He's awake. Panting silently and feeling the sweat coat his face, but he's awake. He looks down and sees Olivia solid and still asleep on his chest and he feels the flood of relief wash over him.
It's just a dream. He dares to wrap his arm around her, cradling her head against his chest to rest his chin against her. He knows if she wakes up she'd kill him, but decides it would be worth it to calm his shaky nerves.
Soon she's stirring against him, rolling her head to look up at him with heavy eyes. She must have seen the drawn look on his face because her brow scrunches and she shifts away from him. He isn't quite ready to relinquish his hold on her, but he draws back to let her sit up.
"What's wrong?" she asks as she shakes herself awake.
"Just sore," he lies. There's the awkward silence that hangs between them in beats. He's staring at her without regard to privacy and he knows that soon she'll be uncomfortable if he doesn't look away. He doesn't mean to, but he palms her face, just to make sure it's solid and giving beneath his fingers. She casts him an incredulous look, but lets him squeeze the skin without comment. When he's satisfied, he lets go and works his fingers through his hair. The painful throbbing in his head has relapsed back into the annoying hum, but it's bearable.
"You okay?" she asks uncomfortably as she slides away from him to stretch. He throws away an "I'm fine," as he tests out the more tender areas of his arms.
"Olivia," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. He's not sure what he wants to say so much as wanting to say something.
He doesn't get to finish his thought. The door lock creaks upward; he steps protectively in front of Olivia's figure, casting her in shadow behind her. There's creaking from the cot behind him, and he's not surprised that she's standing alongside him.
The door opens and a new flood of light pours in, blinding them both because the brightness is obtrusive in the small space. Peter shields his watering eyes with his hand. Focusing was useless.
"Peter," comes the whining cackle over the fiery light. Instinctually, Peter reaches for Olivia, finding her stomach and pressing a steady hand like he was holding her back. He says nothing.
"Aw, C'mon Peter," he can make out Tony's slight figure entering the room, flanked by two men on either side. It's almost cartoonish the way that the silent men side along Tony's figure. He wonders madly if they stand guard when he needs to take a piss.
"Did you sleep well? How 'bout little Olivia Scott here?" The name brings the grimace back to Peter's face. Tony peaks over Peter's shoulder to address her: "You sleep okay there, love?" He laughs at the murderous look Peter casts, stepping to block him from coming any closer.
"You're pretty protective for a 'piece of tail' Bishop." Tony observes. Peter doesn't even bother to try to explain. There's no point. He knows Tony's more astute than he gives away.
"Try to take her again and you'll be picking your teeth out of the back of your throat." Peter hisses, his lips pulled up tightly into something resembling a smile. Tony weighs this for a moment, sneaking a peak behind his shoulder and, confident of his reinforcements, lets out a roar of laughter.
"We're only having a little bit of fun with pussycat here," he taunts, but he takes little quick steps to put distance from them. "Isn't that right, pussycat? Didn't you have fun?" He flings. Peter feels Olivia's stomach tense under his hand, trying to keep from reacting. The smile on Tony remains. A quick nod behind him and the two thugs stalk toward them and Peter's got Olivia pushed back into the cot with a quick thrust of his hand.
They don't near her though; they grab Peter by the scruff of his shirt and pull him toward door with them. Peter doesn't bother to try to fight back. Olivia's off the cot, coming at them. Peter's in a rather awkward position, being manhandled by the back of his shirt but he doesn't struggle: Tony's got his gun aimed directly at her.
"Move and I'll shoot you in the goddamned leg then him in the head." He hears Tony snarl and she stops. Peter's jerked down, his head pulled over into a hunch, feeling the unmistakable click from the gun that's pushed into the back of his skull. He doesn't say anything, just listens anxiously over his pounding heart for what happens next.
"Very good," coos the voice behind him and the pulling resumes in the same uncomfortable manner to the door. He thinks he hears Olivia say something behind him and he shouts for her to keep her mouth shut, but the blood rushing back to his head makes concentrating difficult.
He's out of the room and the door slams shut behind him, sealing Olivia in—safely for now—and at least he has that.
He's towed up a set of stairs and shoved into an opened room filled with ancient science equipment. There are glass beakers and vials strewn across the counters in a way that reminds him haphazardly of Walter's lab. He recognizes the equipment; he knows what it's there for. He remembers spending much time in this makeshift lab.
He knows foggily where they are. They're in an old dilapidated house that was probably condemned at one point that served as their makeshift meth lab. They're least an hour from Boston in a deserted part of terrain hidden by the brush of the landscape. He's almost giddy from having a handle on his surroundings but he can't remember the complete layout of the house. All they have to do is get out and he was positive he could get them back.
He's already trying to triangulate their escape route back to the main highway.
"We've missed you here, Peter." Tony swings around, the gun stored somewhere out of sight. His arms are crossed over his chest as he struts across the small room. Peter's conscious is pulled to the forefront and his escape plans are put on hold for a moment. The distinct smell of burning rubber clings to the air like he'd never left this room. At least he knows where they are, one problem down.
"Well, I've been a busy guy," he retorts, his arms are getting tired from being raised over his head because the other two guys still have guns. He notices the black eye on Tony that he missed before and can't help but grin.
"Nice shiner there. The little girl too much for you?" He taunts.
Tony's face turns into a scowl. One of the guys behind him shoves him hard from the back into an open chair. Peter's face is still pulling upward despite the wave of muted pain in his head.
