking for glasses, mostly to distract himself–and maybe to drown the regret rising in his chest. He hoped he hadn’t made her uncomfortable. He felt like an ass.

Then a hand caught his arm.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck it,” Maya said, and pulled him in.

The champagne bottle slipped from his hand, rolling under the bed. He didn’t care.

“I thought you said–”

She was already tugging off his jacket.

“Shut up,” she whispered against his lips.

“Are you sure–”

“I’m kissing you, aren’t I?” she smirked.

Tony exhaled, tension melting from his shoulders. “Okay. Shutting up now.”

Chapter Text

Budapest, Hungary. 2008

“Alert. Arrange. Assess. Alternatives. Anticipate. Antagonize. Approximate. Attack. Advantage. Aggressive. Adapt. Acrobatic. Achieve. Abandon.”

Those fourteen words were carved into her head. She’d said them until the syllables blurred—under her breath, in the dark, under fluorescent lights. Flashes and distant voices echoed at the edges of her focus.

“Alert. Arrange. Assess. Alternatives. Anticipate. Antagonize. Attac—” A palm cracked across her face. A small whimper escaped.

“Wrong. Start over.”

Her head hung in her lap. Strands of blue hair fell into her eyes. Her hands were zip‑tied behind her back; the sting bit into her skin. She coughed.

“Alert. Arrange. Assess. Alternatives. Anticipate. Antagonize. Approximate. Attack. Aggressi—” Blood ran from her split lip. She coughed again; red spat from her mouth to the mat.

“Again.”

She let the bag take all of it—hit after hit—focusing every raw inch of herself into the leather until her knuckles ached. Anger needed a place to go, and the bag was the only thing that would hold it.

“Do you understand why you are being punished, Natalia?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel shame for what you have done?”

“No.”

A taser pressed into her ribs—electric fire flaring along muscle and bone. She screamed. The sound folded into the room and died.

“Do you feel shame for what you have done?”

“No!”

Another pulse. This one worse, brighter, like someone had replaced her marrow with glass.

“She’s a kid! She’s only six! Leave her alone—”

The bag wasn’t enough. The rage inside her demanded blood, wanted chaos, and she hated that need.

“Do you understand the importance of making the first move?”

“White has the advantage.”

Natasha spun on the balls of her feet, her body coiling like a spring. Her leg arced high, whipping through the air. Her boot connected with the bag with perfect precision—and suddenly, the metal chain holding it groaned under the force, snapping with a sharp clang.

The bag crashed to the floor, bouncing with a dull thud. Natasha landed lightly, breathing hard but unbroken. Sweat slicked her temples, strands of red hair clinging to her forehead. For the first time in a long while, she froze, staring at the wreckage. She hadn’t expected that. Not from herself. 

“White has the advantage,” she muttered, almost to remind herself it wasn’t about the bag.

Then, a voice broke through the stillness of the empty gym.

“Well, shit.”

Male. Older, but not old. Mid-thirties, maybe.

She turned, pulling the gun from the back of her waistband and aiming toward the sound. Although her official title was Black Widow, Dreykov used to call her Malen'kaya letuchaya mysh'—Little Bat—for her so-called echolocation instincts. The truth was, she’d just learned the hard way that if she couldn’t pinpoint the source of a sound, she might not live long enough to hear another one. 

A shadow slipped past the edges of her periphery—silent, fast, intentional. Too intentional to be an accident. Natasha’s pulse didn’t spike, but her senses sharpened. She swept the corners with a methodical glance, checking exits for forced entry. Nothing. Clean. Too clean. This gym was supposed to be locked. Private. Her clearance only. At least, that’s what they told her.

She stepped forward, grip tightening on her gun, but angled the barrel toward the floor. Not out of comfort. Out of calculation.

“Only a coward hides himself,” she called out, her voice slicing through the empty space. “So this feels like it’ll be easy.”

The echo had barely faded before something sliced through the air—fast enough to make her pivot, sharp enough to skim the heat of her cheek.

Thnk.

An arrow buried itself deep into the fallen punching bag, the shaft vibrating with the force of impact. A split opened along the canvas, spilling a thin stream of sand onto the floor.

Natasha’s breath stilled. Not from fear. From recognition.

She straightened slowly, lifting her gaze toward the shadows beyond the overhead lights.

“I didn’t peg you for the type to miss,” she said.

A dry voice answered from the dark. “I didn’t.”

That was when she heard it—soft, mechanical, unmistakable.

Ticking.

Her eyes darted back to the arrow. The fletching glowed, bright, pulsing red.

“Shit.”

Natasha didn’t think—she moved, pushing off the floor in a blur and sprinting in the opposite direction. The explosion hit a heartbeat later, a crack of sound and pressure that lifted her off her feet and slammed her into the mats with brutal force.

There was a high, needling ring in her ears as she tried to push herself up. Her own coughing reached her like it was underwater, muffled and distant. Pain flared along her ribs when she clutched her side, but she forced her hand away long enough to power on her electroshock wristbands. Blue light flickered weakly beneath the haze of settling dust.

Blink.

Again.

Again.

She willed her nervous system to fall back in line—move first, think later. She dragged in a breath and scanned the gym through bleary eyes. He had to be in the right back corner. But the angle of the arrow—trajectory, distance, velocity—told her everything she needed to know: he was higher.

So Natasha raised her gaze to the second level, the floor no one used anymore. Rows of treadmills and weight machines sat under heavy sheets like corpses waiting for autopsy.

And then she saw it. The subtlest shift in the refraction of light through the dusty window. A silhouette trying to hide where it shouldn’t be able to.

“Found you,” she grunted under her breath, pushing herself fully upright.

Natasha pushed off the floor, wobbling once before forcing her legs into motion. The ringing was fading, replaced by the steady drum of her own heartbeat. She sprinted toward the metal staircase at the far wall, boots striking the ground in sharp, disciplined rhythm.

Halfway up, another arrow slammed into the railing beside her hand—so close the fletching grazed her knuckles.

Another arrow thnked into the step by her foot. This one didn’t explode—but a thin wire snapped out from its shaft, wrapping around the railing like a tripline.

Natasha exhaled through her nose. Trick arrows. Cute.

“That one’s a warning,” the voice added.

“Who made these, huh? Are you getting in contact with Stark now?” she said, slipping her wrist free and vaulting over the railing instead of climbing another step. She caught the lower edge of the balcony with her fingertips, muscles screaming as she hauled herself up with a grunt. “I don’t do warnings.”

“Do you know how many people you’ve killed in the last year?”

”Are we comparing body counts now, Barton?”

She rolled onto the floor, her ribs almost creaking with the movement. The moment her boots hit the upper level, another arrow landed at her feet—this time with a blunt, rubberized tip.

She raised an eyebrow. “Non-lethal? You’re losing your touch.”

“Or I’m giving you a chance,” he called from the shadows. 

“Now why would you do that?”

Silence. 

“You know, you pretend to be all tough and scary, but this just feels like you’re flirting with me,” she said as she somersaulted behind a machine. Natasha rolled her shoulders, electroshock gauntlets still humming softly.

Then she felt a thin wire digging into her neck, choking her from behind.

Natasha’s eyes widened—not in fear, but fury. She dropped her weight instantly, twisting her chin down to keep the line from crushing her windpipe. Her hand snapped up toward the wire, but Barton yanked her backward with a strength that surprised her.

“Lesson one,” he murmured behind her ear, voice steady, annoyingly calm. “You’re predictable when you’re angry.”

Natasha slammed her elbow back—once, twice—feeling the satisfying thunk of contact against ribs. Barton grunted, grip faltering just enough for her to slip two fingers under the wire. She twisted her hips, used the strength of her core muscles to swing her legs up, push against the weight machine, and throw herself over his shoulder. 

The momentum made him hit the floor with a heavy exhale—but rolled instantly, coming up on one knee, bow already half drawn.

