For my readers here on I'm really sorry for not posting on here for a long time. I've actually finished this story for over a year now, and reposting on kind of fell off my attention, especially since the formatting here sucks and I have to manually add the division lines or else it would just disappear. If you wanna read the full story, the last chapter is the 12th one on ao3 of the same title and username. Have fun reading!
Disclaimer: Graphic violence, *cruel thoughts about disabled persons (I, myself, am a PWD) and terrorism in a school setting. Thoughts and opinions of the villains are not supported by the author. I left a marker either way (*) at the exact paragraph, and then another where you can start again.
TW: Discrimination(?) against person with disability. Guided by Marker (*). Also school shooting. Take care of yourselves.
I. Am. Spider-Man.
That's you. And it'll always be you.
flash, ch. 3
"You know what I will do when all this settles? I am going to take your fucking femur. And. And I'm going to feed it to my pet lion, and you will be in the same goddamn cage watching it all happen!"
"Please, please, I'm sorry, I can, I can—"
"No, you can't tell me anything I don't already know. What I need from you, you double-crossing fool is—"
"Princess Shuri, WATCH OUT!"
The bomb comes hurtling towards her, distracting her with murderous intent. She throws her body to the right, lumping the intern along with her and then shoots it with her Kimoyo beads.
It implodes where she stood only seconds before.
Fuck.
Shuri glances across the space, the back room that they took as refuge. There are approximately twenty -four of them, all horribly young, wide-eyed and fearful, with Shuri as their only protector.
She would have been okay with it, if not for her own lack of weaponry. Her last one catching in a muted blast, a flare of orange and electric blue. Fucking alien tech.
"Your majesty," bows a small man, weasel-like, sneering.
"We don't do that, you uncultured swine," Shuri spits right back.
He merely raises a brow, delicate in that way that's unbothered by the carnage outside.
"The rest of you," he calls, and a group of men appear from the door, shadows over red lights, danger over hope. Shit. "Kneel before royalty."
They all fall to the ground in graceless subordination and Shuri couldn't help but feel every lick of insult. He leers at her, looking like he won, and Shuri won't say it, won't even show a hint of it, but she thinks that maybe he has won too.
Because there are twenty-four kids to protect, and even though she tried so hard for everyone not to see her that way, right now, she feels nothing but the child that she is— seventeen with the mind of a genius, but a kid nonetheless.
Shuri holds a shiver as she gazes at the gun at her face, the other men pointing theirs across the room—still kneeling— alien tech he probably didn't even know how to use other than bang, bang, kill.
They're surrounded, and if she doesn't do anything about this, they're dead.
She fiddles with her beads, the last of them useless intercom. She knows they won't hear, won't come to help. Or else they would have been here already.
(Nevertheless, she keeps an eye out for that one indicator, that red light flashing— red like the light around them, red like danger, red like hope—)
The last of her weapons, or what could have been used as weapons are either in the hands of others or disintegrated. Somehow, either luckily or unluckily, she was always there when a dangerous looking alien tech was close enough to hit a student. None of those BB-guns. Her side of the war is lethal, and she fought hard like every other war that she's been in.
But this is the first one where the people to protect are standing there behind her, not beside her, so fragile and easy to hurt.
The only thing standing between their life and death is Shuri, and her alone.
"Aghk!"
Shuri falls to the ground, legs bleeding profusely on the floor. It's not—a shaky exhale—she's not going to die. Arteries' safe. She looks up. Glares. Vicious and fierce, the last roar, if need be, "You bastard—"
The knife clatters to the ground and the intern walks briskly towards the small man, who looks down on her, a pleased smile replacing his sneer.
"I said," he starts, pointedly, looking around to the twenty-four students with a smile that reaches his eyes. He looks too happy. "The rest of you," the burly guards stand and hold their guns, big and scary and—
A thin boy is quivering so bad Shuri can hear his breath from where she is bleeding on the ground.
"Kneel. Before. Royalty."
"NO! Do not kneel down to this filthy colonizer!"
It pierces through and echoes, the desperation and defiance seeping in her voice. The man looks down at her, eyebrows raised, and too entirely calm.
Shuri's heart beats.
It beats, and it beats, and she swears it's still beating when he kicks her head so hard her ears explode under his boots.
Ah, she thinks, he's just another brute.
Her eyes focus on the twenty-four— and she feels like she has failed them. Her hand twitches, reaching. It falls as dead weight and her head stills.
Genius sister of Black Panther, dead at the hands of a nameless terrorist.
Shuri gasps out scornful laughter.
To think she has survived Thanos, only to fall in this no-name's hands.
But then again, of all the wars that she has fought—one of international concern, another of universal proportions—this is the first time she fights it alone.
Shuri takes a shaky breath.
Then, she does what she has always done best—she thinks. She thinks of a better solution for this, she thinks of the different scenarios where she can hail victorious. But above all that, she thinks she might be scared, because for all her pursuit of knowledge and truth, she is afraid that the single most important truth to her right now is something she cannot accept.
She tries once again, but her body fails her completely. And this time, a single tear escapes her and she shakes. Shuri is scared, and she thinks it might be because she is dying.
The Kimoyo beads, or what is left of it, rest on her right hand, and as her sight darkens and fades from the blood loss—he might have hit her arteries after all— Shuri only has a few moments to realize that it is blinking red before everything closes down.
Princess Shuri collapses on the floor, unmoving.
A kid named Stan, probably, it matters that he has a name, screams.
Men, how many, doesn't matter, or well it does, but then again, it doesn't because he's going to take them all out anyway.
Men, who are poised to kill, poison in their minds, destruction in their hands and oh, there might just be some women too.
Men, gruff and angry and they're all holding guns out, and there are twenty-five kids in need of—
"HELP!"
It comes in the form of whizzing, a brush of the air, charged, precise—THWIP!
There are twenty-five kids in need of saving, all of the are shaking and one of them is dying.
There are men (in the general, human sense), "Right— there's thirteen of them!" armed and inching to slaughter and to torture and he's not going to fucking have that.
There is a barrage of web slinging around, coming from everywhere, and they turn their bodies, crane their necks, nothing, nothing, nothing. As it goes one by one, the men begin to fall. THWIP! A heavy web at their necks, incapacitated and unconscious. TWHIP! Three in one shot, shouldn't have stood so close. THWIP-THWIP-THWIP-THUMP! Turn around, look around— they don't find anything but their downfall, and their heads clank on the ground, unforgiving.
Their alien tech crashes on the ground and it is a miracle none of it has been accidentally triggered. No webs come to close around the techs, but it does direct them elsewhere. It slides to the shadows.
It is slow and heavy, and the sound of hard weaponry dragging on the tiles entice a sick anticipation in their chests, along with the beating of their hearts.
Their eyes root themselves into the white thread, coming from the dark corner of the room.
Bshhhhhh… it hums, the occasional clanking of tech bumping each other.
Heavy air creates a moment in suspension, nobody knows what will happen next.
Krrhkkk!
All heads turn.
A tall girl whimpers, her eyes flitting from the corner to the middle of the room, where the smallest of them all, the most insidious—the leader of the brutes— poises his hand to the Princess.
The cracking comes from the broken Kimoyo beads, and the whimper stems from seeing the knife grazing her neck. The one that is lolling to the side, unconscious, legs still steadily bleeding.
"Give it up," the man taunted, "You've already lost."
There is a stillness to it where everyone waits with bated breath.
Blood pools on the floor and Princess Shuri's torn up white dress soaks it all up.
He smiles in that sickening way, the knife in his hands tightening.
The smallest pressure draws a bead of blood from her delicate skin and the children are bearing witness to the fall of yet another genius.
Until.
"Go for it."
The cackle of electricity.
