Peter dodged around another corner, heart beating a too hard and fast rhythm against his heaving chest. The looming brick walls of the narrow alleys and backstreets he'd been weaving his way through for the past half hour did nothing to soothe the rising tides of panic that continued to threaten at overwhelming his rational thought.
He couldn't let himself lose control, though. Not now. He strained to listen to the thunks of heavy footsteps that seemed to come from every direction, leaving only slivers of gaps in between where he might find a way through to escape.
He clutched his side in as tight of a grip he could get himself to, burying the jolts of pain the clutch on his wound sent arcing through him and instead focusing on keeping as little blood from seeping between his fingers as he could.
"Karen?" he called tentatively, quietly, voice pitched high and strung.
There was no response.
He'd expected as much, but the reaffirmation was another weight placed upon his shoulders, which already trembled from exertion. He'd lost contact with his AI after some hit - probably an EMP - over an hour ago, and she still wasn't back up.
There's a scuff, much closer than he'd thought it'd be, and he jolted backwards, deeper into the recesses of the sliver of a gap between two buildings, just barely wider than the width of his shoulders.
He crouched down, his shuffling as he moved further in blessedly silent due to the noise muffling material of the soles of his iconic red and blue boots.
There was a crackle of a com, further away, maybe a hundred meters or so. Then a low voice from the other end, signifying that they knew as well as he did that they had him surrounded - even if his current spot had yet to be centered on.
"Fuck," someone muttered - the one close by.
Peter curled inwards more at the voice, but he felt a lace of confusion trail up his spine.
They sounded distinctly… American. New Yorker - Brooklynite, to be exact. They'd only said one word, sure, but an amalgamation of Peter's sensitive hearing letting him pick up a plethora of nuances in just as much and the fact that he'd heard that specific word plenty enough from street goers and taxi drivers alike let him reason out that he was probably right.
Which was strange.
Very strange.
There was a metal whir and several strange clicks from the closer guy, as well as the scuffing of still slowly but steadily approaching footsteps further away. Peter edged deeper into the depths of the shadows his little nook provided him with, barely holding back a hiss of pain when his elbow jarred against the brick, sending a white hot arc of agony roaring through him.
Definitely broken, he thought grimly, avoiding looking down at the odd angle he knew his right arm was at.
He refocused his attention on the closer intruder and his analysis of them.
They'd gone silent once more, even the metallic sounds that he couldn't place.
A low, heavily accented Russian voice snarled something into their comms a couple hundred meters away.
That was what confused Peter. Because, sure, the thugs after him - whoever they were - switched between Russian and English steadily enough, but they all had the thick, Russian accent.
And this new guy didn't.
And he'd somehow gotten pretty damn close to Peter without him even realizing it.
So.
Another whirring click of metal on metal. Closer.
Peter's eyes flicked around behind his mask, looking for possible escape routes.
He could gun it if he had to, but not for long with the bullet hole that'd ripped straight through his side. Sure, the flow of blood pouring out had slowed down to a faint trickle, but it hadn't stopped, let alone started really stitching his skin and sinew back up together. He was exhausted, heavily injured more than just there, and he hadn't had a good meal in hours. Not an opportune state for his healing to be able to do its thing. Speaking of other injuries, he wasn't gonna be able to crawl up any walls with much success when he was down an arm, not to mention he was on his last reserves of web fluid.
"Fucking HYDRA," American Dude growled lowly, voice sounding like scraped gravel.
He was almost up to where the turn into Peter's hidey hole was.
And Peter made a split second, hair brained decision as the man came into view and moved to step past the little gap.
"Hey pstt," Peter shrilly whispered.
The man whipped to the side and had a gun pointed dead at him in less than a split second, muscles bunched and ready, coiled like a spring. Peter inwardly took a moment to absorb the details - chin length, brown hair; steel grey-blue eyes trained on him with a focus that made him feel like he was pinned under a microscope; silvery - metal - left hand clutched alongside the right on the pistol still aimed at him.
"I come in peace!" Peter defended, moving to raise his hands - because he was an idiot - only to let out a groan when his right arm sent a protesting throb of agony and lifting his left let another gush of blood rush out in the momentary lapse of pressure.
The gun didn't lower, but the man spoke. "Who are you," he ordered.
"Um… " Peter looked down at himself as if to reassure that yes, yes he was still wearing his very recognizable Spider-Man suit with a literal spider emblazoned across the chest. Sure, it was a bit torn up, but still very much recognizable. He looked back up. "Spider-Man?" he tried.
The man apparently had the ability to exude the action of rolling his eyes without actually doing it, because that's what he did. The gun was still trained on Peter, but it lowered just a tad - so he'd get a probably not lethal shot, Peter thought to himself with as much optimism as he could. "No shit," Metal Arm drawled, jutting his chin up. "S'not what I asked, punk."