Natasha coughed once, fingertips brushing her throat. “Lesson one” she said, breathing thin but steady. “I’m a better shot when I’m pissed off,” she aimed her wrist at him and pressed the activation button. 

The stun burst crackled through the air—Clint threw himself sideways, the bolt grazing his shoulder and leaving a scorch along his sleeve.

“Cheap shot,” he hissed, shaking out the sting as he regained his footing.

“Effective shot,” she corrected, already moving. 

Natasha sprinted toward the nearest vertical beam, planted one boot halfway up it, and vaulted herself skyward. Her fingers caught the underside bar of the pull-up rig—just barely—and her momentum swung her body in a hard arc. Clint was on her heels.

He fired without even turning his head. Thwick—it buried itself in the metal beside her hand, sparks skittering across the bar. Natasha swung to the next rung, hooked her knee over it, and flipped onto the top of the training rack in one fluid motion.

“You really think height’s going to save you?” Clint called up, circling below, bow still aimed.

“I think it buys me five more seconds,” she replied, dusting chalk from the bar onto her palms. “Which is four more than you want me to have.”

He fired. She dropped flat against the metal, the arrow whistling past her head. Rolling onto her stomach, she peered down at him through the bars.

“Lesson two,” she said, breath steady now. “Never give me room to improvise.”

Clint smirked up at her, nocking another arrow. “Lesson two for you? Gravity’s not your friend.”

The next arrow wasn’t meant for her; it hissed past and wrapped a thin wire around one of the rack’s support legs.

“Oh, for—”

He yanked.

The entire structure lurched. Metal groaned. Natasha clamped down with both hands as the rig swayed violently under her weight.

“Thought you wanted to be up there,” he said lightly. “I’m just helping you back down.”

Her grip tightened. A slow, dangerous smile curled her mouth.

“Lesson three,” she called, bracing her boots as the rack tilted. “I don’t fall.”

And she launched herself—clean, fierce—and landed on top of his shoulders, legs wrapping around his head and she twisted, bringing them both to the ground. Clint hit the ground hard, breath leaving him in a grunt. Natasha landed in a crouch beside him, snagged his bow, and flung it across the room. It spun through the air like a razor-edged frisbee before hitting the far wall with a sharp metallic clang.

“What was that you said about gravity?” she asked, breath steady, eyes sharp.

A laugh escaped Clint—unwanted, unplanned. He immediately regretted it, clutching his stomach as he stayed flat.

“You’re so annoying,” he managed, breathing unsteadily.

“Why aren’t you shooting at me?” 

“Because that would be too easy,” he grunted, adjusting his head to see her now standing with a gun pointed at him. “Of course you stashed a gun up here.”

”I have guns stashed everywhere. Why are you here?” She cocked the weapon to emphasize her power over him. 

“I was sent to kill you,” he said through pants. 

“Well so far you’re doing a shit job,” she smirked. 

“I don’t always follow orders.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, “And that’s supposed to mean what exactly?”

“It means you’re good at what you do,” Clint said, steady now. “Whether or not you want to be doing it. And I think S.H.I.E.L.D. wants Dreykov dead a hell of a lot more than they want you dead.”

Her jaw tightened. Shoulders squared. “What do you know about me?”

“We know you were trained in the Red Room. Conditioned to kill. We know you moved to the KGB after that. That you’ve had more names than most people have birthdays. That you’ve crossed borders like they were chalk lines, thinking you were covering your tracks—when honestly? You weren’t.” He shifted upright, wincing. “We know how many you’ve killed. How many you’ve hurt. How many you’ve stolen from. But we also know you were taken. You didn’t choose any of it.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said coldly. “You were sent here to kill me. But you haven’t. Why?”

Clint met her eyes, unflinching. “Because I know what it’s like to be torn apart and rebuilt into something destructive. I know that if you didn’t follow orders, you wouldn’t be standing here right now. And—call it naïve—but I think you want to be better. I think you could be.”

He paused, letting the words land.

“You’ve never had anyone in your corner,” he said quietly. “At least, not someone with the power to pull you out of hell. I do.”

“And what—I'm just supposed to believe you?” she asked, the gun still fixed on him.

“No,” Clint said, a small, almost irritating smile tugging at his mouth. “I wouldn’t believe me either.”

He glanced down, tapped the cracked face of his watch.

“But I do happen to know where Dreykov will be in exactly…” he pretended to think, “…ten hours and thirty-two minutes.”

Natasha didn’t blink.

Clint’s gaze flicked up to meet hers. “And I’m willing to bet you already know that too. It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Siberia, Russia. 2009

“Zhelaniye,” 

“Rzhavyy,” 

“Semnadtsat’,”

“Rassvet,”

“Pech’,” 

“Devyat’,” 

“Dobrokachestvennyy,”

“Vozvrashcheniyena rodinu,”

“Odin,” 

“Gruzovoy vagon.” 

The soldier screamed, or his body did. He wasn’t sure which parts still belonged to him.
Metal pressed into his temples, burning cold. Electricity crawled under his skin like fire ants, every nerve singing in agony. The air smelled like ozone, scorched metal, something sharp that tasted like blood.

Then, suddenly—silence. The restraints hissed and creaked as they retracted. The chair released him piece by piece, like a beast losing interest in its prey.

A man stepped forward, boots scraping frost on concrete. He carried a familiar little red book, a star debossed at the top. The ritual. Always the ritual. The soldier almost hated the sound of the cover opening more than the electricity.

He didn’t know how long he had been asleep. It didn’t matter. Time only existed between missions.

The handler looked at him without really seeing him.

“Dobroye utro, soldat.”

Good morning, soldier. 

The words made something in him lurch but he forced his jaw to move.

“Ya gotov otvechat.”

Ready to comply, though every part of him recoiled from it. Ready to comply my ass. 

A flicker of something; a scent, maybe rain, maybe bread, maybe a laugh he couldn’t place, brushed the inside of his mind. Blonde hair. Gone as quickly as it came.

The handler continued, voice flat and rehearsed:

“U menya yest’ dlya tebya missiya. Inzhener-atomshchik na Ukraine. Samolot vyletayet cherez tridtsat’ minut. U vas mogut poyvait’sya konkurenty.”

Mission. Ukraine. Nuclear engineer. Plane leaving. Competition.

The soldier didn’t know who the nuclear engineer was. But if his handler wanted the man dead, he must have been important.

Inzhener-atomshchik.

The words scratched at something deep in him. Familiarity? Recognition? No. Another ghost of a memory swallowed whole. None of it mattered.

His objective was simple: Kill the target. Kill anyone who got between him and the target. Return to sleep.

A cycle he no longer questioned. A piece of cake. 

He didn’t ask questions. He never asked questions. He just blinked at the man in front of him, vision still trembling at the edges. Questions earned a slap across the face.

Under normal circumstances, a slap from the handler would feel like nothing. A feather brushing his cheek, an annoyance more than a punishment. But not now. Not seconds after having several thousand volts pumped through his skull. Every nerve felt raw, exposed. Even the air stung as it reached his rattling lungs.

So he kept his mouth shut.

He watched with calculated eyes as the handler flipped through the pages of that book. That fucking book.

One final flick, and the man snapped it shut, setting it on the metal tray beside the chair. The tray looked like it belonged in an operating room. Stainless steel, edges gleaming under the harsh white lights, a disposable underpad lining it like they were preparing for a procedure. He half expected to see a scalpel laid out next to the book.

Or worse.

If he stood up to go, he would be punished. If he breathed wrong, he would get punished. He knew that the plane was leaving in less than thirty minutes now, but this was a test. A test of patience. To see if he was willing to understand that he was not in charge of this situation. A test to make sure that he was “running smoothly.” Even if his mind told him it was wrong, that portion was small. In the very background, smushed behind layers and layers of obedience. 

