Peter snagged the tracker off the bus just as it pulled up to its stop. His watch blinked to life as he flicked off airplane mode, his phone buzzing faintly in his pocket. He pulled it out and skimmed his messages.

No texts from Harley. Peter sighed in frustration. That was probably his fault.

He'd called Harley the other day—just to check in, just to reassure himself by hearing his voice. But the conversation had been short. At first, Harley had sounded like himself, if maybe a little tired. He greeted Peter with his usual drawling, "Hey, bud, what's up?" But as soon as Peter started pressing, as soon as the conversation edged into how are you really doing? territory, Harley had quickly found an excuse to end the call.

"Sorry, Pete. I gotta get back to work. Talk later?"

That was days ago. And now, radio silence. It made Peter wonder if he should've just kept quiet. Harley was clearly not comfortable talking about whatever was going on. Now he wasn't even checking in with the generic texts that had become the norm.

Peter felt like he messed up—that this was his fault, somehow.

And he just really wanted to talk to Stark about it.

Peter swallowed hard and tapped out a quick message to Harley, just in case.

Peter: Hey, how's it going?
(Sent.)
(Delivered.)

No reply.

A second notification appeared just as he was about to pocket his phone.

Tony Stark: Hey, buddy, running late tonight. Will try to be back before 10. Don't wait up if you're tired from all that running.

Peter stared at the message, his fingers tightening around the phone.

Of course.

His jaw clenched as something hot and bitter curled in his chest. It shouldn't bother him. It really shouldn't. Tony was busy. He had important things to do—things that actually mattered. Peter got that.

But it still stung.

Peter swallowed against the lump in his throat and quickly typed back.

Peter: OK. Gonna stop by library then.

He didn't wait for a response. Didn't want one. His fingers moved almost on autopilot as he shot a quick update to FRIDAY, letting her know he'd be back later, and that Stark was already aware.

And then he was moving. His limbs were tense with the energy crackling beneath his skin, the kind that demanded movement, action, something.

He pulled out a stick of gum and started chewing.

As Peter approached the old brick library, he slipped his hands into his pockets and his fingers brushed against the tiny tracker, still wired to the battery.

He pulled out his gum. Without breaking stride, he pressed the device under a windowsill and kept walking.

His pulse thrummed in his ears as he scanned the buildings around him. He needed something tall but not too tall. Something empty, and quiet. Something covered by shadow, ideally.

The skyline was golden with the setting sun, the city pulsing with its usual life. But down in the narrow, shadowed gaps between the buildings, it was dim, cool, and quiet.

He slipped down one of the more quiet side streets, searching for the perfect spot. He passed a nondescript insurance office that had closed hours ago, but the cameras on the corners of the building made him move on.

A few blocks later, he found it.

An old office building with a faded "FOR LEASE" sign crookedly hanging in one of its dusty windows. The storefront below was dark, its metal security gate pulled tight over the entrance. No cameras. No motion. The perfect kind of forgotten.

Peter's fingers twitched.

His feet carried him around the back before he even realized he'd made the decision. The alley behind the building was quiet, tucked away from the city's watchful gaze. This was it.

He reached forward to touch the cool brick. He didn't even need to think about it anymore. There was no special effort to call forth the bond. Instead, he felt his body respond instantly, his fingers sliding down just millimeters before catching and holding.

He climbed.

Before he knew it, he was three stories up. His breath hitched, exhilaration buzzing through him. Holy crap.

Two more stories up and he reached the ledge below the roof with hardly any strain.

He glanced down, realizing suddenly how high up he was. Five stories wasn't much, but from here, the alley below looked small, distant. A couple passed by, their laughter echoing softly in the tight space. They didn't look up. They didn't notice him perched above them, hidden in the darkness.

The city stretched out before him, vast and glittering, streets pulsing with headlights, neon signs flickering as businesses switched over from day to night. The air up here was different—lighter, quieter. He felt like he could take a full breath, like the worries of the day had eased their vice grip on his chest. He felt lighter and his mind went quiet.

Peter stood up, bonding his feet to the building and peered over the edge. The thrill of it hummed under his skin. He wanted to try a taller building.

He started scanning around for a likely candidate.

Height shouldn't be an issue, should it? The stickiness wasn't likely to just give out. The only thing that disrupted the bond, so far, had been an electrical shock. And the bond, he discovered, didn't wear off with use or fatigue.

Peter had spent several days sticking to as many objects as he could. The sticky ability didn't fade or weaken, even late into the night when Peter had been exhausted.

If only he didn't have to worry about being seen. Then he could climb any building. He grinned at that thought. Maybe he could—

His senses prickled, just a second ahead of a shout right below him. A voice, sharp with fear, pleaded, "Please—just take the money—"

Peter froze.

His eyes flicked downward, scanning the dimly lit street below. At the mouth of another alley, just across from where he stood, a man was pinned against the bricks, wallet in one trembling hand. A figure loomed over him, demanding more, pressing in close.