The same arrogant man writhes in invisible shock, and Shuri falls to the ground once again, knife sliding further away.
What the fuck is happening—
"I'm pretty sure I Thor him apart," comes a tight, breathless voice from the shadows. Then. "Kid, hey, you with the Kimoyo beads—come here."
A collective breath sucks in the room, and Ned Leeds scrambles from somewhere to a bold figure, blue highlighted over dangerous red lights, and it's somebody, it's him! It's—
"Spider-Man."
"That should stabilize her for the time being," Ned surmises. "Can you check her vitals?"
"Yeah, I already did. Karen said the beads helped a lot," Spider-Man replies, "Listen, Ned?"
"Yes— sir?"
"I need you to guide these students out to the pathway I showed you. Shuri did a good job at protecting them—both from their injuries and from further harm."
If that was the case, Ned thinks, Shuri did one hell of a job with someone of limited weaponry. She might have even stitched them up herself before those savages went in for the kill. Kill—shit. Ned's eyes widen in urgency and he is hauling Shuri, urging Spider-Man to follow, to the makeshift board.
"The lightning features were pretty useful, Pe—Spider-Man," Ned leans in, "I think it'd be very helpful right now. Just—you know there's a limit to the shock and all right, or will you be—?"
"I know, Ned. And I won't—you know, I can't. I know the human tolerance for shock."
Ned breathes, "Alright, cool."
When Shuri is settled, Spider-Man turns to the rest of them who are gawking and gasping at the hero.
A barrage of guns shooting seeps into the back room. Dull, far away, but there.
"Everyone," Spider-Man starts, soft but firm. "You're all going to follow Ned to the escape route. The others are already there waiting—you'll be safe there. It will be hard outside, and it's okay to be scared. But you can trust me. And more than that, trust yourselves."
Time is fast and running, but Spider-Man takes a few minutes to steel their hearts. Outside is violent and unforgiving. Unfair. But maybe if he can take a few of their burdens away, they would have more courage.
The bathroom is far from the backroom, and there will be challenges. They need to be strong, and in turn, Spider-Man needs to be stronger.
A few people mutter in ascent, but most of them are shell-shocked and afraid.
Spider-Man understands them more than he let on.
"I will distract them the moment one of you leave this room. I won't let anything happen to you now that I'm here. Is that clear?"
Nothing.
And then, more fragile than they ever expect from him— "Do you… do you still trust me?"
Ned, before he could even vehemently say "yes!" is beaten by a quivering but strong voice.
"I trust you, Spider-Man."
It comes from the same boy, Stan, Peter is sure his name is, as he steps forward and stares him right in the eye—conviction and belief, faith in the hero standing right in front of him.
It seems to break through the spell that's settled over the students because all at once, Ned hears his name spoken in disbelief, in wonder and in—hope.
"Spider-Man…" they whisper, like a prayer.
"We're… going to be alright…?" this one comes out fearful, but brave enough to wonder. A realization that washes like relief.
"He's back!" one hurrahs.
And its true. It's true, he can't help but agree.
"Yeah," the hero replies. "I'm back."
"Come on, come on," Peter whispers to himself, watching as a few students lag behind. Shuri is being carried by Ned and a few of the well-abled students, and that is his biggest priority.
There are still men wandering around, but most of them are concentrated in the middle of the room, no doubt where Pepper and the others are.
"There's one right in the corner about to approach!" Karen informs him and without even waiting a breath, Peter runs to that very corner. He crawls down the hall, perching on the intersection of both sides. His webs hit the man, and he is dragging him up to the ceiling where he hides and keeps the bodies of these men.
It's been working so far, but no matter how much he takes out, there is always someone just about to round the corner, or walk straight into them.
It is straining and requires both physical and mental strength to be this sneaky. Especially since the shouting from the other side has stopped, and he knows he doesn't have enough time—the lull of the battle has gone down, or they have already lost.
Peter shakes his head.
No.
He can't think like that.
"There are two at the—"
He hits them before Karen finishes her sentence, and he is hauling them up to the ceiling, unwavering. Strong and focused— "Fuck!"
He almost drops them.
Maybe not so strong and focused.
He hears a whimper.
Someone in the circle is crying, and it sounds so small, and—
"—eter, you need to focus. They're already mostly safe. Only a few stragglers—"
Peter looks to his left, breathing short— he needs to focus. He can't panic right now. His eyes land on the gun attached to the man's hand, above the ceiling, trapped by his webs. That's one. Down on the floor are three children, probably seventh grade, one of them is limping bad and his two friends, a girl and another boy, help him. The girl, although she is carrying her friend, is also bleeding—he can smell it—no, shit, five things you can see, four things you can touch—don't go straight to smell. Again—
"—er! You need to listen—"
Red light blares across the ceiling, the light by his own side is broken. The edges of the glass jagged like a shark's teeth. One. Should I look down— there is a gun attached to the man's hand, the same one trapped by his webs. He probably has blonde hair—no, wait. Squint. That's a woman. Beside her, another is unconscious. And this time, it is a man. It's the intern—the bastard who did that to Shuri. His head lolls downwards.
He follows the direction of his head, and—
TWHIP!
The gun is first to go.
THWIP!
Webs on the man's mouth stops him from screaming out.
THWIP-THWIP!
His body lies beside the woman and the other man. It does not take him long to wrap him up as well.
When Peter stops to look down the bathroom stall, he finds the three kids scrambling through the bathroom doors, running away from the close call.
"Ned?"
Beat.
"They're all here. All twenty-five of them."
Peter breathes a sigh of relief, body sagging for a moment, eyes closing because he can't believe it, they're safe, thank God, they did it, when—
"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
There is a consistent circle of unconscious bodies surrounding him, both from his men and those shithead agents. But it's mostly those useless agents.
Alien tech serves him well.
Incredibly so.
Scorpion hums.
He takes another appreciative glance around.
*From the far left, War Machine lies on his chest. Scorpion's eye positively glints in glee. He'd been the one to take him down, this wannabe Iron Man, all but a cripple relying on a suit to even stand up. There is the wild desperation in his eyes, frustrated helplessness in the way that he grunts and tries to stand up. Such a simple act, yet he can't do it.
What an outstanding failure.
Scorpion watches, intrigued at his struggle. This man, right hand to Iron Man, a commander in the military, looking so incredibly pitiful right now. His hands give way, and his feet never leaves the floor. When he looks up, the blood from his head drips down to his mouth and it comes out as a disgusting mix, falling down his chin as he grits his teeth.
*The veins in his forehead could just about pop.
Pop!
A few feet away from him is the old dog. Happy, he thinks his name is. So loyal, even after his master has long gone. He lies on the ground, in front of Hawkeye. A mere mortal in Gods game. And right now, that God is him, and he has decided Happy lost.
Hawkeye, on the other hand, is still standing. He struggles to protect who he can. Although, that goes without saying, it isn't much. He could have been a good asset to his team, the years that he's gone rouge, or as Scorpion thinks, the years he's actually gone and done something right.
Right now, he's just crawling on a blazing pathway of wrong, wrong, wrong and eventually, when Scorpion got bored, dead.
Scorpion does not hide his triumphant smile. It is… not quite happiness. There is something missing, but this is almost enough. His flexes his hand, relishes in being the only one standing that has the power to change the world.
He could not help it, then, when his eyes fall to the ones just in front of him.
The lovely Pepper Potts.
So beautiful, so strong. From the way she attempted to call the Rescue suit, to the way that she failed—it forms halfway over her body, patches of metal on her chest and a fully formed glove. The other, he decimated.
Pepper looks at him like he is scum of the earth and he looks back at her like how the scum of the earth would look at the High and Mighty Queen if she had fallen.
And she had.
Because it is him right now, scum, looking down at her majesty with all the power in his hands.
Oh and, her kid is there too.