When the man finally stepped away from the chair and the tray, the soldier let the tension in his shoulders bleed out by a fraction.

“Ty svoboden idti,” the handler said gruffly. He wasn’t allowed to show pride, or approval, or anything that resembled basic humanity–but he had tells. Small ones. The kind the soldier had been trained to read.

His left eyebrow twitched. Barely. That was the approval.

The soldier rose. His titanium arm groaned in protest. The cold weather made the mechanisms hitch, and being yanked out of a cryogenic sleep never helped. He flexed the fingers of his metal hand, working them open and closed until they remembered they belonged to him, or were supposed to. Maybe once he was warmer, he could coax the joints back into shape.

“Kakiye-to problemy, soldat?”

“Net.”

***

The plane made his back feel stiff, as always. He wore a thermal undershirt, then a thick sweater, then a jacket. A black glove hid the metal of his left hand. His legs were freezing beneath his pants, tall socks, and heavy boots. None of it mattered. He wasn’t allowed to complain.

He shifted in his seat with a small frown, wishing he could at least look out the window. But when he’d lifted his hand earlier to reach for the cover, the guard had smacked him sharply across the wrist.

“Net.”

He dropped his gaze to his boots. Something about the laces made his brain stutter. He could see himself untying them, then retying them over and over again—threading the aglets through the eyelets with shaking hands, pulling the laces so tight the shoes felt glued to him. Fused to his skin.

His mouth felt dry. He brushed his fingertips over his lips, searching for something that should’ve been there. Something was missing. Something he didn’t have a name for.

He leaned his head back against the seat and shut his eyes.

Then it hit him: fire, then smoke. Running. Gunshots. A letter—he could almost feel it— jammed into his breast pocket. And then, just as quickly, it slipped away.

“Soldat?”

His eyes snapped open in irritation. He exhaled, hair falling forward into his face as he tilted his head to look at the weak-minded fool sitting across from him.

“Chto?”

“Proshu proshcheniya, soldat. My primerno v poluchase yezdy ot bazy v Odesse. Mne veleli soobshchit' vam novosti.”

Half an hour from Odesa. Half an hour from another mission where he knew nothing except the same three orders: strike first, strike fast, disappear.

One phrase cut through the fog in his mind, clear and cold as a bullet:

“U belykh preimushchestvo.” White has the advantage.

***

When the plane thudded onto the frozen ground, it landed hard enough that the metal frame rattled. The soldier didn’t flinch. His breath clouded faintly in the cold as he stood, pulling the black tactical mask up over the lower half of his face. The fabric stretched tight over his cheekbones, hiding everything except his eyes—flat and unblinking.

He grabbed his rifle from the rack beside the hatch. Then he reached down and tightened the strap of the combat knife fixed to the right side of his thigh, its weight familiar. His pants were a dark tactical weave reinforced and winter-lined. Loose enough for movement but fitted enough to keep the knife steady when he ran. The weather once again bit at the exposed metal plates of his left arm as he adjusted the glove covering his hand.

Then, from the same rack as his rifle, he grabbed the matte-black goggles and pulled them down over his eyes. The tint darkened the world instantly—muted, cold, surgical. They sealed the last piece of him away from view.

The hatch opened, and the cold hit him like a slap. Sharp. Bitter. The kind that seeped through every layer no matter how many he wore. The tarmac around the secluded base was coated in frost, the sky still barely waking with dull grey light. No civilians for miles—just steel buildings, barbed wire fencing, and the faint hum of generators.

His handler spoke curtly beside him. “Engineer is inside. Second floor. You will extract and then eliminate.”

He didn’t nod. Nodding suggested choice.

He walked.

Snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the yard. A gust of wind sliced through him, tugging at the ends of his hair and the hem of his jacket. S.H.I.E.L.D. bases were built to be as secure as the White House—except when invaded by someone like the Winter Soldier.

As he advanced, he scanned the building. Entrances. Exits. Blind spots. Guard frequency. Structural weaknesses. Every detail converted instantly into a tactical map in his mind. He reached the barbed-wire perimeter and paused. Electric. Of course it was.

He raised his rifle, aimed at the interior control panel. One suppressed shot—a sharp hiss of expelled air—and sparks flared. The fence buzzed violently, then went dead. The gate sagged with a metallic groan as he pushed it open. He slipped inside.

A guard’s voice crackled faintly over the radio—then cut. The man turned back from his perimeter check, frowning, footsteps angling toward the disturbance. The soldier slipped behind an external generator, pressing into the narrow slice of shadow it cast. He breathed slow. Controlled. Every muscle relaxed except the ones that mattered.

Footsteps approached.

When the guard passed the corner, the soldier moved. One step. One strike.

The knife slid into the man’s chest with a muted, wet sound. His other hand clamped over the guard’s mouth instantly, smothering the startled inhale that tried to become a scream. Warm blood seeped through the fabric of the soldier’s glove, coating his fingers, pulsing weakly against his palm.

He eased the man down, lowering him into the snow as carefully as if he were setting down equipment. He waited—listening. The man’s breath hitched, rattled, thinned. Still alive. The soldier searched the uniform with practiced efficiency. A security badge sat tucked inside a pant-leg pocket. He pulled it free.

Then he dragged the knife upward.

The guard bucked, boots scraping against the frozen ground as his body spasmed for traction. Pointless. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The soldier struck once—clean and sharp—with the butt of the knife. Bone met metal with a dull crack.

Silence.

He wiped the blade on the dead man’s jacket and stood.

Badge in hand, he approached the side entrance—a reinforced steel personnel door with a keypad and a card reader. Footsteps echoed in the distance, he knew there were more guards outside. Through the slit window, he saw fluorescent light and the faint movement of shadows. Too many. He’d have to be fast.

He slid the badge through the reader.

A red light blinked. Denied. He didn’t sigh, didn’t curse. Just stepped back, lifted his metal hand, and drove it directly into the seam of the door.

The steel buckled inward, and a second hit tore the lock out of the frame. Warm air hit him. Too loud. Machines humming, voices echoing down intersecting hallways. The whole facility was awake. Good. Chaos covered noise.

He moved left, into a shadowed recess between two large heating pipes. Two agents rounded the corner ahead, talking casually. Their conversation cut off when they saw the broken door.

“What the fuck—?”

He was already moving. He lunged from behind the pipes, grabbed the first by the collar, and yanked him forward, smashing the man’s face into the wall with a crack of bone. Before the second could shout, he slit his throat in a single, low sweep.

Both bodies dropped silently. He dragged them behind the pipes and kept moving.

Rooms branched off the main hallway: storage, offices, lab prep stations. He needed a clue. All he knew was that his target was being held on the second floor. A little more information would’ve been helpful.

He passed a bulletin board lined with paper schedules, blueprints, photos, scribbled notes. Most meaningless. One mattered.

SUBJECT 004 – TEMPORARY HOLD – LVL 2 EAST WING

Lead Interrogator: N. ROMANOFF

He didn’t know the name. But his stomach tightened anyway, an instinct he didn’t understand. He tore the page from the board. East Wing. He moved.

At the bottom of the staircase, two agents were bickering, rifles slung. They smelled like cigarettes and rubber. Thankfully they hadn’t seen the bodies yet, otherwise they would’ve been more careful about being added to the pile. He approached as if he belonged there, badge held loosely in hand.

One of the guards looked up. “Is this the new guy? I swear they never tell us anything. You some sort of secret agent?”

He stared at them, tilting his head to one side. He didn’t have time for this, and he didn’t care.

The second one spoke with a sigh, “Just show us your badge.”

The soldier lifted his gloved hand, offering it to the man. While he was distracted for half a second, he rammed his metal shoulder into the first man’s throat, crushing his windpipe.

The second fumbled for his radio, but the soldier caught his arm mid-reach and twisted until the joint tore with a wet pop. The man screamed; he silenced it with a knife to the sternum. Both slumped to the steps. He ascended.