Peter's breath caught in his throat. A mugging.

He stepped forward, intent on coming down and helping, but then he halted. His sharp eyes easily took in the scene despite the gloom. Peter didn't see a weapon. The thief would likely leave without causing much damage. The victim could cancel his credit cards. It wasn't that big of a deal, was it?

If Peter went down there, though…

His memory flashed back to Harley's garage. The Hydra agent lunging at him—the sickening snap of bone when Peter hit him. The way the man had crumpled, screaming in pain. The cold, methodical movements that Peter used to ensure the man wouldn't get back up—how emotionless and efficient Peter had felt doing it.

He clenched his fists, every nerve in his body telling him to move—stop it, help him, do something—but the other part of his mind hissed with doubt. You'll just make it worse. You'll hurt someone. Disable him for life or kill him, over a wallet that might not even have anything in it…

And it looked like it all might resolve pretty quickly, anyway. The mugger turned away, giving up on getting anything else.

Peter took a relieved breath before he felt another burst of warning up his spine.

The victim lunged for the thief, wrapping his arms around the man's neck to pull him down to the ground.

Shit.

A glint of light on shiny, dark metal, and Peter felt his body move forward for the ledge, his arm outstretched…

No!

A single, loud pop.

Peter jerked, his stomach dropping out from under him.

The mugger bolted, disappearing into the maze of side streets.

Peter was moving before he could think. He barely registered the controlled slide down the wall—just the rush of wind, the scramble of his hands and feet against brick, and the thud of his sneakers hitting the pavement. Then he was there.

The man lay on the ground, writhing, a dark stain spreading across his jacket.

Peter dropped to his knees.

"Oh, no. Oh, no."

Blood gushed up from just below the man's ribs. He made a gurgling sound and his hands grasped at the ground around him.

"Hey, hey, hold still." His voice came out too high, too panicked. "You're gonna be okay."

Someone gasped nearby. "Oh my God!

Peter pressed down gingerly on the wound and warm blood seeped through his fingers. Harder. He had to press down harder, but how hard?

Peter pressed and the man cried out in pain. Shit. He eased up but then the blood pooled under his already slick hands and started to pour around his fingers.

He had a big yellow art sponge full of red paint. It was so soft as he squeezed it between his fingers and the bright red paint squished out, dribbling down his hands. He was going to get in trouble but it was so worth it.

Peter gasped. What the hell was that? His stomach lurched. Focus. Focus.

He shook his head to clear it and pressed harder to stem the flow. He had to press hard enough to stop the blood from coming out.

The man gasped sharply, eyes fluttering. He was slipping, but Peter could still feel his pulse where his hands pressed into the wound. He was alive. Peter could keep him alive if he just held on.

People came running down the alley.

"C-call 911!" He yelled at the closest one.

"Help is coming," a woman's voice said somewhere nearby. "Keep pressure on it."

Peter could hear the distant sirens. The people around him started to talk. "Did you see the guy? Ran right past us." "Someone ought to do something about this neighborhood, where are the police when you need them?"

Peter panted with frustration. Why weren't these people helping? Why were they letting some kid hold this guy's insides together? What was wrong with them?

His chest clenched and he felt a wave of dizziness.

What would happen if he passed out? Would they still stand around talking and do nothing?

The sirens wailed louder. The ambulance pulled up at the end of the alley and two EMT's came rushing out.

One pulled him away while the other took over applying pressure. Peter scrambled backward, gasping.

The EMT who pulled him away was talking but her voice sounded so distant and garbled. Peter strained to focus on her words.

"Hey kid, are you hurt?"

He shook his head.

"Is this your family member?"

"No." he said breathlessly. "I don't know him."

"Did you see what happened?"

Peter stiffened and shook his head. "No." He pointed to the couple who'd been talking. "They saw the guy run."

As attention shifted to the others in the growing crowd, Peter slipped away.

He ran.

Blood on his hands.

Blood on his hands.

Blood—

Warm, sticky, red hands. He had them pressed down on a man's throat. His wet grip slipped as the man struggled, but Peter was strong. He could easily crush the windpipe…

Peter gasped, and staggered down the street, sticking close to the dark shadows at the edges of the buildings. He needed to get the blood off. He needed it off, now.

Peter pulled his sleeves down to cover his hands and stumbled into the nearest public restroom. He barely registered the dim fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead or the muffled sound of the city beyond the tiled walls. His breathing was too fast, too uneven, and his hands—his hands—God, they were so red.

His stomach lurched again. This time he might lose it.

Peter lunged for the sink, twisting the knobs with trembling fingers. Cold water rushed over his skin, swirling pink as it mixed with the drying blood, but it wasn't coming off. His hands were still stained, the color seeping into the grooves of his skin, into the lines of his palms, into the space beneath his fingernails.

He scrubbed harder.

Soap. He needed soap.