Pepper grips her runt harder, as if knowing his thoughts. He couldn't even get a good look at the brat's face because of how the blue helmet covers it. Bitch probably thought it would keep her safe. Hah.
His eyes flit to the bodies around her, all his men, all pretty fucking useless if a bitch could take them down with half a suit on.
No matter. They will be disposed of if they aren't already.
And then his eyes land on that person.
The reason why he's taking these all so slow, like a game, as it is.
Another wannabe, but this time someone with actual spirit, someone who might actually be. He has this fire, explosive but concentrated. He's smart, this kid. Intelligent to fucking boot, if he had been able to figure out how to dismantle a fucking alien tech (a bomb on Pepper Potts, and this kid fucking takes it off with one gaze and quick hands and fury in his heart. Of course, Pepper does not survive it without bleeding. The kid, though, he hugs the fucking thing. And maybe he's not so much a wannabe, as he is a successor, because for all he knows the original Iron Man cannot hug alien bombs and come off in just a few bruises and a broken arm.)
"No," he starts, slow and playful, and just the right amount of infuriating to grate on the kid's nerves and stall a little time, make him suffer longer before he lands the final blow. "I'll be killing you." He takes a contemplative pause, like he has been doing for the past minutes, "But not quite yet."
The kid sneers, teeth coated with his own blood, smeared on his lips, dribbling down his chin. The suit that protected him is tattered. Broken and mostly useless. His breathing is labored, body trembling, left hand limp by his side, the other spasming.
But he still stands.
And somehow, this annoys Scorpion even more.
His grin widens in artificial glee, rounding the kid.
Scorpion eyes Pepper and her runt, leading the kid's eyes toward them and he fucking lurches toward him.
Of course, this is what he wants.
As the kid surges forward, armored hand propped to strike, Scorpion sidesteps easily and captures his hand in one fluid motion.
KRKKHHH—
"G-AHH!"
Just like that his right arm is broken.
"HARLEY—"
"SHUT UP BITCH!"
"—mommy…!"
"No—no, shh, shh, it's, ughk—it's ah-alright Morganana… it's… stay with Pepper o-oh-kay?"
It is a pathetic display of this family thing Toomes is so obsessed about, so he spits on them. Literally, and, well, figuratively.
His spit lands on the foot of Pepper Potts.
"You know, it's been quite fun, kid. This whole game of who gets to go first," Scorpion catches his eye, and a flash of fear crosses his face. "Do I make you watch Pepper and her precious daughter go? It's gonna be dramatic, the 'next Iron Man' fails to save Stark's widow and child—oh, the media will lap it up. You won't even have time to breath between the time in the hospital and trying to regain a semblance of a life—and the fucking guilt, right? Holy shit, imagine trying to live your life after everything and everyone has either abandoned you or hates you."
Scorpion grabs Harley's hair, forcing him to look at Pepper who is sobbing, holding her confused and trembling daughter.
Harley grits his teeth. He seethes and is about to retaliate, but Scorpion is quick to cut him off.
"Or— or," Scorpion continues giddily, pointing his gun at Harley's head. "Or, I could make you, Pepper Potts, choose between these two. I could take this kid, take him off the board, and I'll leave you be with your precious daughter. Of course, you could always give me your daughter. It depends, really, what matters more to you. In the end, it'd be me, standing at the top of the world, and it'd be you, sniveling, on the ground, watching as another Iron Man dies in front of you—"
The gun in his hand flies to the ceiling.
His body flings itself to the other direction.
He hears screaming, and a barrage of bullets is shot upward.
Somehow, before he sees him, he knows.
From where he stood, a cluster of white webs dissolve in a bubble bath of acid and Harley is no longer kneeling down.
It is fate, then, that at the beginning of his power, he meets the same person who took it away from him. And if he feels thrill shooting through his blood, and the smile in his face becomes more and more genuine, then let it be said that Scorpion is truly happy that Spider-Man is back.
(So that when the time comes, it would be him to end that hero once and for all.)
Three things.
The sweat on his forehead slides down his cheeks, his mask sticking all the way. The cooling system is down, and it is his fault, but he does not notice it because of the hard beating of his heart—it goes: BUM-BUM-BUM-BUM— bullets hitting the ceiling.
They whizz through the air, and he moves fast, whipping like a fully mast flag in a raging hurricane, and he becomes the air, evading the bullets, guiding them away with his webs, inter-webs, hyper-focused— complete and utter control.
"It's useless," he hears from the ground, gruff and unfamiliar. The leader. "Forget him."
The ceiling is still glowing with dim red lights, and he is a shadow that dwells in it. He stays there, above them all but not at all in control. The red-light melds with his suit, and the blue is but a blur as he flings himself across the ceiling— he slings a web and it finds the closest enemy. There he goes, flying, up to the web in the sky.
He feels it thrumming in his veins—the blood that carries him oxygen and allows him to feel rage— pure and ferocious—
Pause.
Everything stands still.
The bullets cease.
He does not breathe.
Everyone else catches their breath.
He hears a whimper, but it does not belong to Morgan.
He crouches, lies in wait.
"Bring them in."
It is but a murmur, but it unsettles him that he almost launches away from his ceiling. He stops himself. He has to see what happens. Morgan squirms under Pepper's tight hold, and Clint holds both Happy and Rhodey safe.
He turns to his side and swings quietly to Harley.
"Shh, Harley, it's me—it's alright, let me patch you up, please."
Harley merely whimpers back, voice hoarse and body shaking uncontrollably. Peter lets Karen guide him through the makeshift tourniquet, made of webs and debris.
When he finishes a few minutes later, Harley has regained his senses. Peter fishes for the Kimoyo beads Ned gave him, "It's a stabilizer—it'll put you out of commission for a while but it'll help with your hands."
"No. Just. Put it in my pocket—"
"But—"
"Peter," he says, looking Spider-Man in the eyes, "I can still use my feet."
The look in Harley's eyes is something that Peter understands—has seen in his own reflection and has seen countless of times in the eyes of his heroes. When he nods his head in agreement to whatever Harley suggested, he accepts that whatever happened between them—it is an agreement not of heroes, but of desperate people who can help, and will help.
"I won't do it unless you have a plan," he says firmly. "You can't just go running around literally."
Harley flashes his familiar grin, mischievous in the way that destroys enemies. Spider-Man heaves a sigh of relief.
"Of course, I have a plan. But first, we need Happy."
The battlefield is filled with the quiet of unconscious people. Occasional heavy breathing fills the air and a heavy grunt escapes Rhodey as he falls for the umpteenth time.
Scorpion is facing away from them, the rest keeping a lax eye on the five of them—too vulnerable to even try to escape.
But that's exactly what Peter is asking of Clint.
E…escape with… escape with hap… Happy…
It is not so much Hawkeye's faulty reading, but Spider-Man's novice hand sign. No one else in the building could have known how to do that, because Hawkeye himself developed it for private use—only for the closest to him, the one who will need to use it the most. Harley, in his childish enthusiasm, wormed himself into his heart, earning him the privilege to the signs.
It is exactly the knowledge that Harley must be with Peter right now that he begrudgingly trusts whatever this plan is.
Clint takes a deep breath. This shit is impossible. They're surrounded, it's checkmate for God's sake. And Harley wants him to flip the game, throw the board straight to the wall, impossible but do it anyway.
He looks around.
Scorpion's men circle them loosely. He stands in front of Rhodey and Happy, both still on the ground. To his left is Pepper who clutches at her daughter. She is murmuring consolations and Clint hates himself for thinking of his own children.
He needs to focus.
He does not have a lot of weapons left. His katana lies on his back, guns with some ammo on his thighs. To carry Happy over would be to render himself defenseless in the devil's den, meaning he's dead.
