Peter Parker was no stranger to fear. He'd been in the superheroing business too long to even remotely think he was fearless. His nightmares relayed those fears to him on a silver platter, one after another in vivid Technicolor that seared into his brain and continued on an endless loop.

No, Peter Parker knew he was afraid of things.

He'd just never known he was afraid of darkness.

Not until he woke up to it, when the pain in his head grew to excruciating levels and his limbs were stuck by his sides no matter how hard he tried to get them to move. His body pulsed to the beat of his heart, every cell awash with an agony unlike any he'd ever felt. He'd been hurt, fighting Vulture, gunshots, knives – Peter had been around the block a time or two. But nothing could have prepared him for this indescribable pain.

Through the haze that bogged down every thought, he tried to narrow down the agony, tried to pinpoint the source. After only a few moments he knew the effort was useless. It was everywhere.

Until it wasn't.

He didn't realize how tense his muscles were until his entire body relaxed and the air in his lungs didn't feel so suffocating anymore.

"Wh't," he stumbled, squinting in the darkness, as if it would help him distinguish something in the inky blackness.

"Ah, Peter Parker, back with us, I see."

The voice came from Peter's left and he turned his head lethargically that way, his loose limbs limp against his shaking body. Fine tremors travelled the length of him, overtaxed muscles spasming as they resumed their resting positions, exerting their obvious dislike for their previous state.

Peter couldn't blame them.

If this was what it felt like after working out, he's glad he never actually did it. And his metabolism kept him in tip top shape, so now he didn't even have to think about it.

A snap of fingers brought his attention back to the moment, his ragged breaths loud in the otherwise silent room.

"Lights, if you would," the voice said, immediately followed by bright lights illuminating the space.

A gasp escaped Peter's lips as the light stabbed through his skull like lightning, igniting the throbbing pain there and making him clamp down on a pained whimper. It took a few moments but he was able to squint his eyes against the harsh light. Another reason to hate the darkness, he figured.

Once opened, his eyes locked on the only other figure in the room, a gray haired man who stood taller than Peter, with unforgiving eyes and a dark suit.

Peter knew who he was simply because Tony hated the man with every fiber of his being.

"R-Ross."

"Ah, so you know who I am. Can't say I'm flattered, but," the Secretary of State shrugged his shoulders carelessly, "we're here to talk about you, Peter. Or should I call you Spiderman?"

It sunk in, then, what it meant, being here, with this man, and Peter's fear shot straight into terror. Secretary Ross wasn't supposed to know who he was, wasn't supposed to know about his web slinging activities. Tony had assured him of the fact, promised that Peter would never have to have anything to do with Ross, that his identity would never be found out by the pencil pushing asshole.

Tony was wrong, Peter was staring at the man right now, with a smirk on his wrinkled face and a glint in his eyes as he stared down at the young man at his mercy.

Peter felt his stomach clench, felt the tears burn the backs of his eyes, his breath catch in his lungs.

If Ross knew who he was, what he was, there's no telling what he'd do.

Tony had told him that Ross had been hounding him for the identity of the masked vigilante swinging through New York saving helpless nobodies. Tony had flat out told his son that Ross would do anything to get his hands on him, take him apart, see how he ticks.

And here Peter was, lying on cold metal, staring up at the one man his father had adamantly told him to avoid like the plague.

Good job, Peter. Well done.

Thaddeus Ross stared down at the quivering young man before him. It had been easier to capture the Spiderman than he'd been led to believe. A specialized tranquilizer made specially for him, a couple teams of trained individuals armed with tranq guns, and here they were. Sure, he'd have more than a couple people out of commission for the foreseeable future, but to have Spiderman, Ross would have given up so many more.

And to think, the boy had been so close for so long. Ross shook his head in annoyance. Ever since Captain America and Tony Stark had reconciled their differences, things had been harder than ever for the Secretary of State. The Accords were on the outs, the people couldn't have cared less about Ross, and the Avengers were in the spotlight, forgiven and loved by all it would seem. And Stark had been all over him, amendments and ideas spewing forth and corrupting the very government Ross had tried so hard to build. And here it was, all falling to pieces, dust in the wind, because Stark had wanted so desperately to protect his son.

Peter Parker.

Yes, this will be fun, Ross thought, turning abruptly and exiting the small chamber, a firm nod to the man standing outside the door, and he continued down the hallway. He didn't need to see the procedures, didn't need to see the gore that would ensue. He just wanted results. Stepping and turning in the elevators, the first scream ripped down the corridor.

For a moment Ross thought of his own family, of what it would do to him to find his own flesh and blood torn apart and dissected, studied. A current of misgiving battled with the practical applications of the mutant's blood and he shrugged off the feather light weight of remorse.

With the click of a button, the doors closed on another agonized cry.