Peter squinted, his goggles copying the motion. Maybe he'd lost too much blood? He inwardly fretted for a moment. That was a thing, right? Cause he was pretty sure he answered the right question, but, blood loss messes with your head, he's pretty sure. So. "It's not?"
"I ain't askin' about what's on your face - I'm askin' what's under it," Gun Holder Dude simplified.
Peter made a sound of acknowledgement, and if he had a free hand he'd definitely be rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Ah - um, yeah. That's… kinda the thing? Point - I mean - about it, though? Like, nobody knows who's under it?"
The man gave a slight shake of his head, but his gun did finally lower. "They're comin', an' you c'n either tell me who you are so I'll give ya a hand, or you c'n keep your bug eyes an' let them figure you out when they get here."
Well, that was an ultimatum if Peter ever heard one, and it even had its own background chorus of now way too close to comfort group of footsteps.
"Fairs fair," Peter agreed as lightly as he could, crouching further and leaning back so he plonked down against the concrete. "I'm - ah - a bit indisposed in taking it off myself, though, or with doing anything really, so."
Potential Helper Man approached him, and Peter was careful not to move a muscle. His spidey senses were still going off, but it was at a low hum right now - so either because of the goons coming up or because this guy was even more paranoid than he let on.
Either way, Peter kept still as one of the man's metal fingers slipped under the edge of the mask against his neck and slowly pulled it off to reveal Peter's face to the night air.
"Fuck," the guy breathed, eyes widening minutely as his gaze flicked around and absorbed Peter's features. "Fuck," he swore again, with more emphasis, and roughly shoved the mask back over Peter's face, heedless to said teen's spluttering.
From one moment, where Peter was trying to rub his cheek against his uninjured shoulder in a futile attempt to realign his skewed mask, to the next, Peter found himself having been scooped up into the man's very buff arms in a decidedly princess-like carry.
"Um," Peter said eloquently.
The man shushed him - shushed him - and was off like a shot, tearing silently through alleys and narrowly avoiding intersecting with any of the members of the group - HYDRA? - that were encroaching their way. Peter spared a moment to be impressed by the sheer strength, agility, and evasion abilities that Not Goon Guy displayed.
Unfortunately, their luck ran out after a couple of minutes, and Peter found himself hoisted further up so he was held by just the metal arm, still steady, while the decidedly Helper Dude pulled his pistol back out and began firing at any and all cronies that popped into his sight.
Peter, eyes nearly as wide as the goggles they hid behind, squeaked out a, "no killing please!" as he tried to press himself deeper into the man's side.
There was a muttered curse from his Metal Arm Buddy, but it seemed like he somewhat took Peter's hopeful request to heart, since the next couple of goons that ran into the foray were each met with a shot to the kneecaps and elbows instead of the chest or head.
The duo continued steamrolling ahead, a pack of thugs practically on their heels but just narrowly missing them as they skidded through the alleys, Peter still clutched in the one arm that had a bicep around his back and a forearm looping around to hold him up from under his knees.
His Savior Dude had picked up a couple of guns along the way, and it seemed like most of the forefront resistance had been taken out, leaving a clear path ahead.
Just as the heady rush of relief that came with that realization hit him, he spotted a seedy looking man swerve around the corner into the narrow alley they were currently racing through from over his companion's shoulder, and the incessant hum of his senses screamed.
He could tell Hobo Prince Charming had noticed as well, but the Russian guy's gun was already up and there wasn't time for them to reasonably avoid any fired projectiles, so Peter unclasped his right hand from his side - belatedly realizing in the back of his mind that the blood had finally, thankfully, clotted - and thwiped out some of the last remaining webs he had, catching the man's hand and wrist in it and sending him sideways with the momentum, leaving his weapon holding hand stuck to the brick wall.
Not Russian Man carried on sprinting, probably having caught the exchange in his peripheral.
Peter grinned up at him. "Teamwork!" he cheered with a quiet wheeze.
Buff Boi totally made a noise that was suspiciously reminiscent of a laugh.
The angry shouts and thudding footsteps continued to recede further and further behind them, and Peter was shifted back to being held by both arms, though he could feel the hard edge of the pistol still being held in a solid grip.
Peter rested his head against Armed Helper's shoulder. "I'm totally like a damsel in distress right now, dude."
The man spared a brief glance down at him, raising a single, unimpressed brow, but Peter definitely caught his lips twitching slightly. "Not quite the dame I'd go for saving," he said dryly.
Peter gasped in mock offense, placing his now free hand over his chest. "You take that back!" he cried, raising the back of his hand to his forehead and tilting his head back slightly. "I'm a beautiful girl," he refuted, sounding haughty and high strung.
Now his buddy definitely huffed, slowing down to a brisk walk, the back streets dark and silent around them. "My bad, pal. You're right. Ain't never seen a dame with as much class 's you've got."