Trying to run away, point blank, simple shit, would also guarantee his head. Not just his, but to those in the perimeter—exactly.
These men must be smart enough to realize they can't shoot at him unless they risk shooting the ones across the field—or, well, at least they won't attempt to do it if they can't see him.
"Pepper, hold onto Morgan," he murmurs.
"What are you planning, Clint?"
"Not mine. Harley's. Just hold her tight, use your armor for protection as much as possible."
"Clint—"
The surrounding area instantaneously fills with a smoke bomb. Wakandan. Their guns immediately immobilize and he can hear Pepper gasping as her armor submits to gravity, heavy on her bones. Rhodey's amor clanks to the ground.
Hawkeye swoops in and throws Happy's body onto his, running for his goddamn life.
The men shout in disarray. Volume decreasing in distance, shadows scrambling, violent confusion.
Hawkeye is almost to the other side when the barrage of guns follows his wake.
He braces himself, Happy heavy on his body, and his feet almost give away when a voice booms in the middle.
"Let them run! They'll be scrambling on their knees once the others come back."
Peter has just finished webbing them up, careful to work around Harley's broken arms, when the murmur of a new, frenzied energy floods the air.
"Just—tell us what you want! …please."
Variations of pleadings, of whimpers and of cries—
The sound of fear.
Peter whips around.
And dawning horror floods him.
Because at the end of the room enters a group of people—men with cameras, men and women with microphones clutched in their hands, Mr. Harington trying to cover as many students as he can—
Fuck.
A thousand thoughts flood his mind— but only one thing makes sense: He didn't save them all.
The familiar rush of self-hatred burns in his chest and he wants to blame himself so badly. Only. He needs to be objective. He can still save them. They're still alive. And he has help.
A bunch of men surround the hostages, guns on tearful faces.
"Fuck." He hears Harley whisper in similar horror.
Hawkeye assesses the situation beside him, and Peter grounds himself, imitates his calculated calm.
"Ow—fucking shit!"
"You shithead. Touch me and I'll piss your pants—"
MJ.
Peter catches Harley's wide eyes, feels his own quiver.
And he feels so weak.
"There, there," croons the scorpion in the middle, "No need to be so feisty. You need to be nice to us or else…"
There is a question there in Harley's eyes, that despite being so at loss at what he feels, he can still focus on the plan. So much so that when Clint nods at the both of them, it unlocks an immediate reflex. Peter throws himself in to the ceiling, almost at command, hitting it like a rubber ball bouncing at lightning speed. The kinetic energy bawled up in his spent body from all the sneaking around and crawling explodes in focused tendrils.
It branches out, feeling. His body is an autonomy of movement, singular, automatic.
For all the speed of his body, his mind reels into one thing.
Save them all.
A split second—slow motion. He watches them shiver, small in so many ways. Abe stands beside MJ, looking like he's failed, and peter wants to tell him he didn't, that it wasn't his fault at all.
But he can't, because his eyes flit to the group beside them and there are fucking seventh graders in there. Kids—they're fucking kids, why does this keep happening to them?
He lands behind the group, just a few meters away but close enough to catch three men at the rear. One of them escapes, but only barely before he flicks his wrist and it whips out white webs.
He doesn't have the time to wrap them up like he did the others, but he doesn't quite need to.
They are unconscious by the time they are on the floor, having hit each other at unfortunate but intentional angles.
Peter does not flinch.
A singular sound comes from the whole exchange.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Agonizing. Condescending. Scorpion lets out a feral smile.
"I knew it was you."
Booms the quiet voice.
He is celebrating, and the whole world is watching.
Scorpion cranes his neck to one of his minions and they scramble to direct the shaking camera man to the whole thing. They want this recorded.
Peter pays it no mind.
He catches MJ's eyes, and she is resilient even in the face of mortal danger. He stares straight ahead and he feels like he is staring at the devil.
He is not quite Thanos, but there is a silent threat to him. An unhinged mind with a variety of alien weapons worries him more, because he doesn't quite know what he will do.
He starts walking.
And the hostages—his mentors, his classmates, his friends— they all part for him.
Even Scorpion's men part, offering him up to their leader as he walks the wall of his people.
(He tells himself it's because he needs to focus on his enemies, that's why he doesn't look at them. But he knows it's because he'll crush under debilitating self-hatred, an ill-timed pity party that nobody needs right now. Because if he looks at them, he knows he'll see their faces when he has nightmares of the people he failed—)
"How prophetic of you," Spider-Man grits. Void of his youthful banter, usual exuberance. He is cold and stoic in his stance. Ready. Eyes burn his body, reignites his desperate need to save them all. One in particular sears right through him.
"I had good faith that someone was taking my men out of nowhere," Scorpion admits. "I had thought you were dead. I was so excited to see you as well. It was kind of disappointing, for many years. I wanted to look you in the eye. You know. When I brought that all down," he says, inclining his head to Pepper. "But after hearing that some of my men are missing, and a particular white web trail after them, well."
Scorpion turns around abruptly and Spider-Man flinches, hands at the ready.
He is too late, though, and Scorpion is holding his hand out, and—
Another gun, this one alien tech, aimed right at Pepper' head.
"You're trapped Spider-Man."
It is gruff and low, devoid of the initial teasing, the overloaded glee.
"What do you want, Scorpion?" Spider-Man forces out, "If you wanted to kill them, you could've done it another way. Quieter, more efficient—what is this?"
"Oh?" raised eyebrows, challenging. "Are you telling me how to do my job? Is that it?" Spider-Man glares, not that its seen. "What do I want? Funny you asked that. Generally, I want a lot of things. A few million bucks will get me off. Probably some recognition. The Stark Tower—everything in it. The Avengers compound too. All of it, mine."
"No." Pepper growls vehemently from the ground.
Scorpion ignores her save for the way he inches his gun closer to her head. He whispers, parroting Spider-Man "What is this?"
Morgan shifts and struggles in Pepper's tight hug, shielding her from what she expects to be something bad. Scorpion takes one last look at him before he punches Pepper straight in the face. Morgan cries out and Spider-Man's webs barely misses the gun to avoid the child.
Scorpion smirks at the fumble, "It's mostly just revenge."
And then he shoots a single blast into the back of Pepper's leg.
The scream that follows is agonizing. It rings through the floor and it shakes Spider-Man to his very core, reverberating through his body. Gasps and whimpers ripple across the room, there is sobbing in the circle of children, and Pepper's float above them all. He watches as Pepper steels herself, eyes closed tight and teeth gritting in sheer determination, the strongest willpower in the most enduring person. Her hands clutch Morgan, effectively sparing her daughter from the blood.
Scorpion lets it simmer. The fear. The rage. The moment of complete and utter pain.
Before…
"And Spider-Man," he starts, quiet. The feral gaze comes back, swift in retribution— animalistic and hungry. "Do you know what revenge looks like?"
His hands raise to find his next target—
Morgan.
"It looks like regret."
It is a split-second rush of absolute fury, or pure bodily control that goes beyond. His webs hit the barrel of the gun, directing it to himself. He shoots another string of violently strong webs and hits the nozzle dead-center.
It hits the ground with a large thud.
And suddenly, it is pandemonium.
The terrorists let out a barrage of bullets.
The civilians drop to the ground.
Villain and Hero stare the other down.
Scorpion's eyes glint.
Spider-Man seethes.
When he feels anger, it is not the familiar burning—the comforting eruption of a volcanic structure of epic proportions. Instead, it is like lightning. Quick and precise, cool but hot to the core, electric. And it promises violence upon violence, a storm upon the harsh, unforgiving sea.
And Spider-Man? He is the God that strikes it.
It is enough to decimate Scorpion's fools—defenders of a destroyer— and he is merciless in shooting them. Whip after whip after whip and then bzzzzzzzt—
Burn em' all.
