Chapter Text
“Give it up, Spider-Man,” drawled Iron Man. Just last week, Peter would have been delighted to see the man, in the suit or out of it. He was a huge fan, but then his rose-colored glasses were violently ripped away from him. The multiple attempts to capture him and make him reveal his identity were probably the reason for that.
Peter shot a web line to swing in front of the man, landing in a crouch. “Stark! So nice to see you. Still not done with the cheesy one-liners, then?” He quipped, watching the other superhero with a careful eye.
“You have one more chance to come with me. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.” Stark shifted, leaning menacingly toward Peter. Peter grimaced.
“Yeah, definitely not done with the cheesy one-liners. Well, Iron Man, it has been a pleasure, as always, but I think I’m gonna go-” Peter abruptly cut himself off when he turned to see none other than Captain America, the Avengers assembled behind him. Well, some of the Avengers, including the Black Widow, Hawkeye, Captain America, and War-Machine. Huh. Wonder what happened to the rest of them.
“I see you brought a few of your buddies this time. Scared, Stark?” The man in question scoffed before his faceplate slid open.
“I learned last time not to underestimate you, Spider-Man. My suit isn’t easy to fix, and I’d rather not have to repair it again because of a guy in spandex.” Now that Peter could see the man’s face, it became clear he was extremely unhappy. Stark had an angry flush creeping up his neck, and his face was scrunched in a scowl, directed at Peter. This was understandable, considering Peter had practically ripped the metal arm of the suit off the other day, only a few wires holding it together. “Seriously, you are a pain in the ass. However, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will, so if I were you I would just go peacefully. You’re coming either way.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Peter bit out, preparing for the inevitable fight. He was a little startled when he heard a voice to the right of him, filling in the circle that Stark and the Avengers had formed around him.
“Ugh! Come on, man, he’s already offered you everything you could want, and you refused! We could protect your family, possibly your wife and kids if you could get your head out of your ass!” Peter stared in horror, recognizing the voice and the familiar red suit.
“You guys seriously brought in Deadpool? I thought you didn’t like him!” Steve Rogers grimaced.
“We don’t, but you’ve proven yourself a challenge. Deadpool is working with SHIELD on this, for a fair sum of money.” Peter muttered some words under his breath he was sure his Aunt May would not have been proud of.
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You can pry my identity from my cold, dead hands.”
And Peter meant those words. Spider-Man was his everything, the only thing stopping him from going insane on the days Ben’s death haunted him. He had to save everybody, no matter the personal cost, because had to somehow make up for Ben. He had the power to save people, and bad things would be his fault if he didn’t at least try and stop the bad guys. He was sure that the Avengers, SHIELD, whatever, would try to take vigilantism away from him if they found out his age, so he refused.
“Wow, and you were talking shit about me being corny. You’re a whole new level, kid,” stated Stark dryly, faceplate sliding back into place with a click. “We’re getting your identity and bringing you in one way or the other. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.” And then, before Peter knew it he was being rushed by a horde of the world's most deadly superheroes.
At first, Peter was holding his own pretty well. He had leaped to the side, dodging a repulsor blast, flipping to avoid the shield Captain America had flung towards him. He shot a couple of webs toward the Avengers, hoping to temporarily incapacitate some, before turning and doing the same to Stark. He knew he had been somewhat successful by the startled yelps around him, but he was looking long enough to know he had missed Stark. He couldn’t stare for long, however, because he soon became busy fending off the Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, who was trying to clip him with her widow bites.
And then everything went to shit.
While Romanoff distracted him, Barton, known as Hawkeye, knocked an arrow. Peter felt the familiar tingle that warned him of the danger, but it was too late by then: the arrow buried itself in his side. He cringed as he felt the sharp tip pierce his skin, blood rolling from the wound, and holy shit, what the fuck was in those arrows, the puncture hurt so much more than it should have.
