Chapter Text
It’s funny how once you realize you have nothing left to lose, everything else just snaps into place.
He can hardly hear his heartbeat for the gunfire in his ears. His footfalls might as well be silent, buried as they are in the din of adrenaline and panting breath. It’s like his brain knows each breath might be his last if the next bullet finds its mark, so it dials every sense up to eleven. The world narrows to just the concrete beneath his feet and the plane ahead, glinting in the sunlight, its ramp already down—keep going, he just needs to keep going—
BANG!
The bullet zings through where he was a fraction of a heartbeat ago. His muscles are burning, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop. It’s almost exhilarating, like he has lightning in his veins rather than the blood soaking through his already-red sweatshirt. Still, he can’t help but wonder—
When had Spider-Man gone from catching bicycle thieves to dodging military gunfire?
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
“Spider-Man.”
Peter whips around to see the Ms. Natasha Romanoff standing behind his seat (why hadn’t he sensed her coming? Didn’t that weird feeling always start happening when he was in danger?). Her rust-red hair tumbles over the shoulders of her crinkled leather jacket as she grabs something from one of its pockets.
“Do you have a minute?”
It’s a cell phone, the Stark Industries logo glinting in the plane cabin’s stark (heh) white lighting. Peter half-wonders how she’d even get service at this altitude, but then he remembers she’s an Avenger—they probably have all sorts of cool tech that normal people like him wouldn’t have access to. No, wait, if he counts his new suit. . .
Ms. Romanoff clears her throat. “Or not, in which case I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing beforehand.”
Beneath the mask, Peter feels his face go hot, his eye lenses whirring as they widen with his eyes. “No! I mean yes!” I mean—” He stops, chasing after his thoughts like a kindergarten teacher trying to get their class into a vaguely orderly row. “Yes, Ms. Black Widow ma’am, I have a minute. I have a lot more than that, actually, because I wasn’t doing anything other than staring out the window. Have you seen the view? It’s crazy! I mean, of course you’ve seen the view, you’re Black Widow, you’ve probably flown like this a bunch of times. It’s just that I’d never ever even been in a plane before Mr. Stark brought me here, we could never afford it, and all of this is just pretty wild and I’m—” He cuts himself off as he realizes he’s been rambling in front of the Ms. Romanoff. “Sorry.”
She gives him a half-smile. “It’s okay, kid. Grew up in Queens, huh?”
Peter blinks—how could she have possibly known that?!—but then he remembers that he’d literally announced it to everyone (including Captain freaking America!) back at the airport. “Uh. Yeah! Queens. Born and raised.” He grins, before realizing that she can’t see it through the mask. “I’m a proud New Yorker—thank you, by the way, for saving it! That was. . . that was really really cool.”
“Just doing my job, kid,” Ms. Romanoff replies, leaning against the plane’s minibar (?!). “I’m not a hero.”
“No, you totally are!” Peter holds out his hands. “You saw that innocent people were in danger and you stepped up and did something about it! No one made you fight Loki. No one made you take down HYDRA. No one made you stand up against Captain America! But you did that anyways, because that’s what heroes do. That’s what they have a responsibility to do, no matter how hard it gets.”
Ms. Romanoff studies him carefully. “Is that why you became a hero?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, I’m not a hero!” Peter denies, shaking his head. “I’m not saving the world or anything, I’m just trying to take care of the people in my neighborhood. Us little guys—we have to look out for each other, you know?” Ms. Romanoff nods. “Because if we don’t, then who will?”
“. . . How did you get mixed up in all of this?”
“Mr. Stark found me on YouTube, came to my apartment, and told me to join or he’d tell my aunt about my”—he gestures with his hands—“spidery extracurricular activities.”
Her brows raise ever so slightly. “Ah,” she murmurs. Now Peter thinks he sees something like pity (?) in her eyes as she pulls something up on her phone. “Did he tell you what you were fighting for?”
Peter nods slowly. “He told me Captain America went crazy and dragged a bunch of other Avengers into going rogue with him. Said that they’re fighting against the Sokovia Accords because they don’t want to deal with taking responsibility for—well, anything. Said that Captain America is protecting the guy who bombed the UN conference because he doesn’t want the police to catch him. Said he needed my help to stop them before they got away. . . I guess I didn’t do such a good job at that.”