As he tried to keep his footsteps light, he could sense more trouble. More noise. More heat. More people who needed to stop breathing. He stayed low, hugging shadows. An agent stepped out of an office, clipboard in hand. The soldier grabbed him, yanked him inside, and slammed the door shut behind them.

“O–oh my God! Who are you?” the man gasped.

He shoved him against the wall, metal fingers tightening around his throat.

“Romanoff.”

“Please—just let me go,” the man choked, clawing at the metal wrist restraining him. “I’ll tell you where she is. Okay? No problem—just—”

“Where,” he growled.

“I—I can’t breathe! I can’t—just—just let me—”

The soldier ripped him forward and slammed him back against the concrete. The man’s skull cracked against the wall, went limp, and slid down to the floor as the soldier released him.

He stepped over the body. A second later he walked back out alone.

Further down the corridor, he heard distant shouting—something about a malfunctioning perimeter alarm. Took them five minutes to realize the gate was broken. So much for this being a secure location.

“Idiots,” he murmured under his breath.

But then as a security siren pulsed once, and then twice, he realized someone had found the bodies. He started to run.

He reached the correct hallway just as agents converged on it. Four of them. Armed. He had to quickly decide if being quiet was worth it anymore, as the whole building now seemed to be buzzing with chaos. 

He ducked behind a concrete pillar as bullets ripped through drywall. He waited for a breath—just one—and then sprinted low across the hall, sliding behind an overturned cart. He fired two shots. One agent dropped. Another stumbled; he finished him with a knife when he closed the distance.

The remaining two backed up toward Room 217, forming a defensive line. Blocking his path. That had to be where he was being held. 

He holstered the knife, grabbed the nearest body, and hurled it at them. They staggered—just enough. He followed the distraction with a brutal tackle, slamming one to the floor and breaking his neck with a twist. The last tried to crawl away, reaching for his radio.

The soldier stomped down on his ribs. Once. Twice. A crack. Silence. He stood in front of Room 217, blood on his gloves, mask wet with condensation. Inside he heard voices. 

“Dammit,” a woman snapped. Her tone sharp. Annoyed. Controlled.

“Is something wrong, Miss Romanoff?” a second voice asked—male, strained, unfamiliar.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, the alarms are going off,” she replied curtly.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen…” she muttered, as if scanning a checklist.

“It appears you are stressed,” the man observed, tone far too calm for the situation.

“Listen to me,” she said, low and precise. “If someone’s broken in, that means you are their primary target. No one was supposed to know you were here. But things go to hell sometimes. If you don’t want to tell me what you did, fine. I’m not going to die protecting you.”

“Who says I require your protection?” he countered.

“Oh yeah? Then I’ll happily leave you here.”

“I don’t believe that.”

She paused. “Why’s that?”

“I think you’re trying to prove something. If this goes south, you’re the one who gets blamed. Which means you have no choice but to protect me.”

“Keeping you alive and protecting you are not the same thing.”

“Aren’t they?”

A sharp electrical snap cracked through the room, followed by Otto screaming.

Natasha’s voice dropped to a growl.“What are you building, Otto?”

“You’re running out of time, Miss Romanoff,” he coughed. “Much faster than you think.”

A harsh burst of static filled the room—BANG. The door flew off its hinges as the soldier kicked it in. He stepped inside, knife drawn, ready to cut through whoever was left standing.

But the room was empty. No captives. No interrogator.

Only a single recording device placed on the floor, centered deliberately—almost tauntingly. A red light blinked once before the speaker crackled to life.

Natasha’s voice, recorded. “Otto, talk. Now.”

Then Otto’s strained response. “You’re already too late.”

The soldier stared at the device, chest rising and falling, realization cutting through him like ice. They’d moved him. They knew he was coming. He crushed the device under his boot.

Then turned, irritation buzzing under his skin like static. This was a waste of time. Something shifted in the hallway. A faint scuff of boots. Too soft to be an agent. Too deliberate. He stepped out of the room muscles coiled and rifle raised. 

Someone dropped from the ceiling and landed on his shoulders. They must’ve wedged themselves along the narrow support beam above the doorframe, waiting for him to step through. 

The full momentum hit like a controlled fall, and he felt thighs locking around his neck and twisting hard. The force sent him stumbling sideways. He slammed into the wall, cracking the plaster.

He reached up and grabbed the legs of the person, attempting to twist out of the grip and allow them to fall in front of him. Quickly, however, they flipped off of him before he could. He saw a flash of red hair. 

He fired.

She’d already rolled behind a metal cabinet.

“Winter Soldier,” she called out, voice calm despite her quickened breathing. “We thought you were a myth.”

He hated that name. He didn’t know why.

He advanced, boots crunching on broken drywall. She darted out, grabbed his rifle barrel, and jammed it upward, firing a useless burst into the ceiling. Sparks showered down.

He swung at her with the metal arm. She ducked under it—and used his momentum to shove him into a reinforced door. His shoulder dented the steel.

She hissed, “Did you like my little parlor trick?”

He lunged for her throat.

She vaulted over a rolling cart to put distance between them, breathing a little harder now. Not fear. Calculation.

Her eyes flicked past him, down the corridor.

She was running out of time too.

“Stop wasting my time,” he grunted in response. 

“Now what would be the fun in that?”

She sprinted toward him at full speed, fearless.

He pivoted sharply, planted his heel, and kicked a leg out. The sweep caught her mid-stride. Natasha hit the floor hard, the impact rattling down the corridor. Before she could roll away, he seized her ankle and yanked.

Her back slammed against the tile. Her eyes flashed—surprise, then irritation.

“Where is he?” he demanded, voice low, gravelly.

“You sure know how to treat a lady,” she shot back.

She snapped her free leg up, driving her boot into his stomach. The blow forced him a step backward—not far, but enough for her to twist and kick again, knocking his metal grip loose. She rolled to her feet in one fluid motion.

He lunged.

She dodged, barely.

“You’re fast,” she said, breath tight, “I’ll give you that.”

He didn’t answer. He swung the rifle like a club. She ducked under it, then elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to make his breath hitch—though he never made a sound.

He grabbed her wrist. She drove a fist into the side of his jaw. He slammed her against the wall.

“I’m done asking,” he growled.

“You could at least take me to dinner first,” she smirked, twisting out of his grip and striking the pressure point in his shoulder—not the metal one, the other.

His arm spasmed violently, the muscles misfiring which allowed her just enough time to slip free. Before he could fully readjust, she was sprinting down the corridor, boots hammering against concrete, red hair whipping behind her like a fuse trailing flame. But she wasn’t running like someone who was scared for her life. She was running like someone who had been trying to buy someone else time. And the soldier had just realized that too late. 

He lunged after her, skidding around the corner in time to see a uniformed S.H.I.E.L.D. tech shove Otto Octavius through a side door, Natasha covering their retreat with sharp, precise bursts of gunfire aimed at the soldier’s center mass. Not to kill—just to slow him down.

She shouted to the tech, “Go! South stairwell—NOW!”

The tech dragged Otto forward quickly. Otto stumbled, clutching his side, muttering something panicked and furious about “delicate machinery” and “idiotic government handling.”

Natasha didn’t look back. She emptied the last of her clip to force him into cover, then vaulted over the railing—dropping from the second floor in a practiced roll that absorbed the impact.

BOOM.

The lights flickered. A tremor rolled through the building. 

A bomb had hit the side of the building. Backup had arrived just in time. Dust rained from the ceiling as another explosion hit somewhere deep in the west wing, alarms blaring, sprinklers sputtering to life in confused fits.

He didn’t even flinch. Instead he launched himself down the stairs after her, dodging debris, moving through smoke and strobing red emergency lights like a machine programmed to hunt. He hit the ground floor and saw her shoving Otto into the underground garage—where emergency vehicles, supply trucks, and S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued motorbikes were stored.