Romanoff took his moment of surprise to launch another attack, spearing him with her widow bites. Painful electrical shocks shot up his spine as he roughly pushed her off of himself, leaping backward and behind the rest of the Avengers. Peter was glad Stark had picked this fight in a secluded, run-down area instead of out in the open: citizens would have surely been recording and spreading the fight to the media by now, and Peter really didn’t need any more negative media attention. The Daily Bugle was enough to deal with.
Peter grunted before pulling the arrow free from his side with a sharp hiss. Blood now poured freely out of the wound, staining the once-bright red spandex of his suit.
‘Had enough?” Asked Stark in a smug tone, not sounding the least bit put off by the hole in Peter’s side. Fucker.
In response, Peter lunged at the man. He didn’t intend to do real damage to anything besides the suit and never had done Stark any damage. His only goal was to destroy the repulsors, so he could have a fair chance at escaping (yeah, right, Peter. You have Deadpool going after you, at least try to be realistic.) As things were, he knew that any attempt to run would be for nothing, since Stark would blast him to Canada if he stepped one foot the other direction.
If Stark was surprised, he certainly didn’t show it. His only reaction to Peter’s sudden attack was to slide into a fighting stance, fists raised by his head and feet spread wide apart, clearly expecting Peter to actually fight. He tried to punch Peter off when the kid got close to him, but instead of flying back Peter grabbed the metal fist and held it tightly as he was swung around. Stark tried shaking him off for a few seconds, looking quite confused (no, Peter couldn’t see past the head of the suit, but Stark’s cocked head was a dead giveaway) before he opened his palm, repulsor at the ready. Finally! Peter reacted in the blink of an eye, leveraging himself so his body was folded in a tight angle, using the metal arm as a crutch. He kneed the repulsor hard, congratulating himself when he heard a satisfying crack and saw the bright light slowly dim and fade to a weak gray.
Peter suddenly became aware of the Avengers rushing upon him from all sides, and Stark attempting to use his other arm to rip him off the suit. Okay. I have to hurry. Come on, Spider-Man. Peter let go of the arm, falling into a crouch and ducking low as Rodgers' shield aimed for his head, causing the shield to crash into a building behind Stark, splitting the concrete wall. He popped back up after, launching himself towards Stark's other arm and pulling his legs high to avoid the leg sweep Rhodes had tried to execute from behind him, hard enough to crack the pavement where Peter had just been. Ohh, that would have hurt . Shit, this is crazy Parker, what are you thinking? Never mind. Just one more repulsor, and then you can leave. He pulled back his arm, attempting to swing his fist into Stark's palm, but was suddenly pulled back. Peter only had time to register the tight, red sleeves on the rather muscular arms wrapped around him (Deadpool , then) before the glowing light of the remaining repulsor caught his eye. He could feel Deadpool shaking his head at Stark viciously, but then, a white beam shot out of the repulsor.
It caught Peter straight in the chest. Suddenly, the maroon-clad arms restraining him were ripped away violently, and Peter flew. He was weightless, in the air, and speeding quickly towards something, but his brain was too pain-hazed to make sense of the situation. His chest burned , like nothing he had ever felt before, and he was almost sure he could smell his own singed skin.
For a second, he could only focus on the pain in his chest. But, that second came to a quick end when he felt his body smash into something hard, like concrete. He shrieked as he felt bones shatter, now broken ends pressing into his organs as the force from the repulsor blast tried its best to make him one with the wall. A nasty crunch echoed across the raggedy alleyway he had been shot into, before he slid to the ground in a boneless, groaning heap. The dust settled around him as his broken body rested on the cracked pavement he had been slammed into. Blood pooled around him, dripping from somewhere behind him and from his chest, the puddle growing larger by the millisecond.
Peter only stayed down for a couple of moments before staggering back up, which made him quite proud of himself, since he was sure it was a miracle he was still even alive. His face twisted as his tears streamed out of his eyes, and he tightened his lips to keep a whimper, or worse, a sob inside. His brain felt fuzzy, and there was a ringing in his ear and a pounding in the back of his head that spoke of concussion, if not something worse. Still, whatever it was, it was nausea-inducing. Peter fought to retain his lunch: he knew the retching would feel horrible on his battered body, and he didn’t want to take off his mask in front of the Avengers. The Avengers, who were staring at him frozen and in shock as he leaned against the wall and clutched at his ruined chest.
