Tony's morning is going just fine until he gets the notification that one Peter Parker didn't show up to school.

Which, of course, could mean a number of things. It could mean he's taking a sick day, that May's overreacting over an injury he got on patrol, or he could just be at something as mundane as a dentist appointment. Regardless, Tony has managed to convince himself that he's not being excessive by having FRIDAY notify him whenever Peter's absent by reminding himself that ditching school in favor of Spider-Man isn't exactly unprecedented for the kid. Granted, now that May knows, Tony would love to see the kid try to get out of pulling that one again. Comforted with the knowledge that Peter's not suicidal, Tony pushes himself off his chair and meanders toward the kitchen.

"Hey FRIDAY, what's our friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man up to?" he asks, running his fingers along the counter as he makes his way to the fridge. "Is he bedridden, or is he about to be?"

"Unknown, boss."

Tony halts in front of the fridge, his hand lingering on the countertop. "What do you mean unknown? Why isn't he at school?"

"May Parker did not contact Midtown to inform them. She didn't answer when the school reached out to her, either."

Tony's heart does something funny in his chest as his appetite all but vanishes. That's not right. Peter might forget to contact the school. Peter would deliberately avoid the school's calls. Hell, Tony can see scenarios in which Peter wouldn't even think to feed his school an excuse before swinging off as Spider-Man. But May would never. Even if she and Peter were just curled up in the living room and making a movie day of it, May would still know to give the school something. And not answering the school's calls—that's everything but in-character.

"Dial Peter," Tony orders, and finds himself pacing when it begins to ring. He almost convinces himself that he's working himself up over nothing when the voicemail picks up after five unanswered rings. "Call him again. Through the suit, not his phone. Actually, put me through to him immediately." He isn't sure whether he'd be pissed or alleviated if Peter answers, but he soon finds out that he'd gladly take either compared to the cold pit that grows in his stomach when FRIDAY speaks next.

"Peter's suit is offline," she informs him. "I believe it may have sustained damage."

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Tony slams his fist against the counter. Breakfast forgotten, he rushes over to the counter and pulls up a holographic display, a map of New York hovering over the surface at a few quick waves of his hand. "Track the Spider Suit."

To his relief, a small red dot takes less than a second to appear in the blue of the map. But when he registers that the red dot's blinking from a warehouse outside Hempstead, a good hour's drive from Peter's school, that relief disappears. It warps into something else entirely when he reads Since Yesterday, 4:29 PM.

Tony takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying and failing to quell the anxious hammering of his heart. If the kid's not in trouble, he sure as hell is about to be. "FRIDAY, get me my suit."

"Right away, boss."

The motel ceiling is low.

Peter knows this shouldn't bother him as much as the lack of a TV or the musty trace in the air, but for some reason, it's the ceiling that sticks out as bothersome in the back of his mind. It makes the already small room feel even more cramped, like the walls could close in at any moment. It doesn't help that the only distraction is the occasional car that passes out the window.

He's never been good with patience. Thirty minutes in the Damage Control vault had felt like hours, and that was with both his web-shooters and Karen to talk to. Peter knows that he could easily break down the motel room door even if he couldn't unlock it, yet he still somehow manages to feel far more trapped in here. If nothing else, at least there's a pen and a small notebook in the nightstand between the beds.

Peter would be surprised if Mr. Castle doesn't insist on reading over the letter before he seals it up, so he knows he has to be smart about this. No mentioning the Punisher or Frank Castle—besides, he doubts Ned would take the fact that he's staying with him as a comfort. Peter sits back on the end of the bed, tapping the pen against the corner of his mouth.

Hi Ned, he scrawls at the top of the page. It's a bit ridiculous, everything considered, but Peter shrugs and rolls with it. Writing with the splint on his middle finger is awkward at best and makes his handwriting barely legible, but hey, anything to make it harder for the bad guys. I don't know what you've heard, but I'm not dead. I'm as safe as I can be right now. I don't know when I can come back to school, but I hope it will be soon. Peter presses harder on the when, because it's when, not if.