Perfect.

Natasha spotted him closing in and cursed under her breath. She slammed the garage door control panel with her hand. In order to close the metal door, but also half to trigger the evacuation alarm that would scramble every remaining agent into a panic.

She needed chaos. She needed noise. She needed… exactly what she’d just created.

“Move it, Otto!” she barked, pushing the man toward the nearest armored SUV. “Get in the back and stay down!”

He was weaving between concrete pillars, closing distance like a wolf picking up a fading scent trail. He saw the row of motorbikes lined against the wall—sleek, black. One had a dangling keychain.

Round, with a design on it. Alternating rings of red and silver, in the middle a blue circle with a silver star. A Captain America shield.

His breath hitched—rage, confusion, something primal and wrong flaring in his chest. He didn’t understand it, but he grabbed the keys anyway, ripped off the keychain, and threw it into the snow.

The garage door slammed open as Natasha floored the accelerator, tires shrieking against the icy concrete. The SUV slid out of the underground exit and into the open air, snow whipping across the windshield.

Behind them—he was fast. Too fast.

Natasha gritted her teeth and swerved hard onto the access road leading away from the base. Otto groaned in the back seat.

“Do something!” he yelled.

“I am doing something!” she snapped, jerking the wheel as a burst of automatic fire tore into the rear quarter panel.

The soldier leaned low over the bike, one hand steady on the handlebars, the other lifting his rifle. He fired again, the muzzle flash bursting bright against the white-out conditions.

One shot hit metal.

The second struck rubber.

The SUV jerked violently as the rear-left tire blew apart in a spray of shredded rubber and sparks. Natasha fought the wheel, the vehicle spinning on the slick ice. The world turned sideways—trees, snow, sky, snow again.

“Brace!” she shouted.

The SUV slammed into a snowbank, nose-first, jarring every bone in her body. Her ears rang. Otto wheezed somewhere in the back, bruised but conscious.

Natasha forced her door open, stumbling into the freezing air. Her breath fogged in harsh, painful bursts. 

The soldier was already dismounting his bike, rifle raised, walking toward them with calm, lethal purpose.

“Move!” she ordered, yanking Otto’s door open.

“I—I can’t—my ribs—”

“I don’t care, MOVE!”

She dragged him out by the arm.

The soldier fired.

Natasha twisted, trying to shield Otto. The next shot tore through her left hip, searing fire ripping into the muscle. The same bullet punched straight into Otto’s thigh behind her. He screamed and collapsed into the snow.

Natasha hit one knee, teeth clenched, blood warm against the bitter cold.

“That,” she hissed under her breath, “is going to leave a mark.”

He advanced, breathing heavily behind his mask, trying to take deep breaths. A distant explosion rocked the ground. Another explosion rippling outward. The shockwave distracted him for half a second.

A half second was all she needed.

Natasha fired one-handed, hitting the fuel line of a parked jeep behind him. Gasoline hissed into the snow.

Before he could turn she shot again.

WHUMP.

The jeep ignited, fire bursting outward, heat rolling across the ice. It forced the Soldier to dive for cover behind a concrete barrier.

Natasha didn’t wait.

She hauled Otto’s arm over her shoulder, ignoring the stabbing pain in her hip, and limped them both toward the tree line.

“Can you run?” she rasped.

“No—no—I can barely stand!”

“Then crawl,” she growled. “Move your ass, Octavius.”

Behind them, the Soldier was already standing again, rifle in hand, stepping through rising smoke.

Natasha shoved Otto forward. “Go. Now. I’ll keep him busy.”

They disappeared into the pines—blood on snow, shadows swallowed by winter. She slipped into the opposite direction, drawing him away. A hunter needed a trail.

Chapter Text

Queens, New York. 2012

“Peter!”

It was 8:30 on a Saturday morning, and Peter was tearing his room apart looking for his favorite jacket. He could’ve sworn he left it on the door handle last night, but when he woke up, it was gone. Things tended to vanish on him like that. He sighed and dropped to his hands and knees, checking under the bed.

His fingers brushed fabric. He grabbed it, tugged—and sighed when it wasn’t his jacket, but the Stark Expo T-shirt he’d kept from two years ago. He sat back on his heels, the memory washing over him.

He remembered begging Aunt May and Uncle Ben to take him, practically vibrating on the balls of his feet as they pushed through the crowd, his small hand wrapped tight in May’s. The plastic Iron Man mask he’d insisted on wearing made it harder to breathe, not exactly ideal for an asthmatic, but Peter didn’t care. For once he wanted to fit in, to pretend he could be brave, pretend he could do anything.

Pretend he’d be safe.

But of course things went sideways. They always did for Peter. By now he was half-convinced he was cursed.

When the Hammer Drone crashed down in front of him, he’d been separated from May for barely three seconds. Someone bumped into them, she lost her grip, and suddenly he was swallowed by screaming people and exploding concrete. The drone had locked onto him only because it was targeting Tony, but Peter didn’t understand that at the time.

All he understood was: If the robot wants Iron Man, and I distract it… maybe I’ll help him. A terrified ten-year-old trying to be useful.

He’d raised his hand with the idea that the drone might hesitate, thinking maybe pretending to shoot would scare it. Instead it angled its real gun squarely at his chest.

Then metal crashed down beside him, hard and fast. A familiar sound echoed in his ears, one that he had heard on TV. A repulsor blast tore through the drone. And Tony Stark—Iron Man, in full armor—turned to him with an almost amused voice.

“Nice work, kid.”

And then he was gone, just like that.

Peter had stared after him in stunned awe before Uncle Ben finally spotted him and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Peter!”

He’d never seen Ben look that scared before.

“Peter!”

He blinked, dragged abruptly back into the present.

“Coming!” he yelled, shoving the Expo shirt onto his bed. It still smelled faintly like dust and old laundry detergent—the kind Aunt May used back then. He ran a hand down the front of it, flattening the wrinkles, then hesitated. There was this weird twist in his chest.

He shook it off. This was not the morning for an anxiety spiral. He stood, brushing off his knees, scanning his room again for the jacket. Not on the chair. Not under the bed. Not on the hanger. His room wasn’t big enough for things to disappear in it, but things still managed.

Figures.

“Peter!” Uncle Ben called again, more urgently this time. “You’re going to make us late!”

“I said I’m coming,” he muttered to himself. He could hear the rustle of paperwork downstairs. The clink of a coffee mug being set down. That stiff, brittle quiet people had when they were trying to keep it together.

Of course they were leaving early. Of course today of all days everything felt off.

He finally spotted the jacket—crumpled behind his desk chair, half shoved under a stack of homework he definitely thought he’d finished. He stared at the work for a second. Blinked. Then he grabbed the jacket and tugged it on, zipping it up as he hurried toward the stairs. On his way down he grabbed his beanie that he left on the knob of the hand railing and put it over his messy hair.

When he reached the bottom step, Aunt May turned toward him with that tight, practiced smile she used on the days she wanted to be strong for both of them. “Ready?”

Peter nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Sorry. Couldn’t find my jacket,” he gave her a tight lipped smile.

Her eyes softened. “Good. Well your Uncle Ben is in the car already, you know how he is. He got impatient. I told him to turn the car heat on, and don’t forget to grab those bagels on the way back. Remember?”

Peter nodded. “Okay.”

For a second May looked at him, and she looked like she was about to cry. Then she crouched down and hugged him tight as he groaned.

“Maaayyyy,” he wiggled but she held him tighter.

“You’re growing up and I don’t like it.”

“It’s just a tour,” his voice came out muffed against her sweater.

“Of a high school, Peter!”

“Yes, but I don’t even know if I’ll get in,” he tried to reassure her. “It’s just for fun, and it’s not even for another two years.”