She doesn’t look up. “Did he tell you what the Accords were about?”
Peter crosses his arms. “Yeah! Taking responsibility!”
He can see Ms. Romanoff’s neck muscles flex as her jaw clenches. “No, kid. They’re not,” she says quietly. She makes one final press and then offers him her phone. “They’re about control.”
Peter presses play, and the grainy bird’s-eye view of a concrete garage starts moving. The digital timestamp in the corner starts ticking forwards. The Falcon comes into frame first, followed by the weird size-changing dude. Hawkeye walks on after, his arm around Wanda Maximoff’s shoulder. There’s no sound, and their backs are turned to the camera, but Peter can guess that he’s telling her something reassuring, because she leans into his embrace. Falcon is visibly limping while Size Guy is just barely shuffling along. They all look exhausted, and none of them—not even Maximoff—seem particularly dangerous at that moment.
One of them must hear something from out of frame, because they all start looking around and moving into a tight circle, back-to-back. Figures with black uniforms and large guns spill from the video’s edges, POLIZEI emblazoned on their backs in big white letters. One of them gestures with the muzzle of his gun, and the four Avengers slowly get on their knees, their hands behind their head. Any weapons they were carrying clatter to the ground. Another jerk of the gun and Maximoff is laying herself face-down on the concrete as the police close in like vultures.
Falcon must protest or make some snide remark, because one of the officers gives him a sharp kick to the ribs that even has Peter wincing. Sure, they broke the law, but isn’t that a bit excessive? The nausea twisting in his gut only grows when two of the officers pin Maximoff to the ground and tase her. Her face contorts into a scream as she thrashes wildly before suddenly going limp. One of them drags her out of frame. The other Avengers, at gunpoint, are harshly cuffed and marched in the same direction. The last of the officers gather up the discarded weapons and then vanish offscreen. Peter leans back, running one gloved hand over his mask.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Peter’s fingers clench at his temples as he looks up at Ms. Romanoff. His voice falters as he asks, “Is that real?”
“Got it straight from a security feed at the airport in Leipzig.” Ms. Romanoff holds out her hand, and Peter hands her back her phone. “The footage is barely an hour old—and as far as I can tell, it’s completely authentic.”
“. . . What’s going to happen to them?”
“The Raft.” Ms. Romanoff’s face is grim. “It’s a floating prison—top secret, maximum security. Prisoners go in. They don’t come back out.”
Peter flinches. “Do they—do they at least get a trial?”
She shakes her head.
“But that’s not legal!”
“It is now,” Ms. Romanoff says darkly. “Under the Accords, violations are punishable with immediate and indefinite imprisonment. No trial. No bail.”
“But. . .” Peter’s head feels like it’s swimming. “But that’s not fair.”
Ms. Romanoff’s voice is as sharp as one of her knives as she replies, “It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to take advantage of people’s fear and anger and turn them against a group that the man spearheading the Accords has always hated—superhumans. That’s how politics usually are, kid,” she adds, noticing Peter’s choked intake of breath.
“I. . . I thought. . .”
“I know.” Ms. Romanoff shakes her head, her hair swishing over the cuts on her face. “I thought the lawmakers would be willing to compromise if we did, but it’s become clearer and clearer to me that unless something drastic changes, there won’t be any compromise. Too much is at stake. . . Reputations. Power. Lives, if you ask Steve.” She pauses again, her icy eyes pinning him in place as she studies him. “If you’re really in this fight to look out for the ‘little guy’. . . you might want to take a second look at who and what you’re fighting for.”
She walks back to where she’d been sitting before, and Peter has to close his eyes, his chest feels so tight. Oh, God, if they could do that to Avengers. . .
Peter freezes.
What could they do to people like him?
He walks on barely-steady legs to the other end of the cabin and, mentally apologizing as he does so, taps a sleeping Happy Hogan on the shoulder. “Hey, uh, Mr. Happy, sir?”
“. . . Yeah, kid?”
“Do you have a copy of the Accords I could look at, please?”