It is not enough to kill, but it hurts enough to be permanent.
Scorpion escapes his general view, and while he wants to annihilate the man, he looks back just in time to see an enemy take Morgan away from Pepper's desperate hold. And she screams, the poor woman. She screams like she can do nothing else. It disarms him, confuses him even, when he sees Pepper on her knees, legs bleeding out of the open flesh, tears streaming down her face and snot running down her chin as she crawls to her daughter and pleads.
Because this is the Pepper the great. Pepper the strong. And to see her riddled so helpless and defeated awakens a possibility that Pepper might not always be there to be strong.
This shakes him enough to react and whip his web around the terrorists running at him. It is too late, then, when he turns back around to disarm the man who took Morgan from Pepper's hands.
He is ready to fling himself forward, to do whatever it takes to protect them, but a stray shot hits him in the chest, just below his heart, past all the vital organs, and he is hit with momentary pause. Spider-Man breathes, and he heals over the plain bullet.
It doesn't matter though, because the enemy is getting away with Morgan, Morgan, Morgan—
And he is thinking I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry Tony, I failed—I—
Just then, a burst of engine fires through the ceiling and pierces through the chaos.
Iron Lad swoops in, feet propelling them across the space, with Happy attached to his back. Happy who punches the man square in the jaw before picking up Morgan and Pepper, a little rough through their haste to get away. They hover over the ground, and with Happy carrying both Starks with Harley's jet propelling them, they will be safe in no time.
Spider-Man knows Harley will give Pepper the Kimoyo Bead meant for his hands and she will fall asleep into a painless dream until the doctors wake her up all healed. He breathes, this time, and it feels a little less heavy.
He leaves Harley to protect them, as he has always done.
Spider-Man sets off to destroy Scorpion.
The thing about fighting a battle is that getting hurt is always inevitable. You should be expecting to be hit. But it isn't always straightforward. Sometimes, the person you're fighting isn't the one right in front of you. Yet you fight, because that is what you do in the battlefield.
You stumble and you rise, you fight until the other loses, and you don't win, not yet.
You win when you sleep in your bed, maybe a few weeks later, with the people important to you, safe.
But right now, as Spider-Man weaves through the countless of men that is coming from everywhere, he is relentless in looking for Scorpion.
Spider-Man swings around, whips back and forth, side by side, looking, hunting. Sometimes he stops and stares, befuddlement overruled by frustration.
Hawkeye catches the bomb flying straight at Peter's course with a bomb of his own, enveloping it into a small void that appears in their collision. Within the chaos, a few agents wake up and starts their own game of survival and safety. Some of them look for blood, others save it by standing close to the civilians, ushering them somewhere else or protecting them when something threatens them too badly.
"Peter, I think he's interfering with my metrics, I can't find him anywhere."
"It's okay, Karen. It must be one of Toomes' tech. I'll handle it from here."
Spider-Man shoots for the ceiling and stands, upside down. He lets his body fall into gravity, feet holding him in place.
The screaming does not dissipate and only heighten, a crescendo of bullets and lasers, crying and pleading. It is the sound of war and Spider-Man knows it too well.
This is exactly what frees him though. The familiarity of it all. Because then, he only has to look for what's not familiar.
The round, abnormal sound of alien tech firing. The whirr of something reverberating across the room. A small and quiet shuffle.
Bingo.
Spider-Man runs in the ceiling, straight to the center of it all where Scorpion must be standing. He backflips back down, jumps and he lets go.
His feet land deftly, quiet but loaded.
He stands up, shoots at the air where Flash is right in front of him and thennudges.
Right as he does it, whatever it is that allowed him to turn invisible fades and in front of him is Scorpion—no, it's—
"The intern."
Spider-Man jerks back but is not fast enough to dodge the two blasts aimed right at his legs.
He falls.
His knees hit the cold tiles harshly.
His breath begins at an interval of heave-heave-inhale-exhale-wheeze—
The blast is hot where it pierced through him, but cold and chilling all around it. It spreads through his body like a virus and he feels his body forcing new cells over the dead ones. It is an active struggle, one that he can feel to the nerve. This isn't a normal bullet. This is served to do more than kill. This is served to torture.
He looks up.
Scorpion looms over him.
Spider-Man has not lost, but he is, by all means, outnumbered.
He looks around.
Guns pointed at every point in the circle of civilians.
The battle around them has ceased.
Quiet looms in the air.
"I only want one thing," he says, like he's trying to convince someone. "And we already know what that is. But I'm not the only one who has agendas here. Let's say… I have a partner. And that partner wants Pepper Potts. But I say, he only wants Miss Potts—sorry, Mrs. Stark-Potts— for the company. But what if we bring down one more hero?" Scorpion contemplates, aiming his gun at Peter's shoulder, "I think, if we bring down one. more. hero, the world will be ours for the taking."
"So!" Scorpion shoots him on the same spot. Spider-Man jerks back. "How about this."
He gasps as pain shoots through his legs. His senses through the roofs. Overstimulated.
Tendrils of muscle form in his leg and his bones mend itself back into health. Cells form in rapid reproduction, and he feels every new bit taking place in his body. It uses up his energy, and he feels incredible lethargy. Yet, it clicks. Just like how he realizes he might not get out of this.
The civilians are surrounded, and even though he knows they won't be released after this, if he lost to them, he knows it will at least bring them some time until the Hulk or Wanda comes bursting in to save them.
What exactly will happen to him, he doesn't know.
"How about we take Spider-Man. You're as good as a trade. Even better, really. You can become an example. Wouldn't you like that, street hero?" he goads. Spider-Man can only hiss. "This is what's going to happen," Scorpion continues, pacing back and forth now like he is brewing a grand idea. And with the way he is, it might not be as far off.
When Scorpion looks back at him, it is like he had a revelation. The acceptance and excitement speeds through his face. What's left is point blank truth. The face of this is what's going to happen. Because he's sure it is.
"I'm going to kill you."
Spider-Man blinks.
He knows that.
He knows that.
So why is he suddenly nervous?
"…just like that. No grand fights, not for you." Scorpion flicks his nose condescendingly and then shoots another blast. One on his left leg and another on the healing right. "But—but, see here. I'll kill you, right? And I won't even wait for you to stop twitching, I'll just go up and walk to you. You know what I'm going to do after?"
He wants to shake his head, insult him, spit on his face.
He does nothing.
"After I show to everyone that Spider-Man is dead, just right after Iron Man, my hands will slowly skate through that precious mask of yours. I won't rip it off, I'll be very gentle I promise. The world will be watching. And then they will know who Spider-Man really is."
Scorpion's eyes are wide with wonder and Spider-Man feels sick to his bones.
"Whattdya say, Spidey? You ready to be the next Iron Man?"
It is steel over fire, like metal above a volcano, waiting to melt and glow with the spark of crashing lava waves, when the demon catches Spider-Man's eyes. Something like resolve passing over it. But resolve over what, Scorpion would be foolish to assume.
Because even though Spider-Man knows it to be futile, he knows what will happen if he dies is so much worse. They will see Peter Parker, and they will lose hope. They will lose all that they had because it was a kid protecting them, and they will feel guilty. Or angry. Or sad. Or pitiful. Or—it wouldn't matter because Peter would be dead.
But he cannot shake the look in May's eyes if she sees him like that.
Or the sound of MJ's cries.
Or how desperate Ned might be in denying it.
Or Morgan, God, she's going to be so confused.
The thing is, if Peter thinks about the future where he dies by the hand of Scorpion, he knows what everyone will see. And even though right now, Peter only sees Tony, instead of accepting it, he feels lost and wrong, like that is not how it should be.
The look in Scorpion's eye tell everyone that Spider-Man is his, and his alone, and everyone else backs the fuck off.