“Of course you’ll get in, you’re a genius Peter. I don’t want to hear you downplay yourself like that again,” she pulled back to look at him and he laughed.

“You’re always saying stuff like that,” his ears went pink.

“Because it’s true.”

A honk was heard from outside and she sighed.

“Okay, you better go sweetie. Have fun. I love you,” she kissed his cheek and adjusted his jacket.

“I love you too May,” he grinned and then bolted for the door. The cool morning air slammed against his face and he pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

Something always felt like it was shifting under his feet. And he didn’t know why, but today felt like the start of something bigger—the kind of day that rerouted your life without asking permission.

***

“Hello everyone! My name is Sue Storm, and I will be your tour guide for today. I’ve been teaching here at Midtown Tech for about five years as part of our science division. The goal of today is to show you what great opportunities we have to offer! If you’re here, there’s a good chance the school has already considered you as a potential candidate.”

The woman in front of them was blonde, wearing blue slacks and a crisp white turtleneck. Peter recognized the name immediately: Storm. She had interned at Oscorp while his father worked there, mentioned a few times in passing. She looked smart—really smart. He considered asking her about his father, but decided it would be a terrible idea.

“Before we begin, does anyone have any questions?”

Ben, standing beside him, noticed the way Peter’s shoulders tensed and his eyes lit up at the recognition. He studied Peter, curious whether he would speak up or stay silent among the other kids and parents. Peter fiddled with the metal zipper of his jacket, then shot his hand into the air. Ben tried to hide a small smirk.

“Yes! Did you have a question?” Sue asked warmly, smiling.

“Um… does… the school have any clubs?” Peter asked, voice just above a whisper.

“What a good question!” Sue replied. “Yes, we do. There’s a math club, a science club, a chess club, and even foreign language clubs.”

Peter muttered a quiet, impressed, “Wow,” as he scanned the hallway. His gaze fell on the trophy cases, one of which held an academic decathlon award with his father’s name engraved among the winners.

Another hand shot up in the crowd.

“Yes, Johnny?” Sue asked, her voice carrying a note of caution, as if she knew what kind of question might come next.

“Is there a reason why I have to be here?”

A few kids snickered. Peter stifled his own laugh while Ben nudged him. Peter looked toward the source—a shorter blonde boy smirking with arms crossed.

“Please excuse my younger brother,” Sue said with a faint sigh, a trace of annoyance in her tone. “Let’s start the tour, shall we?”

“Brother?” Peter whispered to Ben.

“Yeah,” Ben said quietly. “There’s a big age gap. Parents didn’t plan on having another kid, but… well, Johnny just kind of… happened.”

Sue gestured toward the wide hallway. “All right, everyone, we’ll start with the science labs, then move to the robotics workshop, and finally the library and innovation center.”

The kids shifted into a loose line, some trailing behind parents, others scanning the walls and cases. Peter felt someone bump into his shoulder, and he turned to see Johnny falling into step beside him, a mischievous grin still plastered on his face.

“So,” Johnny said, leaning slightly toward him, “you laughed at my joke. Which means you think I’m funny, which means we should be friends.”

Peter blinked, and then laughed. “Uh, yeah sure. I mean I—I don’t really have any friends.”

Johnny’s grin widened. “Neither do I.”

Peter laughed again. He realized that Johnny’s eyes were really blue. Like bluer than he’d ever seen someone have. That made him shake his head quickly, trying to shake the thought away like it was wrong.

“You okay?” Johnny asked. 

“Yeah, yeah totally. Just… didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

“Oh my god please tell me it’s because you were excited. That would be so funny, I bet you’re the type of kid that actually likes school, aren’t you? I bet you’re a genius or something.”

Peter chuckled nervously. “I… try. Sometimes.” He glanced at the cases again, trying to hide how much he was thinking about his dad.

“Cool,” Johnny said, bumping him lightly with his shoulder. “I like smart kids. Makes life interesting.”

The tour moved forward. Sue led the group through double doors into a lab full of microscopes and experiments mid-progress. A faint hum of machines filled the room, punctuated by the soft beep of monitors.

“Here, students get hands-on experience,” Sue explained. “You’ll learn to design experiments, document results, and think critically—skills that matter whether you want to be an engineer, scientist, or innovator.”

Johnny leaned closer to Peter again, whispering, “Bet you’d ace all this stuff. Science nerds rule.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “We’ll see.”

“We have incredible teachers here, ones that will make sure to walk you through every step and help you to the best of their abilities. Most of our staff consist of Ivy League graduates. If you look over to your left you’ll see our storage case of…“

Peter glanced at Johnny, and for a moment, his stomach did an odd little flip. He realized he was noticing more than just Johnny’s humor or energy. He quickly looked away, cheeks heating.

Johnny nudged him. “What’s up? Spacing out already?”

“Uh… no, just… microscopes,” Peter muttered, hoping it sounded casual.

Johnny grinned knowingly. “Sure, buddy. Microscopes.”

Peter laughed a little too quickly, brushing it off, but he couldn’t stop the small, private smile that lingered as the tour moved forward.

“All right, on to the robotics workshop! Watch your step—the floor can get slippery, and we don’t want anyone damaging the bots.”

Johnny nudged Peter again. “Race you there?”

Peter hesitated, then whispered, “What? No, that’s not—they just said we should be careful!”

“Oh, come on. Live a little,” Johnny rolled his eyes.

Peter glanced at Ben, who seemed distracted, admiring the architecture of the building.

“On your marks… get set… go!” Johnny shouted, taking off running. Peter froze for a second, then chased after him before he could convince himself it was a bad idea.

“Wait!”

Johnny laughed as he ran, and one of the parents scolded him, telling him to slow down.

“Johnny! Stop!” Peter hissed.

“Peter!” Ben yelled after him, and Peter felt a little piece of him die. He skidded to a stop.

“Yes?” He turned to see Ben looking at him with an eyebrow raised, disapproving.

“Slow down.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said with a smile, earning a laugh from Ben.

Johnny caught up, grinning. “You call your dad ‘sir’?”

“He’s not my dad,” Peter said a little too quickly, wincing. “He’s my uncle.”

“Oh.” Johnny paused for a moment, and Peter braced himself for the dreaded both-my-parents-are-dead conversation that usually left people staring at him like he was helpless. Instead, Johnny just shrugged. “Cool.”

The group entered the robotics workshop, the faint whir of motors and servos filling the air. Metallic arms moved with precise, repetitive motions, while screens displayed coding sequences and diagnostics.

“Welcome to the robotics lab,” Sue said, motioning to the various stations. “Here, students will learn to design, program, and test machines. Safety is critical, so pay attention to the instructions and don’t touch anything without supervision.”

Peter’s eyes widened at the sleek, complex machines. He could feel his curiosity buzzing, but he also felt Johnny right beside him, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Look at that one!” Johnny whispered, pointing to a six-armed robot delicately assembling a small model car. “Bet you couldn’t build that in a million years.”

Peter tilted his head, studying the robot. “Maybe… maybe I could figure it out.”

Before Johnny could reply, the door to the room burst open. An older man stood there, looking pale and tense.

“Mr. Harrington?” Sue asked, stepping forward.

“May I speak with you for a moment, please?” His voice was calm, but his hands trembled. Peter and Johnny exchanged a confused look.

Sue walked over to him, listening intently as he whispered something. Her posture stiffened instantly. She turned back to the students and parents, opening her mouth, then closing it again.

“It appears that we are in lockdown,” she announced.

For a beat, the room fell silent. Then a chorus of voices erupted:

“What?”

“What’s happening?”

“Lockdown?”

“Are we safe?”

“Oh my god… my roast!”

Peter blinked. That last one came from an older woman, clearly more concerned about her dinner than a potential emergency. Ben’s hand shot out, grabbing Peter’s and pulling him closer.