He rests the tip of the pen on the paper, letting an inky dot grow larger and larger as he steels himself for the next sentence. May is d-

The pen stops in Peter's hand. Writing it feels official, the ink final and unable to be undone. Peter swallows back a lump rising in his throat as he scratches out the words, replacing it with, Something happened and May's not here. It was weak, and he can imagine Mr. Castle shaking his head as he reads it over, but he hopes Ned will get the message. I'm staying with someone right now, and he's- Peter hesitates, clicking the pen against his thumb. Nice isn't quite true. Far from it, really. Well-meaning? Homicidal? Wanted by basically everyone?

Good at this stuff, Peter decides. Please be careful. Don't walk alone down any dark allies or answer any weird guys at the door n stuff. And don't talk about this letter to anyone. ANYONE, he adds, because Ned probably needs the emphasis.

I hope I can see you soon.

Peter rips out the paper and folds it before dropping it back on the nightstand next to the phone. He absently reaches for it and turns it over in his hands, pursing his lips before flipping it open with a shrug. While he's grateful Mr. Castle left him with an emergency contact, it works better to ease the niggling fear on the edge of Peter's mind that he's not going to come back. He isn't sure what to make of the fact that he'd rather have the company of the Punisher than not.

He opens the contacts and scrolls down, going down the short list twice before hovering over the second number. There were no names attached to the numbers, which makes sense when Peter thinks about it. He finds his thumb tapping repeatedly at the dial key as his restlessness grows and the temptation to talk to someone, anyone, becomes almost overwhelming. Maybe Curtis is nice. Maybe Curtis could tell him about his goats or something about Mr. Castle that makes him less confusing.

Then again, it's not past two and shit's not going down.

Peter falls back on the bed and clutches the phone to his chest. May would know just the right thing to say. She hadn't even known about Spider-Man for more than two months, but it was so much nicer to be able to talk to her about it once she stopped being pissed. She'd always know when something looked just suspicious enough to report to Mr. Stark when Peter wasn't sure, and she always knew how to make it better when a thief gave him the slip or a mugger got a few good licks in. Just when all the pieces started falling together, just when Peter thought they were actually making it work, Gargan came and tore that away from him.

Revenge isn't the way. That's what May would say and Peter already learned that with Ben. It doesn't change the fact that something still boils inside him and that he has to remind himself that letting the Punisher get to Gargan isn't the solution. Yet the lines get blurrier by the minute. After all, Mr. Stark never talks about it when he does decide to talk to Peter, but Peter knows that he's killed people. Granted, those people were terrorists keeping him hostage inside an Afghanistan cave. It was textbook self-defense, but weren't those six guys in the convenience store killed in self-defense too?

No, because Mr. Castle was defending you, a voice whispers in the back of Peter's mind.

I didn't ask him to, Peter counters.

You didn't stop him either.

Peter closes his eyes and runs his fingers down his face. He sniffs as he rubs his eyes open then rolls to his side, bringing the phone up to his face. He finds himself opening the keypad and his fingers punch in a number that he knows by heart.

He just needs to hear her voice. A part of him hopes that maybe she'll pick up, that something other than her voicemail will speak and that Mr. Castle was wrong, that she really is just in a hospital waiting for him.

"Hello?"

Peter's heart drops to his stomach as he shoots up to his feet. It's a man's voice, low and modulated and unfamiliar.

"Uhhhh…" He double-checks the number to affirm that it's May's.

"Are you calling for May Parker?"

Peter takes a sharp breath before he takes a slow one, composing himself. He can't quite make out the tone, but it doesn't sound imposing. "I- uh, yeah. Yeah, I am," Peter says, keen enough to lower his voice and put on a thick New York accent.

"What is your relationship to her?"

That's definitely a red flag. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm Officer Moore with the NYPD. What is your relationship with May Parker?"

Peter's mouth grows dry. His mind blanks for a moment and he has to scramble to come up with something while debating with himself if he should hang up. That would be more suspicious, wouldn't it? He's already calling with a number May's phone wouldn't recognize. "I'm- I'm a friend from work. She, er, didn't show up to her shift last night." That much was true.