"I like 'em feisty." Tony says, leaning over Peter to whisper low enough for him to hear: "She did put up quite the fight… for a while. I think toward the end she rather enjoyed it." Peter's blood ripples in angry tides in his skin. He sinks his fingers into the fibers of the table but is otherwise unresponsive. Satisfied, Tony sits in a chair opposite him, wearing the little grin that makes Peter want to kick his teeth in.
"Now," Tony continues, spreading his fingers flat on the table. "Where have you been the last couple years? We've been concerned."
He doesn't bother to respond. Tony keeps up anyway.
"Afghanistan, Moscow, Iraq, and now back here in Boston... working for the FBI, no less." Tony's ticking the places off on his fingers as Peter's blood runs cold.
He leans across the table at Peter, hitching an elbow out to lean a chin on it lazily.
"Now, I think it's quite the noble aspiration, I really do," Tony presses his fingers against his chest, "but I think that some of my associates may think poorly of your new choice career and certain implications that it may carry."
Peter waits silently to see if he's put together who Olivia is or if he's still in the dark. He feels his palms go sweaty.
"I need that formula. You'd like to keep all your fingers." Tony says. Peter opens his mouth to say something but Tony talks over him, "and your little girlfriend's fingers." Peter's mouth clamps shut. At least Olivia hasn't been made yet.
"What makes you think I even remember how to replicate it?" He bluffs: back straight and his mouth turned down. Tony rolls his eyes.
"Listen, let's cut the shit Bishop. We're going to get that formula," Peter juts forward in a dangerous arc to cut him off. He's makes a split decides to try a new angle.
"—It sounds to me that you need me much more than you'd like to admit. It's because you can't replicate it. You wouldn't need me if you did. And I also know that Big Eddie isn't going to react well to you murdering the only person who has a chance to make it for you."Peter knows it's ballsy. He knows it could get him shot in the face right here. He decides it's worth the gamble if it pays off.
Tony's a statue, and Peter sees it as a good sign. He knows that Tony's rethinking his choices. He can't help but let the little smug grin glue itself to his lips. Tony slides out of his chair and disappears somewhere where Peter can't see him. He holds his breath: ready.
The butt off the gun swings downward, catching the back of his head and his teeth crack. Popcorn kernels of light pop and he's spread out on the table in front of him. It's damn painful, but he won't cry out, instead clamping his mouth shut. Tony's got his gun shoved hard against his temple, his elbow digging into the side of his neck. He's worried he may have pushed him too far. Tony leans low over him, arm pushing into the back of Peter's neck and making the wave of pain spike as his air pipe is trampled shut.
"He'll kill us all." The low whisper is harsh and heated against his neck. Peter can feel the spit dripping from Tony's mouth like raindrops. "I may not be able to kill you Bishop, but I will cut every finger and muscle outta that pretty blonde you've got tucked away back there until you give me exactly what I want, FBI or not."
He's jerked back into the seat and everything is bathed in too bright kaleidoscope lights and he has to squint to keep his focus. When he finds Tony's face again, it's still covered by the deranged mask he's wearing. The world is swimming when he's able to breathe again, and he takes big gulps in without the foresight of shame. The air stings his lungs as he sucks it in.
Tony's pacing around the small room like a man possessed and he remembered it was a preamble to a particularly bad explosion. He's ready for another onslaught.
"Maybe these guys'll like another go at little Olivia back there? What do you say Archer? You want another go?"
Chuckling fills the room from the men that had been up to this point mute, and Peter feels his skin crawl, something vile was clinging to his clothes and sinking into his skin.
"Fine," he lets out in a gruff. The men pay no attention, so he speaks up over them louder than he needs to so that his voice is reverberating off the eggshell walls.
All three men stop and stare and Peter looks down to realize he's left claw marks in the fibers of the wooden table. Shit. He folds them together and rests them close to his chest.
"Pen." Is all he says. Everyone continues to stare. Tony's eyesbrows shoot skyward and Peter's irritated that he has to elaborate.
"You're going to want me to write this down. These are not grocery ingredients, you understand." He says in exasperation. A piece of paper slides out of nowhere and he's scrawling across it at rapid fire, surprised that he remembers it all after blocking it for so long. He tosses it back toward Tony and it floats lightly back to the table. Tony reaches out and swipes it before it lands, a look on his face like he's won the lottery.
"A few concessions," Peter cuts. Tony fists the list but doesn't interrupt.
"You release her now, and when this is finished, I follow. We're squared." He's back to ballsy. He betting that they won't be able to synthesize the formula without him. He's got leverage. Tony is mulling the idea over theatrically, rubbing a finger against the stubble of his chin.
"I like Ms. Olivia," Tony starts, choosing his words with the aught most diligence. "I think we may keep her until I decide otherwise." He's grinning and Peter's spitting fire.
There's a split second between the threat Peter's about to charge and the heel of Tony's foot colliding with the bruised ribs of Peter's chest and he's over backwards in the chair, staring at the ceiling as the whoosh of his lungs hiss in his ears. He rolls to his side just in time for another kick and all his can do is grunt. He feels a sharp crack and an explosion of pain radiations low in his side but he doesn't linger on that for too long because Tony's foot pulls back and swings down toward his face like a pendulum and the only thing Peter can think before it crashes into his face is at least he didn't use his gun.