Enhanced individuals with secret identities must reveal their legal names and true identities to the United Nations. Those with innate powers must submit to a power analysis, which will categorize their threat level and determine potential health risks. Those with innate powers must also wear tracking bracelets at all times—
Peter cups his hand over his mouth as bile creeps up his throat. No—no—he came here to protect his identity, to protect his family, but if he signs, he loses all that, he loses everything—
Any enhanced individuals who use their powers to break the law (including those who take part in extralegal vigilante activities), or are otherwise deemed to be a threat to the safety of the general public, may be detained indefinitely without trial.
Oh, God, not just him—Ms. Jones, Mr. Cage, Mr. Iron Fist, Mr. Daredevil, anyone who was a little guy looking out for the other little guys like them, the government could just make them disappear and they wouldn’t be able to do anything about it—
The Avengers will no longer be a private organization and will operate under the supervision of the United Nations.
Where is the accountability?
Any enhanced individuals who sign are prohibited from taking action in any country other than their own unless they are first given clearance by either that country’s government or by a United Nations subcommittee.
All Peter sees is control.
He hears a faint shuffling behind him and looks up to see Ms. Romanoff looking over his shoulder, something like sympathy blunting the steel in her eyes. “Read enough?”
“How could Mr. Stark support these?” Peter whispers hoarsely. “Doesn’t he see. . .”
“No.” Ms. Romanoff’s voice is flat, her words measured. “Stark is. . . The world was built for people like him. He’s rich, and white, and powerful, and he forgets that consequences work differently for people who aren’t.”
Peter lets out a breath. “Yeah. . . The world wasn’t built for the little guy.” He looks up, meeting her eyes through his goggles. “You were right. There’s a problem, but this isn’t the solution.”
“Don’t believe it because I said it,” Ms. Romanoff warns him. Her eyes flick to where Happy sits over by the cockpit, texting someone. “Some might warn you my word isn’t worth that much.”
“I went to the source myself.” Peter taps the tablet now resting on his knee. “Innocent people are going to get hurt, again. I saw what I saw, and I made my decision. You didn’t make it for me—you just opened my eyes.”
“And what is your decision?”
“I screwed up,” he replies softly. “Now I’m gonna fix it. At the very least, I’m gonna try. I have to.”
She gives him a small smile. “You’re a good kid, Spider-Man. Remind me of someone I know.”
Peter blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Her smile grows wider by a millimeter or two. “His name is Steve.”
“Oh,” Peter replies, but then something clicks into place and the world stops. “Oh! I. Um. Thank you, oh my God, I—”
Ms. Romanoff lets out a small, fond chuckle (!!!). “You’ve got the same stammer as him, too. Same sense of responsibility to do good, it looks like. . . I just hope you’ve got more self-preservation.”
“Wh. . . What do you mean?”
“When Steve gets on the warpath. . . he doesn’t stop. No matter the personal sacrifice.” Ms. Romanoff’s smile slips away, replaced with the faintest hints of something almost mournful. “Such as with the Accords. He’ll finish what he starts, but. . . it costs him a lot. And he’s reckless, sometimes. Throws himself into the fray without considering how he’ll get out.” She shakes her head, a few strands of rusty hair falling over her face. “Just. . . whatever you do, make sure you know what you stand to lose.”
“Believe me—I know.” Peter sits up straighter, squaring his shoulders. “I know this is probably gonna suck for me, and I need to talk with my family before I commit to anything.” His gaze falls to the tablet in his lap before snapping back up to meet Ms. Romanoff’s iron-grey eyes. “I also know that if I do nothing, a whole lot of people stand to lose everything. And that’s a trade I’m willing to make.”
Ms. Romanoff holds his gaze for a moment more before letting out a breath. “. . . Okay. As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure that if I stand by when I could have helped, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.” Peter clasps his hands in his lap. “My uncle always had this thing he used to say—‘with great power comes great responsibility’. . . And he was right.” He looks down at his hands, but his gloves are red, red, red, and he flinches. “I learned that the hard way.”
Ms. Romanoff hesitates before taking the seat next to him. “Sometimes, that’s the only way for us to learn.”
Peter has nothing to say to that.