"I'm glad you can finally admit it," Peter sniffed, lifting his chin and tilting his head to the side so as to look off into the distance with a regal air about him.
"Course, Miss. I ain't a rookie - I c'n tell you ain't just some broad," the man simpered, patting Peter's knee placatingly.
Peter broke character and beamed up at him, snapping his fingers and pointing at the man. "You n' me? We're gonna get along just fine," he declared, giving a one handed finger gun at his new ally.
Unfortunately, his declaration didn't get the sort of reaction he'd hoped for.
Instead, the man's lips thinned and his grip around Peter tightened minutely, and, after a couple of seconds, he responded, tone back to the empty thing it'd been when he first came upon Peter. "M'trouble," he hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Those guys, they were after me, not you," he disclosed.
Peter stared at him, lips parting slightly. The air around them seemed tense.
Then he snorted. Then wheezed out a few laughs, hand going to hover over his stinging side helplessly as the man gave him an incredulous glance. "I-I'm sorry," he said breathlessly, trying and failing at taking a moment to calm himself. "It's just - HAH -" he wheezed again, lips twisting in both humor and pain. "Is-is," he snickered, "is your Russian codename, like, spiedurmon or something? Cause, like, if not, well, I've got news for you, buddy."
"The hell're you talkin' about, punk?" his companion asked, jostling him slightly.
Peter waved him off, rolling his eyes. "Dude, what I'm trying to say, is that unless those goonies called you some Russian version of Spider-Man, it was definitely me they were after. Ya know, since they were saying my name and all that? And shooting at me," he finished, waving at his general self.
There was a small bout of silence before the man sighed. "Dammit," he muttered, then addressed Peter. "And why the hell's that?"
"Heck if I know!" Peter replied exasperatedly. "I dunno who they were, buddy o' pal o' mine - I thought they were just some group I probably pissed off with all my, ya know, heroing, but they were a lot more persistent compared to who I'm usually up against, so," he shrugged, then hissed between his teeth as his left arm jolted.
Said Buddy o' Pal gave him a concerned glance, tsking when he took in the details of how bad, exactly, Peter's broken limb was looking. Yeah, definitely not a pretty sight.
"I should probably set it soon," Peter admitted.
His Butch Pal looked around.
They were still in yet another dingy alley, though where, exactly, Peter had no idea at this point. They could be in anywhere from Brooklyn to Manhattan for all he knew.
Peter startled when he felt himself being lowered to the ground, against a brick wall. Butch - yeah, Peter was gonna stick with Butch cause why not - crouched in front of him, raising a tentative hand towards Peter's arm that was clutched awkwardly against his chest. They met eyes, Peter giving a little nod of affirmation, before Butch reached forwards and gently wrapped his hand around Peter's wrist, slowly pulling his limb away from his body.
Peter made a small, keening noise, but made no move to stop him, watching silently as his limb was set straight and Butch reached into his back pocket and pulled out two -
"Are those taser sticks?" Peter asked incredulously, gaping slightly at the black rods that were unfolded into longer, straight poles.
"No," Butch said, setting down the two extended definitely tasers by Peter's side and then proceeding to rip off a couple of strips from the hem of his long sleeve tee.
"Why the heck do you have those?" Peter questioned, poking at one of them.
Butch batted his hand away. "Thought they'd be useful," he grunted.
"For what?"
"This," Butch said, and Peter watched in awed silence as the man then splinted his broken arm using the two taser rods as makeshift holders and then holding those in place using the cloth he'd torn off his top to tie around them.
"Well, that's a reason," Peter said dazedly.
Butch huffed through his nose, grasping Peter around his good arm and hoisting him up. "How's your side?" he asked.
Smartly, Peter poked at it. It hurt. A lot. He looked up at Butch. "It hurts. A lot," he offered.
Butch sighed and once again lifted Peter back up into a bridal carry.
"My hero," Peter swooned, but Butch's lips only pursed in reply.
"M'not a hero."
Peter frowned, then squinted, looking at Butch, then himself, then the man, then back at himself in order to clearly portray his confusion at the reply. "I mean, I'd probably be, like, dead or something right now without you, so."
When he still didn't receive a reply, Peter's frown deepened.
"Seriously, dude. I dunno what they had in mind for me, cause it didn't seem like they were aiming to kill me for sure, but it wasn't good. I've gotta say, I can think of a whole lotta reasons why some bad guys might wanna capture me, and the whole spectrum's in the negatives on the 'how I'd rate my stay' scale. And you're the reason why I'm not in that kinda spot right now, Butch."
Completely failing to acknowledge the rest of the statement and clearly thankful to have a reason to veer the - for him - uncomfortable conversation off course, the man questioned, "Butch?"
Peter let it slide and did a one armed shrug. "You're a pretty butch dude, man - why? Don't like it?"