He is silent for far too long, and Scorpion takes this as acceptance, bringing the gun right at his head.
Peter is too lost in his thought, lost in the way that it is planning, flying over thoughts, looking for a way out. He concentrates on healing his legs as fast as he can but the blast is proving to be formidable.
Bones resetting. Scorpion is cocking his gun, loading it and he can feel the thrum of energy. Flesh over bones. It starts, the small light going over the nozzle and he knows it's ready. Twitch. He can move his legs without the debilitating pain. Spider-Man braces himself, and as he breathes in, the nozzle faces his eyes.
He cannot see anything because it is trapped between his nose, right at his head, and he hears gasps ripple through the crowd of civilians.
He can only look up, and it is a mistake when he does, because its Scorpion with nothing but cold anticipation in his eyes. The face that someone makes when something they have been waiting for so long is finally happening, and they can't smile because they have to see everything happen as they happen—and it's like that, with Scorpion, like he has dreamed of this day and is relishing in it.
Relishing in his death.
Spider-Man's body sets itself and he feels like he could fly.
He takes a deep breath, subtle under the barrel of the gun.
His feet brace themselves on the ground, ready to jump out of the way, over Scorpion's head and capture the gun before wrapping him up with some of his toxic webs.
He thinks of this all, sees this in his mind's eye, with every ounce of his focus.
That's why he does not hear the scuffle that breaks over the end of the room, followed by a blast and the yelp of a familiar voice.
That's why he does not see the small flurry of bright purple and blue.
That's why he's not prepared for it to happen— right as Scorpion begins pressing down on the trigger, on his lips, a quiet, reveling, Goodbye, Spider-Man— the small child that comes between him and death, as she pushes the devil until he stumbles out of his own daydream.
Scorpion gathers himself a few feet from Spider-Man and the child in front of him.
"MORGAN— NO!"
Was the scream.
Peter catches sight of Harley wailing, hands crushed under both his and Happy's weight.
A scowl takes over Scorpion's face, and it is sickeningly sweet as he walks over.
Morgan stands between Scorpion and Peter, and between the two of them, she is his protector (but see, she shouldn't have to be—). She raises her hand, repulsor glove over small fingers and a smooth palm, helmet on and tucked in. Peter has never felt so afraid.
"Oh, the little Stark. So brave. So eager to walk your father's footsteps now, aren't we?" He turns to Peter, "Well, Spidey, I guess you'll find out what revenge looks like before you go too." Scorpion shrugs, flippant. Raises his gun, right at the little child. "Here's another Stark on your ledger."
And Peter, he feels helpless.
Pepper is still unconscious and he is supposed to protect Morgan, not the other way around.
He tries to move to take her in his arms, take the shot for her, over and over again.
But the blast from the alien tech is formidable as fuck because even though his bones are mended and his flesh is right where it is, the nerves on his legs is messed up and it does not quite respond the way that it should and he staggers back on his knees.
Scorpion notices his stumble and he considers it.
"Alright," he concedes to the air. "I'll give you a chance little twig. Come at me."
Scorpion stretches his hands to his sides, as if accepting the blast.
Morgan does not speak, merely stands in rigid simplicity, repulsor hand outstretched toward the devil.
Peter catches MJ's eye across the sea of civillians.
She is close enough.
In a second, she nods.
Wide-eyed but willing.
MJ understands.
"On the count of three, shoot, aight, ya' little shit?"
Veins that regain vitality.
"Three."
Shuffling.
The crowd shifts.
The enemies are watching, too distracted. Or she is just good at maneuvering unnoticed.
"Two."
Steady hands.
Small fingers.
From his position on the floor behind Morgan, the little Stark looks so incredibly small over the looming figure that is Scorpion. But at that moment, Peter thinks she cannot be any bigger.
MJ is there, she is right there, and Peter thinks he still has fucking time, even another fucking second to spare, because he feels it, forces his legs to recuperate faster, faster, faster—
But Scorpion glances coldly at him, raises his own gun and says,
"One."
A blinding blast shoots through and somebody screams in pure terror.
Smoke fills up the space, and Peter tastes the blood that filters in the air.
His throat fills with bile and he almost heaves it all out when the smoke dissipates as fast as it came. And right as it does, the silhouette of a much larger figure lies on the ground, and the one standing up is Morgan, her hand raised still, repulsor hand glowing once again.
She fucking shot him!
And
Fucking—what!?
Peter tries to move once again, but his nerves do not quite operate as fluid and he stumbles forward on his torso. GOD FUCKING DAMN IT! He holds himself up the floor with both hands, shaking in frustration and a burst of helpless self-hatred.
Peter looks up.
Just as he does, Scorpion is glaring daggers into Morgan, whose emotions are left to his imagination, hidden underneath the blue helmet that is Rescue's.
Scorpion's face is bleeding out, but it is not so horribly mangled. Just… burned. But whatever it is that keeps Scorpion alive and going, even after that blast, might not be so mortal after all. Maybe his 'partner' had something to do with it.
The crowd around them are suddenly much closer than before, or maybe Peter just feels suffocated. But he sees MJ scoot in closer, shaken but functional, readying herself for the leap of faith.
Peter looks back at Scorpion and freezes as he aims his own gun right at Morgan, bloodthirsty. Peter fumbles with his web slinger and shoots at an angle, his legs striking in unfathomable pain. It whizzes past Scorpion, and Peter wants to cry.
The gun stares Morgan down, and Morgan stares it down.
"You're going to fucking regret this," Scorpion grits.
His gun loads.
And Peter thinks that if he cranes a little further up, he could hear the hitch in Morgan's breath, and a terrified, searching, "…mommy?"
The load in his alien gun is speeding up and Peter knows he does not have time before Scorpion shoots again.
But MJ does not seem to understand this and heads straight for Morgan.
Peter swallows the scream that threatens to escape him.
Scorpion's gun follows MJ's head, and Peter tries again, to shoot, with his web—and his hands are shaking, but he can still shoot the gun, he can still save them both—
Somebody shoots his hand and it falls limp.
(In the back of his mind, through the pain of it all, he hears Scorpion screaming at the one who shot him, "Nobody fucking touch him or I kill you! I GET TO TAKE HIM OFF THE BOARD—ME!")
He can't.
But Flash can.
And he comes straight out of nowhere, throws his whole weight into Scorpion's staggering one, and pins the motherfucker to the ground.
The blast aims right at the window behind them and the wall cracks.
There is a scuffle but no one dares shoot Flash while he is above Scorpion. And Flash is just a kid, just another orphan, who has never had to fight before in his life. So, when Scorpion throws his body to the ground, a few meters away, and his back arches and a definitive crack rings through, Peter knows that Flash went in knowing he will not get out.
It all happens in a rush.
Flash is right there, on the ground, like so many of Peter's allies, and he catches his eye. The left one, exposed from the countless blasts he endured, from the debris of the floor hitting his mask and scratching and scathing and tearing.
Brown meets brown, fearful eyes. Believing eyes. Trusting eyes.
I believe in you.
And Flash, expecting to die right there, says, "You got this Spider-Man. If- If there's anyone out there who can—it's you. And it's always been you."
Scorpion cocks his gun.
Aims.
(Flash sends him a smile, and he knows that look all too well, that smile that says goodbye.)
And,
-shoots.
And that's when Peter breaks into action.
The split second it takes for his nerves to align just right, it comes full and rejuvenated, strong and improved.
His legs propel himself forward and he is slinging at the gun as he whips through the air, a cackle of electricity following him.
But it is not fast enough to protect Flash from the shot. Everything turns into slow motion for Peter—he sees the increments of Flash's face as his life flashes right before him, fear and realization and then determined acceptance, the way he tenses and then relaxes afterwards, and he just falls into it, like he is okay that this is the way things end for him, and Peter thinks—I think the fuck NOT—
Peter falls in front of Flash and he takes the blast for him—or, well, he tries.