The officer takes a breath. "Could you please come down to the fifteenth precinct? I regret to inform you, sir, but May Parker was found last night at what is now an active crime scene."

"What are you doing with her phone?" Peter demands, barely processing the man's words.

"It's evidence, sir. I'm the one tasked to go through it. I understand this must come as a shock to you, but I really can't talk about this over the phone. Please come down to the precinct. Any information that anyone has about Ms. Parker would help the investigation."

"She's a victim, why are you- You can't just go through her phone," Peter snaps before he can stop himself.

"Sir, Ms. Parker's phone may contain evidence critical to finding her nephew. Would you know anything about a Peter-"

Peter snaps the phone shut and backs up against the wall. He presses his spine against it, a shuddering breath escaping his chest as he sinks down to the floor. He tosses the phone back on the bed and buries his head between his knees.

He screwed up. He screwed up bad. He just called the police, and they're gonna find out it's him, and they're gonna track him down, find out he's Spider-Man, and Mr. Castle's not here to-

But it's a burner phone, right? Mr. Castle wouldn't get a phone that can be tracked. Peter just had to wait it out. He can do that.

He can also ignore the feeling of something wet sliding down his cheek.

Tony makes it to the warehouse in under five minutes.

It's out of the way, he'll give them that. Without the tracker, it would've taken him much longer to decide to check in a wooded area outside a Hempstead suburb. The lack of cars in the parking lot also works to draw attention away. It doesn't seem to have windows either, an admittedly smart move when it's Spider-Man you're kidnapping. Which, as much as he hates to admit it, is exactly what this appears to be.

Tony lands outside the front door as silently as his suit will allow. "Okay, how many am I dealing with?"

"There are no lifeforms inside the building."

"What?" Tony shakes his head in an effort to dismiss the horrible thought chipping at the edge of his mind. "That can't be right. Where's Peter tracking from? Scan again."

"Peter is tracking fifty feet from your location." FRIDAY seems to hesitate before speaking next. "There are no lifeforms inside the building."

Tony's blood runs cold. He doesn't think before he fires his repulsors and blasts the door open. His foot hits something as he bursts through, something hard that scrapes against the floor. Tony jolts and aims his palm down at-

A trash bag.

A nervous, relieved huff of laughter escapes his mouth as a quick glance around the room confirms that there's not a body in sight. The only things of note seem to be an old couch, a cot against the wall, and some kind of computer set-up in the corner. The only sound is the whine of Tony's repulsors, charged and ready to fire. Despite the fact that no one's home, the lights are on and flickering above his head.

"Spider-Man?" Tony calls anyway. Better safe than sorry.

He doesn't get a response.

Keeping his repulsors activated, Tony stalks around the room. He shakes the computer mouse as he passes, tsking in disappointment when he's met with a lock screen. Nothing he can't get into when he's not pressed for time, though. Albeit cheap, the tech set-up is impressive. The wires are tangled and the screens are scratched, yet it was put together by somebody who clearly knew what they were doing.

Tony's heart skips a beat when a familiar red and blue catches in his peripheral. He turns on his heels and rushes to the couch, an undignified noise coming from his throat when his breath catches. No, God no…

It's just his suit. Crumpled, dust-covered and stained on the floor, but there's nobody in it. Tony's left reeling from a sudden rush of relief to a flash of horror, because the last thing Peter would do is just leave his suit in a warehouse. Tony deactivates his repulsors and picks up the suit by the shoulders with trembling hands. The material is torn on the upper arm and opposite calf, but it's the cut on the abdomen that's most concerning. A red that seems almost black stains the surrounding area to the point where even the dust and plaster are coated in it.

Then he sees the mask on the armrest of the couch.

"Shit!" Tony hisses, lashing out at the couch.

The couch skids aside, the wooden legs screeching against the floor at a volume that does nothing to match the blind panic roaring in his mind. The movement reveals a white container with a red cross that had been partially hidden under the couch. Smudges of blood mar the white plastic, crimson fingerprints on the handle that prompts a huff from Tony's nose.