Much to his dismay, it soon became impossible for Peter to keep the mask on. Just a second after he had successfully pushed away his nausea, blood came up and bubbled out of Peter’s mouth, staining the cloth that covered his face. He started to panic as he choked up more blood, realizing that the combination of the blood, the thick mask material, and his weakened lungs didn’t allow him to pull in
any
air. In his panic, he forgot about the Avengers (or rather, stopped caring) and pulled off his mask, still choking and coughing out blood. As soon as he could breathe again, he took a look around.
The Avengers were all still standing and watching him like he was some circus show, with horror and surprise etched onto their faces. Some in particular, like Stark, Barton, and Romanoff, had a little (or a lot) of guilt showing, looking at him with pity.
Fuck them. Fuck me. Why did I do that? Peter hated pity. Sure, he was young, but he was grown enough. He didn’t need adults, especially when all they did was let him down.
“Kid.” Stark's voice came out, and damn did the man sound shaken. “You’re really…just a kid. You’re a kid! Why didn’t you say anything?” Peter shook his head angrily, coughing up more blood. He took longer than he should have to respond, which frustrated him to no end, he hated seeming weak. However, he couldn’t do anything about it; it was like his brain had just decided to stop functioning.
“Why does it matter, Stark?” Peter attempted to glare at the man, but the world was tilting on its axis and suddenly Peter couldn’t focus on anything besides balancing.
“It matters because- woah, kid, you don't look so good. Let us take you to the MedBa-”
“No! What’s-what’s with,” Peter paused, panting as a fresh wave of pain wracked his body. “With the switch-up, anyway? One second you’re trying to kill me, and now?”
“We didn’t know your age-”
“It doesn’t matter. I could be forty and it still wouldn’t be okay.” His voice ground out roughly and slowly, face still screwed up. Stark opened his mouth to respond, but Rodgers put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Stark pursed his lips unhappily.
“You’re right,” Said Rodgers, staring at Peter with worry. “But right now, it doesn’t matter. This is our fault. Let us at least heal you up. We won’t involve SHIELD.” The Avengers, and Deadpool (who looked more serious than usual, even under the mask) all nodded along, finally unfreezing. Peter noticed them inching close to him and froze, his body rigid as he realized the superheroes were cornering him as if he were a wounded animal.
“Thanks, but n-no thanks. I don’t, “ he hacked out more blood, “exactly trust you guys.” And with that, Peter turned and placed his hands on the wall, (brick, he had smashed into brick and left a sizeable crater) lifting himself and beginning to crawl upwards. It was torture, every limb burning in protest. His back was on fire, his chest aching and stinging as waves of nausea wracked his body, his body which shook and trembled. He was sure he wouldn’t make it to the top, but he kept going upwards at a relatively quick pace. The Avengers below shouted for him and attempted to follow, but Rhodes stopped them.
“Look what we did to him. No wonder he doesn’t trust us,” the colonel muttered quietly. “Give him some space.”
Peter decided that if he could forgive anybody, it would be Barton.
Once he made it to the top, he began running and leaping from rooftop to rooftop. If the crawling was hard, then this was impossible, but he did it anyway, despite his failing body, the pain, and increasingly woozy mental state. He knew the Avengers were being held at bay for the moment, but he also knew it was only a matter of time before they came after him. I can make it back to my spot. I can- I can… But, the thing was, Peter didn’t think he could. However, he knew he had to try.
So he ran and ran. His body was giving out, with broken bones agony to walk with, blood loss making every limb seem like it was stuck in tar. Still, he pushed on, determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and his attackers, even if he had no chance of making it home. He stumbled after what couldn’t have been more than a half hour of running, falling on the top of some warehouse, and found he lacked the energy to get back up. Damn. So, he curled up, tired of running, tired of fighting, and promptly passed out in an aureole of his blood, thoughts fading from his mind as his consciousness flickered out.