A flying ball lands in front of Peter, a small black dot of something that expands into a holographic shield, and the blast from the gun bounces back and hits the window once again.
He looks back and sees—
"NED!"
It is MJ who screams it louder and Peter is glad because even through all the high adrenaline haze he is in, he knows it would be a significant slip-up to call Ned's name in a voice that sounds too close to Peter Parker's. Whatever, he doesn't dwell on it because Scorpion is hounding on them once again, bloodied and bruised, not as much as Peter, but it shows more on him.
The burnt skin on his face catches at his cheekbones, lips twisted in a bloody snarl. His dynamic of sweet revenge and sadistic mischief boils down to his true nature—a brute, a destroyer, a fucking terrorist.
He is angry and bloodthirsty and Peter is right there in front of him.
He can hear a scuffle break out around him and he is aware of the countless of citizens laying vulnerable. One just behind him.
Scorpion heaves a breath.
"I'm done playing games," he spits, gruff and furious. He is staggering, and maybe the blast Morgan hit him with straight on was stronger than he first let on.
But it doesn't matter—it wouldn't really, because just as he says it, Scorpion pulls out a slim metal box from his jacket and puts it straight at his face.
He must not be able to see well, but Peter can. And from his side, he immediately identifies the sign as that of a, "—fucking bomb!"
He does not think beyond the movement of his body, his fingertips shooting straight at Scorpion. The force with which he pulls propels him faster and harder than any other time, but it is the lethargy in Scorpion's movements that ultimately buy him the time that he needs.
In his sluggish, almost sleepy movements, Scorpion looks up just in time for Peter to land a solid punch in his face, landing straight at the man and forcing his weight to capture him underneath his body. Scorpion struggles, squirms and bites and hisses, but he is arrogant, still, and his men do not do anything but gape and stand, restless.
Peter grasps at his wrists, holds it down, fingers digging down hard enough that he can hear the cracking of his bones, can feel it reverberating through his body and to Peter's.
Scorpion howls, tries to curl in on himself before Peter presses down more, "Stay still!" he commands, all in futility. Because Scorpion will die first before he listens to what Spider-Man has to say. And Peter thinks, you will not die now, but you will die one day, in prison, alone and wrong and deserving of it. And you will die knowing that you failed and we all lived.
Peter twists his hand, grabs hold of the trigger for the bomb and just about screams, "Karen, how the fuck do I deactivate this-!"
"Wrap your fingers around the sides, Peter. This is a Hydro Model CP-22. It can resist just about anything from water to crushing, but not electricity—leave it to me."
Peter does as told, and while he does so, Scorpion does not show any signs of relenting. Instead, he spits at Spider-Man's mask.
"How long will this take, Karen?"
"I'm powering up the suit, so it wont leave you unpowered. About a minute or two."
Scorpion stops moving under him and Peter lets himself fall relieved, until he tenses, looks down, and in his face, straight in between his eyes, the barrel of a motherfucking gun—
It blasts him full on, face first, ears ringing, GOD FUCKING—
He does not let go.
It is a simple mantra, it keeps him alive, it keeps him going, it keeps him breathing: Don't let go. Don't let go. Don't let go.
He can feel the sticky burn of his flesh, can feel the way it is supposed to burn full on. But his mask is resilient and it protects him for most of the blast and all he suffers through is the overwhelming PIIIIIING sound ringing in his ears, and the flash of hot white light in his eyes.
His breathing comes out in puffs, and he is not sure for how long it stays this way. But Scorpion is entirely alone, and exhausted, so Peter takes all that he can.
He has been holding on to the hand that shot him, has enough presence of mind to take it off his hand and throw it to the ground crushing it with the sheer force. He breaks the other wrist too, just in case.
Peter does not feel anything but a simmering anger.
A broken wrist is nothing to the likes of what Scorpion deserves.
An undercurrent of deep, soaring anger begins to boil.
He remembers the distant sounds of Pepper's cries, sees the determination in Harley's eyes, through broken arms, possibly permanently broken with the way it was twisted and pushed and pressed. He tries to push back the vivid memory of baby Morgan trembling despite her bravery, and the small voice that should only have been in the safety of her bedroom after a nightmare maybe, and Pepper is there to kiss it goodbye—instead it is uttered here, in fear, in true, tangible terror. And he's been saying this since forever, but Morgan is just a kid and this shouldn't have fucking happened to her—
The first punch lands hard and unforgiving.
It hits Scorpion straight at the nose.
He doesn't hit upward, where he knows it would lodge to his brain, puncture it and kill him immediately.
Instead he hits down, and then at his cheeks, each one, left and then right, and before he knows it, Peter is pounding Scorpion's face, all the anger releasing through the ferocity of his power.
Peter is disoriented but he ploughs through it, can hear with the pounding in his ears the pounding of his flesh as it connects with Scorpion. Bones after bones break and he lands one on Scorpion's chest just. in. case. It is not enough to kill, but good enough to incapacitate in case the fucker decides to have another bomb lodged somewhere.
He has Karen make a quick scan on Scorpion's body for more weapons and finds none, punching him again wordlessly.
This time, it is not so much a succession of punches, but one drawn out and thought of. This is for Pepper, KRRRK— for Rhodey, KRRRRRRRHHKK—for Happy, KRRRR—
And he doesn't stop for a while, not really, not until Scorpion doesn't so much as twitch.
It isn't even that.
It is the hand that he does not notice, the hand that lands on his shoulder, confusing and startling him enough to stop.
He looks behind him, it is Happy.
He looks back to Scorpion, and he sees the way he bleeds, breathing shallow, eyes swollen shut. Hears his heartbeat, feels it faint, and the way his fingers are broken and will probably stay that way, with the way Peter twisted, and pushed and pressed.
He is angry.
He is.
And he has hurt the one who made him angry.
Not in the way he could with the Titan.
Because he is human, and only Gods could make another God bleed. And Peter has made another human bleed, made him bleed so much he possibly cannot bleed more or he'll die—
And that's the thing.
He doesn't want Scorpion to die—or, well, he doesn't want to kill Scorpion.
No matter how blinding and vicious this feeling is.
He stands up, then, settled.
It is quiet, and he can feel the weight of Happy's warm, comforting hands leave his shoulder. It is replaced with the weight of another type of pressure, the heavy eyes that follow his movements, and he is not there enough to realize just why. With the way he turns his body, slowly, not for anything but for the pain in his own limbs, and the own lethargy of his spirit.
He does not know.
Not really.
That is why, when the red lights make way for white, emergency reaching a standstill, he is brave enough to turn.
That is why, when the last of the gates that closed around the windows have opened up, and there is light flooding in, Peter takes his time to glance at the wreckage before him.
That is why he meets all of their eyes.
The agents have backed the terrorists up and they are all defeated.
The civilians are as safe as he could have hoped. Nobody died anyway.
The place is destroyed, but it is nothing to the deep exhaustion he feels straight to his bones.
Peter flexes his hands, flakes of blood dripping down the floor, and he does not know if it belongs to him or to Scorpion.
He fades in and out of thought, to what is inside and what is outside— as real as the other, his thoughts and this reality.
But it is this hypnotic tiredness that he feels, that he has befriended, that stops him from realizing the thing that is happening right now. Something so incredibly true that when it is finally out there, people would have expected it to be loud and brazen and outlandish.
Instead, it starts with a small shift of the heel, a disoriented boy, and the eyes of one Flash Thompson, lying on the floor just below him, to break the fragile point of tension—reaching the apex of truth, the one true thing that is as fundamental as the sun that will always go up—
It goes like this.