"Stitched you up, did they?" he murmurs as he crouches down to pick up the first aid kit, studying the fingerprints with narrowed eyes. He sets the kit on the couch and scans the room for a trash can, muttering a "bingo" when he spots one in the corner.

Wadded-up, bloodstained pads of gauze and small pieces of black thread used for stitching are piled in the trash bag, but it's not what catches his attention. A small collection of discarded syringes lies on top. Tony takes a sharp, shaky breath, struggling to keep his hand steady as he fishes one out. "FRIDAY?"

A chemical formula appears in front of his eyes that he'd probably be able to make sense of if his vision isn't swimming. "It's Midazolam, boss. Primarily used for sedation."

"Shit." It makes sense. It's cheaper to drug up the kid than find something strong enough to restrain him.

So they, whoever they are, get into a scuffle with Spider-Man when they try to abduct him. Peter gets injured but they want him alive, so they patch him up. That just might be the thing that saves their lives when Tony finds them. How they found out Tony was coming and took off with Peter in time, he isn't sure. But it's clear that they abandoned ship recently, apparent by the incriminating evidence they left behind. That, or they're monumentally stupid. Which they must be for trying to kidnap Spider-Man in the first place, so hey, easier for him.

The why is harder to figure out. Maybe Spider-Man got on their nerves and they intended to kill him, but opted out when they unmasked him and found out he's a kid. That'd be nice. His go-to would be ransom; it might explain why May's not picking up. Or maybe Tony just hasn't gotten the call yet. He thought he kept his relationship with Peter on the down-low, but if it's his money that will allow Peter to be safe again, then so be it.

Tony presses his lips in a tight line and squeezes his eyes shut, pushing back the image of Peter tied up in a trunk and drugged up to his eyeballs. He's alive, and Tony has the fingerprints to track down whatever dumbasses that think they can get away with this. He passes by the computer set-up on his way back to the couch, back to the first aid kit, and stops in his tracks.

What looks to be the backside of a bullet-proof vest is propped up against the desk, blocking a set of drawers; there must be guns here that he hasn't found. The drawers seem like a safe bet, so Tony reaches out with his foot to kick the vest aside.

It topples over and rolls to display the chest. Tony's heart stops.

Spray-painted on the vest, the white stark against the black is a thin, white skull.

The ground dips beneath Tony's feet. "No," he breathes. "No, fuck no, kid-" He shakes his head as he staggers back, forcing himself to hurry back to the couch.

He fumbles with the first aid kit and holds the handle before his eyes. "FRIDAY, the prints. Who do they belong to?"

It could be a copycat. Those happened all the time, right? It was bound to happen with this guy if it hadn't already. Besides, Tony remembers hearing that he died. Hadn't he? With evil robots and Avengers shit and fucking aliens becoming his problem, this guy barely pinged his radar. God, he wishes he paid attention.

"Frank Castle. Extensive criminal record, including over sixty confirmed accounts of homicide, arson, kidnapping, torture, aggravated assault-"

"Stop," Tony bites out. The man's mugshot appears on the display in front of him, switching back and forth between a front and side profile as text appears underneath it.

"He didn't do anything," he breathes. The kid didn't do anything.

Castle's not interested in money. Tony remembers that. But Tony also remembers that he didn't target innocent children, so he probably needs to review. Maybe Spider-Man got in Castle's way, but whatever code he operates under made him decide to subdue the kid instead of his usual method. Or Peter could know something that he's keeping from Castle, something about some criminal that Castle wanted to get to. It's the kind of thing Peter would do, risk his life for that of a convict. The absolute idiot. The absolute self-sacrificing idiot.

Would Castle torture a kid?

"You had to get yourself caught by the Punisher," Tony says, trading the first aid kit for the mask and turning it over in his hands. "Couldn't be greedy goon number five, huh?"

Tony grabs the suit and bunches it up in his arm. He pauses to stare at the lenses of the mask, gingerly folding it in his hand. He swiftly removes the computer from the desk, tucking it under his arm with the suit gripped tight in his hand. "I'm coming for you, kid," he promises.

He steps on the vest on the way to the door, digging his heel into the center of the skull on his way out.