Butch snorted, lip curling up slightly on one side. "Sound like 'm part'v'a gang."
"Or, ya know, a literal butcher," Peter offered. Butch snorted again, and Peter smiled.
They lapsed into silence, a companionable one, the only sounds being those of distant traffic and the quiet whirs of the metal arm against Peter's back. He broke it after another few minutes.
"So, not that this isn't nice an' all, Butch, but where, exactly, are we headed?"
Butch stopped short, and Peter's body moved forwards for another second before he caught himself - it was kind of like when a car stops abruptly and you keep moving with your own momentum.
He looked up questioningly at the man.
"I-" Butch paused, a frown creasing his brows. "-got no clue," he admitted.
Peter burst into laughter, once again trying and failing to ignore the pain it sent lacing up his side and still unable to stop his cackles. "Wh-" he choked. "We've been walking for, like, an hour, Butch!" he cried out, thumping his head against the man's shoulder.
"I've been walkin' for an hour, punk," Butch scowled, starting his pace back up. "You've just been sittin' there lookin' pretty."
"Awww you think I'm pretty?" Peter asked, fluttering his eyelashes behind the mask. Butch shoved a hand into his face, pushing it back and making him splutter. "Hey!" he cried out indignantly.
"Hey yourself," Butch muttered.
Peter laughed it off, pushing Butch's hand away. "If you get me a map or something, I know a place," Peter offered.
Butch shook his head. "I ain't goin' with you," he declined immediately.
Peter pouted, but he could only cross one arm over his chest, so the whole vibe kind of lost its effectiveness. "Well, I can't very well get there myself," he complained, gesturing at his still not healed bullet wound.
"I'll drop you off," Butch amended.
"C'monnnn," Peter whined, "Nobody's gonna know either way, so you might as well just stay over," he claimed.
Butch looked down at him. "You live alone?" he asked, frowning again.
"Nah," Peter said, "but my Aunt's out on a business trip for the next month, so it's just me. Well. Just me n' you," he goaded.
"Can't," Butch said.
"Why not?"
"Cause I've got people lookin' for me."
Peter rolled his eyes, groaning and waving a hand around dismissively. "Dude, we just went over this. Didn't we figure out that the same people after you are after me too?" His eyes lit up. "Hey!" he exclaimed, slapping a hand against Butch's chest in excitement.
Butch raised both brows slightly at him, gaze flicking between Peter's face and the hand still slapping at his chest.
"We've got the same goons after us, right?" Peter affirmed.
Butch nodded.
"So that means if you're with me, then I can have your back and you'll have mine!" Peter crowed victoriously.
"Or it means they're twice as likely to find out where we're at," Butch pointed out wryly.
"Maybeeee," Peter admitted grudgingly. "But just a couple days at least, then?" he wheedled. "'Till I can maybe defend myself by myself," he said, gesturing towards his injuries.
He made an effort to hide his grin when he saw he'd gotten to his companion, the man's jaw working under his faint stubble. "Fine," Butch bit out, scowling when Peter whooped victoriously only to let out a pained whimper when both his bullet wound and broken arm punished him for the unnecessary movement.
Butch scoffed out a laugh, and Peter glared at him halfheartedly, pushing a finger off his shoulder. The man shifted to flick him through the mask right on the nose in retaliation, to Peter's very much vocalized consternation.
"Just 'till you're healed up, ya got that, punk?" he checked sternly, and Peter nodded in quick affirmation.
"Sleepover buddies," he whispered to himself, giving a tiny victory punch in the air.
Butch sighed resignedly. "You gonna tell me your name then, pal?"
Peter startled, mentally smacking himself for not having done so already. "Peter - Peter Parker!" he announced, swinging his arm out dramatically and almost smacking Butch on the chin in the process.
Butch tilted his head to avoid the nearly inadvertent blow before heaving a heavily put upon sigh, face construing up the expression of total doneness with the entire situation already.
Peter was ninety-nine percent sure it was fake, but he still eyed Butch's countenance, shooting a nervous yet impish grin up at his carrier.
Said man waited another long moment before caving and flashing a glimpse of a blithe grin at Peter. "Nice ta meetcha Pete," he finally replied. And then he looked up, pace unfaltering but something softer tinging his eyes and the faint smile that danced across his lips. His next words sounded like a decision made. "M' Bucky," he said, more quietly. But his voice didn't waver, and his steps remained sure.
Peter took it in stride, pulling off his mask so Butch - Bucky - could see the open sincerity in his eyes and the flash of his teeth thanks to his face-splitting smile. "Nice to meet you too, Buckaroo," the teen expressed cheerfully, and Bucky let out a full on, deep, unreserved laugh, a genuine sound that made his gaze seem lighter and Peter's smile infinitesimally brighter.
"Think you were right, pal," the man belatedly agreed. "We're gonna get along just fine."