"You know when someone tells you they love you? And you never expected it? Well that's how this sunset feels like."
Peter doesn't understand why Tony is saying it tonight, but he could understand what he is saying. It feels warm and it settles kindly on his skin.
It isn't something he contests, because, at the base of it, it just is.
And he knows Tony has different experiences, he's known the warmth of a lover, walked through hell and was welcomed by a brother, fought with and survived battle with his best friend—
He—
He's lived a life, you know?
What should Peter know, but teenage crises and whining about unrequited love?
But even as he thinks this, Peter knows he is wrong to do so.
Peter is young, and the love that he feels is young.
He knows the warmth of a mother, and laughter with his best friend after a tough time, whatever it was for them at the time, and maybe he could feel something warm when someone who doesn't smile smiles at him—and he feels it blossom deep within, and he welcomes it, and he turns his head to look, to take a small peak at one of the brightest suns that nestled itself in his heart for the past year.
There is a thrum of something wonderful.
It is vibrant and new, but old and nurturing all the same.
"Well, how about sunrise?"
He asks, because he can.
And he wants to know what this brilliant mind thinks.
"Sunrise?"
Tilt of the head.
The sun haloes around his head, and his hair is winter fire. He feels ethereal, like a dream, and at some points, he is. Because Tony wasn't someone who sat with people like Peter, but somehow, they found each other, and they're here, side by side.
"Yeah. How does it feel like?"
He looks thoughtful, and the creases by his eyes crinkle even more, not from the furrow of his brows but from the smile that encapsulates his whole face.
And suddenly, the sun is right in front of him, not behind, not around—there, right in front of him— Tony.
He looks right back, and Peter can feel the tendrils of his rays reach out to caress his cheeks, and never had he felt this safe than when he was maybe six, and his father and mother are laughing along with Ben, May's hands around him, and all he did was exist with them and it was okay.
"Sunrise feels like watching you."
What?
And he says it.
Tony laughs, something he would remember and then cherish and then recount and then love even more.
He reaches out to muss Peter's hair, so tender in his touch that Peter is caught by it.
Brown meets brown eyes, a smile to overpower his own confused stare.
"Sunrise feels like watching you," he repeats. Slow, like he's trying to make him understand—like, really understand, as if it is important and something that he should remember. And he would remember, in the coming of the years, the first time, when he is watching it alone, and he would scoff. The second, when he is with his friends and he would accept it, only because Tony gave it to him. And third, when he sits with Tony's child, baby Morgan all grown up and curious of her father who everyone but her knows so well. This time, he would say it back to her, and she would be the same child that Peter had been, but it would be okay because Peter is here to be there for Morgan, and things would play out better. Because he is here, and he is here through him, and Peter will always be here—
"Sunrise feels like having hope."
When all is said and done, and the dust has settled, Peter turns around.
Flash Thompson is there to meet his eyes, to point, trembling, shaken, and when he looks Peter in the eye, he looks Peter in the eye.
"Peter… you're…"
And it doesn't surprise him somehow.
That this is the way it goes.
His hands do not fly to cover his face because he sees the cameras that are trained on him, makes sense of the shocked faces of his classmates, and the tears that spring on some of them. He does not understand their tears, but he does the intent of the press.
But see, he does not see much of a problem with it, does not think of the ways everything could go wrong because it already has happened. Now, he'd be better prepared for it, whatever it is.
And however long he suffered to reach this point, however much he has hesitated, rejected himself even, this is a revelation that is less a revelation, not a resignation, but more of a… an acceptance. Of this role. Of this thing in this life that answers why he is here, right now, and not anybody else.
The sun outside is high but in a matter of minutes, it will begin its descent down. The sunlight filters through and he is hit with the brunt of it—the dust floats above his head, and around his torn mask, and he reaches out to feel it.
Because the sunset is suddenly so tangible, and he can feel it try to hold his hand.
He knows, at the back of his mind, that he might not see the sunrise tomorrow, for all that has and will happen today. But he feels it still, anticipates it even, the coming of new light.
So, he breathes.
And he looks at Flash, then at them all.
And he says, in that calm way only someone could talk when they know what they are saying is the irrevocable truth and nothing else in this universe could ever make it wrong.
Because it is.
The truth.
The one thing that has never been wrong in Peter's life.
That no matter how much he tried to deny it, it would never fade, and it will only grow stronger.
Because right at his core, right down to his spirit, to the strength of his bones, the redness of his blood—to the mind that inhabits it all, and to the boy that stands before them—
"Yeah," he breathes, finally.
.
.
.
.
"I. Am. Spider-Man."
.
.
.
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LONG NOTE OVERHEAD:
This was the note I wrote after the goddamn draft, and I just have to share that because I thought, I positively thought I was going to write a 10k worded fic but nooooooo it suddenly became like… a whole fucking novel. Anyway, here it is:
Booogsh that's the end of it, promise you a fluffier one next time. This just had to get out of my system thanks!
What a tool.
I also wanna share a lotta shit, so this is just gonna be me rambling and being an excitable (I'M EIGHTEEN NOW!) five-year-old.
Would you believe it if I told you that the suspicious intern who blew up Shuri's lab was completely coincidental and it came up to help me in my time of needs when the plotholes began popping up? Yes. I only wrote terrorists terrorize the tour. And I was so proud of that damn outline.
So another thing I noticed while reviewing this whole fic (I forgot shit, I forget shit) is that I actually had Sally say to Peter, "Welcome back Peter boy" in chapter five, and then Ned says, "Welcome back Spider-man" in chapter ten, which is, fitting to say the least. I don't know if my past self meant for this to happen but present self is surely surprised to see that connection that went very well for the narrative shit ive been trying to lay out.
One of the reasons this took so long is because of the action. One of the reasons this was even made is because of the last scene, which is also coincidentally riddled with action. I do love to torture myself.
Anyhow, I will apologize for a few things: excessive use of onomatopoeia for one, the rhodey thing especially, and fucking scorpion. I admit I have a LOT to improve upon, and action can suck my ass, but I really do hope the emotional payoff was… there. And worth the wait, I guess.
And because I am a sentimental bitch as I am dramatic, apparently (from my journalist adviser to yall my beautiful readers) the exact moment I typed in those accursed words from the title was 4:54 am, and it will be special to me in more ways than one 😊
This has been… so fucking great. Like. I didn't expect this to blow up the way it did. And even though I didn't reply to all the comments (I wanted to reply but I think its too late and awkward to start replying to the earlier comments, soo…) I want you all to know that I read your comments. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. And whenever I do, I can't help but just smile and laugh and grin and be absolutely happy that I wrote this thing. I hope we all meet again somehow, for you, my friends, are the ones who made this all happen.
I wanted to point out that those who reviewed even during my hiatus period helped boost my motivation to write through all the action because you reminded me the joy of getting a review and that people are waiting—like, holy shit—people are waiting? Theyre interested enough to wait and come back and what the fuck.
In the time that I was on hiatus though, or my three-turned-four month break, I'd like to tell you all that I turned eighteen this January and, compared to last year when my friends forgot about it, I felt loved and special and beautiful and I hope you know that you are too! I don't want to sound… too casual, but I think its important to say these things all the time, for people to read it and hear it, so that you'd come to believe that truth.
Anyway, this has been the longest fucking A/N I wrote and saw on an ao3 chapter.
Would it be appropriate, though, to share that I am also a rabid reddie shipper and am now attempting to write a buncha shit about them? Like, from months October to January, I have been reading nonstop reddie fics and am concocting my own. I've read like 400 fics right now, and that's a close estimate. I keep them in my laptop's folders. Anyway, I'd be posting them and for those reddie (IT CHAPTER 1 AND 2) fans, please, indulge me.
Talk to me?
I love you.