“Stay calm,” he murmured, his own expression tense but controlled.

Peter nodded, heart racing. Something was off. And even as the chaos swirled around him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that today was about to get a lot more complicated.

“Everybody please calm down,” Sue said. “It has come to our attention that not far from here, there has been a disturbance that the Avengers are currently handling. We are supposed to stay inside, lock the doors, and remain calm until we are given the all-clear.”

“A disturbance? What kind of disturbance?” Ben asked.

“We do not know.”

The room erupted again, until the lights suddenly dimmed. Peter’s eyes darted to the windows.

Movement. Massive, jagged shapes cutting across the frosted glass. Something… not human. Limbs too long, armored like metal fused to skin. Shadows that didn’t belong.

His stomach tightened. They were huge—at least three times the height of a man—and moved with unnatural coordination. Peter’s pulse hammered in his ears. His hand tightened around Ben’s.

Whatever was out there, it wasn’t coming for the roast.

The ground shook beneath their feet. A few screams pierced the tense air as people realized what they were seeing.

“Get away from the windows!” Sue barked, swinging the door open to guide everyone to somewhere safer.

Peter felt his knees go weak, but he forced himself to step back from the window. His heart was hammering, and every instinct screamed at him to move. He glanced at Johnny, whose mouth hung open, eyes wide, frozen in awe and fear.

“C’mon,” Peter whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “Follow me.”

The crowd surged forward, adults barking instructions and children crying. Ben stayed close, scanning for exits. Peter’s gaze flicked back to the windows. The massive shapes hadn’t moved closer yet, but their presence was undeniable—looming over the street like monsters out of a nightmare.

Metallic thumps echoed outside. Each step sent tremors through the building, rattling the floor under their feet. Peter’s stomach flipped. Something about the rhythm—the way they moved—precise, calculated. They weren’t random.

They were hunting.

“Keep low!” Sue’s voice cut through the panic. She was ushering the group toward a side door that led to the stairwell.

“Where are your parents?” Peter asked Johnny.

“They—they aren’t here. It’s just Sue.” The boy looked terrified.

Peter grabbed his hand. “Then we stick together.”

Johnny nodded, finally moving. A strange surge of protectiveness hit Peter. He didn’t know why—only that he couldn’t let Johnny panic or get separated.

As they descended the stairs two at a time, Peter’s mind raced. I’m too young. I’m not ready. But… if those things get inside…

The floor shook again—harder. Windows rattled. Something outside screeched, a horrible metallic shriek that made people scream. Peter ducked, pressing his back against the wall as vibrations crawled up his spine.

“Peter, keep holding onto Johnny,” Ben said, voice low and controlled. “I’ve got you both. It’s going to be okay.”

“How do you know?” Peter’s voice shook.

“Because I’ll do anything to protect you, and I’m not letting anyone touch you. Do you hear me?”

Peter nodded—but he was breathing fast. Too fast. A rattling gasp escaped him. Ben’s eyes widened.

“Shit.”

“What… what’s wrong?” Johnny asked, glancing between them.

“I’m fine,” Peter tried to say, but the words wavered.

“No, you’re not,” Ben said firmly. “Did you bring an inhaler?”

“N-no. I’m sorry.” Peter’s hands shook. “I forgot it.”

“Okay. Sit up straighter—back straight. C’mon, buddy. Hold my hand.” Ben squeezed his hand tight.

People rushed past them. Peter tried to take another breath, but his chest rattled painfully. A small whimper escaped him.

The stairwell emptied into a long hallway with a clear view of the front entrance—and Peter froze. Outside, the towering shapes were closer, stepping over cars, kicking debris aside. Their armor glinted in pale morning light.

Peter’s hands itched. Heat prickled along his arms, his chest.

He knew there was nowhere to hide.

Sue rounded the corner, ushering the stragglers. “This way! Keep moving, now!”

She spotted them immediately and hurried over.

“What’s wrong?”

“H-he was fine and then he started breathing all wheezy,” Johnny said quickly. “I didn’t do anything—I swear!”

“He’s having an asthma attack,” Ben said. “He doesn’t have an inhaler.”

Sue swore softly.

“That’s what I said,” Ben muttered.

“We have to keep everyone moving,” she said, scanning the hallway. Mr. Harrington was directing the others toward a far classroom, away from the entrance. “Do you think he can stand?”

“Peter,” Ben said gently, “do you think you can walk?”

“I—I don’t know,” Peter whined. “I can try.”

“I can carry you if I have to.”

“N-no! I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“Peter—”

“What’s your favorite color?” Johnny cut in suddenly.

Both Peter and Ben looked at him.

“What?” Peter croaked.

Johnny shrugged, smiling nervously. “If we’re gonna be friends, I need to know your favorite color.”

A distraction. And it was working.

“Um… b-blue.”

“Mine too!”

Peter didn’t think—he just grabbed Johnny’s hand tighter. Then he pushed himself shakily to his feet while Ben steadied him.

“Good. Good job.” Sue crouched beside them. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Peter. Parker. Peter P-Parker.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter. Let’s get you safe.”

They followed her down the remaining stairs. The moment they reached the hallway, the ground trembled again. Far behind them, glass shattered, explosions boomed, and screams echoed.

Peter’s stomach twisted.

And somewhere deep inside him, rising through the fear and the wheezing, came a flicker of a thought that would soon swallow everything else: I need to help. I have to.

Sue called out to the crowd. “Does anyone have an inhaler?”

Peter was still shaking, clinging to both Johnny and Ben.

“It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay, Pete. I’ve got you, I promise,” Ben kept muttering, brushing Peter’s hair back.

“Me! I—I have one!” a voice squeaked from somewhere behind the group.

Peter heard the frantic rustle of a backpack being unzipped and the rapid patter of sneakers sprinting toward them. A boy skidded to a stop—definitely their age, wearing a red t-shirt with a thick horizontal stripe and a baseball cap that was definitely too big for his head.

“I have an inhaler!” he wheezed, already pulling it out. “My mom makes me carry two just in case.”

Sue sighed in relief. “Good. Perfect. Bring it here.”

The boy handed it over with both hands, wide-eyed and nervous. “Is he gonna be okay?”

Ben gave a tight nod. “Yeah. This is gonna help a lot. Thank you, kid.”

The boy swallowed and nodded, hovering awkwardly. “I, um… I hope he feels better. I’m Ned by the way. Ned Leeds.”

Peter tried to smile back at him, chest still rattling. “I—“

“Peter, you gotta use the inhaler okay?” Ben said, crouching and shaking it in his hand. “Just like we’ve done before. You’re gonna be fine. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll press it, okay?”

Peter nodded frantically.

“Okay, Pete. Stay steady.” Ben placed the inhaler to Peter’s mouth and waited for Peter to give him a thumbs up and then he pressed the top of it, as Peter made a shaky inhale.

Then, as Ben pulled it away, Peter let go of Johnny’s hand and coughed. Bad. His whole body ached, and he felt light headed.

“Hey, hey, hey—Pete steady. Slow… slow down,” Ben rubbed his arm up and down.

Peter tried to plant his feet, and closed his eyes to try and reorient himself. 

“Another one,” Sue instructed gently.

Ben nodded, shaking the inhaler again.

“Okay, Peter—same thing. Deep breath when I press it. You can do it.”

Peter lifted a trembling thumb. Ben pressed the inhaler, and Peter inhaled as steadily as he could, though the air still felt like it scraped down his throat.

Johnny hovered anxiously. “Is it working? It’s supposed to work, right?”

“It will,” Ben said, though his voice wavered with worry. He kept his hand on Peter’s back, steady and warm. “Just give it a second.”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut as another cough ripped through him, bending him forward. Ned jumped a little at the sound, then awkwardly knelt beside him as if to help but not sure how close he was allowed to get.

“H-he’ll be okay, right?” Ned whispered.