The silence that falls is oppressive, heavy with the wounds that time could not heal. Peter grips the armrests on his seat to anchor himself but lets go after hearing something within them crack. He closes his eyes, unable to bear the weight of Ms. Romanoff’s sympathetic stare. Regret writhes within his gut, coiling around his throat like a rain-soaked tie three sizes too small.
Ms. Romanoff nudges him. “You wanna hear about that time Steve got stuck in the vents at the Tower while chasing a turkey?”
Peter opens his eyes. “. . . He what?”
Ms. Romanoff grins.
(By the time the plane touches down, Peter’s laughing again.)
“No.”
“But Happy—”
“No!” The taller man crosses his arms, planting himself by the plane’s open door. “Tony told me to make sure you got home safely—not anyone else, and especially not her.” He jabs his thumb at Ms. Romanoff, who sighs as though she’d expected this.
“Tony,” she says carefully, “just watched his closest friend get shot down. I guarantee you, you can do a lot more good by his side than you can here.”
“He shouldn’t have to go through that kind of thing alone,” Peter adds, taking a small step forwards. “Even heroes aren’t invincible. He’s gonna need you a heck of a lot more than I do.”
“And you’re okay with her knowing your face? Where you live?”
Peter puts a lot of effort into making his shrug look natural. “Once I sign, those secrets’ll both be out there anyways.” Which is one of the reasons why I don’t plan on signing, he doesn’t say. Happy doesn’t need to know that yet.
“. . . Fine.” With a sharp sigh, Happy steps aside. “I don’t like it, but you make a good point.” He lets Peter grab his bag and pass without any trouble, but before Ms. Romanoff gets off, he whispers, “If he gets hurt on your watch. . . just remember that I’ve been working on my boxing.”
“Noted,” Ms. Romanoff replies drily.
The familiar streets of Queens—and oh, it’s good to be back—flash by like a zoetrope as Peter stares out the window. The cotton-candy clouds are hurrying across the vibrant blue sky, mirroring the traffic below. The sun, still rising, peeks through the brownstones every so often like a little child playing hide-and-seek. The sidewalks are bustling, of course, with ordinary people going about their Saturday mornings. The line at Delmar’s is long enough to stretch out the door. Cars are flowing in and out of Forest Hills Hospital like blood through the heart. Between the traffic outside and the radio Ms. Romanoff had turned on after they left Stark Tower, Peter feels like he’s barely treading water in a sea of sound. He takes his earplugs out of his pockets, puts them in, and sinks back into his seat.
The traffic grows quieter as they turn onto streets Peter knows like the back of his hand. You have arrived! the GPS display declares. Smoothly, Ms. Romanoff pulls over and parks alongside the road before turning to him.
“This your stop?” From this angle, Peter can see she’s wearing a necklace—a small arrow pendant on a fragile silver chain.
“Yeah!” Peter unbuckles his seatbelt. “I can get my stuff.” He hops out onto the sidewalk and stretches his legs (oh, that feels nice) before walking around to the trunk where he’d put his duffel bag earlier. Ignoring the sleek sliver case sitting next to it, he picks it up and runs one thumb over the embroidery by the zipper that says B. Parker. He’s about to close the trunk again, but Ms. Romanoff stops him.
“Happy said Stark said you could take the suit,” she calls from the driver’s seat. “Called it a ‘token of his appreciation.’ Should be next to your bag.”
“. . . Huh.” With his free hand, Peter picks up the case that apparently held the suit he’d worn at the airport. It’s lighter than he’d expected. He hefts it experimentally before transferring it to his other hand. “Thanks!” He’s not sure exactly what he’s thanking her for, but it’s still polite, right?
“No problem, kid.” There’s a hint of warmth in her voice as she adds, “I put a phone in there, too—a burner, so don’t feel bad about ditching it if you’re in trouble. My number’s already in there. Call me if you need anything.”
Peter picks up the flip phone, weighing it in his hand. It’s hardly the fancy tech he’d expected from an Avenger, but if it’s meant to be disposable, he supposes it makes sense. “Thank you! And will do, Ms. Black Widow ma’am.”
Peter closes the trunk and Ms. Romanoff drives off, leaving him alone on the sidewalk outside his apartment complex. He takes a breath, steeling himself.
This is where the hard part begins—explaining everything to Aunt May.
Whoopee.