Peter fumbled for the dispenser, nearly knocking it off the wall in his desperation. He squeezed too much into his hands and scrubbed, nails scraping over his skin, breath hitching as the water turned darker, redder. His vision blurred. The blood was still there. It was still there.

His breaths grew shallower, faster. The walls felt too close, the air too thick.

He was suffocating.

The man's blood had felt distressingly familiar.

Just like—

A choked sound escaped Peter's throat.

No. No, no, no.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to think. He needed—he needed something...

His phone.

Peter fumbled for it, hands still dripping as he pressed the call button. It rang.

Once.

Twice.

"Pete?" Harley sounded groggy, like he'd been asleep. But at the sound of Peter's quick, uneven breathing, his voice sharpened in alarm. "Pete, what's wrong?"

"I—I—" Peter's throat closed up. He clenched his jaw, trying to steady himself, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He sucked in a desperate breath. "There was… I didn't…and now…"

"Pete, you gotta slow down," Harley urged, his voice gentler now. "Take a breath."

Peter shook.

He tried to breathe.

But all he could see was red.

The phone clattered to the tile and Harley's far-away voice encouraged him from the floor.

"Talk to me, man. What happened? Are you hurt?"

Peter swallowed hard. He looked down at his hands again, at the raw, reddened skin. His nails had left angry scratches along the backs of his fingers.

He picked up the phone, barely holding it against his ear as his whole body trembled.

"Can you t-talk? Talk about your day?" Peter asked, trying and failing to keep the panic out of his voice.

He just needed to calm down, catch his breath. He needed Harley to be his usual funny, distracting self.

There was a long, hesitant pause, as if Harley was having a hard time deciding what to do. Then, finally, he spoke—his voice casual, deliberately mundane.

"Oh, man, okay, yeah. Talking. You want talking? Buckle up, bud, 'cause you just gave me full permission to run my mouth, and you know I can talk about absolutely anything.

So, today I went to the hardware store with our neighbor because he swore up and down he needed a 'real man' to help him pick out lumber. I don't know what made him think I'm a real man, but hey, his mistake.

Anyway, this guy—his name's Frank, by the way, real salt-of-the-earth type, probably eats nails for breakfast—he decides he wants to build a deck. But anytime Frank gets a project in his head, it's an ordeal. And he's always roping me into these crazy DIY's, like I know any more about it than he does.

So, we're standing there staring at the stack of lumber, and I ask, 'Alright, Frank, you got a plan? Some measurements? A rough sketch on a napkin, maybe?' And this man, this man, Peter, looks me dead in the eyes and says, 'I figured I'd just eyeball it.'

Eyeball it.

For a deck, Pete! A structure that has to hold human weight! You ever seen a deck collapse video on YouTube? 'Cause I have, and let me tell you, not pretty."

Peter leaned back against the tile and listened to Harley's rambling. Eventually his shaking subsided, but he still felt breathless, still felt the panic waiting on the sidelines. Harley rambled on for several minutes and Peter wondered if he would just keep going all night if he needed him to.

"... So then he says, 'Nah, I'll just buy a little extra in case.' In case of what, Frank?! In case you build it wrong? Buddy, that's not how construction works! So, anyway, I'm never attending a backyard barbeque at this guy's house."

Harley took a breath. "You still with me, Pete?" he asked, a little worry seeping back into his tone.

"I—" Peter swallowed against his still too tight throat. "I think Frank needs a supervisor."

Harley snorted. "Oh, he needs more than that. He needs divine intervention."

Peter let out a slow, shaky breath. The panic hadn't fully ebbed, but Harley's rambling had distracted him enough to loosen its grip.

"Where are you? Are you somewhere safe?" Harley asked suddenly, voice edged with concern.

Peter pressed his back against the cool tiled wall, tilting his head up as he tried to keep breathing steadily. He still couldn't look at his hands. "Yeah."

"I'm going to call Tony, okay? Just stay on the line."

Someone jiggled the doorknob, jolting Peter back to the cold tile floor he sat on. He really needed to get out of there.

"No d-don't bother." Stark was busy with that contract negotiation meeting.

"Pete–"

"I-I'm going to head back to the tower now."

"Good. That's good." But Harley still sounded worried.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want Harley to worry. Didn't want anyone to worry. He was fine. He had to be fine.

"I should go," he said, forcing his voice into something steadier, something normal.

"Stay on the phone with me while you walk back."

There was an impatient knocking on the door and Peter almost dropped the phone again. He stood up, unlocked the door and pushed past the impatient man who waited outside.

He needed to get back while his panic was manageable.

"I'll text you later."

"Pete, wait!"

Peter ended the call. He didn't mean to ignore Harley. He just needed to concentrate on getting back to the tower quickly, and that was going to take an inhuman amount of focus.

He jammed his hands into his pockets, trying his best to not look at them or even think about them.

He just had to make it home. Mr. Stark would be there. It would be okay.