Ben forced a smile he didn’t quite believe yet. “Yeah. Yeah, he will.”

Peter braced a hand on the wall, trying to straighten his back the way Ben had told him. Air finally started to slip in a little smoother—not perfect, but better. His chest loosened, the pressure letting up just enough to breathe without panicking.

“There you go,” Ben murmured, relief softening his voice. “See that? You’re doing it, Pete. You’re okay.”

Johnny let out a shaky laugh. “Dude, you scared the crap out of me.”

Peter managed a weak smile, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. “S-sorry,” he rasped.

“Don’t apologize,” Johnny said firmly, like it was a rule. “Not allowed.”

Ned nodded quickly. “Yeah, seriously. No apologizing. You almost passed out! That’s like… medically a free pass.”

Despite himself, Peter snorted. A tiny, wheezy snort—but a real one.

“Okay,” Sue said, taking a headcount as more distant explosions shook the floor. “We need to move now. Everyone with me. Stay low, stay together.”

Ben helped Peter up, keeping one steadying hand at his back. 

“You good to walk?” he asked softly.

Peter swallowed, nodded. “Yeah. I can.”

Johnny immediately grabbed his other hand—not like it was a big deal, not drawing attention, just… holding on.

Ned scrambled to his other side. “I can—uh—I can walk with him too. For balance.”

Peter blinked at the sudden formation around him. A weird warmth flickered in his chest, cutting through the leftover fear.

They had barely made it halfway down the hallway when the world shook. A deafening CRASH exploded from the front of the school—glass shattering, metal twisting—and the floor lurched beneath them. People screamed.

“GO, GO, KEEP MOVING!” Sue shouted, but she was drowned out by panic.

Another crash—closer. Something slammed against the outside wall, leaving a spiderweb crack in the plaster that splintered outward with a groaning sound.

Students and parents scattered. Some sprinted toward the designated classroom at the end of the hall. Others bolted the opposite direction, ignoring Sue’s calls.

Ben cursed under his breath as he tightened his grip on Peter. “Stay with me. Both of you. Don’t let go.”

But the hallway was chaos—bodies rushing, elbows bumping, voices overlapping in terror.

Peter felt himself jostled hard to the side, and Johnny grabbed his jacket to keep him upright.

Then—

BOOM.

A chunk of ceiling crashed down behind them. Dust exploded into the air. And Ned—who’d been right beside Peter—stumbled backward as debris slammed against the lockers. His too-big backpack slipped, dragging him off balance.

He fell hard, skidding across the floor.

“NED!” Peter shouted.

Ned tried to scramble up, but his shoelace snagged on a twisted piece of metal. His eyes went wide—terrified—as the wall above him cracked again, another piece threatening to drop.

“NED, MOVE!” Sue yelled from farther down the hall.

The ceiling groaned.

Everyone else kept running. Ben spun around. “Peter, stay—”

Instinct. That’s all it was. Peter didn’t think, didn’t breathe—he just moved.

He sprinted through the chaos, lungs burning as he dodged a falling light fixture and vaulted over a chunk of broken drywall. Ned’s terrified squeak carried over the screams and the grinding collapse of the hallway.

Peter dove.

He grabbed Ned’s arm, yanking hard. “Come on! Move!”

Ned tried—but the metal had his shoelace trapped tight. Peter dropped to his knees, fingers shaking as he clawed at the knot, at the lace, at anything that would give. “Hold still—hold still—!”

Above them, the ceiling split with a sharp, violent pop.

“PETER!” Ben roared.

Peter tore the shoelace free just as the massive slab broke loose—Ben slammed into both boys. Hard. His arms wrapped around them, shoving them forward as the chunk of ceiling crashed down where they’d been moments before.

The impact rattled the floor. Dust burst around them in a thick cloud.

Peter wheezed, coughing, instinctively pulling Ned against him to shield him. Ned hung onto him with trembling hands, gasping.

“You okay?” Peter managed.

Ned nodded, breath hitching. “Y-yeah. Yeah—I think—”

Peter turned—just in time to see Ben stagger backward. A thin, sharp line of blood cut straight down the center of his forehead, trailing toward his jaw.

“Ben?” Peter crawled toward him on shaking hands. “Uncle Ben—you’re bleeding—”

Ben grabbed Peter’s shoulders before he could fully reach him. His grip was strong… too strong. Desperate.

“You do not run off like that!” His voice cracked—fear, anger, relief all tangled into one trembling sound. “You hear me? You could’ve been killed!”

Peter’s throat tightened. “But Ned—he was stuck—I couldn’t just—”

“I know.” Ben’s expression softened with aching pride. “I know, kiddo. And I’m proud of you. But I—”

He swayed.

Hard.

“Ben?” Peter whispered.

Ben blinked once… twice… too slow. His knees buckled without warning.

“Ben—Ben? BEN!” Peter lunged forward, arms outstretched, but the sheer weight and shock of it made Ben slip through his grasp. He hit the ground harder than he should have.

Peter dropped with him, hands scrambling, breath collapsing into panicked shudders. “Please—please be okay—”

Ben’s hand caught Peter’s shoulder weakly—but his grip was wrong. Too loose. His breath came in short, uneven bursts.

Behind them, Ned hovered, pale and trembling, eyes huge with horror.

“Please, Ben… you said we’d be okay… please…” Peter choked as his knees hit the wrecked floor. Tears blurred everything.

“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” Peter screamed, voice cracking as dust burned his lungs. He coughed hard—another wheeze rattling through his chest.

At the other end of the hallway, Sue turned. She froze for a half-second at the sight—Ben collapsed, Peter sobbing, Ned shaking—and then she sprinted toward them.

“Ben? Ben!” Peter leaned over him, grabbing his face with shaking hands. “Please, please, be okay! Please!”

“Pete, I’m okay,” Ben muttered, eyes half-lidded. But then he coughed—wet and sharp—and a dark line of blood slid from the corner of his mouth. “I just… I just need a second.”

“No—no, Ben, stop. Please.” Peter’s voice cracked, every word splintering. “We were supposed to pick up the good bagels on the way home, and you’re supposed to kiss May on the cheek and—and—Ben, what’s wrong? What’s wrong? Please look at me—please—” He was crying so hard he barely felt Sue’s hand settle gently on his shoulder.

“Peter,” she said softly, urgently, “let me help.”

But Peter didn’t let go of Ben’s shirt. He couldn’t. He shook his head violently, tears dripping onto Ben’s chest.

“Ben… please don’t do this. Please don’t leave me…”

“Peter?” Ben’s head lolled slightly, his eyes barely focusing.

“No—no, no, no—” Peter gasped, breath collapsing in on itself. The hallway swayed around him. Someone grabbed his hand—he didn’t know who, didn’t care. “Ben? Ben, please don’t close your eyes. Please.”

“Peter…” It was Johnny’s voice, thick and trembling. “Peter, come here.”

“No. No, no, no! BEN!” Peter felt Ben’s heartbeat under his palm—fluttering, faint, slipping. “Please—please—”

“Peter—” Johnny’s voice broke completely. He was crying now too.

“I love you,” Ben whispered.

The world cracked open.

“I love you—I love you, Ben, please,” Peter sobbed, collapsing over him. And then—arms wrapped around Peter’s torso, pulling him back. “NO!” He thrashed, legs kicking, nails digging into the floor. “NO—NO—LET GO! BEN!”

Johnny held him tighter, whispering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” into Peter’s ear as he dragged him away inch by inch.

“NO! NO! BEN, PLEASE WAKE UP! BEN!” Peter was screaming so loud his voice tore raw.

Through his tears, he saw Sue kneel beside Ben. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She reached forward, hesitating—then, gently, she closed Ben’s eyes with her fingertips.

Peter screamed again, the sound ripping out of him like something breaking. Right then and there Peter hated the Earth’s mightiest heroes.